Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  Lord, help me accept this with dignity. Strengthen me so I can be Christlike.

  Maddox rises from beside Pastor Paul. “Join us, Harri.” He nods at the chair opposite them, but I can’t move, so he comes around the table and takes my arm. Big mistake. Or nearly so, because the moment before I say words I’ll regret, a kind of peace—apathy?—washes over me, and the lamb is led to the slaughter.

  I settle in the chair Maddox pulls out and track him as he resumes his seat. He settles in, then reaches for the paper in front of Pastor Paul and pushes it toward me.

  Guessing it’s a letter of termination, I lower my gaze. But the typewritten letter isn’t addressed to me. It’s addressed to Pastor Paul. At the bottom, the letter is signed, “A VERY concerned member of First Grace.”

  As I read through it, my stomach rises. It’s a letter of complaint. Worse, it’s a letter of threat. In short, if First Grace proceeds with its plans to dismantle the park, the truth about Pastor Paul’s exit from his last church will be exposed. As for the reason for his exit, it was an act of indiscretion—sexual harassment of a church employee.

  Hands trembling, I drop them to my lap and look from Pastor Paul, who regards me with pressed lips, to Maddox, who isn’t as versed at tempering his emotions. Only then do I understand what this is about—not that it isn’t tied to my termination. “You think I did this.”

  Maddox’s eyes bore into mine. “Are you involved?”

  “What do you mean ‘involved’?”

  He retrieves the letter. “Composed on an old typewriter, complete with strikeouts. I’m guessing Bea Dawson.”

  As am I. “And you believe I had a hand in it.”

  Maddox shoves back in his chair. “Harri, the night of the jamboree, you said you would do whatever it took to stop First Grace from closing down the park. Then yesterday, when you were on the phone, you said you weren’t going to stand by and allow the older folks’ homes to be taken from them when it was in your power to help them. And that you regretted what you’d had to do.”

  Realizing how that sounded in light of the letter, my anger begins to drain off. I force my gaze to Pastor Paul. “It’s true that, during the conversation Maddox eavesdropped on”—yes, eavesdropped!—“I voiced regret over something I’d done, but I didn’t write that letter.”

  “Or conspire with anyone?” Maddox presses.

  The tide once more turns toward anger. “Or conspire!”

  “You’re saying that your phone conversation had nothing to do with the mobile home park?”

  There goes the tide again, and all I can do is work my mouth in search of words that not only won’t betray Gloria’s confidence but won’t make me a liar. Unfortunately, a half truth is the best I can do. “All right. My conversation was about the park—and saving it—but not like this. I know nothing about the accusation in that letter.”

  “Then Anna didn’t tell you what happened at the last church I pastored?” Pastor Paul asks quietly.

  Realization opens its fingers to offer up an explanation for Anna’s angst and rebellion. She must have seen her father forced out, as some had tried to force out my father. Must have experienced how deeply Christians can hurt one another.

  “No, Anna didn’t say anything to me. But if she had, I wouldn’t have broken her confidence.” Does he believe me?

  “I did make a mistake at my last church,” he finally says, “but not what I was accused of. I had to fire one of our staff. Thinking it could be done amicably, I met with the woman without a witness present. She became angry and stormed out of my office. The next day, she accused me of sexual harassment and threatened to go public if the board didn’t demand my resignation. I defended myself, and the board sided with me; however, in the end it was determined that it would be best if I left, especially since I’d only been at the church for two years and my attempts to grow and update it were constantly challenged by the predominantly elderly congregation.” He draws a deep breath. “It was hard on our family.”

  And I’d thought it fortunate that neither Leah nor Anna had ever had to deal with anything like I’d had to deal with…

  “Did my father know?”

  “Yes, as did those on the board who approved me.”

  Among them, Bea’s departed husband. Oh, Bea.

  “I won’t be blackmailed, Harri.”

  I nearly protest, but it is blackmail—driven by fear and self-preservation, but blackmail nonetheless. And it sounds as if he believes I’m the one doing the blackmailing. Here comes that tide of anger, but before it reaches my shores, I tell myself I will not be angry. I will accept this as God’s plan and do what I should have done years ago.

  “If I have to,” Pastor Paul continues, “I’ll address this accusation with the congregation, even if it means putting my family through more turmoil.” He glances at Maddox. “I won’t be forced out again. I’m seeing First Grace through.”

  Feeling Maddox’s gaze, I rise. “I hope you will. And I won’t stand in your way. I’ll finish out this month, then…” Then, what? After all, the café is pretty much spoken for.

  Pastor Paul’s brow furrows. “What are you saying?”

  I try to smile, and surprisingly, it isn’t all that hard. “I’m resigning.”

  Maddox stands. “Harri—”

  I throw a hand up as Pastor Paul also rises. “This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. It was just a stopover that I allowed to become permanent.” I jut my chin at the letter. “As for that, I’ll take care of it.” I blow out a breath. “There. That wasn’t so hard.” Actually, it was, but not as hard as I expected. Of course, there’s always “delayed reaction.” I step toward the door. “I know you have lots to do in preparation for tomorrow’s service, so I’ll let you get to it.”

  “Harri, we have to talk about this.” Maddox comes around the table—Maddox who believed me capable of blackmail.

  “No, we don’t. It’s for the best.” I walk into the hallway. Part of me wishes he would come after me and apologize for what he believed me capable of, but the other part is relieved when I enter the park alone.

  Shortly, Bea opens her door to my rapping and peers at me through puffy, bloodshot eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Bea?”

  She frowns, but just when I’m certain she’s going to close the door in my face, her countenance crumples. “Oh, Harri, I did something bad. And I don’t think Jack will ever forgive me.”

  Ten minutes later, between sobs and nose blowing, the story of the letter to Pastor Paul and how Jack found out about it is laid at my feet. This morning, when Jack came to check on Bea, who’d holed herself up for the past few days, she invited him in. As she set coffee to brewing, he entered the kitchen holding a draft of the letter she’d inadvertently left out. He told her it was wrong, and that though he understood her fear of being uprooted, he wanted nothing to do with such un-Christlike behavior.

  Bea blows again and adds another tissue to the pile on her sofa table. “I knew it was wrong, but every time I looked around and remembered Edward and our years together here—even that last year when he was so sick—I got madder until I was certain that he would want me to do whatever it took to save the homes of our friends.”

  Whatever it took… “And so you used what he told you about Pastor Paul and put it in a letter.”

  Indignation leaps into her eyes. “What kind of man do you think my husband was, Harriet Bisset?”

  I blink. “I just—”

  “Just nothing, missy! Edward was a model of Christian manhood. He would never have told me what went on behind closed doors.”

  “Then…?”

  A flush creeps up her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to listen in on a discussion between him and your father, but when I returned home from shopping, the kitchen window was open, and they were sitting out back discussing Pastor Paul’s qualifications. I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  “Did you also hear that the accusation was false?”

  She startles. “Fal
se? How do you know that?”

  “I just came from a meeting with Pastor Paul and Maddox McCray.”

  Her face starts to crumple again. “Then he received the letter.”

  “Yes.”

  Crumple, crumple. “I was praying that a postal machine would chew it up—you know, bite it into greasy little pieces like the ones you sometimes get in a baggy from the post office with a note of apology.” Her mouth trembles. “What did Pastor Paul say?”

  “That he’s staying put and won’t be…” No, not blackmailed. “Won’t be pushed out. He’s going to do what’s best for First Grace and its members, Bea.”

  She nods wearily. “I just wanted to stop him from taking my home like he decided to take my organ. But I wouldn’t have done it—gone public about that woman’s accusations.”

  “The accusation was false.”

  She lowers her head. “Oh, Harri, Edward would have been so disappointed in me—just like Jack. And if either of them knew about the projector bulbs…”

  Case of the missing bulbs solved.

  She reaches for another tissue. “It’s hard being old, and alone, and unwanted, and… afraid.”

  Despite what she did and the suspicion cast on me, I scoot nearer and slide an arm around her. She stiffens slightly but allows me to draw her close. “I know, Bea. Well, not the old part.”

  She tries to laugh, but the sound ends on a sob.

  “Don’t worry. Everything will work out—First Grace, the park, even Jack.”

  “You promise?”

  “Better yet, why don’t we pray about it?”

  An hour later, Jack sees me to the door of his mobile home. “I’ll take it from here, Harri.” He glances at Bea, who’s seated at his kitchen table where she and I settled a while ago to ask for Jack’s help in sorting out the mess. “I’ll call Pastor Paul and see if he’ll come talk with us.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “No.” He gives a nicely wrinkled smile. “Thank you, Harri.”

  Praying that Bea hasn’t caused irreparable damage to their budding relationship, I wave as I descend the steps.

  Neither Dumplin’ nor Doo-Dah greets me when I unlock my door, which is disappointing. I’ve become partial to having a reason to come home—someone… er, something that’s happy to see me. Even if it is only for the food. However, in the next instant, the reason for their absence becomes evident. They have trashed my bookshelf. My perfectly ordered Bibles are everywhere, as are my God’s Promises books and collection of inspirational fiction.

  “Dumplin’,” I growl as I close the door. “Doo-Dah!”

  Neither one owns up, wisely digging in wherever they are.

  I cross to the shelf. Most of the books fell onto their front or back, but several flew open during Dumplin’ and Doo-Dah’s Wild Ride and are sprawled with their pages bent and edges crimped. I pick up my King James Bible that I read through in 2001. The pages of Nehemiah and Esther are folded in on themselves, and the lower edge of Lamentations shows evidence of sharp teeth.

  Gnashing my own teeth, I collect the books, but as I begin to order them for their return to the bookshelf, I realize what a waste of time it is. As I’ve given my notice to First Grace, I’ll have to find another place to live. I might as well box them up.

  I’m okay, at least until I set the last Bible into the cardboard box. Then I start to bawl.

  Water is amazingly restorative, especially when delivered over a long period of time in a very toasty state. Unfortunately, though my taut muscles find relief in the heat and spray, it does little for the pounding at the back of my head. Strangely, when I drain the water heater of its last hot drop and turn off the taps, the pounding grows louder.

  Someone’s at the door. With a congested snort, courtesy of my crying jag, I wrap myself in a towel. “Go away,” I mutter as the pounding continues. But whoever it is, doesn’t. In jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, I open the door. Be still, my wretched heart.

  Maddox sizes me up, from my towel-dried hair to my bare toes. “I was beginning to think I might have to break down the door.”

  I glower at him through the screen. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Plumbing.”

  “What?”

  “I could hear the water running through your pipes, so I guessed you were showering.”

  “Well, aren’t you a regular Sherlock Holmes.” I step nearer and peer left and right. Sure enough, curtains are moving as my neighbors keep tabs on me—no doubt curious over the ruckus Maddox caused.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “What can I do for you?”

  “Invite me in.”

  “That would hardly be appropriate.”

  “There’s still plenty of daylight, and you can leave the door open. Besides, I’m not afraid of false accusations.”

  “After what happened to Pastor Paul? You should be, because, until today, you probably didn’t believe me capable of blackmail either.”

  Regret shifts across his face. “That’s why I’m here. Or one of the reasons.”

  Then he knows Bea owned up. Though relieved to have my name cleared, I’m angered by the necessity.

  Maddox glances at Elva, who has popped her head out the door. “May I come in, Harri?”

  I want to say no, but that’s petty. All fingers pointed to me being involved in the writing of that letter—especially my own—and it’s not as if my relationship with Maddox is longstanding and he ought to know I’m incapable of such behavior. Or so I tell myself past the ache.

  I push the screen door open. “Come in.”

  Elva is still watching, and I raise a hand as Maddox steps inside. “Everything’s fine.”

  She nods and heads back inside her mobile home.

  When I turn, Maddox’s back is to me where he stares at my boxed books. He looks around. “You said you would finish out the month at First Grace.”

  “I will. I just thought I’d get a jump on packing.” No need to tell him that Dumplin’ and Doo-Dah gave me the idea.

  “You may want to rethink your move.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the other thing I need to talk to you about, but first, I owe you an apology.”

  Not until I feel my nails sink into my upper arms do I realize I’m gripping them. “Pastor Paul’s letter.”

  “Yes. As I was on my way here, Paul called and told me he’d met with Bea and Jack.” He spreads his hands. “I didn’t want to believe you’d had anything to do with that letter, Harri, but what you said and what I overheard…” Beneath his white button-down shirt, his shoulders rise with a large breath. “I smelled a ‘split,’ so I did what I was hired to do. Assess the problem. Find a solution. Unfortunately, it appeared that you were part of the problem. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t doubt his sincerity, but today’s meeting sits with me like an overdose of Jelly Bellys. “All right.”

  His gaze flickers, evidence he was looking for more than acknowledgment.

  I lower my arms to my sides, but a moment later clasp my hands, desperate to hold on to something, even if it is only me.

  “Your right hand will hold me fast.” I grasp at Scripture—the assurance that God will hold on to me—but I can’t quite feel His hand. And it’s all because the old Harri is breathing down my neck.

  “Can we sit down?”

  I step past him, and as I perch on the edge of my recliner, he lowers to the sofa. “The other thing I need to talk to you about is Gloria’s property. While Paul was meeting with Bea and Jack, I met with Gloria and her accountant.”

  They had a meeting? I glance at the answering machine. Sure enough, the light is blinking—was probably blinking when I came home. I experience a spurt of regret at not picking up the message that’s surely from Gloria, though it’s not as if it would make any difference. It is what it is.

  “I believe we’ve reached an agreement with her to sell the café to First Grace.” Maddox begins to smile. “The mobile home park will stay, Harri.”


  That’s that, then. Good-bye, dream. Not that it isn’t what I wanted, but it isn’t what I wanted—the selfish side of Harri, that is. “Good. It’s for the best.”

  His smile reverses. “I have to say that I was expecting a more enthusiastic response. Though the church’s finances will be strained, Gloria has been offered a generous sum that will not only assure her a comfortable retirement but allow the elderly folks to remain in their homes.”

  “For how long?”

  “You’re worried that, if First Grace outgrows Gloria’s property, the park will once more be threatened.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see that happening, and certainly not in the near future, but I suppose it’s possible down the road. Regardless, I assure you that the current residents have nothing to worry about.”

  “Well, I am happy about that.”

  He seems doubtful, and he should be. I am happy that Gloria’s retirement will be more comfortable and the residents won’t be forced to move, but there’s still the matter of my loss. I’ll just get over it.

  Maddox gives a throaty sigh. “Now all that remains is to decide what to do with the café.”

  I scoff. “Mow it down. That’s what you’re buying it for.”

  “Ultimately, but it would be foolish not to take advantage of its ability to generate income until First Grace is ready to expand. Which is where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “Gloria says she’ll retire at the beginning of the year, and since you’re leaving women’s ministry, I thought you might want to run the place.”

  Would that fall under the heading of adding insult to injury?

  “She says you’re indispensable, that she couldn’t have made the café a success without you.”

  He has no idea how much that hurts.

  “Interested?”

  “No.” The word bursts from me. Best to cut the ties and see if I can knit some new ones together elsewhere.

  “Why?” His question is sharp, as is the look in his eyes. “Let me guess—now you’re not happy about the café closing down.”