Almost Friends

by Philip Gulley

  Even though he was officially on leave, he decided to stop past the meetinghouse and visit Frank. He found him at the copier, running off a letter.

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “Miriam asked me to send everyone a letter about this Friday’s meeting,” Frank said. “I guess it’s a church by-law. Members have to be notified by mail or phone call if there isn’t time to post a notice in the weekly bulletin.”

  “Why didn’t you just phone everyone? It’d be cheaper.”

  “Do you want to phone fifty-nine households and have to explain why we’re having a meeting and listen to them gripe about having to miss the football game?”

  “I see your point.”

  Sam folded the letters while Frank stuffed the envelopes and licked them shut.

  “So what do you think of Krista?” Sam asked.

  “I like her just fine. She’s really good at impressions.”

  “Impressions?”

  “Yeah, you know, she imitates people. She called me the other day, and I swore it was Opal Majors. She really had me going. And I guess she got Fern Hampton a good one at the Chicken Noodle Dinner,” Frank said with a chuckle.

  “That’s what I heard.”

  Frank leaned closer to Sam and dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Do you think she is what they say she is?”

  “You mean a lesbian?”

  Frank nodded.

  Sam thought for a moment. “Why does it even matter? Though I can understand why she wouldn’t want to say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at it from a pastor’s point of view,” Sam said. “Fern and Dale and probably a few others think she’s homosexual and ought to confess. If she says she is, they’ll get her fired. But if she says she isn’t, they’ll accuse her of lying, and they’ll still try to get her fired. The only way to prove them wrong is for her to get married. And she’s not going to do that just to please them.”

  “I’d marry her,” Frank said. “I think she’s neat.”

  “I thought you were dating Miss Rudy, you little two-timer.”

  “There’s no ring on this finger yet,” Frank said. “Maybe I will ask Krista to marry me. That’d solve the whole problem.”

  “No, then she’d have another problem,” Sam said.

  “What’s that?”

  “She’d be married to an old coot.”

  “And to think I’ve missed your company.”

  Sam laughed.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Frank said, turning serious. “I’d like to pop Dale and Fern right in the chops.”

  “Oh, if it weren’t Dale and Fern, it’d be someone else. There’s always people who want to think they’re better Christians than everyone else, and this is their way of proving it. Pointing the finger at someone else.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  They stamped the envelopes, which Sam dropped off at the post office on his way home.

  Walking home, Sam was a jumble of feelings. Though grateful for the support of his friends, he knew he’d failed his calling. He wondered how best to remedy the situation, but decided it would be unchristian to knock off Fern and Dale. He decided instead to talk with them the next day, prevailing upon whatever morsel of mercy they might possess.

  His mind made up, Sam felt better than he had in weeks. Even though he knew the worst part was still ahead—telling his wife and children they’d been right.

  To delay the inevitable, he stopped by his parents’ house to visit. Ever since the Chicken Noodle Dinner, his father had been in rare form, a whirling dervish, mowing and painting and digging and organizing. Sam found him cleaning out the garage, which hadn’t been done since 1963. His hair was standing on end, crackling with excitement.

  “Say, take a look at this, Sam. I forgot I had it.” It was a fly rod. “Yep, caught some nice trout with that up in Canada.”

  “We ought to go fishing, Dad. How about you and I drive up to Canada next week, before I have to go back to work?”

  “Are you crazy? Look at this mess. I don’t have time to fish. For crying out loud, there’s work to be done.”

  That will be me, Sam thought. Won’t take my hand off the tiller.

  “Yessiree, too much to do and not enough time to do it,” his father said happily, setting the fly rod aside and pushing back into the garage, his day blissfully full.

  Twenty-one

  The Lines Are Drawn

  Barbara and the boys accepted Sam’s confession with grace and dignity. Barbara fixed fried chicken for dinner and let him have the legs. After supper, they went for a walk around the block, while the boys rode their bicycles, darting around and about like dragonflies. By the time they reached home, the sun had set. A hint of autumn chill lay over the town. Bands of red and orange streaked the sky above Ellis Hodge’s silos to the west.

  “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” Sam said.

  “Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,” Barbara finished.

  “Looks like tomorrow will be a good day.”

  “What’s on your plate?” Barbara asked.

  “I’m going to visit Dale and Fern,” Sam said. “And urge them to leave Krista alone.”

  She slipped her hand in his. “That’s the husband I know and love.”

  Later that evening, after the children were tucked in, Sam and Barbara enjoyed the marital privilege. Making up certainly has its advantages, Sam thought as he fell asleep.

  The next morning, he awoke to the scent of oatmeal and sausage wafting through the house. After a quick shower and leisurely breakfast, he walked the boys to school, returning home past Fern Hampton’s house, who at that moment, as providence would have it, was pruning a magnolia in front of her home.

  “Good morning, Fern,” he called out from the sidewalk.

  She clipped away, barely turning her head to acknowledge him. “Mornin’.”

  Lord, give me the right words to say and the right spirit in which to say them, Sam prayed.

  “Fern, your yard looks prettier every year. I love your mums. What’s your secret?”

  “Cow poop.”

  “Well, I’ll have to remember that. Yes, ma’am, I certainly will have to remember that.”

  She continued snipping here and there, focusing on her task.

  He walked up her sidewalk and stood beside her. “Fern, I’m glad I saw you. I’d like to talk with you, if you could spare a moment. It’s about Krista.”

  “You know my thoughts on her. She’s not fit to be a minister.”

  “Fern, there are many people in our meeting who don’t agree. If you insist on pursuing this, it will only harm our meeting. I would like you to reconsider.”

  “It’s not up to me,” Fern said with a stomp of her foot. “It’s in the church’s hands now. She wouldn’t listen when two of us went to her, so now she must answer to the church.”

  “Fern, she’s new to ministry. This might discourage her from ever following her call.”

  “Better she finds out now she shouldn’t be a pastor.”

  “That’s not for us to say, Fern. She should be given the opportunity to prove herself.”

  “I gave her the opportunity at the Chicken Noodle Dinner, and she disobeyed me.”

  Sam girded his loins, swallowed deeply, and plunged ahead.

  “That’s the real problem, isn’t it, Fern? You don’t like that she didn’t obey you. That’s why you don’t like her.”

  “I’ll thank you to leave my yard,” Fern said, pointing her clippers at Sam in a threatening motion.

  Sam could see the headlines now. Pastor Stabbed with Hedge Clippers by Irate Parishioner. They certainly hadn’t covered this in seminary.

  “Fern, I’m shaking the dust from my feet.”

  “Shake the dust off in your own yard. I don’t want it here.”

  Sam sighed, realizing that his reference to Scripture had gone completely over her head. Subtlety was lost on some people. Maybe he’
d have better luck with Dale.

  As it turned out, he didn’t. Dale tore into him like a tornado, blustery and unrelenting. By the time Sam arrived home he was exhausted, though the day was still new. Prophetic ministry, he was learning, was not for the faint of heart.

  He spent the afternoon doing yard work, weeding the flowerbeds and cutting away the spent and wilted summer plants, contemplating his next move. He was not without hope, though that point was fast approaching.

  The problem with Matthew 18, Sam finally concluded, was that it assumed goodwill on the part of the offender. Jesus, being a nice guy, believed if matters were presented to people in a straightforward manner, they would do the right thing. It was Sam’s opinion that Jesus had died too young and was still in the grip of youthful idealism. Five minutes with Fern and Dale would have doused Jesus’s optimism considerably.

  Sam mowed his yard, then went next door to mow Shirley Finchum’s yard. She had lately been complaining of bad knees. His good deed done for the day, he showered, changed into fresh clothes, and walked the three blocks to the library to return an overdue book.

  Miss Rudy went home for supper at five o’clock, leaving a high-school girl to clerk the desk for a half hour. That was the optimal time to return overdue books, when Miss Rudy was gone. Otherwise, you could count on being lectured about the sacred obligations assumed when books were checked out, obligations that included their timely return. Sam could recite her lecture from memory.

  Unfortunately, it appeared romance had altered Miss Rudy’s timetable. She’d shifted her supper to six o’clock to eat dinner with Frank. She examined the due-date card with a frown. “I was just getting ready to phone your house, Samuel. We’ve had requests for this book.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Rudy. Time got away from me, what with my father’s illness and all.”

  Sam was never above playing the sympathy card with Miss Rudy, though it seldom helped.

  “Honoring one’s commitments when life is difficult is the measure of one’s character,” she said.

  “I agree completely. I’m without an excuse.”

  “Two days overdue at a dime a day. That’ll be twenty cents.”

  Sam handed her two dimes, which she deposited in the metal box she kept in her desk drawer.

  “Just helping to pay the electric bill,” Sam said, trying to put a positive spin on his delinquency.

  “I’ve not yet forwarded the names of overdue borrowers to Mr. Miles. It would not have reflected well on the church for our minister’s name to appear in the newspaper.”

  “That would have been quite unseemly. I appreciate your restraint, and I will try to do better in the future,” Sam promised.

  “Will you be checking out any other books today?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s too risky.”

  “Very well.”

  Sam stayed to read the magazines, trolling for sermon ideas for when he returned to the pulpit. He was reading the jokes in Reader’s Digest when he heard muffled voices behind the magazine display. It sounded like Dale Hinshaw and Fern Hampton. He raised the magazine to hide his face and listened closely.

  “I got Stanley Farlow to be on our side,” Dale said. “But if we win, he wants a room named after his mother.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. We could maybe name the basement for her. She was big in the Chicken Noodle Dinner,” Fern said. “Shirley Finchum said she’d help us too. Thing is, she doesn’t want Sam to come back. She’s got a grandson who’s a minister, and he needs a job.”

  “I think Sam’s been here long enough,” Dale said. “Time for a change, if you ask me.”

  Sam replaced the magazine and left the library quietly, unsettled by their treachery. What gall, he thought. Ganging up on Krista and now coming after me. And the nerve of Shirley Finchum, plotting my removal after I mowed her yard!

  Now it was getting personal.

  He arrived home just as Barbara was setting supper on the table. “Wash your hands, boys. Supper’s on.”

  Sam and his sons lined up at the sink, splashed water, and made a general mess of things until their hands were reasonably clean, then sat down at the table. Levi reached for his spoon.

  “Wait for your mother,” Sam said.

  Levi groaned. Barbara took her seat.

  “Prayer first. Whose turn is it?” Sam asked.

  “Addison’s,” Levi said.

  “I prayed last night. It’s your turn,” Addison squealed, apparently indignant at the prospect of having to pray two days in a row.

  “Actually, I think it’s my turn,” Sam said. “Let’s have Quaker silence.”

  Sam didn’t care for verbal prayers when he was off the clock. They joined hands and bowed their heads. Sam prayed for the grace to forgive Dale and Fern, though without much enthusiasm.

  They squeezed hands, picked up their spoons, and began to eat. Chili. And peanut butter and honey sandwiches. One of Sam’s top five favorite meals.

  “You’ll not believe what I overheard at the library,” he said, taking a bite of his peanut butter and honey sandwich.

  “What?” Barbara asked.

  “Dale and Fern plotting against Krista and against me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” he said. Peanut butter was stuck fast to the roof of his mouth and his speech was garbled. “They’ve lined up Stanley Farlow and Shirley Finchum on their side, and they want to get me fired so they can hire Shirley’s grandson.”

  “Who’s getting tired?” Addison asked.

  “No one’s tired,” Sam said. “I said fired. They want to get me fired.”

  “Would we have to move?” Levi asked. “I don’t want to move. All my friends are here.”

  “We’re not moving anywhere,” Barbara said, reaching over to pat Levi’s head. “And Daddy won’t get fired. We have too many friends at the church.”

  “I don’t like Dale Hinshaw,” Addison announced. “Last Sunday, he told me I was bad.”

  “Don’t you pay any attention to him, son,” Sam said.

  “I wish you weren’t a pastor so we didn’t have to go to church,” Levi said.

  “We don’t go to church because your father is the pastor,” Barbara said. “We go to learn what it means to be grown up.”

  “You’re already grown up. What’s there to learn?” Addison asked.

  “Well, church teaches us how to forgive and how to help the poor and how to love God and other people,” Barbara said.

  “So when I learn how to do those things, can I stop going?” Levi asked.

  Barbara turned to Sam. “Help me out here, honey.”

  “You’re doing a fine job.”

  “How was school today?” she asked the boys, changing the subject.

  “Levi got in trouble for talking,” Addison reported. “He had to stand in the hallway.”

  “I did not, you doofus. Shut your face.”

  Sam loved the warm camaraderie of family dinners.

  He looked at Levi. “You and I will have a talk after supper, young man.”

  Insurrection was breaking out all over.

  The telephone rang. Sam walked across the kitchen and plucked the phone from the wall. It was Shirley Finchum, all sweetness and light, calling to thank him for mowing her yard. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Glad to be of assistance,” Sam said. Then, feeling feisty, he added, “I understand you have a grandson who’s a minister.”

  “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”

  “I think I heard Fern Hampton mention something about it.”

  “He got the call just last month, but he doesn’t have a church yet.”

  “When he finds one,” Sam said, trying not to snicker, “I hope the people there treat him as kindly as you’ve always treated me.”

  Shirley paused. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

  “You take care now,” Sam said, then hung up.

  Barbara grinned at her husband. “That was crue
l.”

  “I thought I let her off pretty easy.”

  “Can I toilet paper her trees at Halloween?” Levi asked.

  “No, young man, you may not TP her house or anyone else’s. We don’t do that,” Barbara said.

  “Your mother’s right,” Sam said. No TPing. You may, however, soap her windows.”

  “How about I light a bag of cow poop and put it on her porch?” Levi said.

  Sam laughed.

  “Don’t encourage them,” Barbara said. “They’ll think you’re serious.”

  “No TP, no soap, no cow poop,” Sam said solemnly. “And no more talking in school when you’re supposed to be quiet. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam wished all rebellion was so easily suppressed.

  Their night ended quietly, a calm before the storm Sam knew to be brewing.

  Twenty-two

  Sam Redeems Himself

  Krista Riley had been preoccupied all week, anticipating Friday evening and the termination of her brief career as a pastor. Thursday morning found her seated in class, listening to a professor drone on about the Hittites and the Ammonites, people long dead and of little concern to her or any of the seminarians around her, most of whom were dozing or working that morning’s crossword puzzle.

  Studying ancient animosities was of some consolation; it helped her put her own struggles in perspective. It wasn’t as if human strife were a modern trend. She would face other challenges in the future, and this one would fade from memory. She kept telling herself that, but the knot in her stomach didn’t lessen, and she dreaded Friday’s meeting more each hour.

  After lunch, she was summoned to Dean Mullen’s office. He was seated behind his desk, smiling pleasantly. “Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in.” Krista went on guard immediately, having learned that when Dean Mullen repeated himself, bad news was often at hand.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said.

  She sat in the chair beside his desk.

  “Well, well,” he said, leaning back in his chair, smiling. “How are things working out for you in Harmony?”