S^{ister Fullerton's Miracles
by Tom Deiker}

Out comes the preacher, waving his arms like a gooney bird. Because T. Boone just pulled the plug on the A/C unit behind the preacher’s hot-as-Hell church, the church we’re supposed to cool down in time for some humongous revival tonight. After all them clattering fan blades the silence is enough to wake a preacher, namely Reverend Doctor Horace Gilman, according to the sign in front of the Ft. Worth Four-Square Gospel Fire-Baptized Holiness Church. And in case you got any doubt which side of the good and evil fence this preacher sits on, the sign will clear that one up for you:

AWAKE! AWAKE!
YOU Are Going To HELL
To Spend ETERNITY In A Lake of FIRE
Unless YOU REPENT And Believe
On The Lord JESUS Christ!

The Reverend Doctor looks like Abraham Lincoln without the hat, and he’s full of the Spirit, acting like God’s own cousin, talking a mile a minute, and not stopping at the ends of his sentences.

“Do you have to turn it off It’s the work of the Devil I tell you Can you fix it Gawd is letting him test my faith How long will it take How much is this going to cost Satan will not prevail You don’t expect me to pay for all these people standing around do you?”

Meaning me and Lupe, of course, but anybody with an I.Q. of a seedless grape can see I’m the kid sister on summer vacation and not even in high school till September.

T. Boone touches the side of the A/C unit careful-like, pushes back his used-to-be-white cowboy hat, points at the work-of-the-Devil air conditioner as he walks around it, his back to the preacher, filling up himself with a bit of samctified Rawlings Heating and Air-Conditioning Spirit:

“If we don’t it’ll cost you more because them blades is gettin’ the beJesus beat out of ‘em, ‘scuse the expression, plus this here unit is hot as Hell, ‘scuse the expression, so the compressor could go any second, and that would mean a new compressor, but we maybe can bend them blades back into line without putting in new blades or a compressor either one, and it’s $45 per hour from point of origin to the work site and back, plus parts, as quoted, and I get to worry about them two loafers.” Meaning me and Lupe again. “If we don’t find nothing else wrong I can have it cooling down your church in time for a 7:30 miracle.”

T. Boone points to the sermon board on the preacher’s shiny aluminum cross, which is so high it should have a warning light for airplanes, and I’m disappointed the Reverend Doctor didn’t think of that one himself seeing as how it would get more people to come to his church. The sermon board T. Boone is pointing at says:

Wednesday, August 17, 7:30 P. M.
Witness A Miracle!
You Heard Her On “The World Tomorrow”!!
You Saw Her On “The 700 Club”!!!
SISTER MAXXEEN MAE FULLERTON
Cured of Cancer By Belief On The Lord Jesus!!!!
See, Hear, Touch the Miracle!!!!!

Lupe is reading the sermon board, too, instead of taking the hint about bending them fan blades back into line. As usual, she’s also working on a mouth full of sunflower seeds — cracking and spitting shells every which way. Lupe never lifts a finger without a direct order in writing, and then she comes back with a couple dozen U.S. Constitutional violations plus the Federal Minimum Wage and Hour Law — always ending up on the Treaty of Guadalupe and how my great-great-great-grandpa stole Texas from her great-great-great-grandpa. Refusing to admit that no Rawlings ever set foot in Texas till Dad lost his job in Pensacola at the butt-end of the 20th century.

Well, the promise of a cool church is all Reverend Doctor Horace Gilman needs to restore his faith in God’s everlasting mercy:

“Another miracle! Oh, you don’t know the months of work and prayer and sacrifice and the Devil’s deceits I’ve had to endure to bring Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton to Ft. Worth. Her message will lead the greater Ft. Worth and Dallas metropolitan area to salvation. But not if the Devil triumphs over our air-conditioning system. I wavered, Brethren, but I did not lose faith. I knew the Lord would provide.”

T. Boone doesn’t look none too happy to be included among the Reverend Doctor’s brethren or the Lord’s providers, and you can count Lupe and me in there, too. T. Boone points with his screwdriver to his ranfla truck, the one lettered “Rawlings Heating and Air Conditioning” in sparkly gold by his buddy Eduardo to cover a bad poker hand: “I’d like to give some of the credit to Rawlings Heating Air Conditioning.” He squints up at the sun, but the sun squints back, and squeezes a drop of sweat out of T. Boone’s forehead, as if to say “Not if I got anything to say about it y’all won’t.”

Lupe and me take a squint at the sun, too. We all know it’s gonna’ give us a run for our money with only six hours to go till Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton’s miracle. T. Boone has the side panel off and Lupe for once in her life starts in removing the housing unit and bending fans blades back in line without once bringing up the Treaty of Guadalupe, which I swear she must of been named after — “Lupe” being short for Guadelupe, in case you didn’t know that.

T. Boone hands the panel to the preacher instead of me, hoping to put a lid on his testifying. But the Reverend Doctor is going downhill and picking up speed — he couldn’t stop testifying if he had brakes, which you notice he doesn’t.

“Oh, I hope you can fellowship with us tonight. Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton is world famous. She brings hope to all who are afflicted. She’s been on national TV, you know. She has brought countless souls to salvation.”

Now the thing you got to know about T. Boone and Lupe when you put them together with a jackleg preacher or a jackleg used-car-salesman or a jackleg building inspector or a jackleg anybody, is they proceed to slip into this Marx Brother routine where they bad-mouth someone to their face and dare them not to notice. I always want to go crawl in a hole, because anybody born dumb and raised lazy is got to see through it.

So T. Boone looks back up to the sermon board to refresh his memory about Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton.

“I do believe I saw her on TV once,” says T. Boone, casual-like, “Wasn’t she on the ‘700 Club?’”

“Yes, yes, she was!” The preacher is about to have kittens. “Did you see that? Oh, you got to come see her in the glorified flesh!”

“I’m pretty sure it was the ‘700 Club,’” says T. Boone, “‘cause that’s all I watch anymore what with all the s-e-x and violence pollutin’ the airwaves. You couldn’t torture me into watching one of them ‘Bay Watch’ reruns they put on to tempt the weak and unwary.” Which T. Boone does practically every night, of course. “I’d fight you to the death on that one.”

Lupe takes it from there, looking at the sign herself for inspiration as she hammers the last fan blade flat — even if a little bumpy — on the curb.
“I missed that one, ‘cause I won’t have a TV in my house. Won’t have one. Satan’s invention, if you ask me. And I wish somebody would. Put on earth the very same year as Gawdless Communism. That’s a fact. I’d testify to that with my hand on a Bible in the house of Gawd if anybody asked me to.”

Reverend Doctor Horace Gilman looks like he is about to ask Lupe to do just that, but changes his mind.

“But I did hear Sister Maxxeen on the radio once,” says Lupe. “Been awhile back, not sure which program, ‘cause I listen to all the radio ministries whenever I can. Had to of been her — unless there’s more’n one Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton been cured of cancer by belief on the Lord Jesus?”

The Reverend Doctor, he can’t think of another one, and he should know if any of us should after his months of study on her ministry.

“Want to say it was ‘The World Tomorrow,’ if only because that’s my all-time favoritest radio ministry.”

“Yes, yes! ‘The World Tomorrow!’” The Reverend Doctor Horace Gilman is so excited he starts in waving his arms again, so I have to move back because with that side panel he could kill a body, namely me.

The next time the panel comes his way T. Boone reaches out and grabs it without killing me or himself, then tells the Reverend Doctor that his Fire-Baptised air conditioner is fixed and guaranteed by Rawlings Heating and Air Conditioning against Satan’s tricks for ninety days. T. Boone adds we got to go get a compressor sensor gage to be sure the unit can bear the load. If there’s such a thing as a compressor sensor gage I’ve never seen one, that’s just T. Boone’s way of letting me ‘n Lupe know it’s time for a paid lunch compliments of the Reverend Doctor. Before we go, we lug a couple portable units into the sanctuary to tip the Holiness Church temperature over to the side of salvation. We point them at the pulpit to keep at least the preacher happy, and check air vents to make sure the unit’s blowing cold, which it is, but so far we’ve only gone from hot-as-Hell to hot-as-Purgatory.

As long as we’re out to lunch, we pick up three more units and let Lupe refill her supply of sunflower seeds, ‘cause she goes into detox if ever an hour goes by without a sunflower seed.

The church feels cool enough when we come in out of the sun lugging those units. But after dropping them in the choir loft to get some air flow going, we know its still nip and tuck with less than an hour to go till the miracle.

Looking down from the choir loft, we all three do a double-take on this life-size poster somebody stuck up on a stand since we left — a gal in high heels and a beehive hairdo and a skimpy outfit in between the two! It’s sitting over to the side of the sanctuary, about where in my church we’d be having a statue of maybe St. Teresa of the Child Jesus. The gal in the poster is holding a big feather fan, which at the moment is not covering up her bare legs or big boobs either one, and them boobs are about a sneeze away from falling out. Personally, I’d call it a striptease poster. There are two more stands next to the pulpit, and they got big posters, too, but they’re turned around to where all you can see is their cardboard backs.

None of us can figure out anything else to do, so we go around the church checking temperatures and making sure all the vents are open. It’s holding steady in the sanctuary right at 71, but we know warm bodies are gonna’ be filling up the church pretty soon, and each one letting in hot air at the church door.

When we pass that little room on the side that the preacher comes out of, there stands this tall lady with her back to us, wearing a bright blue velvet gown that hangs all the way down to the floor. All we can see from the back is the beehive hairdo, just like the one on that poster I told you about. She’s holding her gown open and leaning over a window A/C, which is blowing air on her and poofing out her gown. She doesn’t notice us what with all the humming of the A/C, so we move on, though Lupe has to tug at T. Boone to get him in gear.

We work our way around to the back of the sanctuary to the other side, where they got portable choir stands set up. By now the early birds are starting to arrive, mostly choir members. One of them shoots T. Boone a look, I guess because he’s got his hat on in church. T. Boone always says where he goes his hat goes, and once he puts it on it’s not coming off unless you think you’re man enough to take it off for him.

Right about now Reverend Doctor Horace Gilman charges in, running around ringing his hands and everybody else’s, including us. He’s so excited he doesn’t seem to remember who we are, and he doesn’t bring up about the temperature, which is still — knock on wood — holding steady on the right side of coolish.
When the choir gets in place, they start in practicing their hymns, so the three of us hang around at the edge of the choir over by the wall where we can see good. We talk about the bill while we’re waiting, which T. Boone says will include a “miracle fee” because, T. Boone says, “y’all saw what a lousy job God did on them fan blades when He was taking care of that unit all by Himself.” We all laugh, and the same guy in the choir shoots us another look, so T. Boone tips his hat and smiles sweet like an ex-choir boy himself, which by now you probably guess he isn’t, and you’d be a hundred per cent right.

When everybody’s settles in the congregation, which is getting as crowded as Rodeo Park on Cinco de Mayo, the Reverend Doctor runs out to the pulpit, looking proud as punch and pleased as a peacock, and having a hard time not waving his arms around. He introduces Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton, saying the same stuff he told us about bringing the greater Ft. Worth and Dallas metropolitan area to salvation, except he uses up a lot more words gettin’ there. I can see Sister Maxxeen standing in the doorway of that little room. Out she comes with her hands folded like a nun. She walks right past that poster — I still say it’s a striptease poster — like she doesn’t see it, but everybody else sure does — they’re looking from her to the picture — so she turns to see what they’re staring at, and then acts all surprised and embarrassed.

“Well, looky here,” she says, with a drawl thicker than T. Boone’s boss, Mr. Palazolla, who’s from Mississippi. She sashays on up to the poster to get a closer look. “Now ain’t she p’urty?” she asks everybody in the church, looking over her shoulder at the rows of people, and nodding her head to answer her own question. And, don’t you know, mostly every man-woman-child in the church nods right along with her. “And look at these here.” She points at the boobs, one at a time to make sure there’s no doubt in anybody’s mind what she’s talking about. “Ain’t they — bodacious!” And she nods her head again, but this time nobody in the church is wanting to nod their head with her, except for a scrawny guy in the front row with red suspenders, until his plug-ugly wife shoots him a look . But every other fire-Baptized soul squirms in their seat and looks away. “Dolly Parton ain’t got a thing on me, now, does she?” I’m the only one in the room nodding with her except for the guy in red suspenders, whose wife rifles him an elbow to the ribs. Because I’ve seen Dolly Parton, and she’s right about Dolly Parton not out-bodaciousizing her.

So now Sister Maxxeen waltzes over to the congregation, talking quiet and friendly like she’s just stopping by to chat about the weather. “Those were my pride and joy,” she says. “Men stared at me wherever I went. ‘Specially if I showed ‘em off nice, like here.” She points back to the poster. “Hells bells, I stared at ‘em myself.” She puts her fingers up to her mouth like she used a bad word in church, which in a way she did. “I couldn’t hardly pass a mirror without looking at ‘em.”
I’m glad nobody’s looking at me, because I can feel my ears burning, disremembering that I do that, too, look in the mirror to see if my “mosquito bites” — that’s what Mamma calls them — will ever start growing.

I never been to a revival before, but Lupe has, so I give her an elbow and ask “Is this what y’all do at revivals?” Lupe gives me an elbow and a “Shush” back.
Sister Maxxeen stops at the lady in the first row that elbowed her husband. The husband looks away, but that wife stares back hard, tail up and stinger out. “So I thought, why not make me a living of men staring? What did I care if I was leading them into temptation and on the road to Hell? I was rich, I was famous. Men came from all over the world to Bourbon Street to see these babies.”

She sashays on up to one of the posters turned backwards, the one in the middle, touches the back of that poster slow and sad-like. “That’s when God stepped in. My soul was already rotting from a spiritual cancer, so God sent me a physical cancer to take away my pride and sinfulness.”

Sister Maxxeen Mae grabs that poster with its back to us, swings it around like a lawyer in court for the whole fire-Baptized church to see. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” she shouts, then races along the front row from one side of the church to t’other. “Yes, all flesh is corruptible! Mine before its time! I denied it, I refused to see a doctor!”

I can’t see what’s on that poster from where I’m standing, but everybody looks away as she passes. Except that hard-staring woman in the front row, she’s the onliest one that doesn’t look away. She gives a smile, satisfied-like — raised on prunes ‘n proverbs, Mamma would say.

“Don’t look away! Look as I had to look at the legacy of sin! This is what was left after the surgery, the radiation, the drugs, more surgery, more drugs.” Just as I’m slinking along the wall to see what all the excitement is about — and another one of those looks is headin’ my way from the guy in the choir — Sister Maxxeen comes back to the stand and sets the poster there. I can see now it’s a sorry-looking photo in black and white of Maxxeen Mae Fullerton, from the waist up, naked, only you can’t see her face. Her chest is flat, full of scars — even the nipples are all catawampous and puny-looking. Smaller than my own, that’s how puny.

Lupe leans over and tells me: “That there’s one hell of a mastectomy.” But I already had the main idea down. T. Boone puts his two cents in: “Yeah, but whose?”

Almost like as if she heard T. Boone, Sister Maxxeen walks back over to the picture, shakes her head sad-like.

“I was too ashamed to let them show my face. But it was too late. They could not save me. I was dying. I cursed God. I hid my shame in booze and drugs. I longed for death to come and end my suffering.”

Sister Maxxeen Mae looks back at the congregation.

“And I was right, wasn’t I? God did this to me! Didn’t He? Didn’t He!”

That gets everybody looking away and shuffling in their seats again. Sister Maxxeen Mae points to the photo. And laughs!

“Yes, yes, God had to take away my sinful breasts to give me back me soul!”

Now they’re back on Sister Maxxeen Mae’s side again: “Amen!” “Give you back your soul!”

She goes back down the front row, taking her time, looking at each person.

“But wait, this story is not over. Do y’all believe in miracles? Do you? How ‘bout you?”

Ever’body nods back — ‘cept that hard-as-nails wife of the guy with red suspenders is not sure, she looks suspicious, like maybe Sister Maxxeen Mae’s trying to trick her. Her husband gives a little nod to let Sister Maxxeen Mae know he has no doubt about miracles, but not so as to draw his wife’s attention. But a bunch of believers speak out.

“Yes!” “I believe!” “Amen!” “Praise God!” “Preach the Word, Sister!”

That’s all Sister Maxxeen Mae needs to start warming up the Spirit.

“Well, y’all’re going to have your faith in Gawd rewarded tonight. Y’all are going to witness the miracles and mercy of our merciful Gawd. I have been blest with not just one, but with two miracles. My first miracle, the biggest in the history of the world, the miracle that waits for every soul, that miracle happened to me as I stared at death and the gates of Hell — and through Gawd’s grace I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior!”

And now the congregation is starting to warm up right along with Sister Maxxeen Mae. “The biggest miracle!” “Hallowed be Thy Name!” “Tell it straight, Sister!”

And Sister Maxxeen Mae does tell it straight with that fancy way of preaching you probably seen on television.

“And there came over me a glory-uh, and a joy-uh, and a peace within-uh, and everlasting love-uh, not love of the flesh-uh, but the love of the Holy Spirit-uh!”

”“And no longer did I did fear death-uh, but rejoiced that I could be worthy to join Jesus my Savior in heaven-uh.”

“Joy and peace!” “No fear!” “Join Jesus!” “Spirit love!”

Sister Maxxeen Mae is crying real tears. “But wait, it’s not what I want anymore, it’s what God wants!”

“What God wants!”

“God was not done with me. He sent a second miracle so others might see his power and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Speak outen’ your soul!”

“Just as God healed my soul — the hardest miracle of all — now he healed my body.”

Sister Maxxeen Mae goes to the third easel, picks up the final poster, it’s got its back to the church, too. She puts the poster back, turns to the congregation, they all are leaning forward on the edge of their seats, and I guess I am, too, only without a seat to lean on.

“But wait. First I need to know. Do y'all believe in king-sized miracles? Are y'all ready to see a king-sized miracle?

”The whole house — except maybe for the hissy fit in the first row — can’t believe that Sister Maxxeen Mae would doubt their fire-tested faith.

“Yes!” “I believe!” “Amen!”

Sister Maxxeen Mae yanks that that poster up as high as she can, like a trophy she just won somewhere. Even gets up on her tippy toes.

She swings it around slow, making sure everyone sees it, the choir and us, too. It’s a life-sized — and I do mean life-sized — picture of Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton herself, wearing the same blue robe she’s got on now in person, but that robe is all the way open and hanging off her shoulders. If that other picture is a striptease picture, well this one here is right out of T. Boone’s girlie magazines. In the picture her hands are opened on either side of her Dolly Parton titties, staring out at us in front of God and everyone. How they stand up like that I’ll never know, Momma’s sag and they’re like my mosquito bites compared to these beauties. Well, after everyone blinks a few times and catches their breath, the place breaks out in testifying:

“Hallelujah! “A miracle!” “We are heaven bound!” “Reach out!” “Thank You, Thank You, Jesus!”

Sister Maxxeen Mae puts the picture back up on its stand, walks to the pulpit, waits for a silence, which is a month of Sundays in coming. While she’s waiting she lines the edge of the pulpit with several open copies of a book — it’s got the picture of her in her skimpy outfit on the cover. She holds up one of those books.

“It’s all here in my copyrighted testimonial, all these photos.” For some reason she only points to the centerfold picture, the one T. Boone and the guy in red suspenders are still staring at. “The medical proof, the x-rays, all the notarized statements from doctors, hospital records. I hope y’all will come up after the service and let me personally sign your own personal copy of this book, ‘My Two Big Miracles.’”

Sister Maxxeen Mae comes around the pulpit, stands in the middle of the church, opens her hand, raises her eyes to Heaven like the picture behind her does. The church is so quiet she can whisper, and she does.

“But maybe y'all don’t trust pictures, maybe y'all think pictures can be faked. Maybe y'all only trust your own God-given eyes.”

And Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton reaches up and takes hold of the zipper on her lady-preacher robe, pulls it slowly down as everybody in the church seems like they are all taking their next breath together, me included, and we all lean forward with our necks stretched as far as they can go, not believing what we’re seeing. We’re seeing Sister Maxxeen Mae open that robe of hers, drape it off her shoulders, and spread her hands like one of my saints on a holy card. And when I look from her to the picture and back I swear to you I can’t tell one from the other, they look that much alike.

Well, you can hear a mouse pee, it’s that quiet. Then all of a sudden there’s somebody crying, it sounds like a man, then a woman faints — I’ll be blamed if it isn’t that prune-faced woman falling across her husband with the red suspenders, flopping around like a fish out of water. Then raised hands, waving hands, hands reaching out to Sister Maxxeen Mae, then jubilation and Holy Spirit jumping and dancing all over the aisles and on the benches.

“A miracle, a miracle!” “Hallelujah!” “Born again!” “Glory, glory, glory!” “Two big miracles!” “We are heaven bound!” “King-Sized miracles!” And Reverend Doctor Gilman shouts louder than all the others put together: “This House is on fire for God! Testify to the world what you have seen tonight! Salvation will come to all of Texas!”

And through all the ruckus and hullabaloo Sister Maxxeen Mae doesn’t move a muscle, she’s like a statue next to a picture, each one a copy of the other. She lowers her eyes, and as she does the church starts in to settle down as she looks and smiles — it seems like she smiles at everyone in the church all at the same time. And when she speaks it’s like she’s talking to each and every one all by theirself.

“Doesn’t our God work in wondrous ways? In my days of pride and sin I showed my body to lead men to Hell. Now God has chosen me to show my spirit-healed body to lead the world ... to heaven.”

And she can’t help but look to heaven, but nobody can take their eyes off the spirit-healed miracle to look with her.

“But maybe y’all still don’t believe, maybe y’all are like the Apostle Thomas, maybe y’all will not believe unless you touch one who has come back from death by the power of our God. Who wants to touch this miracle and be not unbelieving but believing, who wants bear witness to the power of God, who wants to testify they have touched a miracle with their own hand?”

Several men in the church raise their hands like slackers in a classroom who finally know the answer to a question, but are embarrassed to admit it. But not the guy in red suspenders, he’s not going anywhere tonight what with his wife clinging fast to him, holding on to him for dear life and crying, too.

Without knowing why or what for I walk over to Sister Maxxeen Mae as Lupe makes a grab for me but misses. “Ay, Hita, parate!” Lupe hisses.

Maxxeen Mae sees me and smiles, reaches out her hands.

“Yes, yes, come to me, Child. Like our Savior said, ‘Come to me children,’ we all have to be like children to be saved.”

And when I get up to her and just stand there, she takes my hand and pats it, then places it on one of her boobs, pats it again and smiles.

“Do you believe, Child? Do you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ? Have you accepted Jesus as your Savior?”

Well, I don’t know what to say to that, so I just say “Thank you kindly, Ma’am,” and take my hand away and give a little curtsy, trying to be polite like Momma taught me. Not knowing what else to do, I go on back to T. Boone and Lupe, but don’t want to look at them either one.

We all three stand there and make ourselves look at the whole church coming up, Sister Maxxeen Mae Fullerton taking each one by the hand and placing it on one of her miracles, I notice even one or two curtsy and say ‘Thank You’ like I done. But the three of us are all the time easing on down the side of the church and leaving before anybody else.

On the way to the truck Lupe says to me, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, are they real?”

“Must be,” I say, “She’s got goose bumps on ‘em.” And they did.

T. Boone snickers. “One way or t’other they’re a glorious miracle created by God Himself, that’s certain. You can take that with you to the bank.”

“With or without God,” puts in Lupe, “them goose bumps say our born-again A/C unit did its job tonight. And so did my fan blades.”

“Then I guess our work here is done,” says T. Boone.

And me, I suspicion we’re gonna’ be argufying for some time about what a miracle is. Or what it ain’t.