Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  “It’s a symbolic gesture,” I argue.

  “It’s crazy,” she replies. She rolls a tube of the lip balm between her fingers, stacks it on top of the bandanas, and sighs. “Oh, all right.”

  I try to keep the triumph out of my smile. “Can you do it this afternoon?”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Because I can’t afford to let any other woman get her claws in him. I almost blew it with the whole Cali thing.”

  If LaRonda weren’t such a good friend, I’d resent her smirk. “Is it true she threatened to take out a restraining order against you?”

  An indignant protest leaps to my lips before I see that she’s teasing me.

  “I wasn’t that bad”

  “Well, between you and David, you made a good effort at humiliating the poor girl.”

  The truth of her insight subdues me somewhat. I didn’t mean to buy my own happiness at the expense of Cali’s. At least David broke up with her of his own volition.

  “What are you going to wear?” LaRonda asks.

  “My secret weapon.”

  “The chiffon blouse?”

  “Nope. I don’t want to be holy or hottie for this. Just me. Just Betsy.”

  “Well, Just Betsy, you’d better get going if you’re going to pull this off. What time do you want me at the church?”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I stop, look her in the eye, and smile. “You’re a good friend. And I’m really going to miss you.”

  Tears well up in both our eyes. “I know, sweetie. I’m going to miss you, too. But I won’t be gone forever.”

  “Yeah, but it will feel that way.”

  When we say good-bye, I hug her extra tight. A piece of me is going to Africa, and a piece of LaRonda will stay here. There’s solace as well as sadness in that fact. That’s what makes true friendship worth the cost.

  I can tell Angelique is pleased with the turn of events at church because she’s ordered me my favorite gel pens from the office-supply store. I’ve also got a fresh stack of pink legal pads and a new stapler.

  “It’s only temporary,” I remind her. “The search committee will be looking for a new senior pastor. And then we’ll see what happens.”

  The temporary nature of the arrangement doesn’t seem to faze Angelique, though. “I guess we will” is all she says.

  I try to spend the afternoon focusing on next Sunday’s sermon, but the events of the past two weeks make that rather difficult. I’d rather daydream about David than study Paul’s letter to the Ephesians in the original Greek.

  Somehow the time passes. At four LaRonda appears in my office doorway. Together we head for the bridal dressing room at the back of the sanctuary. I have the pink dress in a plastic cover, and she’s brought her cosmetic bag of tricks.

  “Nothing heavy,” I warn her, and she just grins.

  “I found the perfect shade of lipstick,” she says.

  “What? Clergy Coral?”

  “Nope. Neutral But Naughty.”

  That’s the final confirmation. My best lipstick shade turns out to be the one that just brings out my natural color.

  LaRonda arranges my hair in a casual but sophisticated semi-upsweep, and I slip into the delicate pink slides I found at Payless. Tiny pearl earrings and a matching bracelet later, I’m done.

  LaRonda’s beaming. “This is your best look yet, Betz.”

  I turn to face the enormous mirror that has reflected countless brides.

  I’m not the hottie of my first makeover. I’m not the passive princess of the fund-raiser. I’m me. Sexy but sweet. A woman who’s been called to a mostly male profession but retains some claim to her femininity.

  “Wish me luck.” All those butterflies that found refuge in the sanctuary after that last wedding have taken up residence in my stomach.

  “Luck.” LaRonda gives my shoulders a squeeze. “But you already have everything you’re going to need.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Yesterday, as I sat in the comfort of my living room, a diet cola in hand, the whole steeple scenario seemed like a stroke of brilliance. Now, though, as I climb the stairs to the sanctuary balcony and LaRonda helps me up the ladder leading to a door high in the wall, I’m questioning the wisdom of my idea.

  “Angelique knows to send David up here?” LaRonda asks. She guides my high-heeled feet from below, one precarious rung at a time.

  “He thinks I need his opinion about a moisture problem.”

  “Is there actually a moisture problem?”

  “I have no idea.” I climb through the door into the steeple itself. It’s like standing at the bottom of an elevator shaft. To my right a rickety ladder rises to a frightening height. Above I can see the trapdoor that leads to the next level.

  LaRonda climbs onto the platform next to me. “Are you planning to go all the way to the top?” Church of the Shepherd is known for the exceptional height of its steeple.

  “I think the first level is far enough.”

  LaRonda glances at her watch. “David will be here any minute.”

  “Right.” I take a deep breath and wonder whether this would be the time to mention I’m afraid of heights. I forgot about that, too, in the excitement of my brilliant idea.

  “Get going.” LaRonda nudges me.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for the ladder. It’s apparently held together with paper clips and baling wire.

  “My first act as temporary senior minister is to order the property committee to build a new ladder for the steeple.”

  “Climb, Betsy.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  How many senior ministers can say they’ve climbed their steeples in a dress and heels?

  I thought I was afraid of the personnel committee. I thought I was afraid of telling David the truth about my feelings for him. Next time I think I’m too scared to do something difficult, I’ll go climb the steeple to put things in perspective.

  Rung by rung I make my way. It takes approximately three and a half years to get to the trapdoor. With one hand in a death grip on the ladder, I slide back the bolt and shove the door open. It flips back on its hinges with a thud and a cloud of dust.

  It takes some wriggling, and one of my sandals almost slides off my foot to plummet to its death, but I manage to worm my way onto the platform.

  “You okay?” LaRonda yells up to me.

  “I think so.”

  “I’m going to duck out of sight.”

  “Okay.” I wish my voice didn’t sound so forlorn.

  LaRonda disappears from below, so I swing my legs around and scramble to my feet. The platform is about fifteen feet square, with windows on all four sides. Wooden slats form a low wall beneath the windows. One or two feathered refugees have apparently found their way inside and left numerous white splotches as evidence of their occupation. To my dismay, I notice that we do, indeed, have a moisture problem. The slats let the air circulate, but they’ve allowed rain to seep inside as well. Some of the wood is rotting. In other places the paint is cracked and peeling. At least David can’t accuse me of luring him up here on false pretenses.

  There’s not much to do but look out over the west side of downtown Nashville, so I pace, shivering in the cool March air. That works for a few minutes, until my cheap-but-fetching shoes start to chafe. I’d kick them off, but I don’t want to step in the bird droppings.

  For me, anticipation is always the worst part of any confrontation.

  Finally, I hear the sound I’m both hoping for and dreading. Someone’s climbing the ladder.

  “Betz?” David’s baritone reverberates from the emptiness below.

  “Up here,” I squeak, then stop to clear my throat and try again. “I’m up here.”

  The ladder creaks ominously, and with a flash of panic I fear I’ve lured David to an untimely death. Please, God, not before I’ve had a chance to kiss him again.

  Fort
unately, his head appears through the opening in the platform, and he hoists himself over the side. Looks as if I won’t have to explain to St. Helga’s why their pulpit is empty.

  “Do you do this often?” He rolls to his feet and then stands, swiping his hair out of his eyes.

  And then he freezes, because he sees me.

  For a long moment, there’s silence. Then he exhales noisily. “What’s going on?”

  “Would you believe I’m ready to talk?”

  Ever so casually, I sidle over to the trapdoor and lean down to flip it closed. David frowns. “What’s that for?”

  “I don’t want anyone to overhear us,” I say casually.

  “Who in heaven’s name is going to overhear us up here?”

  “Oh. Yeah. No one, I guess.”

  “And since when is a moisture problem confidential?”

  I can’t tell from his expression whether he’s clueless about what I’m up to or being deliberately obtuse. Okay, this isn’t going quite as I planned. David walks over to one of the walls and kneels down to inspect the slats, but the line of tension in his shoulders beneath his jacket tells me maybe he’s not entirely oblivious to what’s going on. For one thing, he hasn’t commented on my dress at all, and I’m pretty sure he knows enough about women to know we don’t normally wear pink slip-dresses to work.

  He reaches in his pocket, pulls out a penknife, scrapes away some paint, and probes the wood underneath. “It’s rotten all right.” He stands up and turns toward me. “You spend a lot of time up here?”

  “Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Okay, he’s noticing the dress now, if not before. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me and making a concerted effort to keep his gaze above my shoulders.

  “You didn’t need me to tell you that wood is rotten.”

  “No.” I shift from one high heel to the other and resist the urge to dig my toe into the thick dust on the steeple platform like a kid who’s been called on the carpet.

  “Look, Betz, we don’t have to do this—”

  “Yes, we do,” I interject before he can give me the out I’m scared enough to take. “We have to talk about this.” I sound more like I’m trying to convince myself than him.

  For a long moment neither of us says anything. And I wish desperately that it had never happened. That he’d never accidentally brushed my leg that night at the movies. That I’d chosen a different seminary in the first place. But you can’t go backward. Only forward. I’m beginning to learn that, and I’m hoping to live it.

  At that moment there’s a sharp crack beneath the trapdoor.

  “What was that?” David asks.

  “Um… nothing.”

  “Betz?”

  “Okay, it was LaRonda locking us in the steeple.”

  David rubs his closed eyelids with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, like my freshman English teacher used to do when I tried to diagram a compound-complex sentence. “Why is LaRonda locking us in the steeple?”

  “Hey, David!” LaRonda calls from beneath our feet.

  “Hey, LaRonda,” he answers, but without the merriment she has in her voice. “Are you planning on coming back anytime soon?”

  “About half an hour,” her muffled voice replies. “Unless you want me to wait longer.”

  David looks at his watch. “No. I have to meet with the building committee at six.”

  “Okay,” LaRonda says, and then I hear her climbing back down the ladder. It’s quiet in the steeple except for the gentle sounds of the birds perched in the rafters above our heads.

  David looks me squarely in the eye. “You have something to tell me?”

  He’s clenching and unclenching his fists again. I hope that means he’s anxious, not angry. I hope he wants to hear the words I’m about to say, because if he doesn’t, I may forgo the ladder and jump to my ignominious death.

  “You were right.” That’s a good beginning, because men always like it when women admit they’re wrong. “I shouldn’t have run away on Saturday night, but…” I lose my nerve for a moment. Even with my newfound resolve, I still find it difficult to overcome eight years of not telling David how I feel.

  David takes a step toward me. “I didn’t handle it very well myself.”

  “Look, David, the thing is—”

  “The thing is what?”

  “Give me a second, will ya? Sheesh.” I wipe my damp palms on my delicate pink slip-dress before I can stop myself. I look longingly at the trapdoor. David’s eyes follow my gaze.

  “No more outs, Betz.”

  I sigh. “Yeah. I know.”

  David moves another step closer, which does not help my nerves in the least.

  “Look,” he says, “if this is all about some early midlife crisis, just say so. I know you think I’m ‘safe,’ and maybe you just needed the nearest available guy for whatever dramas got you in its throes. I can’t figure out whether it’s the job or the makeover or what, but you have to deal, Betz.”

  “I’m not going through a midlife crisis!”

  “Then what in heavens name would you call it?”

  Okay, now I’m angry. He thinks this is all some hormonally-induced drama?

  “There is no drama,” I screech, which kind of undercuts the point I’m trying to make. “You want to know what’s going on? Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants, here’s what’s going on. I love you, okay? I’ve loved you from the moment I tripped over your humongous feet at divinity-school orientation. I’ve loved you while you were engaged to Ms. Too-Good-To-Be-True What’s-Her-Name. I’ve loved you for the past five years when we haven’t even been in the same town. And now I still love you, and I kissed you, and everything is ruined.”

  I undermine the dramatic effect of this passionate declaration by bursting into loud sobs.

  Now, this is the point at which he’s supposed to sweep me into his arms, wipe away my tears, and declare his undying love for me.

  Only, he’s not doing any declaring. Or any sweeping, for that matter. Instead, he’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

  “And you were planning on telling me this information when? After we’d moved into adjoining garden homes in the retirement center?”

  I realize that David is not flattered by my declaration. Believe it or not, he looks angry.

  Okay, that’s not what I was expecting.

  “You’re mad at me?” My question comes out with a fair amount of incredulity and frustration.

  David puts both hands on his hips like a den mother about to scold a troop of Cub Scouts. “You’ve felt this way for eight years and never said anything?”

  “Self-inflicted humiliation really isn’t my style,” I snap back.

  “You were humiliated to have feelings for me?”

  Honestly, sometimes men can be as thick as planks. “No, David. I wasn’t embarrassed to have feelings for you. I’m just not a glutton for public humiliation.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Well, I couldn’t very well put the moves on you when you were engaged, now, could I?”

  “But you sat there, all those times in the student pub, and told me how to fix my relationship with what’s-her-name.”

  No single woman would blame me for removing one of my shoes and stabbing him through the heart with the three-inch spike heel. But since I only paid fifteen dollars for them, I doubt they’d penetrate the chest cavity.

  “I tried to be your friend,” I say.

  “But you didn’t tell me you wanted anything more.”

  “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

  “You could have said something after Jennifer and I broke up.”

  “It was graduation week. All of our parents were in town, and then before I knew it, we’d moved to different cities.”

  “We both had phones.” David’s not cutting me any slack.

  “I don’t think it’s something you confess over the phone.”

  “You were afraid.”

>   “Of course I was afraid!”

  “Of me?”

  “Of rejection.”

  “Yeah, I can tell you have a high opinion of my ability to handle women.”

  “It wasn’t about you. It was about me.” I say the words, and as I hear myself speak them, it’s like a light bulb flicking on inside my head.

  Heavens to me, it’s the truth. It wasn’t about David at all. All along it was about me.

  “Then I’m confused,” he says. “What’s going on now? Is this what Saturday night was about? Some sort of revenge for my not reading your mind all these years?”

  Okay, I’m not taking all the blame for this mess. Plus, he’s sounding surprisingly defensive. “What about you, David?” I ask, turning the tables on him. “How do you feel about me?”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now in general. Not the right-now-because-I’ve-locked-you-in-the-steeple.”

  And then for a long moment he’s quiet. Aha! So it’s not so easy when the shoe is on the other foot, is it, big boy?

  “Right now, in general, I pretty much adore you, they way I’ve adored you since the first day I met you. I just didn’t realize it until that night at the movies.”

  I look at him long and hard because I don’t know how to define adore here. Not enough context clues.

  “Adore as in cute-little-fluffy-bunny kind of adore, or adore as in worship-like-a-goddess?”

  His cheeks go bright red, and mine do too.

  “The second thing,” he growls.

  “The second thing?” I stomp over to him, heedless of the pain my cheap shoes cause, and stab him in the chest with my finger. “What do you mean ‘the second thing’? How long has it been ‘the second thing’? Are you kidding me? Because I swear, David Swenson, if you are kidding—”

  I can’t finish the sentence because David covers my lips with his.

  And I was right. He doesn’t need the lip balm.

  Somewhere in the middle of the best lip-lock of my life, it occurs to me that LaRonda will return very soon. Reluctantly, I pull my lips from David’s.

  “Adore and worship? That’s a bit cliché, isn’t it?” I can’t resist the urge to twist the knife a little bit. He deserves it, the rat, if he’s had feelings for me and never said a word. And then made me feel like a coward for not spilling my own guts.