Heavens to Betsy Read online

  David twirls some pasta around his fork. “Okay, Secret Number One.”

  I wish I could pull a pen and paper out of my purse, but I feel stupid enough already. “Yes?” I’m not even paying proper attention to my pasta, which tells you how much I want to know this stuff.

  “At least once during each sermon, hold the Bible up in the air and wave it around.”

  My fork falls from my fingers. “I thought you were serious.” David teases me all the time, or at least he used to, but I’m too raw right now to cope with it.

  He laughs. “I’m not kidding. Congregations want someone who will ‘preach the Scripture.’ If you give them the image of you holding your Bible up in the air, they’ll think that’s what you’re doing.”

  I’m impressed. And also appalled. “How’d you learn that?”

  “Same way you are.”

  “Over Pasta YaYa?”

  He twirls more pasta on his fork. “No, you dope. Another minister told me.”

  “Okay, wave the Bible around. What’s next?”

  I think I can eat now. I dive into my food and wait patiently while David chews.

  “Secret Number Two is pretty easy too.”

  “What is it?”

  “Visit anyone who goes into the hospital within twenty-four hours.”

  I snort, and the pasta goes down the wrong way. After I finish coughing, I say, “Oh, come on. Who wouldn’t do that anyway? That’s no secret.”

  David nods sagely. “You’d be surprised. I’ve heard horror stories about my predecessor at St. Helga’s that would curl your hair.”

  I lift a hand in a staying motion. “Please don’t. I’m already using six different styling gels to keep my new hairdo straight as straw.”

  David eyes my hair warily. “It certainly is strawlike. I’ll give you that.”

  “Okay, flatterer, what’s Senior-Minister Secret Number Three?” David’s indifference to my looks would never have bothered me a few weeks ago. Now it cuts to the quick.

  “Number Three. Never drive a better car than your parishioners.”

  I almost choke on my Pasta YaYa, and I have to make a dive for my napkin. Once I clear my throat, I laugh. “No problem there.” My ancient Honda Civic would make anyone else feel like the owner of a Bentley.

  Then a thought occurs to me. “Is that why you haven’t traded in the Volvo?” Poor car. It deserves a mercy killing.

  David taps the side of his nose. “Exactly.”

  I set down my fork and push my plate away. “David, none of this stuff is going to help me be accepted as the senior minister at Church of the Shepherd.”

  David waves his fork at me. “Don’t underestimate this advice, Betz. It’s golden.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Well, there’s one more thing.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Don’t date a parishioner.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised.”

  “David, this is the second time in a week you’ve warned me off. What’s going on?”

  “Look, Betsy, when you’re the top dog, people project all sorts of stuff onto you. But it’s not really about you.”

  I think of the waitress. And then I wonder if that’s what I’m doing. What if I’m not immune to this phenomenon? What if what I’m feeling for David isn’t real at all but some sort of head trip? Am I just another senior-minister groupie?

  “David, none of this will help me get Mrs. Tompkins off my back or convince The Judge I can lead the congregation.”

  “Try waving the Bible around next Sunday. You’ll be surprised.”

  “It doesn’t change my gender.”

  “No, but if you act like a male preacher, people won’t be so threatened.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” He sounds like the grievance committee that confronted me this morning. Can you want to kiss someone and clobber him at the same time? “I thought you were one of the good guys.”

  “I’m just saying you should give people what they expect to get. At least at first. At least in the short term.”

  But I’ve tried that already. I did that at my first church. I was the model pastor, a “man of God” in every way but the one that counted to them most, apparently—the biological way.

  “David, I can’t believe you’re telling me to sell out.”

  He pushes his plate back too. “You asked me how to make this choice of yours work until they hire someone else, and that’s what I’m telling you. Church of the Shepherd is not interested in your remaking their collective expectations of a minister. They just want you to behave yourself until the right man comes along.”

  Oh, heavens. He’s right.

  I’m stupid to hold on to the slightest hope that this situation can be transformed. It’s only a paycheck until I can check out and go to law school. I can’t let myself be seduced by the idea that it could mean more.

  “Okay, so what you’re saying is wave the Bible around, make a beeline for the hospitals, keep my old Honda running awhile longer, and no romancing parishioners.”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “I could have figured that out myself.”

  David looks at me sideways. “Betsy, you have a habit of not figuring things out until quite a bit after the fact.”

  It’s not fair. The clammy palms. The scrambled brain. Fear that feels this good. I hate the symptoms of infatuation, and I especially hate that David is the cause of them. Except I don’t really hate it at all. I leave 12th and Porter no wiser about how to proceed with revealing my feelings to David.

  Okay, let’s review my goals for my lunch meeting with David and evaluate how I did.

  1. Convince David I did the right thing to take the interim senior-minister position. Nope, didn’t meet that one. In fact, he pretty much convinced me of the opposite.

  2. Convince myself I did the right thing. Hmm. I think the jury’s still out on that one.

  3. Don’t let on to David that I wanted to lean across the table and nibble on his neck. Oops. Did I play it cool enough about the waitress?

  4. Don’t actually lean across the table and nibble on David’s neck. Hallelujah! That’s one goal I did achieve.

  The drive back to my office at church isn’t a long one, but it gives me time to compose myself. What did David mean by the comment that I don’t figure things out until after the fact? I’m a very perceptive person, and he knows it. I’m always eyes-wide-open, and just because I’ve been blindsided a few times doesn’t mean I stick my head in the sand.

  Like, I knew David wasn’t for me within thirty minutes of meeting him.

  These days not as many people go straight to divinity school right out of college. But a few years ago, the economy wasn’t great, and everyone I knew was going to grad school instead of trying to land a nonexistent job. I chose div school by process of elimination. Nothing else felt right. Maybe that’s a bad reason to think about serving God as a profession, but sometimes the “right path” is the only one that unfolds in front of you.

  I arrived in Nashville with all my worldly possessions in the trunk of my ancient Olds Cutlass. Thus began a life of what I like to call “divinity school chic.” My first apartment was an efficiency studio in a less-than-reputable part of town. I heard gunshots in the night fairly often and learned to appreciate gangsta rap.

  Orientation for first-year div students began at the end of August when Nashville swelters like a Southern belle in three layers of petticoats and a corset. I’d already discovered a few anomalies about my new town. Barbecue was pig, not cow. The pronunciation of many street names had little to do with their spelling. And for the first time in my life, I was in a place where I literally didn’t know a soul.

  Until David.

  I arrived for the first orientation session late and overdressed, sweat dripping from the end of my nose. My graceful entrance consisted of using the wrong door—thereby walking into the room directly i
n front of the dean of the school who was giving a welcome speech—and tripping over a pair of rather large Nikes before half-sliding, half-falling into a desk.

  The owner of the Nikes chuckled and pulled his feet back under his desk. I shot him a look of disdain in my best grrrl-power manner. He chuckled again.

  “Klutz.”

  I couldn’t believe he said that. Without thinking, I responded, “Oaf.” He grinned back at me, and the effect was like mainlining caffeine. Thus our friendship was cemented.

  After the orientation we went for coffee in the common room. He told me about his fiancée, Jennifer. I told him about my apartment in the war zone. We commiserated about the cost of textbooks and the prospect of taking five graduate courses while working a menial job. If we could find one.

  I didn’t meet Jennifer for a week or so. When I did, I was appalled at David’s judgment. Jen was the poster child for high maintenance. He didn’t exactly dance attendance on her, but you could tell he was willing to go to great lengths to placate her. Jennifer looked like Cindy Crawford, dressed like a New Yorker, and talked like a sweet Southern belle—none of which I ever had a prayer of pulling off.

  David and I established a regular routine of repairing to the student pub after Old Testament class three days a week. Over innumerable cups of coffee, we picked apart our classes, our professors, and each other.

  Why didn’t I fall for him then? Maybe because I had a strict policy about stealing someone else’s man ever since the time a girl stole mine. Maybe I recognized he was far too besotted with Jennifer to see anyone else. Mostly, it was because I’d finally found a friend who understood everything about me and liked me anyway. No way was I going to mess with that.

  And I never have. Until now. Eight years after the fact, I’m faced with the truth. I had feelings for David from the moment I tripped over his feet, but I buried them when I found out about Jennifer. Only now there is no Jennifer. There’s just this looming pit of an opportunity to go after what I want.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I reach for my cell phone and dial David’s number.

  It barely rings before he answers. “Yes?”

  “Want to go bowling Saturday morning?”

  “Will there be chili dogs?”

  “Do they make bowling alleys without them?”

  David recognizes this invitation for the olive branch it is, because in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never agreed to go bowling with him before. I hate bowling, I hate putting my feet in shoes other people have worn, and most of all I hate chili dogs.

  “Pick you up at ten.” I can hear the smile in his voice. He thinks he’s won, but he doesn’t know yet what the game is. On Saturday he’s going to find out.

  “Okay. See ya Saturday.” I hit the End button and, heart racing, pull into the church parking lot. Maybe David’s right. Maybe I catch on a little late sometimes. Fine. He wants after-the-fact? On Saturday I’ll show him “after-the-fact.”

  When I return to my office, I find a long white florist box resting on top of my desk. Or rather, it rests on top of piles of old sermons, flyers for evangelism aids, and various biblical commentaries. I’ve never seen one of these boxes in person before, just in the movies. The red ribbon is crisply tied into an opulent bow.

  “Go on, open ’em.” Angelique, our administrative assistant, is hovering in my office doorway. “I’m dying of curiosity here. Who do you think they’re from?”

  I have no idea, so I walk over to my desk and slip the little envelope from underneath the ribbon. The simple typed message reads: From an Admirer.

  “It’s not signed.”

  Angelique squeals. “A secret admirer? That rocks!” Her eyebrows shoot up in delight, which only accents their piercings. Matching silver doodads make her look like a pale version of some native tribes-woman. Yes, Angelique was once a waitress at 12th and Porter before she came to Church of the Shepherd.

  I find the long white box disquieting rather than exciting. My only date in recent memory was with the penniless ex-con, so I doubt he’s the source. And it couldn’t be David because—well, just because he doesn’t see me that way. I remind myself of this rather sharply to avoid disappointment.

  With trembling fingers, I slip the ribbon from the box and lift the lid. A dozen dead black roses lie nestled in white tissue paper.

  “Ayyy!” Angeliques scream makes mine unnecessary, but it doesn’t prevent the icy shiver that shoots down my spine.

  My knees threaten to give way, and I sink into my desk chair. “At least they’re not rats.” You see this kind of thing in the movies, but you never really expect it to happen to you.

  Again, ew.

  Angelique approaches the box cautiously. “Who did you tick off?”

  Angelique came to us through a Welfare-to-Work program. I knew her at 12th and Porter forever, and then she showed up one day for a job interview through a Women in Transition Program we support. Spaghetti tanks with bra straps showing turned out to be the least of our worries. Dr. Black and I’ve been working with Angelique on her professionalism, but clearly we have a ways to go, and with Dr. Black gone, it’s up to me now.

  “Who delivered these?” I ask, not quite prepared to give Angelique a lecture in verbal office etiquette.

  Angelique shrugs. “No clue. They were propped against the office door when I got back from lunch.”

  I retrieve the small envelope and card from the detritus on my desk. “There’s no florist imprint. Nothing.”

  Angelique grimaces. “Some special delivery.”

  “Yeah. My sermon must have been worse than I thought.”

  “Reverend Blessing?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think you’re being stalked?”

  I don’t think I’m being stalked, at least not until I check my voice mail. Three heavy-breathing phone messages later, my skin crawls like a sinner coming back to church.

  Weird occurrences are a part of any ministry, and if you’re a woman, you get your own special brand of inappropriate stuff. I regularly receive letters from prisoners requesting I pray for them—and would I mind sending them a pair of underwear I’ve worn recently? More than once a male parishioner has approached me and expressed a wish to discuss the sexual feelings he’s been having for women other than his wife. I’ve learned the Woman Minister’s Secret Handshake. When a man approaches, you extend your right hand and place your left hand on his right shoulder. This demonstrates your warmth and interpersonal skills but also keeps him from getting too close. All that is normal stuff. These dead roses, though, are another thing entirely.

  So I do what I always do when I want to run away and hide. I head for the nursing home.

  Okay, that’s a little strange, I’ll grant you. A place that smells of disinfectant and rubber-soled shoes isn’t most people’s first choice for sanctuary, but most nursing homes don’t possess the secret weapon they have at Hillsboro Health Care: Velva Brown, a five-foot-tall resident who’s a cross between Yoda and Mother Teresa.

  I was drawn to Velva the first time I met her. Maybe it’s the glow that emanates from her weathered face. It could be the zinnias she grows in the flower beds so she can make floral arrangements with her gnarled hands. She carries them to patients who can’t get out of bed. Most important, I think, I seek her out because Velva, too, is ordained. Not that she generally admits to the fact. When she was young in the 1920s, churches ordained women mission workers so they could get the clergy rate on train fare. Velva worked in the Philippines for a few short years, and then came the stock-market crash of 1929. Mission funding disappeared, and she was called home. She spent the next fifty years of her life working in the denominational offices, typing and filing and waiting for her chance to go back overseas.

  Every time she had a chance to return to her beloved Philippines, something intervened. She had back problems. Her mother fell ill. Finally, when she was almost eighty, she went back for a two-year mission stint. Now she lives at Hillsboro Health
Care with only a niece in New Jersey to see about her and her memories of the people of the Philippines to make her smile.

  Velva’s room reflects her spirit. It’s crammed full with a lifetime of memorabilia. Tibetan prayer drums. A tidy stash of tea bags and a porcelain teapot. Books, books, and more books. Her roommate, Dot-tie, is usually comatose. She spends her days mumbling. I finally figured out she was counting. “Dottie refuses to die until she turns one hundred,” Velva once told me. So that’s how Dottie passes the days, and Velva happily works her into the ambiance. Every morning she brushes Dottie’s hair and puts lipstick on her with the same diligence she employs when she dusts the tops of the furniture and neatly makes her bed.

  Today Velva sits in a chair by the window with her Bible open in her lap. I don’t think she’s reading it so much as communing with it. No doubt she has most of it memorized anyway.

  When Velva hears my footsteps in the doorway, she turns. I know the aura around her is only backlighting from the sun streaming in the window, but she still looks as if she’s seen the face of God. That’s a glow no makeover in the world can give you.

  “My dearest Betsy.” The lines around her mouth emphasize her smile. Her bright blue eyes sparkle. “Such a treat.”

  Okay, one of the reasons I love Velva is because she adores me just for showing up.

  “Hello, friend.” I cross the room and kneel beside her chair. It’s too hard for her to get up and down, so I adjust to her. She puts one hand on the top of my head, as if she’s giving me a blessing. With the other, she tilts my chin toward her.

  “What’s all this?” She looks concerned. “When did you start wearing war paint?”

  I flush, which only emphasizes the war paint. “I got a makeover.”

  “A makeover? What was wrong with you before?”

  “I was frumpy.”

  Velva sighs. “According to whom?”

  “According to me.” I take her fingers from under my chin and very gently squeeze them. With someone as old and frail as Velva, you have to be careful with physical affection. Fortunately, the most minute of touches can convey the deepest feelings. “How’s your arthritis today?”