Heavens to Betsy (27 page)

Edna’s
eyes
blaze. “It’s not right. Ministers should be men. Especially senior pastors.”

“If it’s wrong, it’s wrong,” Edna insists, but she’s slurring her words. The Darvocet is working its mojo.

How many times have I had this argument? I decided several years ago that no amount of persuasion on my part was ever going to change someone’s mind about women in ministry. Instead, I’ve focused on doing the best possible job I can, proving by my actions I do indeed have a call. Except now, since I’ve decided to leave the church, my actions aren’t the effective testimony I used to think they were.

“Some people don’t think it’s wrong at all,” I say. “Some very faithful, very Christian people.” But my heart’s not really in my words because how can I defend what I’ve chosen to abandon?

“If it was wrong in my day, it’s wrong now.”

“What do you mean—if it was wrong in your day?”

A slash of fear sparks in Edna’s eyes. She clamps her lips shut and purses them.

Understanding cracks me over the head with all the force of Edna’s fictional assailant.

“Edna, did you have a call to ministry when you were young?” It’s the last question I’d ever have imagined myself asking Edna Tompkins.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Edna’s looped enough to slur her words, but she also realizes what she’s inadvertently revealed.

“You wanted to be a minister, didn’t you?” I press her.

“What did they tell you?”

I don’t really expect her to answer my question, but she does.

“They told me I was wrong. That it was Satan tempting me away from marriage and motherhood. Well, I’ve had precious little of one and none of the other.”

I’m so blown away by this unexpected discovery that it takes me a moment to absorb it all.

“They were right,” Edna snaps—or at least snaps as well as she can while under light sedation. “I was wrong to think I should be a minister.”

I could spend all day arguing the point with her, if she could stay awake. We could debate theology, pore over Scripture. Instead, I pull the stool closer to her bed, look her in the eye, and say, “Were you wrong, Edna? Were you? Or were they?”

This time I don’t look away. I keep my eyes locked on hers and watch the play of emotions there. Frustration, anger, resignation. It’s a wonder she didn’t do something drastic years ago. Taking the offering is minor, given the circumstances.

“I already said. They told me to get married and be a mother.”

But motherhood had never happened for her, obviously. And marriage had been a mixed bag at best. All that had been left was the church, which hadn’t wanted the real Edna, the one with a call to
ministry. Instead, the church had taken her money and let her take her frustrations out on others. So now Edna’s just like the chair of the board in my last church that fired me. Human. In the midst of inflicting suffering on me, she’s revealed her own humanity. I hate it when parishioners do that. It makes it so hard to feel morally superior.

I want to find out more about Edna’s call, but the Darvocet has done its thing. Her head nods and then she’s off to la-la land. And I’m left sitting on the dressing-table stool, a wad of stolen cash at my feet and my self-righteousness tumbling down after it.

Sadly, no.

To add insult to injury, the fish he bought me died. It jumped out of the bowl, as eager to escape my presence as everyone else in my life right now. I’d say it’s an omen, but it’s not much of one if it happens after the fact. More symbolic than prophetic.

At some point I’ll have to face him again. David, I mean. Not the dead fish. I wish my problems with David could be disposed of with one flush of the toilet. Besides, I need to talk to him about this whole thing with Edna. LaRonda’s too wrapped up in her impending move to another continent. And she’s probably not the best person at the moment to help me come to terms with my ministry, given the vitriolic nature of her resignation letter. She sent me a copy of it via e-mail, and then I edited it for her, taking out the vitriol, before she actually turned it in. It helped when I pointed out she might need references to get another job in Nashville someday, and she might not want to burn every bridge.

So what will I do when David calls? Several strategies spring to mind. Pretense, as in pretend nothing happened. Denial, as in make
a preemptive strike and say I was PMS-ing or something. The truth, the unattractive third option, is easily avoided for now.

After leaving Edna’s house I can’t bring myself to go directly back to the office, so I swing by St. Thomas Hospital to make a couple of pastoral calls. Nothing like a few IVs and heart monitors connected to your parishioners to take your mind off your troubles for a while. Especially when you make the rounds in stilettos, whose name must derive from the Latin for “please drive spears through my feet.”

When I finally do return to the office, Angelique is nowhere to be found. She’s probably off showing the sanctuary to a prospective bride. The stolen money burns a hole in my pocket, but it’s too late to simply return it to the offering box. The retirees who come to count on Monday mornings will have finished and gone. So what do I do with this evidence of Edna’s sins? A more Machiavellian preacher would head straight to The Judge’s office and lay the groundwork for her disgrace. But every time my thoughts go that direction, I see her bony spine and her injured arm clamped to her side. I feel the pain of a bedroom void of any evidence of a personal life. And I think about how the church shamed her because of who God called her to be.

David would know what to do with the money. I should call him. And I will. As soon as the next ice age passes.

I open my office door, and to my surprise, Ed is sitting in the chair across from my desk.

“Hi, Ed. Did we have an appointment?” Angelique is normally so good at juggling my calendar. I’d be lost without her.

“We need to talk, Betsy.”

“Oh.”

A minister dreads those words. They could be the prelude for anything from “I was so moved by your last sermon, I’ve sold all my
worldly possessions and given the money to the poor” to “I’m here to fire you.” I’ve had more personal experience with the latter.

“Is there a problem?”

“It’s about the offering.”

“Yes?” Like Edna, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. I force my hand not to reach for the pocket of my khakis.

“Edna called me half an hour ago. She told me everything.”

Again, it must be the Darvocet. “So you know what’s been happening to the cash offering?”

Ed nods sadly. “Yes. It’s a shame, Betsy.”

I nod sagely. “Yes, isn’t it?” I lean back in my chair, breathing a little easier for the first time since Saturday night. “I’m glad I don’t have to keep the secret anymore.”

Ed lifts one hand to fiddle with his bow tie. “Well,
yes
, I can see where you’d be relieved at some level.”

His tone sets off an alarm bell in my head. He twists his tie some more and then gives it a final tug. “We can get you help, Betsy.”

“Help? I’m not sure what you mean. My biggest concern is how to return the offering with no one being the wiser.”

Ed’s nostrils flare. “That’s not the attitude I expected from you, Reverend Blessing.”

I can’t believe I’m indignant on Edna’s behalf, but surely he wouldn’t want to expose his own sister this way. “I’m not willing for this congregation to suffer for one person’s mistake. Not when it can be so easily rectified.”

Ed’s pale cheeks grow whiter. “I hardly see grand theft as a ‘mistake,’ as you put it. If you needed money, you should have come to the committee.”

“Excuse me?” The floor drops out from under me.

My laugh comes out more like a bark. “You think I took the money?”

“Edna told me you confessed everything to her.”

“Did she?” Clearly I overestimated the painkillers and underestimated the woman.

“She set a good example of Christian charity, Betsy. Told me we shouldn’t call the police, not if you agree to resign and go quietly.”

I resist the temptation to lean over my desk and see if Ed’s fly is zipped. “I didn’t take the money.”

“It’s too late for denials.” He holds out his hand. “I think you’d better give me the money, Betsy.”

“No.” This time I’m not going quietly. I will not be complicit in the destruction of my ministry yet again. Plus, a felony conviction would really put a monkey wrench in my law career. “If you want the money, call a meeting of the personnel committee. I’ll be happy to attend.”

Ed sighs. “There’s no need to make so many people aware of this mess.”

“I think there’s a great deal of need. And I think Edna should be there as well.”

“That’s impossible. She’s still at home recuperating.”

“Then we’ll have the meeting at her house.”

Ed’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted horns and a tail and I’m hefting a pitchfork. “I never expected this of you, Betsy.”

“Well, that’s something at least. I’m glad to know my alleged
kleptomania comes as a complete shock. At least your opinion of me was that high to begin with.”

He shakes his head and pushes himself out of the chair. “Perhaps I should call Dr. Black.”

I can feel the heat of anger rising up my neck and spreading across my cheeks. “If you call Dr. Black, I will file a lawsuit for slander. Are we clear on that, Ed?”

The mere mention of a lawsuit is enough to send him into a tail-spin. “Now, now, there’s no need for that.” He pats the air as if he’s trying to soothe it. “I’ll call the meeting.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

And he’s gone without a backward glance. I collapse into my chair. How easily it can all fall apart. It’s just like the last time, only now I know exactly what’s happening. I know Edna is the engineer of my demise. And this time I won’t agree to put my tail between my legs and head for the hills. No, this time I’m going to fight. And I’m going to win.

The upside of the accusation against me is that I feel extremely empowered. The downside is that I have to call David to get Cali’s phone number because I’m going to need her to corroborate my story. The Darvocet must have deleted that particular bit of information from Edna’s memory. That or she thinks I’m bluffing—the spiritual equivalent of a round of Texas Hold ’Em.

With great reluctance I dial David’s direct number at St. Helga’s. To my simultaneous relief and dismay, I get his voice mail.