Eli by Bill Myers Page B

recognizing the name. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure who you—”
    She was interrupted by a loud commotion. They turned to see excitement rippling through the crowd surrounding the young man.
    “What’s going on?” Conrad asked.
    Suzanne’s face brightened. “Probably another healing.”
    Before he could respond, she took his hand. “Come and see.”
    As she led him through the group, Conrad instinctively searched for Ned and Horton. Just as he suspected, his crew was right where the action was, capturing it all on tape.

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    The young man was speaking to an older, scruffy-looking fellow in a plaid shirt and slightly dirty jeans. His face was leathery and his neck was crosshatched from years of work in the sun. His right arm was covered in shiny, uneven scar tissue. Below it, his right hand hung shriveled and useless.
    “That’s Brian Tuffts,” Suzanne half-whispered. “A farmer from here in Oregon. Lost the use of his arm in some sort of fire.”
    The crowd had grown very quiet as the young man—what had Suzanne called him? Eli—wrapped both of his hands around the old-timer’s elbow. He was smiling at Tuffts, encouraging him not to be afraid. But it did little good. The man’s eyes were as big as saucers.
    “It’s okay,” Eli said. “The heat you’re feeling is only natural.”
    Tuffts tried to nod. But what was not natural was seeing the healed muscle and new pink skin appearing directly under Eli’s hand. The old man began to tremble. Sweat appeared on his forehead. But Eli continued speaking words of encouragement while slowly moving his hand along the arm. As he did, more and more new skin appeared . . . everything, down to the tiniest detail, down to the bulging blue veins and new hair follicles.
    The crowd watched in silent awe.
    Conrad glanced over to Ned. Good, he was getting it all. If this was some sort of parlor trick they’d be able to examine it more closely in the editing.
    Eli was down to the hand now, holding it in both of his own. After several seconds he slowly released it. The crowd gasped. Like his arm, Tuffts’s hand was perfect . . . though as pink as a newborn’s. Eli finally looked up to the man with a grin.
    Tuffts could only stare, speechless, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked from his hand to Eli, then back to his hand, then to Eli again.
    “Sorry about the color.” Eli shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to work on the tan yourself.”

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    The group chuckled, both at the comment and as a way of releasing tension. Then, suddenly, the man came to life. He threw his arms around Eli and hoarsely cried, “Thank you!
    “Thank you, thank you!”
    Eli smiled, doing his best to endure the fierce bear hug, and trying to return it.
    Suzanne turned to Conrad and asked quietly, “So what do you think?” Her voice was thick with compassion, her own eyes glistening with emotion.
    “Amazing.” Conrad cleared his throat. “I mean if that’s real, it’s incredible.”
    Suzanne smiled. “Oh, it’s real,” she said. “He does this sort of thing three, four times a day. Sometimes it’s the blind, sometimes the deaf. Yesterday he healed a quadriplegic.”
    Conrad looked on, his reporter’s instincts telling him to reserve judgment.
    “And it’s not just physical healings,” Suzanne said. “See that guy over there?” She motioned to a huge man—a biker type complete with shaved head, black leather vest, and chains. A large gold swastika dangled from his neck. Tattoos covered his forearms and shoulders, so dense that it was impossible to see any detail, except a paisley print of blues, greens, and an occasional red. “Will Patton,” she said. “Member of the Aryan Brotherhood. He followed us down from Tacoma. Sweetest man you’ll ever meet.”
    “I bet.”
    “He is.”
    “As long as you’re not black or gay or Jewish.”
    “Oh, really?” She smiled that smile of hers and motioned to the crowd.