Heavens to Betsy Read online

  My car rolls into the parking lot with fifteen minutes to spare. I clutch my sermon manuscript in my hand and race to the sanctuary to make sure the deacons remembered to prepare Communion and to do a sound check on the mikes. The silver trays rest reassuringly atop the communion table, and for once the microphones have decided to abandon their fondness for feedback. I fling my sermon manuscript onto the pulpit and make a mad dash to the sacristy for my robe.

  Back in the sanctuary, I switch into minister mode. “Good morning. Good morning.” The early service file in, and I make the rounds, greeting each of them. It’s the golf-and-Depends crowd at this service, all thirty or so parishioners in a sanctuary that will easily hold five hundred people. You would think they’d all sit at the front, huddled together against the vast emptiness of the arched ceiling and the echo of the stone walls, but no. They space themselves evenly throughout the pews as if they’re afraid of catching a disease should they come into close contact with one another.

  On my second Sunday here, I had the brilliant idea of roping off the back half of the sanctuary for the early service. I couldn’t believe no one had hit on this strategy before. Dr. Black smiled and nodded at me in an indulgent fashion, and I soon discovered the reason for his amusement. As the parishioners came down the aisle, they simply lifted the ropes, ducked under them, and settled into their accustomed places.

  Mr. and Mrs. Christopher have claimed their usual spots on the back row in the corner. After the service they’ll both complain that they couldn’t hear the sermon. It will be all I can do not to suggest in a catty manner that perhaps if they sat closer to the front, they might improve the odds of their hearing aids picking up some sound.

  The Judge appears in the narthex and, with all the pomp and circumstance of his former office, makes his way down the aisle to his place in the second pew. He has no reservations about sitting right under the preacher’s nose. Most of the time when I preach, I expect to look up at the end of the sermon and see him holding a scorecard. Seven out often if I’ve done really well. Lower if I’ve stumbled.

  I’m not ready, but it’s time for the service to start. The organist sounds the chimes, and I step up to my seat on the chancel. There’s no procession at this service, no choir in robes. Just the lonely sound of the organ echoing off the mostly empty pews.

  We sing only one verse of the opening hymn at this service, and the prayer and Scripture reading are brief. I stand to ascend the pulpit, and when I look down at my feet, I realize I’m wearing one black pump and one navy one.

  Too late I realize I forgot to put my customary cup of water on the little ledge below the lectern. Suddenly my throat feels dry. I bite my tongue to get the saliva flowing. But I bite a little too hard and taste the sharp tang of blood in my mouth.

  Just breathe. Inhale peace. Exhale joy.

  I place my hands on either side of the pulpit, cling for dear life, and open my mouth to begin.

  Only there’s a slight problem. My sermon manuscript is gone. Not again.

  Panic surges through me, and I feel like one of Pharaoh’s charioteers watching the inevitable wall of water loom over me.

  “Good morning.” I smile brightly to compensate for my panic. The congregants mumble back something that might be construed as a reply, but it sounds more like the three witches in Macbeth murmuring among themselves.

  I search my brain, trying to remember the opening lines of my sermon. That’s another thing I normally do on Saturday night—memorize the first thirty seconds of the sermon. I can’t think of anything. What do I say? A joke. That’s it. I’ll tell that joke David sent me.

  “How many women ministers does it take to change a light bulb?” I even deliver the punch line with a straight face.

  No one laughs. In fact, the congregation looks at me as if I’ve just flipped my skirt up over my head. It feels that way to me, too.

  In desperation I try another joke. One about Saint Peter and the Pearly Gates, but that one, too, sinks like a stone. And then my throat closes up, and I feel it coming. A coughing fit.

  Relax. Breathe. Or, as an alternative, cough as if you’ve been condemned to a TB ward. This appears to be my choice.

  It goes on forever, and each raspy hack echoes off the cold stone of the sanctuary walls. My eyes cross and water. There’s probably something coming out of my nose. I can’t stop.

  “Excuse me,” I choke out, and in humiliation, I step out of the pulpit. I’m headed for the water fountain, when I hear a resounding thunk! I look down at the second pew, and The Judge has disappeared. No, not disappeared. He’s collapsed. Fallen over onto his side. Oh, heavens. He’s having a heart attack.

  At the late service I’d have my pick of a cardiologist, an internist, and an ER doctor. But this early I’m limited to a dentist and a podiatrist. “Call 911,” the dentist shouts, and I fly down the chancel steps, out the side door, and to the nearest telephone.

  I fling open the door to the sacristy. To my surprise, Edna Tompkins is there. She jumps when I enter. Her cheeks are flushed.

  “911,” I gasp.

  “What?”

  “The Judge! 911.”

  She stares at me blankly, so I shove past her and dive for the phone. You always see people on television calling the emergency number, but I’ve never done it before myself. My damp hands fumble with the buttons, and the receiver slips in my fingers.

  “911 operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance. Church of the Shepherd on Broadway. The sanctuary.”

  “I’m sorry. Can you hold, please?”

  Hold? Can I hold? The operator doesn’t wait for an answer. The line goes silent.

  This is not how it works on television. About that time the sacristy door swings open behind me. When I turn around, the dentist is there, looking grave. Oh, heavens. I’ve killed The Judge. Or at least let him expire on my watch. They’ll fire me for sure.

  “It’s okay, Betsy,” the dentist says. “We don’t need the ambulance.”

  My heart drops to my mismatched pumps. “Should I call the coroner?”

  He smiles. “Not unless he wants to play a round of golf with the deceased.”

  “What?”

  I charge past him, back into the sanctuary. Sure enough, The Judge is sitting up and laughing with the podiatrist. His shoulders and belly shake in unison. The dentist is right behind me.

  “It wasn’t a heart attack after all.”

  “What happened?”

  “A common Sunday-morning malady. He fell asleep during the sermon.”

  My sermon manuscript never does turn up, but we spend the time allotted for the sermon telling the paramedics we don’t need them after all, so no one ever knows I didn’t have anything to say. Fortunately, the rest of the service proves uneventful. During the Sunday-school hour, I dash to my office and print off another copy of my sermon, so the late service goes off without a hitch. I spend the afternoon in the ICU waiting room at the hospital, visiting Velva for fifteen minutes every two hours. She’s still in a medically induced coma, but at least she’s stabilized. I leave the hospital at suppertime and go home to collapse.

  Monday morning turns out to be no better than Sunday. I go to the office to play catch-up, even though it’s technically my day off. Velva’s still medically critical, and Mrs. Tompkins is still critical verbally. She turns up in my office bright and early, demanding an immediate count of the offering. She’s heard a rumor that someone’s been skimming the cash out of the plates.

  “I feel sure, Edna, that the cash box in the sacristy is secure. We’ve used that system for years, and it’s never been a problem. Only the church treasurer and the money counters have a key.”

  Mrs. Tompkins purses her lips, just like the nurse in the ER. “Then there’s only one explanation. The offering is down because people don’t like a woman in the pulpit. You should resign now before you destroy this church.”

  I think about suggesting there might be a d
irect correlation between the offering sliding and the fact that Edna’s so unhappy with my new role. But Edna’s money would amount to far more than the bills that get slipped in the plate each week. You know, even Jesus would have a hard time loving this woman. But he would do it, wouldn’t he? I sigh, and she shoots me a dark look.

  “Is it too much for you, Betsy? I thought it would be.”

  I can’t say, “No, honey; you’re what’s too much.” Instead, I say, “If there is a problem with the offering, I imagine it has more to do with normal giving cycles than with a revolt among the parishioners. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  Mrs. Tompkins sniffs. “Well, we’ll see about that. I’m going to have to call an emergency meeting of the personnel committee. We’re in difficult enough financial straits, what with having to pay Dr. Black through the end of the year. We can’t jeopardize the financial health of the church.”

  I roll a pencil between my fingers. “Please do call the meeting. I’m sure the more minds we put to work on this problem, the sooner we’ll resolve it.” Besides, I want some witnesses to any further conversation I have with Edna about the matter.

  “Fine. I will.” She jumps to her feet with amazing alacrity for a senior citizen and stomps out of my office. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

  “Reverend Blessing?”

  I’m forced to reopen my eyes. Angelique’s in the doorway, a frown on her face. She’s holding another white florist’s box at arm’s length, as if it might contaminate her if she gets too close. “Here’s another one.” She walks over and drops the box on my desk.

  “Great.” Maybe Edna Tompkins is right. Maybe people are so outraged by my presence in the pulpit, even if it’s temporary, that they would rather destroy their church. Maybe they’re all like Matt Carter. Or the guy who’s sending me the dead flowers. Maybe I’m deluding myself to think this can even be a temporary solution. Why don’t I just give up and go work for a temp agency typing and filing until law school starts?

  Once again I slip the ribbon from the box and lift the lid. I pull back the tissue paper, and, sure enough, a dozen more dead roses. You know, the first time had real shock value. This go-round, it just seems old hat.

  “Toss ’em, Angie.” I push the box back toward her.

  Angelique makes a small moue of charming distaste that might work on most men in America but is lost on attired, irritated female minister. With a sigh of resignation, she picks up the box as if it’s a dead mouse and departs.

  I reach over, open my lower-right desk drawer, and paw through the contents. Why did I ever clean out my candy stash? Health, schmealth. I should have foreseen an emergency like this. Maybe there’s something I missed. An aged chocolate kiss from the Valentine’s party we threw for the residents at Hillsboro Health Care, or a couple of stale jellybeans from last years Easter-egg hunt. Alas, the only thing left in the drawer is soy nuts and sugarless gum. I unwrap a piece of the gum and plop it into my mouth, all the while knowing it won’t satisfy my craving. Neither would the chocolate, actually, but at least I’d get a nice sugar rush to dull the pain.

  The one bright spot in my day occurs when David calls.

  “Hey, Blessing. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” I tell him about the dead roses. About how worried I am for Velva. About the Judge’s miraculous resurrection.

  “Just the usual, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I’m grateful to pour it all out to someone who just listens.

  Finally, when I’m done, he says, “Thanks for the chili dogs, by the way.”

  At least someone is being nice to me today. “My pleasure. I hope it was worth the sacrifice of my feet. I’m checking them daily for fungus.”

  David laughs that nice, rich laugh of his that’s like the chocolate I’m craving. I savor it, letting it roll over me, fill me. It’s more satisfying than anything I could ever keep in my desk drawer.

  “What are you doing for dinner?” David asks. His innocent question causes my heart to shift into overdrive.

  “I need to check on Velva, but after that I’m free. Committee meetings aren’t until next Monday night.”

  Like David’s laugh and a good piece of chocolate, a free week-night is also to be savored. Hmm. Maybe my evening could combine all three? Bliss.

  David clears his throat. “Why don’t you come over, and I’ll cook you something?”

  Ack! Okay, David is fabulous, but his idea of a homemade meal is Hamburger Helper and a can of green beans. Think, Blessing. You want to move your relationship with this man to the next level. What would a normal woman do? Or, considering that you’ve never been a normal woman, what would a smart woman do?

  “I’ll cook.” The words tumble out of my mouth before they can be sensibly restrained.

  “Excellent. It’s been awhile since I had Steak à la Betsy.”

  Steak? I don’t remember offering steak. But David loves it, and truthfully, I like making it for him. Before, when David sat at my dining-room table making appreciative noises about my cooking, I always felt the satisfaction one finds when feeding a starving stray. Somehow, though, I think my satisfaction tonight will be of a different variety.

  “All right, mooch. I’ll see you at seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll bring dessert.”

  “Make it chocolate.”

  “Yes ma’am. I have a surprise for you too.”

  “I’ve had enough surprises for one week.”

  “You’ll like this one. You’ll see.”

  I hang up and place the receiver softly in its cradle. I can deal with Mrs. Tompkins and the personnel committee. I can even manage my worry about Velva. I can move the sanctuary three feet to the left if necessary, or do just about any other impossible task. I can do it all, if I can have dinner with David. Maybe the fish was just a fluke. Maybe he’s finally catching on to what I haven’t been able to say.

  “Betsy? It’s Edna Tompkins. I’ve scheduled the emergency meeting of the personnel committee for five o’clock today.” Click. The voice message wastes no time, words, or personal warmth.

  No, no, no! I ran to Kroger on my lunch hour and bought steaks, baking potatoes, and asparagus. I even dashed into Pier 1 for a few candles. With careful planning I was going to have time to soak in a bubble bath for half an hour before grilling the steaks.

  I’m going to be optimistic and believe that I can bulldoze the personnel committee into the shortest meeting in the history of all personnel committees everywhere.

  Of course, five o’clock comes all too soon and not soon enough. This time when I enter the boardroom, I’m the first one there, and I take advantage of that fact. I choose the chair at the head of the table. I plan to run this meeting, not be run over by it.

  The Judge arrives promptly, as do Sweet Marjorie Cline, Ed the Engineer, and Gus Winston, the Barney Fife—like chair of stewardship. The only one missing is Edna, who called the meeting in the first place.

  For ten minutes we exchange pleasantries. The Judge makes no mention of his Sunday-morning nap, and neither do I. Like any dysfunctional family, we simply refuse to acknowledge what we don’t want to deal with. He does commend me for my words at Mavis Carter’s funeral. “You should spend as much time on your sermon preparation as you did on that funeral homily.”

  For the next ten minutes, we speculate about the weather and whether spring will arrive early this year. Still no sign of Edna. It’s as if she knows I’m desperate to get out of here tonight and is tardy just to spite me. Finally, half an hour after our intended start time, she appears in the doorway of the boardroom.

  “Sorry to be late.” She brandishes a platter covered with aluminum foil. “I had to wait for the blondies to come out of the oven.”

  Edna Tompkins is famous for her butterscotch brownies. She’s also famous for commenting on any excess pounds she perceives on my person.

  “Betsy?” She smiles so sweetly that even I am almost lulled into forgiving her. “Could yo
u get the coffee?”

  Something in me snaps like a dry twig beneath a sturdy hiking boot. I’m surprised no one else can hear it. My mouth goes dry, and my pulse picks up. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to cry. The people at this table would see it as a sign of weakness, not the product of frustration.

  “No, Edna, I’m afraid I can’t get the coffee. This meeting is late already, and I have to be out of here by six.”

  Marjorie Cline gasps. The Judge scowls. Ed shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and Gus fiddles with his bow tie. Not only have I contradicted Edna, I’ve had the temerity to call her by her first name. Perhaps that snapping sound I heard was the steeple splitting down the middle after all. Jesus may come down in a cloud of glory next.

  “But we have to have coffee with the blondies.” For the first time in the six months I’ve known her, Edna looks baffled.

  “Then feel free to make some. In the meantime, I’m going to ask Ed to call this meeting to order.”

  I can see her sugar-coating dissolve around her. Her face shrivels. “I called this meeting. I have to be here.”

  I wave my hand at an empty chair. “Then feel free to have a seat.”

  “I will.” Her glare could cut diamonds. She takes the chair next to me, and I nod to Ed.

  He clears his throat as if there’s a significant obstruction lodged there. Finally, after some serious hacking, he finds his voice.

  “We have a confirmed report from the money counters that the cash offering is down significantly the past two weeks. The question is, should we be concerned about theft, or is it simply a normal fluctuation?”