From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  I was still watching, standing outside the entry, hoping some hot, dry air would evaporate the sweat I’d accumulated during my gymnastics performance and moments of abject embarrassment. Then he turned, saw I was still watching, and walked back. Will the humiliation ever slow?

  “Preacher? Can I tell you something? Well, something about me?”

  “Yes?” I’d met the man two days ago. I didn’t care about the man, didn’t care about him coming over or not coming over, and didn’t usually lie like this, either. Truth was, my heart fluttered when he looked my way, it nearly did a handstand when he showed a whisper of a smile, and my tummy felt as if I were riding a roller coaster after eating hefty portions of cotton candy, French fries, saltwater taffy, a strawberry soda, and nachos, with an extra serving of nachos. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt for my husband, and a bit of me wanted to scream, Stop it, you stupid fool. The other part of me was picking out china patterns. Luckily my brain overpowered my heart, clamping my jaws together, lest something disturbing sneak in, like my foot.

  Chapter 7

  Tom looked around. Checking for public offenders, I thought. I did see a few folks who should have been cited by the fashion police. Tom sighed, so it seemed to be a felon-free zone.

  “It was my total inability to be counted on that ended my marriage. Sure, you’ve heard that cops are womanizers, hockey puck like that, but basically, we’re working stiffs. Doing a job. Ex-wife got ticked that I wasn’t where she wanted me to be. Alone too often, I know, then, well, she found someone who could be there for her.”

  “You don’t have to tell me this, Tom.” Okay, you know it. I devoured every word.

  “I want to.” After a buzz buzzed, Tom touched his belt. “Oops, sorry.” He looked at his phone. “It’s a page, the chief, and just maybe with some answers as to why the FBI is visiting our fair city. They usually only come during the months when it’s freezing in D.C. When you can cook eggs on the sidewalk, even in the shade, they’re in Maui. Or so it seems. Don’t know what’s up, but the mystery will be solved soon. Count on me for pizza. I’ll be there.” He saluted, and stopped. “I’m an open book, Jane, a sandwich guy, who likes football, tinkering with my old Chevy truck, and country music. You’ve seen the world, your grandfather’s more famous than McCartney, and I’ve lived in Nevada my whole life. Just want you to know.”

  “I like sandwiches,” I replied, but he was already at the police cruiser. I blasted a golden oldies station all the way home. It didn’t help.

  I was screaming, “Fool, fool, fool,” at myself when, seconds after I walked into the condo, Gramps and Harmony blasted through the front door. The Tuffster yapped at their heels, Vegas heat pulsating off all their bodies. I’d known him two entire days, been together less than two full hours, and I was acting like some stupid movie starlet on a reality show, which was going to challenge even me when I talked with Harmony.

  “Harmony, honey, can we talk a minute?” I asked. Gramps flopped next to me on the beige sofa. Tuffy bounced from one sofa to the other, and Harmony sighed. I couldn’t tell if it was boredom or teenage angst.

  She stopped, yanking down the sleeve of the black T-shirt. The bruise was still purple and still as big as if she’d been hit with a baseball. “I knew it. You don’t want me to help at VBS any more, do you?” Her bottom lip quivered, and I swear this was the first emotion visible on her face, except when it came to the pooch.

  “No way. You’ve got the job. It’s your dad. Your father is being released from jail tonight.” No flicker flicked, no glimmer glimmed, and her eyes stared at me. It was as if she were dead to him, or he to her.

  “Oh.” She pulled a comb from her pocket, and Tuffy rushed to her side to be groomed, yapping and with his tiny pink tongue dancing as he jumped around.

  “Hey, that’s great, Harmony. You’ll have to let me get to know your dad,” Gramps said, patting her on the shoulder and heading for the kitchen.

  “Yeah, great,” she muttered but her mouth looked like she’d just bit into a lemon.

  “He’s not coming here, honey, if that’s a worry,” I explained.

  “You mean I don’t have to leave?”

  I sat down next to her on the carpet. “Leave? Oh, no, you just moved in. You’re my foster kid for a while.”

  “Oh.” Still no emotion, but I’d seen through her façade. She did care.

  I touched her arm and she didn’t withdraw. “I need a promise. No running away from this house. I know you’ve done that before, and I know it happened because of the situations, but you’re with me now. For better or worse. I promise to be the best foster mom I can, which I’ve never done before so I have no clue how to do it, but you’ve got to promise to stick it out with me. If you can’t promise, I can’t promise.”

  “Promise,” she said and shoved out her hand to shake.

  Tuffy slathered my sweaty face with doggy kisses, which was pleasant in an icky way.

  I flopped onto the sofa with my doggy friend pouncing on my chest just as the doorbell rang.

  Since no one except Tuffy rushed to answer it, I heaved myself up and opened it a crack, then flung it wide. “Oh, no, Pastor Bob.” I screamed. Not at him. The mutt was attacking my boss’s ankle with a vengeance, growling like a Doberman trained for police work. Tuffy snapped hold on the cuff of Pastor Bob black slacks. No joyful tug-of-war—it was all-out war. The pastor’s arms flailed, he screamed words I was surprised he’d repeat, and then plunk, Pastor Bob was on his butt in my brick entryway. With a thump. And a crunch. Mind you, the dog was still growling and pulling and shredding.

  Even as the growling mutt turned his pants into confetti, the minister barked orders up to me. “I need your attention, madam, and I need it at once. Where’s your study?”

  I could have been faster. I could have probably yanked the nutso muttso off. God forgive me, I let the dog continue the assault for a minute more.

  “Pastor Jane, madam, call off your dog this instant. We must talk.” Pastor Bob’s voice was abrasive, but he’d just been by the mutt. Pastor Bob teetered, grabbed for me. I backed off, grabbed Tuffy as Bob regained his balance.

  “My what? Study?” As the irony turned into a laugh, the mutt wiggled from my hands, danced on his back legs, and yapped as if he were proud of himself to saving me from the intruder, who of course was my boss.

  Pastor Bob smoothed his hands down the jacket of a gray silk suit, impeccable except for the shredded trouser cuff, and said, “We can speak privately in your study.”

  I retied the knot at the waist of my T-shirt and juggled the diet cola as the dog ran circles and yapped. “Pastor, this is my home, which is full with family. And we’re certainly not meeting in my bedroom. It’ll have to be the living room.” I stepped aside to let him in, but the guy didn’t budge. The dog finally stopped the circles and now sat directly in front of me. I was getting to like the mutt.

  “Won’t do. No. Not at all. All hush-hush. Confidential.” He didn’t move from the front porch, just kept rubbing that ankle.

  I snagged Tuffy and said, “How about your car?” I saw the sleek auto parked next to Gramps’ muscle car.

  “Since it a car about which I wish to dialogue, Pastor, I suppose in an ironic way it is appropriate.” He limped away.

  I ruffled Tuffy’s tufted beard, shoved him inside, closed the door, and high-tailed it over the hot cement. My feet were crispy critters.

  “This goes no further.” His lips were pinched, and he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as he got behind the steering wheel. “Understood?”

  “Your confidences are always safe with me, Pastor.” I climbed in the passenger seat.

  “Better darned well be, madam.” He snorted and blew his nose, stuffing the tissue into the car’s ashtray before cranking up the A/C. “You are going to help me. The church board cannot know any o
f this, do you understand? Not ever.”

  Ah, the sweet taste of blackmail. Whatever he was about to spill would be deliciously on my mind for less than lily-white purposes. Yeah, that’s how it starts, and yeah, evil and I duke it out often. Heck, I’m human. Curiosity won and I asked, “What is it?” It had to be immense, or he would have demanded that I do his bidding in his plush church office, rather than seeking me out at my lowly condo. Perverted? Okay, I’m guilty, but it was delicious seeing the man so thoroughly riled.

  He lifted his puffy chin. He checked his bouffant hair in the rearview mirror. He smoothed his eyebrows with a lick of a finger, which nearly made me gag, and blurted, “I have lost my driver’s license.”

  “Just clear your mind. Did you retrace your steps? Where do you think you left it? I lose stuff all the time. It’s not a biggy.”

  “I am not stupid. You are not paying attention again. I have had it taken away by the police.”

  “Uh, you drove here.”

  He didn’t say “Well, duh,” but the look came through. The glare added drama. “You have forced my hand. I may as well tell you everything,” he began. “I have asked God for forgiveness, and He’s forgiven me. After all, I am a man of the cloth.”

  I mumbled about a forgiving spirit, clueless as to why we were sitting in his car and he was the mushy color of a peach gone bad.

  “I was coming home late from . . . um, well, just late. God knows where I was, so you need not have to burden yourself with those details. More so, as I have previously said, He’s forgiven me. Briefly, Pastor Jane, I had my thoughts on something more important than driving.”

  “You were exceeding the speed limit?”

  “Well, um, it was not the first time I’ve been ticketed. I’ve been forgiven, you understand. God understands. I, um, didn’t stop because, well, I was distracted by something that had happened.”

  “So?”

  “Why are you making this so confounded problematical?”

  “Why? Because I’m a clueless dolt. Why else would I ask straightforward questions that require simple answers?” I snapped.

  He seemed to miss my biting wit and nodded that yes, I was a clueless dolt, then jumped back into issuing orders. “So that’s it. Good. You’ll be driving me to all my appointments for the rest of your tenure as youth pastor.” He clicked the key, and the engine purred to life. He checked his hair once more, puffing the poufy part in front, put the car in reverse, and started to pull out of the drive.

  I grabbed his hand on the steering wheel, which made his foot hit the brake. The disconnect came when that jolt threw me against the dash with the subsequent thunk bringing him back to this reality. Yes, I hadn’t evaporated, even if he had desired that to be true.

  “Hold the car where it is and keep your bloomin’ bloomers on. I am stretched like a worn-out rubber band. I have no time or inclination to chauffer you all over Vegas.” I was sticking to that seat like Super Glue until this was settled. Smooth-talking Pastor Bob Normal was not going to get me to take on more. The end. Period.

  “I see no options. Your dog has injured me. My ankle is twisted, perhaps broken. It is your fault.” His mouth formed a microscopic line, his nostrils flared, and his beady eyes got beadier.

  We stared at each other, the old dagger to the eyes look. Then plunk, brain cells connected. “You need a full-time driver.” The driver would be Albert Miller, God had whispered, and I’m pleased to report I was listening.

  “Impossible.” He again wiped his nose on his knuckles, which are hairy if you want to get the full picture.

  “Not at all. Match made in heaven.”

  “I think not. Be realistic. What would people think? I can’t interview and hire someone, Jane, because how would that look?”

  “What’s your position on sinners?”

  He straightened his posture, and the pudgy chin jutted out. “We’re all sinners. If you don’t know that, there’s not a minute to spare. Why we’ll pray for your forgiveness right here and now.” He tried to grab my hand—mind you with the same one recently wiping his nose.

  I yanked free of his clammy fingers.

  “There’s someone who is, well, nearly a part of the congregation and could be a chauffeur. No, you don’t know him yet, but he needs a job. He’d be just the ticket as your driver.”

  Speaking of brain cells, I could practically see Pastor Bob’s forming thoughts. Or maybe he was grimacing because of the ache in his ankle, which by looking at it from across the space of the front seat needed medical attention if the swelling was a sign of a sprain. Or worse.

  “You can thank the Lord that this is solved, madam. I can see how this was supposed to be. Yes, Lordy me, he wanted me to help a sinner and shine a light in a horrible world of sin, and that’s the reason I lost my license. God works in mysterious ways, Pastor Jane. Just say hallelujah with me and then amen.” He sat up straighter, if that was possible. “I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson here. We must focus not on things of the world, but on forgiveness and understanding the mystery of prayerful life, Jane. And if you want to have me counsel you on this, because it certainly seems you could use some help in this area, why, just make an appointment with Vera. You understand I can’t promise to see you this week, but we’ll make it very soon.”

  See Jane steam. See Jane with scowl. See Jane wonder how many days until the regular youth minister returned. Or would that be unnecessary to count since the District Council would be bringing in a replacement? Had Pastor Bob, old Ab Normal, called for them to come since he wasn’t man enough to give me the boot? I simply couldn’t ask.

  I sighed and he yammered on. “Yes, I suggest you pray about this. I have a forgiving heart. Jesus knows that,” he prattled on until a scream rose in my throat, which I thought I could contain.

  No luck. Yet the high-pitched blast didn’t change Pastor Bob’s once more droopy face. I took a few hundred deep breaths, counted backward from 25,000 and managed, once the scream subsided, to say, “Your new driver is Arthur Miller, Harmony’s father, one of the teenagers in our youth group who is currently my foster child. Want him to pick you up tomorrow morning? What time would be good? Or should I call a taxi to take you to the hospital straight away to get that ankle attended to?” Okay, the medical bill would come out of my salary, of that I was certain.

  Pastor Bob cleared his throat, and a sermon was approaching, like a thunderstorm.

  I pulled the door lever and swung my legs from the car, about to slam the door when he said, “I want him at my home, you know the address, no later than 7:00 A.M. tomorrow. I have a breakfast meeting with Ms. Cheney. It wouldn’t do to be late.” He started backing up before I let go of the door handle.

  Luckily, from that coffee, my reactions were razor sharp, or I wouldn’t have fingers today. I shut the door and jumped back. I even did the courteous thing and waved. He never looked my way again and took the first corner at a speed unbecoming a minister. Then his Lexus fishtailed, brake lights flashing, which made sense because a police cruiser was coming down my street, with the oh-so-delicious Captain Tom Morales in the driver’s seat.

  • • •

  Only in my fantasies is pizza delivered by a fine-looking man in a snug police uniform. As Tom commented, getting out of the car, “I get quicker service than you could, and now the pizza is hot. You shouldn’t have to cook tonight, and you’re dressed just like a woman should be.”

  I swear, if he thinks I’m hot in a T-shirt and shorts, this guy is a keeper. I fanned myself and grabbed the pizza.

  While Gramps and Tom bonded over ESPN, I went through the motions, while having an out-of-body blast from the past. Throughout dinner, I had emotional flashbacks. Not combat. About Collin, which at times in our short, stormy marriage could have been called the same thing. We were oil and water, pink and neon green, vinegar and baking soda. I
don’t dwell on it, but that’s the whole truth.

  After he was killed and I moved home to be with my grandfather, returned to school and then seminary, life was orderly, quiet, and dull. Gramps’ place felt like a hotel, and our housekeeper even folded the end of the toilet paper into a triangle just like she did when she worked in a Hilton. I grieved for Collin, but more than that I grieved for what I had perceived a perfect future might include, with those 2.5 little rug rats and a bungalow in the suburbs.

  Now we sat around the empty boxes and paper plates, water bottles and soda cans piled on top, watching the Dodgers and the Mets slug it out. The weird thing? It felt as natural as my bare feet. I sighed and returned to Planet Earth, Las Vegas style.

  “Walk me to the cruiser, Jane?” Tom said, dusting pizza crumbs off his chest at the seventh inning stretch.

  “Sure. Don’t want cookies or sorbet? Hey, thanks for dinner,” I said, having sense enough to put on sandals. I followed him, closing the front door after me.

  Tom started to speak, looked at his boots, stopped and, finally moving back to the shade of the entryway, said, “I heard something. No need to comment. Code of clerical secrecy stuff. But do you know anything about a young woman named Petra Stanislaw?”

  “Why?” I looked away, and apparently he got the answer. Then I huffed, which was like admitting it, “Why would you even think to ask me?”

  “Hunch, actually, you being a buttinski and all.” He grinned, and I felt my harebrained heart flip. “You know why she’s here in Vegas?”

  “Why?” I bent down to the flowerbed, snapping off faded buds on the few coral-and-white striped impatiens that weren’t fried.

  “What’s with the PSA?” Tom stuck his hands in his pockets, which emphasized his broad chest and a stubborn streak that matched it.

  “Why?” I tried to make it sound noncommittal.

  “You clamming up, or you don’t know anything?”