by Ann B. Ross
When LuAnne left, Lillian came into the living room where I still sat trying to collect myself.
“I made you some soup,” she said, setting a tray on my lap. “I’m feeding that little boy in the kitchen, then he gon’ help me peel apples for a pie. Eat somethin’ now. You gon’ need it, ’cause that was yo’ preacher callin’. He want to know can you walk over to the church. He want to counsel with you.”
“I guess I could use some counseling,” I said. “Thank you, Lillian. I’ll eat this and go on over there.”
I’d been a Christian all my life and a Presbyterian for most of it. The way I was raised and who I married hadn’t offered much choice in either matter. Not that I’d ever expected or wanted a choice. Still, neither Wesley Lloyd nor I had ever been the type of person who needed counseling. Now I found myself hoping that my preacher could comfort my hurting heart and help me accept the burden laid on me by Wesley Lloyd.
We’d had this preacher four, no, about five years now, and he’d settled in fairly well. Larry Ledbetter was his name; not Lawrence, but Larry. Have you ever noticed how many preachers and evangelists have little-boy names? Just open up the Abbotsville Press most any day and you’ll find Jimmys and Johnnys, Billy Earls and Ronnies advertising their services at some local church, usually with somebody named Dawn or Tammy or Debbie singing and playing the piano or the saxophone or some such thing. You’d think grown men would put aside childish things, including childish names.
That’s why I liked the Presbyterian church; we believed in doing things decently and in order. When you went to church, you knew exactly what you were going to get. We didn’t want to be surprised or entertained. And, Lord knows, we didn’t want anything changed.
Take that time we had an interim pastor who changed the order of worship so that the offering plates were passed right after the sermon instead of beforehand during the anthem. You’d have thought he’d instituted something indecent. It upset a lot of people who’d been accustomed to digging out a dollar bill or their pledge envelopes as soon as the choir director stood up. I didn’t think it was a good idea, either, but not because I was against change. I just thought the pastor was taking a big chance in passing the plates right after he’d finished preaching. I mean, what if he’d had an off day and his sermon hadn’t been too good? I wouldn’t risk it myself.
Wesley Lloyd spoke to him about it, and pretty soon the order of worship went back to the way we’d always done it.
But as soon as Pastor Ledbetter accepted our call, he saw the lay of the land right away and didn’t make a false move. He was a quick study when it came to latching onto the men of power and agreeing with them. Contrary to most of the new breed coming out of our seminaries, he was a dyed-in-the-wool Calvinist, which meant he was as good as Wesley Lloyd at finding Scripture verses to support his opinions. He and Wesley Lloyd saw eye to eye on just about everything, and if they didn’t, why, you’d never know it from Pastor Ledbetter. He picked up right away that Wesley Lloyd didn’t like confrontations or arguments about the way the church was run.
I’d noticed recently, though, that Pastor Ledbetter had a freer look about him, both as a pastor and as a pulpiteer. More expansive, maybe, in the way he moved and sermonized, the last of which he’d do at the drop of a hat or a greeting on the street. I thought I knew what he was feeling—something close to being loosened from the ties that bound.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER WALKING ACROSS the parking lot, I found it a relief to step inside the air-conditioned church. I went through the fellowship hall and on into the preacher’s office suite. Norma Cantrell, Pastor Ledbetter’s secretary, always acted like she was doing me a favor whenever I wanted to talk to him. As I walked into her office, she glanced behind me and tried to crane her neck to see out in the hall. She was looking for Little Lloyd, I knew, and I was glad I’d left him at home. She liked to make out like she was so professional, but she was the biggest gossip I knew. That’s why she liked her job, since every Presbyterian in trouble sooner or later ended up talking to the preacher. I’d warned Pastor Ledbetter about her talkative tendencies, but he’d just patted my shoulder and told me he’d take care of it. Ever since then she’d flounced herself around anytime I was in her office, not that anybody with all that weight ought to do any flouncing. So I knew the preacher had confided in her, and that’s when I stopped confiding in him.
Still, he was my pastor and he’d done a good job burying Wesley Lloyd. The sermon had been all I could ask for, telling all the good deeds Wesley Lloyd had done for the church and the community, and making me feel proud.
But I wasn’t feeling proud on this visit, just broken and humble. I longed for some spiritual comfort for the double bereavement that was now my lot.
Norma patted her teased hair with one hand and, with the other, fingered the pearl necklace that was attached to the earpieces of her glasses. “Afternoon, Miss Julia,” she said, reaching for a pencil to show me how busy she was. “Are you here to see Pastor Ledbetter? He’s pretty busy right now.”
“He just called me to come over, Norma, which you know because you probably dialed the phone for him. Tell him I’m here, please.”
She aimed a glare at me that was unbecoming in a church setting, lifted the phone receiver, and pushed a button. It wouldn’t have taken her two steps to walk to the door of his office, but no, she had to use that push-button phone.
She turned her head away from me and practically whispered, “Mrs. Springer is here. Shall I ask her to wait?”
She must not’ve gotten the answer she wanted, because she pursed her lips before hanging up. About that time, Pastor Ledbetter opened his door and stood there filling that space and the air around him with his ministerial presence and authority. Charisma, I think it’s called, and he’d preached a whole sermon one time on all the meanings of the word. He loved to call on his seminary training to instruct us in the Greek language. He’d made it plain that being charismatic for Christ didn’t mean you had to speak in tongues, which is something mainline Presbyterians don’t hold with at all.
“Come in, Miss Julia,” he said in his hearty voice that aimed to make me feel welcome. “How are you? It’s good to see you on a day besides a Sunday.”
“I’m over here on Mondays for the Women of the Church meetings and on Wednesday nights for prayer meeting,” I reminded him. Did he think I only showed up on Sunday mornings?
“Oh, I know, I know,” he said, smiling his wide smile. “Just joshing you, Miss Julia. Have a seat, now. Here, let’s sit in these comfortable chairs.” He closed the door behind us and indicated the two wing chairs beside a bay window. They were fine chairs, upholstered in cream damask, that were bought instead of a swing set for the children’s playground.
I sat down and smoothed out the skirt of my Leslie Fay shirtwaist. I felt edgy, like I always did when a preacher wanted to see me. It was like being called to the principal’s office, even though I couldn’t think of a thing I’d done wrong. I halfway expected to hear about building plans and my contributions thereto, especially since Leonard Conover had spilled the beans. What I wanted from him was some commiseration and prayer over the intolerable situation Wesley Lloyd had left me in. I was ready for some pity.
“Now, Miss Julia,” he said, templing his hands before him and looking into my eyes with deep concern. He crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned toward me. I could feel that charisma I was telling you about, and I thought again of how powerful a pulpiteer he was. Why, he filled out a pastoral robe to an outstanding degree, and made a commanding figure behind a pulpit. He liked to stretch out his arms and grasp each side of the podium as if he had to keep the thing from flying off above the congregation.
“Now, Miss Julia,” he said again, sorrow dripping in his words and pulling his mouth down. “What’s this I hear about you?”
I was having queasy feelings that felt strangely like guilt, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think why.
“Why, I don’t
know. What have you heard?”
“Ah,” he said, searching my face intently. Then he nodded as if he’d confirmed something. “It’s hard to remember things, isn’t it? But short-term memory loss is a natural result of aging, just the Lord’s way of helping us cut our ties to worldly things.”
“There is nothing wrong with my memory, short- or long-term. I asked what you’d heard, because rumors fly so thick in this town I didn’t know which one you’d come in contact with.”
“Just to remind you, then, I’m concerned about this child, the one you’ve been introducing around as Mr. Springer’s son.”
“Oh, Pastor,” I said, with some relief that he wasn’t going to start in about how the Lord needed more parking spaces. “You don’t know how I need your prayers, for I’ve never had such a shock in my life. You can imagine. It’s about broken me in two to learn about Mr. Springer’s waywardness. I’m trying to do the Christian thing, even though it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“I understand,” he said in a soft, understanding voice. I felt tears spring to my eyes at the compassion I heard. I could put on a steely face for the curious and the ridiculers, but kindness just about crumpled me up.
“Yes,” he said, “I can imagine what you’re going through. Emotional turmoil plays havoc with our ability to rightly discern a situation. You must be very careful, Miss Julia. Unscrupulous people can take advantage of your trusting nature, as I am led to believe is happening to you right now, and it’s confusing your mental processes. For instance, we don’t always know what the Lord’s will for us is in unusual circumstances. And what we think is the Christian thing to do may not be at all. That’s why I wanted to counsel with you.”
My eyes dried up and I felt confused. “I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought I was doing the Lord’s will.”
“Well, it’s a delicate matter, but I’m sure we can straighten this out and you’ll be able to handle things a little better after we talk. You see, Miss Julia, Mr. Springer was highly thought of in this town, indeed, in this whole section of the state. To say nothing of our beloved church. I can’t tell you the contributions he made to everything he cared about, and it seems to me that we should be careful about anything that would be a blot on his good name.”
“I’m not following you,” I said, but my insides were beginning to knot up on me.
“I’m saying that your running around town proclaiming that child as Mr. Springer’s son is unbecoming to a fine Christian woman like yourself.” He leaned so close that I could smell the breath mint and hear it click against his teeth. “It helps nothing,” he went on, “to besmirch Mr. Springer’s reputation, which you’re perilously close to doing. Why, you know that the Springer family donated the very land this church is on and contributed greatly to this sanctuary.”
“Yes, I know it.” My hands twitched on the arms of the chair, and I clasped them in my lap.
“And there’s a Sunday school room named for your husband, and all the hymnals have his name stamped in them because he donated them.”
“I know that, too.” Wesley Lloyd’s rings—the ones he’d put on my finger with an oath of fidelity—were cutting into the palm of my hand.
“But, Miss Julia, you may not know that the session is seriously considering a Family Life Center, a building that would strengthen family ties by providing our members with a place for all kinds of activities. We’re thinking of a gymnasium, a video arcade room for young people, a study room, and several other possibilities to make the church the center of our lives,” he said, pausing and studying me awhile. He lowered his voice to a confiding whisper, “And our plan is to name it the Wesley Lloyd Springer Activities Center.”
I couldn’t believe it. Little Lloyd’s face with its running nose, smeared glasses, and open mouth blended with Wesley Lloyd’s as I pictured an oil portrait hanging in their activities center for all to see. “I don’t think Mr. Springer’s name should be associated with such a thing,” I managed to say, “considering the activities he was engaged in.”
“Miss Julia, Miss Julia,” he said, chiding me as if I were a child. “See, that’s the very thing I’m talking about. You are not grasping the essence of what I’m saying here. And this inability will only get worse as time goes by. You might consider and earnestly pray about granting someone trustworthy your power of attorney so you won’t have to struggle with all these complex matters.”
“Sam’s taking care of all the complex matters.”
“I know, but as soon as the estate’s settled, everything will revert to you. And frankly, Miss Julia, I don’t think you want that burden. And, if I may speak lovingly, I’m not sure you’d be able to handle it.”
He had a point. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it, either. I couldn’t depend on Sam forever, and Binkie was getting so busy she might not want Wesley Lloyd’s affairs dumped in her lap. I probably could’ve worded that better.
“Who would you suggest, Pastor?”
“Not a lawyer,” he said, as if he knew my thoughts. “Lawyers can tie you in knots, giving you first one side of a question and then the other, and letting you make the final decision, and charging you for every minute. You need to consider someone who is, first of all, a Christian, and second, someone who is a strong, stable, family man. One who has proven that he’s able to care for those under his protection. I would suggest someone in this church who has proven his ability through consistency and diligence. Someone who would be able to see through these devious attempts to gain access to the Springer estate through guile and subterfuge, as is being done even now by way of that child you’ve so unthinkingly taken in.”
“Maybe I’m still not following you,” I said. “Are you saying that I ought to deny that child’s lineage, when anybody who looks at him can tell who his father was? Are you saying that I ought to lie about it?”
“Oh.” He laughed and shook his head at my density. “Not lie, Miss Julia. Just not saying anything is not lying. Mr. Springer did so much good in his life, and will do even more in the future, that I think we can afford to overlook some, ah, human foibles. After all, what is a Christian but one whose sins are forgiven?”
My nerves were about to jump out of my skin by this time. I kept thinking that I wasn’t hearing him right, but every time he opened his mouth he said something even more unbelievable. “You want me to deny this child’s very existence, is that it?”
“Well, we really don’t know for sure whose child he is, do we?” He looked at me for a long minute, frowning with concern. “I’m worried about you, Miss Julia, truly worried. I fear that you haven’t thought through all the ramifications. It seems to me that you need responsible, spiritual guidance to prevent, shall we say, a rash action on your part. For instance, have you thought that the child could have a claim on Mr. Springer’s estate? And your recognition of him can’t do anything but help that claim? Why, it’s possible that a good lawyer could take the entire Springer estate away from you and give it to that unknown child. Now what kind of stewardship would that be if you let that happen?”
Now I understood. Anytime a preacher starts talking about stewardship, he’s talking about your money and his plans. Especially his building plans. It’s hard to fathom the lengths some of them will go to fill the collection plates. Why, not too long ago I heard about a preacher in Chapel Hill who had an ATM installed in his church. But then, as Wesley Lloyd used to say, that’s Chapel Hill for you.
“Let me ask you something, Pastor,” I said, steering him back to my concerns. “Did you know about Wesley Lloyd’s adultery?”
“Well,” he said, smiling, as he sat back in his chair and looked off over my head. “I don’t think that’s a subject for us to be discussing. I’m sure it makes you uncomfortable, and gossip, which is all it was, is beneath us, don’t you think?”
“So you did know.”
“Let me counsel with you seriously here, Miss Julia.” He leaned forward again, resting his arms on his knees a
nd putting an earnest look on his face. “Some men, certain men, carry a heavy burden in life. They have great and terrible responsibilities. We don’t understand this, but in many ways they are held to a different standard than the rest of us. Think of David and his many wives and concubines. He was guilty of adultery and even of murder, yet the Lord delighted in him. You see what I’m saying here? We have to overlook and forgive those men who have more to offer than the average person.”
I don’t know why I’d never noticed how coarse the skin of his face was or how close together his eyes were. “I do see what you’re saying,” I said. “You’re saying that wealthy men can commit sins that would condemn a poor man. And you’re saying that you’re afraid that little boy will get the money you want for the church. Do I have it right?”
“No, no,” he said, still smiling like he was dealing with a half-wit. “You mustn’t see it like that. I’m just trying to protect Mr. Springer’s name, and yours. And the church’s. Mr. Springer was so closely associated with First Church of Abbotsville that anything that smears him smears us, too. We need to work together here, Miss Julia. I think you’ll feel much better when you learn to accept the Lord’s will in this matter. Now, why don’t we have a prayer together?”
He raised his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes. When he opened his mouth to call on the Lord, I stood up and walked out.
When I stepped into Norma’s office, she quickly stuffed a napkin in her desk drawer and closed it. Krispy Kreme doughnut aroma filled the room.
“Through already?” she chirped. “I thought you’d have a whole lot more to talk about.”
“Don’t think, Norma,” I said as I traversed her office to the outside door. “It doesn’t take long to discuss adultery when the pastor’s for it.”
I glanced back to see her mouth drop open, so I said, “You’ve got sugar on the front of your blouse,” and walked on out.