Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  Since I serve on the board of the Nehemiah Project, I know a number of folks present. David and I mingle, greeting people and stopping to chat here and there. The whole time I’m aware of him standing beside me. Once, he puts his hand on the small of my back and scoots me forward to keep someone from bumping into me. If another man pulled something that proprietary, I’d resent it. But with David, it feels natural. It feels right.

  “Betsy! Look at you.” Greg Iverson, pastor of The Groovy Church (not its real name, but you know the type) slithers over and tries to slobber on my cheek. I pull away just in time to make it an air kiss. Greg is one of those preachers who uses his pastoral identity as an excuse to invade a woman’s personal space. Apparently no one ever told him about the stand-eighteen-inches-away rule.

  Greg’s eyes run down my red dress and all the way back up. Ew! It’s especially obvious since he’s standing close enough to deprive me of necessary oxygen. Beside me, David bristles.

  “Hi, Greg. Nice to see you.” I turn to David. “Look. Isn’t that LaRonda over there?” I flash Greg a toothy smile. “Excuse us, won’t you?” There’s no LaRonda, but it gets us away from Greg.

  I begin to relax and enjoy myself. I am receiving actual male attention. Even better, the bulk of it is coming from the male I want to pay attention to me.

  A jazz combo plays softly from the corner. Before the dancing begins, the executive director of the program makes a quick pitch for people to pry open their wallets. It’s always struck me as ironic to get dressed up and spend a fortune on dinner and tickets so you can give more money to the charity du jour. On the other hand, I like a good party as much as the next girl, and I don’t actually get invited to that many.

  Finally, finally, they herd us into the ballroom, and the dancing begins. I’ve been waiting for this all evening—the chance to feel David’s arms around me again. With a twirl he guides me onto the dance floor, and we’re off. If men knew how easily women turn to putty in their hands on the dance floor, they’d be lined up outside Arthur Murray a hundred deep. I don’t know why most women love to dance and most men don’t. One of nature’s little quirks. Or perhaps a curse coming out of Eden they forget to put in Genesis, along with men having to till the soil and women having pain in childbirth. In any event, I’m delighted that David enjoys dancing, judging by the way he executes a debonair turn and then pulls me close again. His breath tickles my ear. The music is from the big-band era, the kind my grandfather always played, and the female singer breathlessly tells how she’s found true love at last. Boy, do I know how she feels. I just wish I knew more about what was running through David’s head. Maybe he’ll burst into song and it will all become clear.

  Or not.

  In any event, I’m content to rest in his embrace, moving gently around the dance floor, my breath slowing to match his until it feels as if we’re one person lost in the music and the moment.

  This is what heaven must be like. At least I hope that’s what it will be like. Because I could spend eternity doing what I’m doing right now.

  All too soon the song ends and we step away from each other. Despite the buzz of conversation around us, it feels as if we’re in our own world. David looks at me and I look at him. I’m surprised other people can’t see the current flowing between us. It’s just this side of tangible.

  “Betz?” David’s dark eyes are unreadable—hate that! I had a better idea of what he was thinking when we were creeping through the darkened sanctuary a few nights ago.

  “Yeah?”

  There’s a long pause. He swallows. “Want to dance again?”

  There’s not enough room on my face for my smile. “Sure.” Maybe there’s something to this whole being-agreeable thing. Look where it’s gotten me tonight.

  I move back into David’s arms as the band plays the opening bars of “You Made Me Love You.”

  For purposes of brevity, I will spare you the blow-by-blow of every dance we dance this evening. Suffice it to say that it just gets yummier as the night goes along. Twice I have to accept invitations to dance from big contributors. I’m as willing to do my part for the cause as the next woman, but I begrudge both the waltz and the fox trot. I fully expect David to find another partner. Instead, he stands on the side of the dance floor and watches me. Constantly. I don’t think he even blinks.

  By the time he comes to reclaim me, my blood’s pounding through my veins. I slide back into his arms with familiar, frightening ease.

  “Hi,” he breathes.

  “Hi,” I breathe back. From our sophisticated conversation, you’d never suspect we both had graduate degrees from one of the top universities in the country.

  “Betz?”

  “Yeah?”

  I’m all delicious expectation.

  Suddenly he frowns. “No. Not here. Come with me.”

  His arms fall away, and he reaches for my hand. I comply without question when he leads me out of the ballroom. He looks around, then tows me down a hallway. I have no idea where David’s going, and clearly neither does he. Is there not one private nook or cranny in the entire hotel? We go through a door that turns out to be a fabulous art deco men’s room. I laugh. David spins me around and retraces our steps. Two more false starts provide no convenient hideaways for a not-so-innocent tryst.

  “David.”

  “No. Don’t say anything. Not yet.” Frustration draws his shoulders ramrod straight.

  “But, David—”

  “What?”

  He turns on me, his eyes all chocolate and sexy.

  “That way.” I keep myself from smiling as I point to the lobby. “There’s an enclosed veranda on the other side.”

  “Oh. Okay.” And he’s off again, towing me like I’m a barge bound for the harbor. Why does intimacy turn perfectly normal men into imbeciles? And why doesn’t a modern girl like me object to the contemporary equivalent of being dragged off to a cave?

  Societies may advance, but instinct never changes, thank the Lord.

  We step through the doorway into a long, window-lined veranda. Potted trees dot the length of the room. We head for a semisecluded corner. But once we’re there, icy fear reclaims the length of my spine. We should have stayed on the dance floor where we could drift along in dreamy ambiguity.

  David lets go of my arm but slips his fingers through mine. There’s a settee against the wall, and he nods toward it. “Sit down.”

  But it’s harder to run away from a seated position! I want to protest. But I don’t.

  “Betsy, there’s something I need to say.”

  “Okay.” Well, I’ve improved my vocabulary from one-syllable words to two.

  “I didn’t plan this.”

  “I know.” I can’t say, neither did L

  “We’ve been friends a long time.”

  “Yeah.”

  I wait for him to finish whatever he’s trying to say. He looks up, looks over my shoulder, and finally exhales heavily. “We have to do this, don’t we?”

  “Do what?”

  “Kiss.”

  The giddiness slides right out of me and pools at my feet. He looks as if he’s preparing to eat rancid insects on Fear Factor. “No, David. We don’t.” Shame burns my cheeks. Well, I brought this on myself, didn’t I? Now he feels obligated. I don’t want obligation. I want attraction. Passion. Conflagration. Not stoic resignation.

  I rise from the bench, and he follows, still holding my hand.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Then how did you mean it, David?” I try to keep walking, but he stops. Since our hands are superglued together, I have to stop also. I turn to face him.

  “I meant it like this.”

  And he kisses me.

  He kisses me with desperation, resignation, and, yes, passion. He kisses me as if he can’t live any longer if he doesn’t. And I kiss him back the same way, as if every part of me has to be involved. Heart, mind, soul. I can’t believe there’s not steam rising off both of us. Or maybe t
here is and the hotel sprinkler system will kick in any moment now.

  Then suddenly David’s lips aren’t moving against mine anymore. I can’t feel his arms around me. The sense of aloneness douses me as effectively as any sprinkler.

  Reluctantly, I open my eyes. I know from the contrite expression on David’s face that Cinderella’s clock has struck midnight.

  “This isn’t fair to you,” he says.

  “I’m not particularly concerned about justice right now.”

  “You should be.” He runs his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. So much for the young Sean Connery look. “I swore I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t take advantage of your grieving.”

  “My grieving?”

  “Over Velva. You’re vulnerable right now, Betz.”

  “What makes you think you’re taking advantage? What makes you think I didn’t want you to kiss me?”

  David looks me in the eye. “You’re not one for a casual fling. You’ve never been interested in me before. Plus you’re not the type to go for a guy with a girlfriend. I know you’re hurting, Betz, but this isn’t the answer. And our friendship matters too much to mess around with it like this.”

  “What if I’m not messing around?”

  This seems to stump him. Confusion etches the corner of his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Men are so clueless. That’s why God made Eve, so Adam would have someone to tell him what he wanted and when he wanted it. Okay, so the apple thing didn’t work out so well, but you get my point.

  “What if I want you, David?”

  I can’t believe it. I finally said it. Okay, I didn’t say it as much as ask it, but still. I think this is a breakthrough. I just wish breakthroughs didn’t have to be fraught with such a sense of impending doom.

  “I don’t think you know what you want right now, Betz.” He sounds sad, which gives me hope, but he also sounds definite, which shakes the ground beneath my feet.

  “You think I don’t know what I want?”

  “When have you ever?”

  He lifts a hand as if to apologize for the harshness of his words, but he doesn’t stop saying them. “You thought a small church would satisfy you, but when it got tough, you didn’t fight. You ran. Then you thought being an associate was your call to ministry, but it turns out that’s not it either. Now you agree to this interim thing, and you’re throwing yourself at me. You’re flailing, Betz.”

  Perspiration explodes on my forehead and under my arms. “I am not flailing! And for your information, I’m done with my so-called career in ministry. I’m quitting at the end of the summer.”

  David’s face sinks into skeptical lines. “To do what?”

  “To go to law school.”

  “Law school?” He rolls his eyes. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, David, I am not kidding. I’ve been accepted at Vanderbilt.”

  He crosses his arms, his tux jacket tightening over his shoulders. Those shoulders I’ve been clinging to all night. “When were you planning to tell me?”

  I duck my head the merest fraction. “When the time was right.”

  “As in ‘right’ before school starts? I can’t believe you kept something like this from me.”

  “I knew you’d just judge me.”

  “No, you knew I’d tell you the truth. What I’m telling you now. You have no idea what you want. You have no idea what God wants for you. You’re latching on to whatever is handy, hoping it will make you happy. I’m not willing to be the guy who’s handy, Betz. We’ve known each other too long for that. You matter too much to me.”

  How can a guy telling you how much you matter to him make your heart break like mine is doing right now? I’m glad I’m wearing red so the blood won’t show, because this hurts too much not to be an actual, physical wound.

  “You don’t want me.” The words taste as bitter as they sound.

  “Not like this. No.”

  “You’d rather have that airhead bimbo, Cali.”

  “At least she wants to be with me because she wants to be with me. Not because she’s using me to hide from something.”

  “Oh, quit being such a grownup.”

  “But that’s what we are now, Betz. We’re grownups. The time for playing games is over.”

  I can’t believe how quickly it all evaporated. There’s not even a glass slipper left to offer me some small hope for my fairy-tale ending.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Fine. I’ll have them bring the car around.”

  I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “No. Not with you. I’ll get a cab.”

  “Aw, Betz, don’t be stupid. I’ll drive you home.”

  But I can’t be near him anymore. I might possibly make it to the front door of the hotel and into a taxi without collapsing, but if I have to stay with David another moment, I’ll lose any shred of dignity I have left. I shove my way past him.

  “Betsy. Don’t. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  But it does. I have to run for cover like a fox with the hounds on her scent. David knows. He knows how I feel, and it’s not enough.

  But it’s never been enough. I’ve never been enough. Not for my dad, who wanted another lawyer in the family. Not for my mom, who doesn’t understand why I can’t land a man. Not for my first church that valued gender over competency, and not for Church of the Shepherd, where they put appearances before substance.

  And definitely not for David, who wants me to be more like LaRonda. Decisive. Focused. Powerful.

  The Bible is full of scriptures about fools, and as I hurry through the lobby toward the front door, I feel like every one of them. No makeover can cover up the truth. I am not enough, and I never will be.

  I don’t remember preaching this morning, but I must have, because both services are over and I’m sitting in my office watching the Web cam on my PC. Last night’s fiasco with David sits like lead in my stomach, just below the lump in my throat created by Velva’s death. If I weren’t so numb, I think I’d be in a lot of pain. What else can I do, though, but keep moving forward?

  So far there’s no action around the offering box. I brought a salad from home to munch on while I keep my vigil, and the lettuce tastes like the spaghetti sauce I stored in the container last week. Like the rest of my life, my lunch is haunted by my past.

  Or perhaps more to the point, my past has decided to take up residence in my present. Normally I can keep those ghosts at bay, but Velva’s death and David’s rejection, like my own personal kryptonite, have weakened my superpowers.

  Someone looms in the doorway of my office, and I catch my breath, thinking it might be David. But it’s Cali, of all people.

  “Hi, Betsy.” Her face is longer than one of Dr. Black’s sermons.

  “Hey, Cali.” I mangle a greeting through a mouthful of romaine, then pause to swallow. “This is a surprise.”

  She drags herself into the room and drapes herself across a chair. “I needed to talk to someone about David. Someone who knows him. Do you mind?” She peers at me through a tangle of streaked blonde hair like a cuddly animal hiding from a vicious predator.

  “Now?” I peep at my PC monitor. Still no movement in the sacristy. “Um … it’s not that great a time.”

  She looks morosely at my ancient Tupperware. “You’re just eating, right? Go ahead. It won’t bother me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement on the monitor, but it’s gone before I can see who it is. Cali is clearly not going anywhere until we’ve had our chat. I’ve heard of multitasking, but this is ridiculous.

  “What’s on your mind?” It’s a question I’ve uttered countless times to the person seated on the other side of my desk, but I’ve never wanted to avoid the person’s answer more than I do now.

  “David broke up with me.”

  My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The lettuce plops onto my desktop.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. We went bowling after lunch.
He broke my heart in the middle of the seventh frame.”

  “He broke up with you?” My brain can’t move past that fact.

  “Right before he picked up the spare.”

  Why didn’t he tell me last night? Another blur of movement on the monitor catches my eye, and I casually swing my head to the side as if I’m shaking my head no in disbelief. Again, I’m too late to see who it is.

  “I knew the age difference would be a problem,” Cali mourns, “but he won’t even try to work it out.”

  “What did he say?” Why am I asking for details? It’s like my love life is a terrible car wreck that I can’t help rubbernecking. Cali assumes the lotus position in the chair as if she’s settling in for an extended meditation session. I wonder if she’s going to break out into Tibetan throat singing at any moment. Fortunately, she doesn’t.

  “He said it wasn’t working. How could it not have been working? It was working for me.”

  What can I say to that? I look at her, really look at her, and see myself or any other young woman at twenty-three. She’s naive, no matter how worldly she may appear. Her lack of experience isn’t her fault, and the only way to gain the perspective she’ll have in five years is by getting her heart stomped on. Repeatedly.

  “That was his only reason?”

  She plucks at the holes in the knees of her jeans. They’re stretched wide due to the aforementioned lotus position, and her kneecaps are as bony as a child’s. If I sat like that, I couldn’t walk for a week.

  Cali sighs. “I think there’s someone else.” Again, she peeps up at me through her bangs. “You would know, Betsy, wouldn’t you? If he had someone else?”

  A rush of heat suffuses my face. I’m sure the guilt is written on my forehead in nine-foot letters.

  “He hasn’t mentioned anyone.”

  As a minister you learn to tell the diversionary truth. Technically you’re not breaking one of the Big Ten or other God-type rules. Don’t think of it as a lie. Think of it as a method of nondisclosure.