Heavens to Betsy (17 page)

“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 direct 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.

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.

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 you 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.

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?”

Edna defiantly unwraps the foil from the blondies and shoves the platter toward The Judge. “People are clearly expressing their displeasure with Betsy’s presence in the pulpit. We have to do something now before she cripples the church financially.”