“Some of it, certainly,” said Father George. “There is a lot of good we can do in the area. The Appalachian region is one of the poorest areas in the country, and we can certainly make a difference. And we certainly can plan for the future of the building itself and put away enough for any major repairs or work that needs to be done. But I think we can go much further.”
He looked around the room, his eyes bright. “I see this as a great opportunity. It might be a good idea, for instance, to create a scholarship fund. Not the entire amount needed to perpetuate it, but a beginning; something in which we can all have a part. Or perhaps we might launch a concert series or start a food kitchen for the needy in our community. But that’s what our committee will decide.”
“Very eloquent,” I said to Meg, under my breath. She nodded.
“There is nothing about this process that will be done secretly,” said Father George. “It will be as transparent as possible. The members of the committee are Meg Farthing, Malcolm Walker, Lee Dalbey, Hayden Konig, Billy Hixon, and Gwen Jackson. Once the committee has made its recommendation, the vestry will vote on it. Yes or no. If the vote is no, it goes back to the committee. Now, if any of you have any ideas or comments, and I’m sure a few of you do, I’ll open the floor to suggestions.”
• • •
The first one to come to the front was Russ Stafford. Russ was on the vestry and was a real estate agent and developer. He lumbered to the front, carrying an easel, several poster-sized drawings and a folder. He took a minute to set up his props, put his folder on the lectern and begin his presentation. Most people in the meeting weren’t prepared for such an elaborate presentation, assuming that this was going to be more of a brainstorming session. But Russ, ever the salesman, wasn’t going to be caught flatfooted.
“I have a proposal,” he began, “that, I think we will all agree, would be one of the most advantageous uses of this money. I recommend that we take some of this money and invest in building a new rectory for the church.”
I looked around the room. Everyone was listening politely, which was a change for St. Barnabas. Russ took this as a good sign.
“As you know,” he continued, “the current rectory is over seventy-five years old.”
This was true. Our rectory, the house provided to St. Barnabas’ priest, was built in 1927, but it was a beautiful old house constructed mostly of stone. I had never heard a priest complain about his or her living arrangements. There was one priest who chose to buy his own house rather than live in the rectory, and that was fine with everyone. In those years, we simply rented it out to another family. The house had ten-foot ceilings, hardwood floors, a newly designed and remodeled kitchen, fireplaces in the bedrooms, and was situated one block off Main Street — just a five-minute walk from the church. I thought it was a wonderful house.
“I propose that we begin construction on a house in The Clifftops. There are many advantages to this as I think you will see…” Russ flipped the first board over. It was an artist’s rendition of what I presumed was the clubhouse at The Clifftops, nicely drawn and professionally colored. “The Clifftops,” Russ explained, “is a gated community with two professionally designed eighteen-hole golf courses. It’s located eighteen miles from St. Germaine on two thousand acres. It’s going to have six hundred home sites, two clubhouses, tennis courts…the works. Very upscale. All the homes will be in the one to six million dollar range.” He grinned a toothy, real-estate grin and flipped to the next board. It was a picture of a grand house overlooking a stunning gorge view. At the bottom were the words “St. Barnabas Rectory.” A murmur went through the crowd.
“If we get in now, on the ground-floor, the price of the house we build will double in the next three years. And I’m here to tell you, people, that’s a darn good investment!”
I looked around the room again. People were nodding their heads just a little — not committing themselves, but acknowledging the unabashed and obvious genius of Russ’ plan.
Russ smiled a big smile now, the smile of the closer. “What do y’all think?” He directed the question to Meg, Malcolm and me, who were all sitting together. The other three members of the committee were behind us somewhere.
“We can certainly take your idea under advisement,” said Meg, diplomatically. “I’m sure there will be a lot of ideas coming forth over the next month or so.”
“No, I mean it,” said Russ. “This is a great idea, isn’t it? Look around. Everyone thinks so. So, tell us. What do y’all think?” The room was very still.
“It’s a bad idea,” I said, finally.
“It’s a really bad idea,” said Meg.
“It’s a terrible idea,” agreed Malcolm. The other three committee members kept quiet.
Russ was startled, and his smile faded. He was getting angry now. “Why is this a bad idea? This is guaranteed! Everyone knows that the price of real estate in this part of the country is going up and up! If we had a rectory out at the Clifftops, the value would double, even triple in just a few years. Not only that, but if we could offer a priest a chance to live out there in a three or four million dollar home, we could attract a really good one.” He’d said it before he realized it, but there it was. “Hmm…sorry, Father,” he said. “But you all know what I mean. It’s all fine and good to give all our money away. But just tell us: why isn’t this a good idea?” He stood with his arms crossed in front of him in defiance.
Meg, Malcolm and I looked at one another like three contestants on “What’s My Line,” deciding who was going to be the one to stand up. Finally Malcolm said, “I’ll do it,” stood and walked to the front.
“First of all,” said Malcolm, “let me say a few things. Father George is right in many of his views about the money, but I don’t agree with him wholeheartedly. It seems to me to be financially prudent to take a significant portion, if not all of that money, and invest it wisely so that St. Barnabas no longer has to worry about any financial problems either now or in the future. But I am just a sixth of this committee. I’ll be happy to state my views, but I’m only one person.
“As far as investing in real estate, and especially in a new multimillion dollar rectory, is concerned, here are the reasons that it’s a bad idea. Number one. We already have a beautiful rectory. It’s a short walk from the church and, more importantly, it’s in the historic district. As most of you know, homes in the historic district have been grandfathered in as far as taxes are concerned. As long as we own this property, we will never pay more than fifteen dollars a year in city taxes. To give up this house that we own free and clear would be the height of foolishness, but to keep it as a rental house is not a good option either. We are not in the landlord business, nor do I think we want to be.
“Number two. A house, as an investment, is only a good idea if you plan to sell it. A two million dollar house that appreciates into a four million dollar house is a bad deal if you’re planning on keeping the property, and I don’t think we want to be building a new rectory every five years. At the current tax rate, the annual real estate tax on a four million dollar home would be $21,200.”
There were audible gasps throughout the room. It always amazed me how fast Malcolm could do the math. I had figured it at twenty plus, but I always used big, round numbers.
“Number three. The Clifftops are simply too far out for our rector to be effective. Eighteen miles on those roads is about a fifty-minute drive. That’s a long way. Maybe not in a big city, but up here it sure is. Not only that, but remember that this is an investment in a gated community that may or may not make it as a viable association. I’ve been out to the Clifftops. Right now, it’s little more than some dirt roads pushed in with a bulldozer. There’s no infrastructure, and no electricity; there are no clubhouses, no tennis courts, and no golf courses. At this point, it’s all real estate speculation, and although it might be a good investment, and one that I might make as an individual, to have the church build a rectory at the Clifftops wouldn’t make much sense
.”
“But that’s what makes this a great deal,” said Russ, desperate now. “We can get in on the ground floor! You just said it would be a good investment.”
“Yes, it might well be a good investment, but only if the church is intent on investing the money. I’m not sure it is. Of course, that’s just my opinion,” said Malcolm, gently. “The rest of the committee might feel differently. By the way, Russ,” he said, taking his chair, “aren’t you one of the developers involved in the Clifftops?”
“Yes, I am!” steamed Russ, grabbing his boards and his easel. “That’s how come I know a sweet deal when I see one!”
“That went well,” I whispered to Meg.
“Hush.”
• • •
“It seems to me,” said Jed Pierce, coming forward and speaking in a slow drawl, “that the members of this committee are all already of one mind.”
Jed Pierce was a pharmacist in Boone, although he lived in St. Germaine, and had been elected Senior Warden in the fall. He had resigned when a certain traffic accident, in which he was involved, was made public, and Billy had taken over his position. I think he still felt that I had something to do with disclosing it, even though I assured him that I did not.
“It also seems to me,” he continued, “that the people on this so-called committee are the richest members in the church. I’d like to know who formed this committee and who decided who was going to be on it.”
“I ain’t rich,” said Billy, but there were more than a few heads nodding in agreement.
Father George got up and addressed the crowd. “I chose Meg Farthing to head up the committee. She chose the other members, and the vestry approved them. I told Meg to choose people she knew would consider their task prayerfully and use their expertise to guide us in these decisions.”
“So she chose her rich friends,” Jed said. “That figures.”
“I said, I ain’t rich,” said Billy, a little louder, and this time to more than a few chuckles from the crowd.
“Well,” said Father George, “it is probably true that most of the committee members are well-off, financially speaking, but they have experience with these kind of funds that most of us do not.” I admired Father George for not making Meg defend herself.
“It’s obvious that Malcolm’s got the best idea,” said Jed. “Put the money in the bank, and we don’t have to ever worry again.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” explained Malcolm, getting to his feet.
“Why do we need a committee anyway?” asked Joe Wootten. “All this talk about spending all this money is going to split us right down the middle. Nobody’s ever going to be happy. If we just put it in the bank like Malcolm said, we could pay our bills, buy what we needed and never have to worry about it again. Goodbye pledge drives!”
There was laughter and applause to that suggestion.
“But, that’s the worst thing that could happen!” said Father George. “We need to be able to give to the church.”
“We can give to other stuff,” said Jed. “We could give to the Red Cross. Or Habitat for Humanity. We’d actually have more money to give.”
“But you wouldn’t,” pleaded Father George. “You just wouldn’t give it.”
“Here’s what I propose,” said Jed. “I think that we should put one person in charge of this; somebody who knows what he’s doing. And I think we all know who that is.”
Father George was desperate. “We’ve got to have a committee. One person only has one viewpoint. We need more than that!”
“Tell you what,” said Jed, ignoring the priest. “Why don’t we do it this way? Whoever’s given the most money to St. Barnabas over the years should be in charge of deciding what to do with the sixteen million dollars. That seems fair. Whoever that may be has been a good and faithful steward. It’s only right that he should decide what’s to be done.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Joe.
“Me, too,” said Steve DeMoss.
“I think it’s a good idea as well,” said Phil Camp.
“I second the motion,” said Russ Stafford, seeing a ray of hope return. He sure wouldn’t talk the committee into a new rectory, but he might be able to talk Malcolm into an investment opportunity.
“There is no motion on the floor,” said Billy, standing up.
“This is a parish meeting, ain’t it?” asked Joe. “And we can take a vote of all the members, can’t we?”
“Yes, we can,” said Billy. “But there’s still been no motion.”
“I move we let the person who’s given the most money to St. Barnabas be in charge of deciding what to do with the sixteen million dollars,” said Jed in a loud voice.
“I second it,” said Russ quickly. “And we mean real money, too. Not that ‘in kind’ stuff that Hayden does where he gives his check back to the music fund.”
“Yeah,” came the reply from the crowd. “None of that stuff.” I raised my hands in a gesture of innocence. It wouldn’t make any difference to me, one way or the other. I was staying out of this one, but the crowd wasn’t. They were well involved now, and the noise in the room was intensifying moment by moment.
“All in favor,” shouted Jed.
“Just one dang minute,” yelled Billy. “Y’all just hang on for a second.”
“I call the vote,” shouted Joe.
“I second that,” hollered Jed. “Call the vote, call the vote…”
“Call the vote, call the vote,” echoed the chant from the room, the congregation falling easily into the cadence as the rabble became roused. I looked at Father George. He was sitting, despondent, his head in his hands.
“Fine,” yelled Billy, now flustered by the increasing cacophony. “All in favor signify by saying…?”
“AYE!” came the enthusiastic reply.
“All opposed?”
There were a few “nays” scattered around the hall including Meg’s and my own, but it was evident who had carried the day. Malcolm stood up and walked to the front. The crowd quieted.
“You all know it doesn’t work that way,” said Malcolm. “This is a vestry decision. That’s how we do things.”
“Then let’s have a vestry vote,” called Russ. “We’re all here.”
Malcolm shrugged and gestured toward Billy. Billy cleared his throat.
“Mark Wells isn’t here,” he said, “and Logan’s on vacation.”
“It’s still a quorum,” said Malcolm. “We can vote.”
Billy nodded. “All vestry members in favor of the motion, raise your hand.” I (and everyone else in the room) counted seven hands.
“That’s a majority,” said Malcolm with finality. “I’d like to say that I’ll do my best to prayerfully consider what is right and prudent for St. Barnabas…”
“Hang on a second,” said a voice from the back of the room. It was Beverly Greene. “Hang on, Malcolm.” She made her way to the front.
“We already voted,” said Jed, loudly. “It’s a done deal.”
“Oh, I realize that,” said Beverly, facing the crowd. “There’s just one thing. As you all know, I’ve been doing the pledge cards for a couple months now, and since I started in this job in January, I’ve been astonished by people’s giving. I must confess that when I began this job I was curious as to what some people had given over the years, so I added some figures up.”
She looked pointedly around the room and people started staring at their shoes.
“Malcolm gives a lot of money,” Bev said. “In fact, he gives more money every year than anyone else. I didn’t want to tell you how much because it’s no one’s business but his, but he’s been a very generous member here for eighteen years.”
There were murmurs of approval across the room.
“But he hasn’t given the most money. Since this has to be out in the open, I’ll tell you that Malcolm’s given a little over $800,000 in his time here. That’s a lot, but there’s someone here who gives St. Barnabas $1259 every month
and has been doing it for sixty-seven years. I added it up the other day because I was just amazed.”
I watched Malcolm as he did the math in his head. He did it quickly, and, although his expression changed ever so slightly, to most observers, he seemed as interested as the rest of the congregation.
“When I asked her about it,” Bev continued, “she told me that her tithe is one half of the settlement pension she receives from the Georgia Pacific Lumber Company. It comes to her every month since her husband was killed in a mill accident in 1938, and she’ll continue to receive it until her death. Every month she receives $2518, and she gives half of it to the church. She told me that she just didn’t need that much money to live on. Anyway, when you add it up, it comes to a little over $1,012,000.”
I looked over at Malcolm. He smiled and answered with a slight inclination of his head. No one said a word.
“The person who has given the most money,” Bev said, in her sweetest voice, “is Lucille Murdock.”
Two hundred heads turned toward the back of the room. There, sitting in her usual place in the corner, was a tiny, eighty-seven year old woman, both her hands tightly clutching a black purse in her lap. Her snow-white hair was tied back in a bun, and she peered cautiously across the room through two gigantic, coke-bottle lenses that magnified each of her frequent blinks, making her look like a frog in a fishbowl.
“Thank you,” she said in a shaking voice as she rose slowly to her feet. “I will certainly pray about it.” Lucille Murdock walked out of the parish hall to complete silence.
“Could this be the hand of God?” I muttered with a smile.
“I hope so,” said Meg.
Chapter 7
“Tell me boys,” I said, my roscoe dancing back and forth between them like a nervous ballerina on opening night. “Just how do you go 165,000 clams over budget?”
“Fabric samples,” said Biff. “They aren’t cheap, you know.”
“Don’t give me that malarkey!” I barked. I had ‘em scared now--scared as a bad writer in a roomful of English majors--so scared that I thought Biff was going to jump right into D’Roger’s arms. The egg started to cry.
The Soprano Wore Falsettos (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 5
