by CJ Murphy
Senna turned to look directly at me. “When do these epic beer and Bible soirées take place?”
God bless Tank. “The second Tues and the third Thursday of each month, six in the evening right down the street from where you work with Karmen. It’s in the old community theater. Look for the sign on the door that says—”
Senna laughed and nearly spit out her beer. “The place that says House of The Rising Son, the one with the big Jesus?”
I'd had a lightning strike of clever irony the day I’d decided on the official name of my church. The double entendre played to my advantage as much as it was tongue in cheek. “That's the place. The giant Jesus was accidentally created when I placed a small fountain of Christ with outstretched arms in the courtyard. Once it got dark and the floodlight came on, it cast a large shadow of the Messiah on the side of the building. It would have felt sacrilegious to take it down after that.”
I’d endured a good bit of ribbing for it over the last few years, but it’d become something of an iconic place for tourists to visit. With one last drink, I finished up my beer and put the mason jar back down on the counter. As my tongue snaked out to remove the froth off my lips, Senna's eyes were drawn to me like a moth to a flame. Oh, yes, very gay. “Senna, I've got to roll. It was nice talking with you this evening. Again, welcome to town. Feel free to stop in if you're interested in the beer and trivia night.”
Senna nodded her head. “Shouldn't you be working on a sermon for tomorrow morning or something?”
It was close to ten o'clock. I laughed and was about to throw out one of my best lines, when Tank came to retrieve my glass. The former Marine, built like a brick wall, winked at me again. She knew my shtick so well; she could repeat it with flattering imitation.
“The Lord can't do no saving on Sunday without sinners from Saturday night. Be careful on that bike, Reverend. See you in the morning.” Tank saluted.
Senna's eyes got wide. “You rode a motorcycle in this weather?”
“Not a motorcycle. Tonight, my ride home is a Salsa Mukluk fat bike.”
“That lime green one chained to the post out there?”
I nodded my head. “The very one.”
She shook her head and laughed. “Radical. Shiny side up, Pastor.”
I pointed up to the ceiling. “God willing.”
I grabbed my helmet from the shelf before pulling on my leather jacket and gloves and waved to everyone before I took a step out the door. The frigid night air stole my breath. I fastened my helmet in place. Eyes heavenward while muttering a small prayer, I expressed my gratitude that home was less than a mile away and that the snow wasn't too deep. After pulling my neck warmer up over my face, I unchained Marvin. I'd named my trusty steed after the Looney Toon character, Marvin the Martian. I even ordered a sticker and placed it on the frame right after I'd bought it. As I slung my leg over the bike and settled my right foot on the pedal, the wide expanse of midnight sky and stars that twinkled from a million miles away took me aback.
“‘Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of His might, and because He is strong in power, not one is missing.’ Isaiah, chapter forty, verse twenty-six.”
I pedaled my way down a back street to avoid the snowplows on the main road. The ill-prepared tourists had mostly arrived on Friday night to take on the slopes. The streetlights illuminated the high, dirt-streaked snow piles packed with rocks and grime left by the plows as they cleared the roads. This January, we'd had exceedingly low temperatures and steady snowfall, both good news for the tiny mountain communities full of small businesses. They’d be able to pay their bills this month from the tourism dollars. I avoided a section of ice and used a small snowbank as a ramp, launching myself slightly into the air before landing in softer snow that led into my courtyard. Jesus' shadow welcomed me home with open arms.
With my bike on my shoulder, the three icy steps into the back door of the church weren't easy to manage. After a struggle with the door, Marvin was hung vertically on the hooks I'd positioned with a tray underneath to catch the melting snow. My favorite low-top Chuck Taylor's without laces replaced my snowy boots. The stairs that led to my loft were dull and lacked finish from thousands of footfalls.
“God, my fingers are freezing.” I blew on my hands and sprinted up into my private sanctuary that sat above my spiritual one.
Senna was partially right, I had a sermon tomorrow, but my preparation was already done. With the flick of the switch, the loft’s interior was bathed in soft white light. Each step on the hardwood floor produced the creaks and snaps that had become part of my everyday world. Like a song stuck between the individual boards, they sang out with each footstep. A strong aroma of cinnamon drifted to me, a sure sign that Karmen had visited before stopping by the bar. There on the counter, covered in glorious white icing, sat a plate of freshly baked sweet rolls. She left a note. Bite me.
Joyous laughter bubbled up from my belly, along with a hungry growl. Karmen had a wicked sense of humor that you either loved or hated. I poured a cup of coffee into a small metal pan on the stove to warm it, exactly as I'd seen my MaMaw do a thousand times. In fact, I was still using that exact pan that held no more than a cup or two. My parents bought her a microwave one year, and they never heard the end of it. I’d watched MaMaw use the pan every day of my childhood until the day she died. It had been one of the few things I'd asked for when the other grandkids were asking for money or her 1988 Oldsmobile. I'd also ended up with her recipe box filled with scraps of paper covered with barely legible handwriting. It was decipherable only by those who had spent years having birthday and Christmas cards sent to them. It was amazing that I could read them at all, as I'd never celebrated my birthday or Christmas until I was nearly twenty-one.
Jehovah's Witnesses believed those occasions were for ‘the others.’ Always us versus them. I nearly scorched my coffee reliving that feeling of separation. For the first twenty years, the God I prayed to was very different than the one in my life now. With a full cup, I pinched out one of the rolls and went to my small, soundproof studio in the corner of my loft.
Heather-gray acoustic tiles lined the walls and ceilings. I'd hired a professional to come in and build it for me. Writing songs and making music is like a drug to my system, the only kind I indulge in. I chewed off a giant bite of the roll and let my eyes flit back in my head as the sweet sugar rush met my taste buds. Bless you, Karmen. Karmen might be self-taught, but she is the most incredible chef I’ve ever run across. In my travels with the band around the globe, I’ve eaten in the finest restaurants staffed by French chefs and still had never found anything as decadent as Karmen's creations.
The steaming cup of coffee drew me in with its aroma. I’m not a coffee snob by any means. I know what I like, and for me, Maxwell House beats a thirty-dollar bag of organic beans any day. I washed down the rest of the sweet roll with another swallow and pulled my grandfather’s 1956 Gibson L7C Sunburst off its stand. The story goes that when the organ at their Baptist church died, he decided to learn how to play for the choir. MaMaw had a voice like butterfly wings that would land on your ears so gently, you weren’t sure you’d actually heard it. They were quite the pair.
I strummed a few cords of Grandpa’s favorite hymn, It Is Well, With My Soul. The melody poured from my fingers and transported me right back to that rickety wooden porch, where he taught me to play the instrument I held in my hands.
“Grandpa, when will my fingers stop being sore?”
“When the music is something more than what you’re playing.”
“Huh?” My twelve-year-old brain couldn’t understand.
“When the music reaches here”—he poked a finger over my heart—“and not just here.” He touched my forehead before urging me to continue.
It’d taken years for enough callouses to build up on my fingertips while I learned to play at grandpa’s knee. My sister and I were proud
of where we'd gotten our musical talents. None of our other cousins had inherited the gift, but grandpa sat on the porch with us on hundreds of occasions. He taught us the verses to every hymn he knew, much to my mother’s angst. Dad, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less. His conversion as a Jehovah's Witness was merely a ruse to get my mother to remarry him after he’d strayed one too many times. He was my own personal version of the devil.
I sipped my coffee before strumming through Here I Am Lord. I was feeling introspective tonight. Senna’s innocent question hadn’t shocked me, only pointed out the obvious that I was anything but a typical pastor. My phone rang, and as if I’d conjured her up with the notes, the name of the woman who’d changed my life appeared on the screen. I answered the call in a way I knew would make her smile.
“Peace be with you, Pastor.”
“And also, with you. How are you, Rhebekka?”
I pictured the woman on the other end of the line, all five foot five of her. “I’m good, Naomi. How’s the weather out there?”
“Freezing, how about your neck of the woods?”
“The same. Fresh layer came down last night, a good eight inches.” She was beautiful no matter what time of day it was, and if I tried hard enough, I could smell her perfume.
“Ha, not more than a skiff then. Try seventeen here.”
Reverend Naomi Layman lived in Colorado and was the spiritual leader of Open Door Ministries, an unconventional church. Like my own, she accepted saint and sinner to join her in worship. That’s how I’d ended up sitting in the back row, hungover and watching a very sexy woman drop wicked riffs on a Fender, as she espoused the grace of God. At that point, I didn’t think it existed and certainly not for someone like me. Her voice pulled me out of that memory.
“Dusting the cobwebs?”
“Huh?” Apparently, I’d missed something with my thoughts of a woman in a short leather skirt, boots, and a leather jacket.
“I asked if you have your sermon done.”
“Sorry, got lost in a moment there. I do. Tomorrow, we’re examining the issue between love and lust.”
“Ah, as if you aren’t lusting right now.”
The loft filled with the sound of my laughter bouncing off my plaster walls. She knows me far too well. “Guilty as charged. I was thinking about the first time I saw you in those boots.”
The returned laughter over the line was like water in the desert. It’d been far too long since I’d held her, something I’d likely never do again.
“Wow, you really did step into the way back machine. I’m way past the miniskirt.”
“You could still rock it. I’ve seen you, remember?” Oh, the memories I have.
“I’m almost old enough to be your mother.”
“Given my mother was sixteen when I was born, that’s not saying much.”
Naomi grew far too quiet for my liking, and I knew the thoughts running through her mind. “I’ll behave. Now, to what do I owe this honor?”
“I’m coming to Pittsburgh. I know you got an invitation as well, so don’t bullshit me.”
Eyes closed, I focused on her voice, smooth like aged bourbon, with a burn at the end that left my nerve endings raw and exposed. At fifty-six, she was still the sexiest woman I’d ever met.
“I did, I looked at the schedule, and I can’t make it. I didn’t know you’d be there. I’m playing that evening.”
“At your own bar. Find someone else. Put your ass in that rust bucket you own and drive north.”
God, how this woman knew me and how to work the internet. The little shit had checked the entertainment schedule on the Tucker County live music web page. I was sure of it.
“It’s not that easy.” I strummed the chorus to Eric Clapton’s, You Look Wonderful Tonight, our song.
“It is that easy. You’re making it difficult.”
I heard her join in on the Fender I knew she still played during her services. I could feel her long fingers stroke my skin, as I visualized them strumming the harmony. I more than lusted after this woman, I still loved her with all my heart.
“I probably am. It doesn’t mean it’s going to change.”
“Not until you’re ready for it to.”
There was silence between us, only the notes of the melody drawing out in a long cry. We reached the point of the song that epitomized the crux of our relationship, the lesson we’d learned the hard way. The chords we played blended like honey melting into hot tea. They became one, inseparably joined. As the final note drifted off, we sat silently with thousands of miles between us. “I need to go to bed.” My jaw ached from holding back what I really wanted to say.
“You’re a terrible liar, Rhebekka. You forget, I know that you never go to bed before four in the morning. Peace be with you.”
“And also, with you.”
I heard the click, and then the endless silence that indicated she’d disconnected. I raked my pick across the strings angrily, frustrated at my inability to forgive. I’m a minister who speaks of God’s grace, the forgiveness of sins paid for by Christ. Yet, with all of that, I have been unable to forgive—myself. My mood was on a downward spiral. If I didn’t reverse course, the morning’s sermon was headed for an iceberg bigger than the one that had sunk the Titanic.
I stripped down to my black jog bra and jeans, then carried my guitar back to the stand. I stepped into my recording room. After I chugged the rest of my now cold coffee, I picked up my Strat and plugged in the amp.
Sometimes, I would sweat out my frustration in the gym or on a long trail ride. Not that night. My exorcism of this demon would come in the form of the vibrating strings on the black and white electric guitar. At heart, I am a musician, and right then, I was going to channel Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimmie Hendricks, and Joan Jett until I could cast it out. I launched into Voodoo Child and prayed to the God of peace and mercy.
Available in 2020
About CJ Murphy
I began to create lesbian fiction after my wife suggested I write her a story as a personalized gift. I was privileged to be mentored by another published author who helped turn a raw manuscript, into an actual novel. Upon completion, she encouraged me to submit to Desert Palm Press. DPP offered me a contract for my first novel, 'frame by frame' in 2017. My second novel, The Bucket List, was published in late 2018. I credit my story telling ability to being an avid reader and having an adventure filled occupation for twenty-five years as a career firefighter.
Connect with CJ:
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: CJ Murphy (Murphy’s Law)
Blog: Murphy’s Law Ink
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