REVISION (Story #3)

By Judyth Vary Baker

“Henri Ballantyne was very near-sighted, and middle-aged, but he still carried a handsome
shock of blonde hair, and had the body of an athlete. The fact that his wife had just died made
him one of America’s most eligible bachelors, though he was still avoiding dating. Henri’s
career as U S Senator was reaching its pinnacle: he was a powerful man who now found himself
stalked by paparazzi, aching for a photo of him with some movie star. At Bernice’s funeral,
Henri had let himself go a little, drinking too much and saying some unwise things about his
wife’s untimely and sudden death. “Of course, those people are fools,” Henri told Charles. “All
that blather about rising again, about the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. What I wanted
was her, damn it all. Now I have to go find another respectable woman.”
“Why didn’t you keep your opinion about that ‘blather’ to yourself?” Charles asked, wishing
it had been his wife, instead of Henri’s, who had kicked the bucket. Charles had silvery hair now,
and a paunch, but his wife looked even worse. Charles looked down at his bad left foot, that leg
two inches too short that made the thick, heavy shoe so necessary, then glanced with scarcely-
concealed envy at his younger client, a former Olympic star whose biceps were still firm.
Charles was barely interested in Henri’s latest problem, but it was his job to keep Henri popular.
Right now, his job was in jeopardy. Henri surreptitiously lit another cigarette, which Charles
ardently hoped the waiter wouldn’t see.
“Perhaps we should move onto the terrace,” Charles suggested, picking up his wine glass.
“There’s a cool spot out there under the umbrellas.”
“It’s all the same to me,” Henri told him. They moved outside to the restaurant’s rocky
terrace, sheltered under rows of bright red umbrellas with ‘Coca Cola’ emblazoned in white,
curling letters. Charles was glad to be back in Budapest: he looked forward to the mineral baths,
the good, cheap wine, and the pretty women who would sleep with him willingly, despite his bad
left foot. That clump-clump of his shoe followed him everywhere, and most women glanced
down at the thick sole of the shoe, hearing the heavy sound of it, and instinctively avoided
intimacy with him. It wasn’t fair. Charles was also accursed with a gloomy cast of the eyes, a
sad down-turning of the mouth, and with a voice so raspy he couldn’t succeed, as he had
dreamed, in politics. He was forced to function as a mere advisor, well-paid to guide candidates
into high offices, and keep them there, by making certain they said the right things and did the
right things.. At present, he was worried about Henri, whose chances for re-election had been
very good, until today.
Henri was part of a Senate committee on a fact-finding mission touring the European Union,
with a stopover for fun in Budapest, where he had just dined with the Minister of Culture, stating
his opinion that religion was a sham, and that Jesus was probably a closet homosexual. Damn!
Charles sighed to himself. Henri had made his opinion known to the new Minister of Culture – a
devout Catholic -- not to the old one, who had been an atheist.
“This story isn’t going to ride well with your constituency in Maryland, Henri.”
“I know, I know! So what the hell should I do now?”
“Maybe show up at church. And make sure people know about it.”
 “If you can’t fix this, I’m quitting politics,” Henri told him, peeling off a few thousand into
Charles’ hands. “This should cover costs for your quick little trip over here. Do what you can to
cover this up. Okay?”
“I’m not Mr. Fix-It,” Charles complained. “I suggest you stay away from religion altogether
after this. I’m sorry I ever mentioned the word ‘church’ – but how was I to know you’d end up
attending a healing session in some Praise-Jesus-Hallelujah cult?”
“It has twenty thousand members,” Henri said lamely. “And I have to admit, I was
entranced.”
“Hypnotized, not entranced,” Charles corrected. “I should have set up the right church for
you.”
“Yes, you should have,” Henri said. “So now, get me the hell out of this mess!”
Henri, whose poor vision was the result of a botched operation to reduce his near-sighted
condition, couldn’t wear contact lenses anymore and didn’t dare risk a repeat of the operation
until methods became more advanced. Maybe any day, he thought to himself. Meanwhile, he
was stuck wearing glasses, and hated it even more than getting old and out of shape. He’d really
been caught up in that Jesus-Hallelujah-Praise-God jamboree, and, mesmerized, walked in a daze
to the altar, knelt there, and said he believed. A man stood over him as in a cloud, his vision
actually became dark, as if an angel hovered somewhere, blotting out all the hot lights overhead,
and then the evangelist asked if he could ‘lay hands’ on him.
“Do you believe you can be healed?”
The fellow looked a little tired and was in a hurry, as there were dozens more who also sought
the ‘hands-on’ experience.
“Healed of what?”
“Whatever your need is, of course. God will heal you now, if you believe!”
What was that shiver of hope that flowed over him, as those hands were laid upon his head?
He felt an exquisite sense of peace overflow him. The evangelist’s hands seemed full of
electricity. It was uncanny. From Henri’s lips burst out his secret desire.:
“I want my eyes to be healed!”
“Then – be healed, eyes! In Jesus’ name!”

What a fool he’d been! Such an utter fool! For nothing had happened. Not a thing. He’d had
some blurry spots in front of his eyes, like a thousand little dark dots, just as he came down the
aisle to the front, and yes, those little dots disappeared, but that was all. He was still as near-
sighted as ever.
They’re all fakes! he thought to himself. He didn’t see a single person healed at that altar,
except maybe one little old lady who said she was healed of cancer. Oh, sure! He’d ‘believe’
when he saw the doctor’s report! He got the old lady’s name and address. He’d fix that so-called
‘healer’ if she died of cancer.
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“Okay,” Henri told Charles, “it is true that the little black spots went away. And the woman
with cancer got better. But then she died of a stroke.”

“But you get those dots in front of your eyes when you drink, Henri,” his manager told him.
“It comes and goes. Think of the consequences! They snapped your picture there, with that
crazy preacher’s hands on top of your head. Good God! It’s front page news in every damned
tabloid in the country!”
I know,” Henri said gloomily. “But what can I do?”
“At least, you didn’t get ‘healed’ of something and feel like you had to proclaim it to the
world,” Charles said. “That would have really wrecked everything.”
“I sure got psychologically drawn in,” Henri admitted. “They have that service set up like a
fine art. And of course, I didn’t get healed. I feel like closing down their operation. They’re
raking in money like crazy, you know.”
“I suggest you do nothing of the kind,” Charles told him. “At least, don’t directly be his
source of trouble. Just promise me that next time, you’ll stay away from anything to do with
churches. For the rest of your life --- or it’s bye-bye, career.”
“Of course I will!”
“Instead, start going to hospitals. Go visit some sick kids with cancer. Kiss some lepers. Do
something nice, but stay away from the goddamn churches. Maybe they’ll forget.”
“I hope so,” Henri said. “I sure hope so.”

It wasn’t the paparazzi who were responsible, as Princess Diana had been hounded, but the
auto accident was photographed by the paparazzi. The stunned senator was photographed, too,
mourning the fact that the accident wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t taken so much valium
And here she had been pregnant!

It took three long years, but he had managed to get the church just about closed down. That
church had caused him so much emotional distress and embarrassment! He had planted some
people there who claimed they were healed, who, of course, were lying. He also sent the IRS
after that fanatic pastor, as well. Next, he created rumors about call girls, who pestered his wife
with telephone calls. Then the fellow had a nervous breakdown. The tabloids reported that he
killed himself with sleeping pills in the very house where he’d been born. His suicide note was
short and pitiful.
Jesus hadn’t been there to rescue the guy: the evangelist had been on his own in the Valley of
Death. Now Henri was in the hospital. He’d fallen on some ice and was currently getting his
back pulled straight -- in traction. He was doubly irritated because he was experiencing double
vision from his concussion.
The ophthalmologist came in, with his apparatus, to check his eyes, and Henri heard him
shake his head, as he made little clucking sounds like a mother hen worried about a chick.
“You’ve had some real problems with these eyes, haven’t you?”
“A guy like you botched an operation on my corneas,” Henri told him. “Wrecked my
chances to get away from glasses.”
“But the other condition, I mean,” the doctor said. “Just when did you have that operation on
your retinas?” He was peering deep into his right eye with that blasted irritating bright light.
“What operation? What are you talking about?”
“Your right retina was obviously torn loose, and was reattached by lasers. The left eye had
some work done on its retina, too.”
 “I never had anything done to my retinas!” Henri thought how the evangelist had laid hands
on him, and a kind of bitter horror began to build up inside.
“Well, it’s been some time, I suppose. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, though I can’t imagine you
would. If it hadn’t been for this obvious emergency operation, you’d be blind in your right eye.”
The ophthalmologist looked again into the left eye.
“Yes, same thing, just not as bad” he said. “Your left retina has also been re-attached. Surely
you remember seeing a flood of what we call “floaties” in your eyes? A feeling of a shadow
falling down over your eyes, as if a curtain was closing down your vision?”
O, my God!
Suddenly, Henri undersood. The darkness of his vision, as he knelt down, shielding the
harsh overhead light from his eyes as he knelt--- and the hundreds of little dark spots that swirled
in his eyes, as the trembling hands of the evangelist gently touched his head, and Henri had
asked to be healed.
“Oh, God!” he whispered, as he lay stretched out on the hospital bed. “Oh, God!”