Miracle Cure

Her mother had been different. Erin Lowell had loved Cassandra just as much as prettier, kinder, more ambitious, more hardworking, smarter Sara. God, how she missed her mom. It had been more than a decade now, but still the pain was fresh, constant, and occasionally all-consuming.

The heat was stifling again today and many of the guests had escaped the humidity with a dip in the pool. Most were beginning to head into the house to watch wonderful Sara’s debut on NewsFlash. But seeing Cassandra striding toward the pool, several of the men froze.

Cassandra was tall and wild-eyed, with wavy dark hair and olive skin. She differed so from Sara that no one would ever suspect that they were sisters. To put it simply, Cassandra was hot. Burning hot. Dangerously hot. Whereas Sara’s eyes could best be described as gentle ponds, Cassandra’s smoldered like coals.

Cassandra arrived at the pool and kicked off her sandals. With a slight smile she slipped her robe down off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, revealing a sleek one-piece bathing suit that struggled to contain her voluptuous curves. She stepped onto the diving board, knowing that all eyes were following her, and sauntered to the front. Then, stretching her arms over her head, Cassandra dove in, the cool water tingling her skin all over. She began to swim the length of the pool, her long torso reaching forward with each stroke, her well-toned legs kicking ever so slightly. Her body sliced through the water effortlessly, leaving barely a ripple.

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” a voice from the house called. “NewsFlash is about to start.”

Once again the women began to move toward the house, but the men could not free themselves so easily from Cassandra’s spell. Oh, they strove to look casual, silently sucking in their paunches or putting shirts over all-too-obvious flaws. They walked by her slowly, trying desperately to sneak one last peek.

Cassandra stepped out of the pool and slowly made her way toward a chaise longue. She did not bother to dry herself. Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she withdrew a pair of sunglasses, put them on, and lay back, crossing her legs. Cassandra appeared to be resting quietly, but behind her sunglasses her eyes were very much on the move.

She spotted chubby Stephen Jenkins, the sixty-two-year-old former senator from Arkansas. Stephen—Uncle Stevie, she and Sara called him—was an old family friend. He and John Lowell had gone to Amherst together, their wives had hosted parties together, their children had gone to summer camp together. It was all very sweet and nice. And—let’s be frank here—having sex with the conservative minority leader of the United States Senate had been something of a challenge for thirty something Cassandra. A sexual thrill, however, it was not.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Jenkins called out.

“Hello, Uncle Stevie.”

Cassandra had considered seducing the senator’s handsome, single son as well, but Bradley was kind of a pain in the ass. And worse, he was Sara’s friend. Every time they saw each other, the two of them gabbed for hours, ignoring Cassandra completely. If Sara and Bradley had been lovers, Cassandra might have considered it. But they weren’t. From the day of her marriage two years ago, Sara was dedicated to Michael to the point of absolute boredom.

Cassandra poured some suntan oil into her cupped hand and began to massage it onto her legs. From across the pool Senator Jenkins watched, his eyes wide and hungry.

“Stephen?” Mrs. Jenkins called. “Bradley?”

The senator looked away regretfully. “One minute, dear.”

“Hurry, everyone! Sara’s on!”

The crowd moved quickly now. In a few minutes everyone was inside, watching the television. Cassandra lay back and closed her eyes. Sara was on national TV. Who gives a rat’s ass?

SARA felt a knot form in her stomach. She knew that the Reverend Ernest Sanders was sitting in the next room, waiting to be interviewed. He was good in an interview—slick as a greased pig. If the Reverend Sanders did not like a question, he dodged it by an old, proven method: he ignored it. He could frustrate and fluster an interviewer with the best of them.

Most of Sara’s report on Sanders and his Holy Crusade was taped, so she removed her glasses, took a deep breath, and willed herself to remain calm. She had gone over the report so many times that she knew every word by rote memory. She sung softly to herself and only listened to bits and pieces of the story.

Starting twelve years ago with only a few dozen members, the Reverend Ernest Sanders, former member of several white supremacy groups, built the Holy Crusade into a powerful movement encompassing thousands of members throughout the country. Combining what Sanders calls “deep, religious values” and “traditional American rights,” the Holy Crusade has been blanketed in controversy from its inception . . .

. . . the IRS has confirmed that neither the Reverend Ernest Sanders nor his wife, Dixie, has filed an income tax return in twelve years . . . Reverend Sanders has spent as much as ten thousand dollars a day on himself and several young women during “missionary” trips to Caribbean islands without a single new member of the Holy Crusade to show for it . . . millions of dollars in Holy Crusade donations are missing . . . the FBI is investigating corruption in the upper ranks of the Reverend Sanders . . .

When the taped portion of the story was finished, the camera swung to pick up the familiar and comforting face of Donald Parker. Sara stopped singing altogether.

“We have the Reverend Sanders here in our studio,” Parker stated. “Reverend Sanders, good evening.”

Ernest Sanders appeared on a screen, rather than in person. As on Ted Koppel’s Nightline, guests rarely if ever sat in the same room as the interviewers. A toll-free number appeared below his image.

“Good evening, Donald.” Sanders’ voice was pleasant, relaxed. Sara felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The minister wore a light blue, three-piece suit, an obvious hairpiece, and a gold wedding band. No watch. No other jewelry. Nothing ostentatious. His face was gentle, trusting—the face of a dear uncle or friendly neighbor. His bright smile, one of his biggest assets, was firmly set.

“Thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

Donald Parker asked the first question. “You saw the report, Reverend Sanders. Do you have any comments?”

Sanders’ face was so damn calm that Sara wanted to scream. “I am a man of the Lord,” he said in a smooth, Southern drawl. “I understand human desires.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”