Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  “There must be somebody. Guys only leave if they have another girl lined up.”

  Is that true? Guys have never needed another woman in the wings as an excuse to break up with me.

  “This has happened before?”

  Cali nods her head, and I feel incredibly small. But what can I tell her? That I made a pass at David and he rejected me, too, after he’d dumped her? That would hardly make her feel better about herself. Or me.

  A surprising thought occurs to me, and the fork falls from my fingers. Did David break up with Cali because of me even before Saturday night?

  At that moment there’s movement on the Web cam. This time I see it. It’s a woman with white hair and glasses. She’s bustling around the sacristy, a squirt bottle in one hand and a rag in the other. We have several custodians, so I don’t know who—

  “Betsy, what’s that?” Cali’s eyes have followed mine to the PC monitor.

  “Mmm…overzealous parishioner, I think.”

  I wish I had something handy to drape over the monitor, but my coat is hanging on the back of my office door.

  “What’s she doing with that box thingie?” Cali asks and points.

  At this precise moment I realize two things. First, that’s Edna Tompkins on my computer screen. Second, she’s got a key to the offering box.

  “Hey!” Cali exclaims. “Is she supposed to be doing that?”

  We watch as Edna reaches in the offering box and pulls out the bank deposit bag. With a stealthy glance over her shoulder, she unzips the bag and begins to pull out the cash.

  I shiver as if I’ve been plunged into ice water. Then I flush hotly, adrenaline surging through my body.

  Edna Tompkins, the biggest contributor to the church, is stealing the offering?

  “Is she supposed to be doing that?” Cali asks again.

  “Um…well, not really, but I’m sure she’s just helping out the treasurer.”

  “Oh.” Cali shrugs. “So, can you talk to David for me?”

  “What?”

  “Talk to David for me. Convince him we belong together. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Um…well…”

  Cali’s face falls, which distracts me momentarily from Edna.

  “Look, Cali, I can’t be the third side in this triangle. You need to talk to David yourself.”

  In a split second, her California sunshine darkens to New York black.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? I knew it. You want him for yourself.”

  I can feel my face collapse into a guilty expression. “It’s not that simple——”

  “Yes, it is. You either want David or you don’t. So which is it?”

  Why is everyone asking me what I want these days? I turn away from Cali and watch as Edna stuffs a large wad of cash into her sensible handbag. Should I confront her now? Should I wait? No case study in divinity school ever covered this scenario.

  I look back at Cali, whose demand for the truth intimidates me almost as much as the prospect of confronting Edna.

  “Yes, yes. I want him, okay?”

  “You made a play for him!” she shrieks. “I thought you were supposed to be all good and everything. I thought ministers had to be.” She tosses her hair back and switches from hunted to huntress. “I’m going to tell on you.”

  What is this—third grade? But I can hardly argue with her because she’s right. I made a play for her boyfriend, didn’t I? Okay, technically he wasn’t her boyfriend anymore when I invited him to the fundraiser, but I didn’t know that at the time.

  “Cali, I’m sorry—”

  “You’re not sorry you tried to steal David. Like everybody else, you’re just sorry you got caught.”

  I have no reply to that because she’s right.

  “Good-bye, Betsy. Some friend you turned out to be.”

  Cali storms from my office, and I sink back in my desk chair. On the monitor, Edna zips her handbag and scuttles out of the sacristy.

  And in the office of the associate minister of Church of the Shepherd, I engage in the only appropriate response I can think of. I cry. Because I don’t know who I’m more disappointed in. Edna, who I know is evil. Or me, the one person I always thought would do the right thing.

  Normally, life has a way of balancing itself out. For example, your job might reek, but you find a fabulous pair of shoes on sale to console yourself with. Or your outbound flight on your vacation gets cancelled, but the airline upgrades you, and eventually you travel where you’re going in business class.

  So where is the equity in my life right now? I’ve lost my mentor (Velva), my best friend (David), and the respect of an honest if naive young woman (Cali), and I have to confront my nemesis (Edna).

  How did it all get so complicated? A month ago it seemed quite clear. I was leaving for law school and a new life where things would be refreshingly clear-cut. Now I’m further than ever from my escape.

  That’s what it is, of course. An escape. Velva was right about that. So was David. But as I discovered last night, I’m not enough for all this.

  I wish I knew how other people figure out what they want. Velva’s roommate, Dottie, knows what she wants—to live to be a hundred years old even if it means another eighteen months of pain and suffering. David wants to rebuild his church after the tornado, no matter how much conflict it causes in his congregation. LaRonda wants to prove she can be a big-steeple preacher, just like a man.

  LaRonda. That’s who I need right now. I reach for the phone. I’ve worn the Speed Dial button for her church smooth from frequent use. As I suspected, she’s at her desk, using the Sunday-afternoon lull to catch up on the important-but-not-urgent tasks that get ignored in the daily grind of ministry. Things like prayer and Bible study.

  “Ronnie? How about a latte?”

  She sighs with relief. “Starbucks in twenty.”

  That’s the extent of our conversation. It’s good to know that even when my other major relationships are falling apart, my best girlfriend won’t let me down.

  Two seconds before I step out of my office, though, the phone rings. I debate answering it, but that niggling sense of impending doom that accompanies a preacher everywhere she goes won’t let me walk out the door.

  “Church of the Shepherd. This is Reverend Blessing.”

  It’s the nurse from Hillsboro Health Care. Velva’s roommate, Dot-tie, isn’t doing so well. “Can you come right away?” the nurse asks.

  No, no, no! I want to scream. I need a confab with LaRonda, not another emotional bloodletting. Dottie’s not even my parishioner.

  I guess this is why God made cell phones, so that ministers could break their plans with each other at a moment’s notice. I call LaRonda to postpone as I’m getting into my car. It’s not very Christian, but I harrumph all the way down Broadway and 21st Avenue to the nursing home. When I arrive, however, my personal pity party comes to a screeching halt.

  “She’s in the quiet room,” the nurse says.

  The quiet room? They didn’t say anything on the phone about the quiet room. That’s where they put you when you’re ready to die and your roommate might object to your kicking the bucket in the next bed over.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and follow the nurse down the hallway. Inside the room, Dottie’s alone. Her pastor hasn’t been to visit since Carter was president, and she has no family. Dottie’s covered with a sheet. At least, what’s left of her is covered with a sheet.

  I move closer to the bed and hear her familiar whisper.

  “Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine…” Her voice trails off at the critical number.

  Easy deaths are a blessing. I’ve seen enough of the other kind to appreciate a good death. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? But death is like life. Some people have fairly easy ones, and others suffer every step of the way.

  I pull up a chair next to Dottie’s bedside and take her hand in mine. It’s more like a bird’s claw than a hand; her fingers are gnarled into talons. I think of Angeliques vi
olently red fingernails and realize that sooner or later even our hands succumb to the passage of time, manicures or not.

  “Dottie? Can you hear me?”

  She turns her head slightly, but her eyes remain closed. Her gray curls are matted to her head, which would have angered Velva.

  “One…two…three…” Her voice is barely more than a breath.

  I imagine Dottie was just as stubborn in life as she is in death. As physically deteriorated as she is, she’s not about to let go until she celebrates her hundredth birthday.

  “Dottie, it’s Betsy.”

  Her lips curve slightly. “Nine…ten…eleven…”

  That’s the moment when inspiration strikes. At least I’m going to call it inspiration. Or mercy. It’s just that so much has been wrong today. Edna’s theft of the offering. My betrayal of Cali. And here’s one thing, at least, that seems so clear-cut. God didn’t intend for people to suffer like this.

  “Dottie? I’ve come to see you for your birthday.”

  For the barest moment, her fingers tighten around mine.

  “You’re one hundred today, Dottie. Congratulations.” I reach out and smooth her curls away from her forehead like my mother used to do to me when I was a child. I’m so inadequate in most areas of my life, but in this moment my path seems so clear. Dottie needs to be released from her suffering, and if she can’t do it for herself, then it’s my job to help her.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper to her. “It’s okay now, Dottie.” On instinct I begin to recite the Twenty-third Psalm. “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want…”

  As I recite the passage from memory, the quiet room grows quieter. Dottie’s stopped counting. “Happy birthday, Dottie,” I whisper in her ear when I finish, suddenly aware that if the nurse hears this conversation, she might not approve. I’m not even sure I approve, but I can only go with my instincts.

  A moment later the nurse sticks her head around the doorframe to check on us.

  “We’re fine,” I assure her. And when she’s gone, I turn back to Dottie.

  “You did it, sweetie. You’re one hundred.”

  Now her smile is a little bigger, and her breathing is slower. And then even slower. For the next hour I sit beside her, holding her hand as she fades away. Maybe someone else would say what I’m doing is wrong. Maybe they’d say that any form of life is better than no life at all. But I say there’s a rhythm to the dance of life, and God wants more for us than simply drawing breath. It’s why I’m here right now, in this moment and in this place. Because someone has to do this work. Someone imperfect. Someone inadequate. But someone who shows up to represent God at a time like this.

  I watch Dottie as she begins to change. The human will is an amazing thing. I think it’s that part of God within each of us that motivates us to do things we could never do on our own. The Greek word for “spirit” is pneuma or “breath.” I hold Dottie’s hand as she draws that last bit of spirit into her lungs, and then with a whispering sound, she releases it. And releases herself.

  The quiet room is completely quiet.

  By the time I’ve finished talking with the staff at the health-care center and I’ve contacted the funeral home about Dottie, several hours have passed. When I finally meet LaRonda for coffee, I’m still pondering whether I can let God be God or whether I’ll keep insisting on letting Betsy be Betsy. Am I as stubborn as Dottie? Have I spent my spiritual life counting over and over to one hundred without listening for a higher voice? Do I really have a call to ministry, or did I just want to have one because the church is supposed to be a safe place, the world’s biggest come-as-you-are party?

  “I ordered for you,” LaRonda says and slides the latte across the café table to me. She looks as tired as I feel.

  “You’re a goddess.”

  “Tell that to my parishioners.”

  The discouragement in her voice jerks me out of my own woes.

  “What’s up?”

  I look at her—really look at her, instead of just giving her a cursory glance as I did when I came in—and see the dark circles under her eyes.

  “The grapevine at my church has been functioning overtime.”

  “About you?”

  She nods, her lips twisted too tightly for speech. Pain etches every line of her face, and she looks much older than her thirty-two years. I’ve seen more signs recently of the toll it takes on her, being a wunderkind of a preacher, but I assumed it was a temporary thing that would pass.

  “What are they saying about you?”

  I’m sure it’s one of the usual rumors, the kind you learn to dismiss out of hand. That you’re interviewing with another church. Or you’re having an affair with a married man. Or you don’t like men at all. Garden variety vicious gossip you just have to ignore.

  LaRonda sighs. “A certain contingent has decided I’m not spiritually fit to be their pastor.”

  My bark of laughter causes several nearby heads to swivel toward us. Slumping down in my chair, I sip my latte and then sigh. “Honey, if you’re not spiritually fit to pastor, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

  LaRonda drains the dregs of her coffee and snaps the cup down on the table. “Evidently I’m damned for all eternity because I divulged the secret recipe.”

  Latte almost shoots out my nose. “What secret recipe?”

  “The ladies auxiliary’s sacred cow. The recipe for Death-to-the-Diet Brownies.”

  If LaRonda weren’t so upset, this would be very funny. “Their sacred cow is a brownie recipe?”

  LaRonda twists her cup between her palms. “They hold a huge fund-raiser every year. People drive in from Kentucky, Mississippi, Georgia—you name it. Since the ladies auxiliary won’t give away the recipe, people buy dozens of brownies and freeze them.”

  “How did you give away the recipe?”

  LaRonda looks away. “I sent it in for my sorority’s alumnae cookbook. Under my name.”

  For a long moment we’re both silent, because while I can understand what drove her to it, I can see we’re both thinking the same thing. It was wrong.

  She smiles, but there’s no happiness or joy in it. “C’mon, Betz, you know what a lousy cook I am. I was desperate. All my sorority sisters are going to judge me on that recipe. What was I supposed to do? Send instructions for microwaving a Lean Cuisine?”

  I don’t know what to say, because LaRonda’s never disappointed me like this before. “I guess you cut the wrong corner.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t realize how serious they were about the secret part.”

  Okay. Technically, recipes can’t be copyrighted. I learned that in my first church when the ladies auxiliary put together a cookbook for the church’s one-hundredth anniversary. Two women submitted identical recipes for congealed carrot salad, and it was weeks before we sorted out the claims and counterclaims. LaRonda didn’t do anything illegal.

  “Okay, so you gave away a recipe. Not a great thing, but it doesn’t make you a bad pastor. It just means you’re human.”

  In LaRonda’s case, or in the case of any female minister, you have to wonder how much of the ladies auxiliary’s ire comes from the fact that they were betrayed by one of their own. If a man had divulged the recipe, would they have demanded his resignation? Or just been delighted that he exhibited an interest in baking?

  “So, what will happen?”

  LaRonda sighs. “It will blow over. Eventually. Until the next time I make a mistake. And then it will become part of the litany of my sinful ways.” LaRonda rubs her temples with her fingertips. “You know, Betz, I’m tired of trying to live my fathers life and my mother’s life simultaneously. I feel like I’m the preacher and the preacher’s wife.”

  LaRonda’s always been so sure, so determined. It’s disconcerting to see the uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Will you leave your church?”

  It scares me to think of LaRonda giving up. If she can’t make it as a woman pastor, who can? But then I wonder why I care when I’
m leaving the ministry anyway. I guess I want to know that someone can make it work, even if I can’t.

  “Actually, I’m going to South Africa,” she says.

  “Very funny, Ronnie.”

  “I’m serious, Betz.”

  And she is. She really is. I can see it in her face. The truth jolts me more than the added shot in my latte.

  Her eyes plead for understanding. “I’m going to teach in the school for AIDS orphans.”

  “When did you decide this?” Hurt, anger, frustration all rise up from my stomach into my chest. “You had to have been thinking about this for a while. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  No, no, no! This can’t be happening. First Velva, then David, and now LaRonda. It’s too cruel. I ignore the niggling voice in my head that says I’ve been keeping my own secrets.

  “You can’t walk away,” I protest. “It will prove them right.”

  “Prove who right?”

  “Them. The ones who don’t want us in their churches. The ones who are always waiting for us to fail so they can pick apart our carcasses like vultures.”

  “Do you seriously think male preachers don’t have their own circling buzzards?”

  “But you made it, Ronnie. You did it. Senior pastor. Large church. The ‘in group at the ministers’ meetings.”

  “And it wasn’t worth the price, Betsy. Not for me.” For the briefest of moments, I get a glimpse of the real LaRonda, the one she’s been hiding behind the fabulous makeup and the aura of power. Loneliness haunts her eyes, and responsibility has bowed her shoulders. “That was my father’s ministry. Not mine. I’m not serving God to prove a point. I’m serving God to, well, serve God.”

  “And to do that you have to go to South Africa?” Panic takes up residence with the grief and hurt. “You can’t serve God in the continental United States?”

  “Don’t judge me, Betsy. You haven’t been where I am. When it comes to being a minority, I’m a double-dip. At least in the black community in South Africa I’ll only have one strike against me.”