“Oh, well, I see. Now the truth comes out. I thought we were equals, but apparently I’m been second-tier all along because I’m not as successful or as oppressed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’m not in the mood to be fair.” I know I’m pouting like a six-year-old deprived of a treat, and I’m not proud of it. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t want to tell you earlier because of Velva. I know you’re hurting,” LaRonda snaps, “but don’t take it out on me.”
“But you’re leaving! What am I supposed to do?”
“That’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it?”
I hate it when LaRonda goes Zen on me.
“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds I might incriminate myself.”
“That makeover’s got to be more than skin-deep. You’re going to have to figure yourself out sooner or later, Betz.”
“Yeah, well, at the moment, later is an attractive option. I have enough to sort through in the short term. Besides, weren’t you the one who told me I couldn’t play it safe? That conflict is good?” I wish my tone of voice wasn’t bordering on the hysterical.
LaRonda arches an eyebrow. “Did something happen with Velva’s roommate?”
“Nothing. I mean, something did happen, obviously. She passed away while I was there.”
LaRonda seems grateful for the change of subject. “Was it traumatic?”
Part of me longs to tell her the truth, to seek her advice about what it all means. But even though she’s still my best friend, something’s changed in our relationship. I always thought of her as a big sister with all the answers, and now I’m realizing that she’s just as human as the rest of us. She doesn’t have any secret knowledge, no guarantees.
“Betsy, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” When in doubt, act innocent.
“You’ve been acting funny for the past couple of weeks. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I screw up my courage. “Yes.”
“And that would be?”
I hang my head. “That I’m leaving the ministry.”
To my distress, I see something on LaRonda’s face I’ve never seen there before, and it looks a lot like contempt. It feels that way too.
“I never thought you’d be a quitter.”
That stings. “I don’t think I’m quitting. I’m just correcting my course. And I can’t believe you’d sit there and condemn me when you’ve just said you’re leaving too.”
“I’m not leaving, just refocusing. What happened to your call to ministry?” she says.
It’s the scariest question one minister can ask another. Because if we’re wrong about something as sacred as being called to be a minister, how can we be certain about anything? The most threatening thing to preachers isn’t personnel committees, declines in the offering, or even acts of God knocking down the sanctuary. It’s someone deserting the ranks.
“My call? What happened to yours?” I snap.
“You’ve been pretty sure for the past eight years.”
“That was before two churches convinced me otherwise.”
“So just because it’s not all sunshine and roses, you get to ditch the church?”
“You’re leaving your church. Why can’t I leave mine?”
LaRonda waves away my question. “We’re talking about you now. Have you told David about this?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Tears well up in my eyes. “Before or after he told me that he had no romantic interest in me whatsoever?”
“Ouch.” She may be mad at me, but she’s still sympathetic to my pitiful love life. “I guess last night didn’t go so well.”
“It’s been a tough week.”
She looks at me, and I see the pain in her eyes. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I mumble.
“Evidently, it’s my week to be disappointed.” She reaches down by her feet and snags her purse. “Look, Betsy, I’m sorry. Maybe it’s better if I just go.”
I try to catch her arm, but she slips by me. “Ronnie—”
“No, Betz. Not now. Maybe later.” She chokes on the words, and I know she’s about to cry.
“But—”
“I’ll call you later.”
And then she’s gone. The last crossbeam in my shaky hut of a life.
On Monday morning I limp back to Church of the Shepherd. Okay, I’m limping because I’ve donned the black stilettos for courage, but I’m limping metaphorically as well. If LaRonda can’t cut the mustard, why should any woman try? I’m not trying, though, I sternly remind myself as I walk through the door to the administrative offices. I’m going to law school.
Angeliques on the phone, a frown creasing her face. “Yes, Mrs. Tompkins.”
I meet Angelique’s gaze and roll my eyes, but she doesn’t answer in kind. The frown on her lips matches the lines on her forehead.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says to Edna and then, after saying good-bye, she slowly places the receiver in its cradle.
I’m prepared for some very un-Christlike venting about what a pain in the neck Edna can be. Last night, when I wasn’t replaying my fight with LaRonda or mourning the debacle with David, I was stewing about how to confront Edna. “What’s up with Edna?”
“Didn’t they call you from the hospital?” Angelique asks.
“The hospital?”
“Edna was attacked in the church yesterday afternoon. They had to take her to the emergency room.”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. But Edna was gone, wasn’t she, when I left to meet LaRonda? I saw her leave the sacristy myself. “Is she okay?” I may not like Edna, but I don’t hate her or wish her ill.
“Some guy pushed her down and dislocated her shoulder. He made off with the cash offering, too. I wonder why The Judge didn’t call you.”
I can’t bring myself to tell her that last night, for the first time in five years of ministry, I unplugged my phone. After the showdown with LaRonda, I just couldn’t deal with anything else. Just my luck my meltdown happened at the precise time I most needed to be a pastor. Because I’ll never hear the end of this from Edna.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Yes, but she’s in a pickle. Is it okay if I take off for a few minutes? I’m going to go over to her house and help her with something.”
My blood pressure skyrockets, and steam’s probably shooting out my ears. “She called the church to ask you to come help her with something?” I guess my tone is a little bit harsh, but then that’s my general attitude toward Edna, even when she’s injured. “What does she need? A church staff person to pester at home since she can’t leave the house?”
For the first time since she arrived at Church of the Shepherd, Angelique looks at me with disapproval. “Edna can’t move her injured shoulder. She called to see if someone from the church could come over and hook her bra.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat and then dies as quickly as it was born. I deflate like a helium balloon poked with a long, sharp needle.
“I’ll go.”
Angelique looks at me in surprise. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“Can you do it nicely?”
When Angelique first came to us, I was the wise one who had her life together and was glad to offer helpful advice to someone struggling to get through the day. Now our roles have flip-flopped, and I’m the one in need of wiser counsel.
“Yes, I can do it nicely.”
She seems satisfied with my answer and sits back in her desk chair. “You better go on, then.”
“Yep.” Still, it takes me a few seconds to get my feet moving and headed toward the door. I hate having to be compassionate to a woman I’d just as soon despise. But I can’t help myself. Basic human decency can be such an impediment to self-righteousness.
As I climb back in the car, it occurs to me to wonder about this mysterious attacker. I know Edn
a stole the money. Was there really a strange man in the church? I doubt it. Which means she injured herself some other way. More questions. More confrontations. All in all, I’m sorry I didn’t call in sick and tired today.
Edna lives in Belle Meade, the old-money section of Nashville. In these elite environs, the speed limit never goes above thirty-five miles an hour, the country club is referred to simply as “the club,” and the city recently, in a gesture of thoughtfulness, put out benches for the maids to sit on while they wait for the bus. I’m biased, you say? Resentful? I guess it shows a little.
Edna’s maid, Alice, answers the door of the Tompkins’s French provincial mansion. Alice’s snowy white uniform contrasts with her dark skin, but her smile is the brightest thing of all. Now why Alice couldn’t hook her bra I don’t understand, but I’m sure in Edna-world there’s a perfectly sensible reason for asking someone from church to drive fifteen minutes across town to do what someone ten feet from her could easily have accomplished.
“Good morning, Reverend.” Alice has worked for Edna for thirty years. Whenever the women’s group meets at Edna’s home (which is frequently), Alice is an ever-present figure. I’m always more than willing to help Alice in the kitchen so I can escape the endless debates among the women about where to send twenty-two dollars in outreach money. Really, the World Bank ought to hire these ladies to straighten out the global economy, given their obsessive attention to detail.
“Hello, Alice. I think Mrs. Tompkins needs my help with something.”
One of the things I like best about Alice, in addition to her raspberry scones, is her loyalty. Surely she knows about the bra dilemma, but you’d never know it from her expression.
“She’s in her bedroom,” Alice says. “I’ll walk you up.”
I’ve never been to Edna’s inner sanctum. The farthest I’ve traveled beyond the living room is the kitchen, and I’ve certainly never been invited upstairs. Alice leaves me at the door to Edna’s bedroom. I knock softly. “Edna? It’s Reverend Blessing.”
“Well, don’t just stand out there. Come in.”
So much for Edna gaining any humanity from her recent suffering.
I open the door and slip inside. Her bedroom is the size of my entire apartment and has more furniture in it.
“Good morning, Edna,” I call out when I don’t see her in the bedroom.
“I’m in here.”
I follow the sound of her voice to a walk-in closet a Hollywood star would envy. Row upon row of clothing on padded hangers, racks of shoes, drawers upon drawers—it’s an impressive collection.
Edna’s standing in front of a full-length mirror in her half-slip, her bra wrapped around the front of her but hanging loosely at her sides. She’s so thin I can see every one of her vertebrae. Age spots and freckles mottle her skin. The back of her hair is mashed flat, and she looks like what I so often forget she is—a frail, elderly woman. Her injured shoulder is unwrapped, her arm stiffly clutched to her side. I see a sling waiting on the shelf next to her.
My chest feels as if someone’s lassoed me and pulled the rope tight. Standing there in Edna’s massive closet, I’m suddenly humbled. This is my nemesis? the tormentor I’ve resented for her power?
I’ve stood silent too long. My gaze meets Edna’s in the mirror, and there’s a silent, uncomfortable connection. I know there’s pity in my eyes. Her spine straightens. “Are you here to help me or not?”
I had planned to demand to know why Alice couldn’t help her. I was loaded for bear, ready to give this woman a piece of my mind. I was primed for a showdown. Instead, I step forward and simply fasten her bra behind her bony back.
“Can I help you with the sling?”
“If you like.” She says the words like a queen forced to address a filthy peasant. “Since you were nowhere to be found yesterday, you might as well make yourself useful now.”
I swallow the sharp retort that rises to my lips and slip the sleeves of her blouse carefully over her arms. She waves away my hands when I try to button up the front and fumbles with the buttons herself.
The sling is a bit tricky, and she gasps in pain a couple of times as we settle her arm into it and I rig the straps around her shoulder and waist. It’s the only time in the past six months that Edna and I have worked well together.
“Did they give you anything for the pain?” I ask her.
“I don’t take pain pills.” She sniffs in disdain and then winces as I tighten the last strap.
“Maybe you should. Just this once.”
“Oh, very well. If you’re going to pester me to death.” She waves her hand toward a little silver bell. “Ring for Alice. She’ll bring them.”
It goes against the grain for me to ring for anybody. I keep thinking about Pavlov and his dogs. “I’ll run down to the kitchen and get them. It’s no trouble. Why don’t you lie down while I go?”
Edna tries to shrug but flinches instead as her injured shoulder protests. She’s obviously exhausted from the simple effort of getting dressed. A few moments later I have her settled on her enormous bed atop the threadbare spread. Why one of the richest women in Nashville should have a bedspread that looks as if a cat’s been sharpening its claws in the middle is beyond me, but the ways of the truly wealthy are different from the habits and preferences of mere mortals.
It takes me a few minutes to find my way to the kitchen and Alice. She looks at me with quiet approval, and I’m ashamed of my earlier churlishness.
“It’s you she needed, Reverend Blessing,” Alice says, as if she hears my unspoken question.
I trudge back up the stairs to Edna’s room with a cup of water and a couple of Darvocet. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open as she dozes. A wave of tiredness washes over me. The last thing I want to do right now is confront her, but I have to. Because injury or no, Edna’s responsible for the theft of a lot of money from yesterdays offering.
“Edna?”
She starts, looks confused for a moment, then realizes where she is and who I am. “It took long enough.”
“Sorry.” Wait a minute. Why am I apologizing to this woman? But that’s her spiritual gift—keeping people on the defensive. I wish it were mine. Must be nice to operate from a position of power.
“Edna, we need to talk.” After handing her a glass of water and her medication, I pull the little stool from her dressing table toward the side of the bed.
“I’m hardly in any condition for a tête-à-tête.” She swallows the pills and sets the glass on her bedside table. The only other items on its surface are an alarm clock and a telephone. No family photos. No trinkets or mementos. I take a surreptitious glance around the bedroom. The furniture is of undeniable quality, but there are no personal touches there either. Since he retired from his medical practice, Edna’s husband spends most of his time on a Florida golf course. They have no children, no other family nearby. For the first time I glimpse how lonely her life must be.
I clear my throat and mentally gird my loins for battle. Maybe the Darvocet will kick in and soften her up for this interrogation.
“We need to talk about the missing offering.”
Not a smidgen of guilt shows on her face. “This is hardly the time.”
“I think it’s exactly the right time.”
Once again our eyes meet, and I let her see the truth. I know what she did. And in that moment I also realize who’s behind the dead roses and the prank phone calls. Edna blinks, and it’s as if I can read her mind. She’s trying to figure out how I caught her.
“I installed a Web cam in the sacristy, Edna. I sat in my office yesterday afternoon and saw everything that happened.”
“Then you saw the man who assaulted me?” Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She could fool the FBI’s best criminal profiler, but I know what I saw.
“I don’t know how you were injured, Edna, but you weren’t assaulted by anyone.”
She purses her lips so tightly, I’m afraid they might pop off her face. “I
can’t believe you said that. Just wait until the personnel committee meets again. This is outside of enough. You should have resigned long ago, and next time I’ll make sure you do.”
I’ve been wondering why she did it. Whether the theft was a bid for attention. Or maybe her husband cut her off from their considerable finances. But with a flash I see the truth. She stole the offering to make it look as if people were withholding their money to protest my appointment as the interim senior minister.
“Edna, I saw you take the money. I saw you use the key you have to the offering box. I saw you stuff it in your purse.”
She lifts her chin. “Well, then, that would be my word against yours, wouldn’t it?”
She thinks she has me. For a split second I think she has me too. Then I remember I wasn’t the only one in my office yesterday.
“Actually, I have another witness. There was someone else with me at the time.”
I wait, letting the words sink in. Her expression shifts almost imperceptibly. She’s calculating how to respond to this new piece of information.
“Who would this reliable witness be?” She glares down her nose at me.
I stop myself from saying, “A ditzy Californian with designs on my man.” Instead, I say, “A friend of mine.”
“A biased witness, you mean,” Edna retorts.
I turn my head so I can roll my eyes without her seeing. When I do, I spy Edna’s handbag on top of her dressing table. It’s the same bag she was carrying yesterday. Is it worth a gamble to prove my claim?
“If you didn’t take the offering, then you won’t mind if I take a peek in your purse.” I all but leap from the stool and snatch up the ancient but expensive black leather bag.
“No!” Edna tries to jump up as well, but she’s old and injured, and I’m … well … not.
I have absolutely no qualms about unzipping her purse and pawing through its contents. Checkbook. Plastic rain bonnet. A roll of Turns. And then, yes, there it is. A thick wad of bills stuffed in the side zipper pocket.
“I can’t believe you’re violating my privacy like this.” Edna tries to sound indignant, but her weak voice just sounds scared.
Heavens to Betsy Page 17