A nationally known televangelist and faith healer, Pastor Sammy Gann, sees the healing art as bad for business and will do anything to keep the public from putting a face to the saintly deeds. Any face, that is, other than his.

iranda Tate is as unique a character as you'll find in the last twenty years of literature. Stubborn and rock-hard on the outside and vulnerable within. "It’s about time the art world got an ax-wielding, miracle-working heroine of its own. Shinder can talk the talk. Very cool," says David Barnes, Professor of Fine Arts , Southeastern Oklahoma State University.

Excerpt from:
THE GRAFFITI SCULPTOR
First person narrative by Miranda Tate

It’s the middle of the morning when I pick up the phone and dial the number Otto’d given me. It’s an ancient phone with a long cord that reaches to the window. I shuffle over, stand there looking down on a couple of kids in knit caps. It’s cold out and the taller one is wiping snot from his nose with his shirtsleeve. The other one is telling a story, waving his hands and sort of kicking at imaginary bad guys. It’s the kind of story that holds your interest because of all the gyrations. A story you just gotta see.

The tall kid’s listening, not giving anything away. He reminds me of me—hard to read, patient, not a lot of wasted energy. The other kid could be Handy, wired, loose jointed, trying to get his arms around everything at once.

The phone rings six times. Seven, eight, nine. Then a man says, “What?”

I don’t say anything at first, and I swear I can hear him impatiently bobbing his head, snapping his fingers trying to move things along. I say, “You remember Zimbabwe? All the walking, the days we spent hiking through the scrub, as wet as it was, like marching over soggy mattresses. How the baboons would sit in the path and bark at us. The mean little shits making us go out of our way to walk around.”

Handy says, “They were hungry, is all.”

“Or the damage an elephant could do to a fever tree just by scraping the mud off its back. And the giant baobabs no one could hurt.”

He says, “I remember clouds as big as cities.”

“And the goddamn red clay that stuck to everything. Do you remember how tiring it was, all that walking?”

“You forgot the purple sunsets.”

“That’s the thing with us, Handy. I remember the blisters and the angry animals and damaged trees and the sticky mud. You remember the color of the sky.”

He says, “Otto tells me you’ve got a lot on your mind.” I twist the telephone cord around my finger, fooling with it. “Why we were there. Why I was there. Do you remember?”

He says, “If you mean the time in the village, we were looking for Sekai.”

“And later?” I say.

“Looking for the men who took her. What’s this about, Miranda?”

“The last several weeks,” I say, “that’s what it’s been like for me. Hiking down paths I’ve never been on, no idea where they lead. Only this time, anything gets in my way, I grab a club and start swinging, and I keep swinging until there’s nothing left. I go out at night, mostly, and the buildings hover over me like giant baobab trees. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but that’s how I see it. I’m trekking through a forest looking for someone.”

“What are you telling me?”

I’m watching the kid below me on the street. He might be dancing now, or imitating someone dancing, his mouth wide open shouting or singing his tale, spur of the moment, in the only way that makes sense to him. “It’s a story,” I say. “About slaying a beast.”

“How does it end?” Handy asks.

“I’m not sure.” There is a long pause and I can hear breathing on the other end of the line. Handy says, “You know what I think. I think this beast you’re looking for is you. You’re the most fearless woman I know. People, situations, they don’t frighten you. But this thing in the forest scares you. It scares the shit out of you. I’m glad you’re willing to talk about it, but I don’t want to hear any more about baobab trees and baboons. Tell me about the cancer, Miranda. Tell me how you’re going to fight it and keep fighting it until there’s nothing left.”

I’m still at the window looking down on the kids in knit caps. The tall one is sitting on the sidewalk with his back against the brick wall of the building across the street. His head is pointed up at his buddy, some teeth showing, the other kid into a new story, this one slower with a few Tai Chi moves to it.

I tell Handy that I met with Dr. Novak earlier today. Saying it like we had a real heart-to-heart, like we discussed things at length, me sitting on the edge of the exam table, and Novak scribbling notes in a thick manila folder. I tell him I’m having the surgery next Thursday. Handy says he’s proud of me, and my throat goes tight. I swallow hard and say, “Why I called, I wondered if you’d given any thought to coming home?”