Slowing up, I let them continue forward without me. “Standing” seemed to refer to some type of hierarchy within the community, but that it even included women surprised me. I’d try to ask Martha when Rachel wasn’t around.
The lodge was too big to be called cozy, but the warmth and chatter from people moving around the Gathering Room was inviting. I had entered from a side door facing the dining hall path. A row of hooks with several coats hanging from it lined the back wall of the big room. Across the way, a group of women, Beth, Talitha, and Cozbi among them, sat in a casual circle of armchairs near the stone fireplace. Various needlework crafts were underway, and the conversation that drifted over the hall was laced with soft laughter and smiles.
Martha disappeared down the hall beyond the stairs, but Baara stayed and hung her coat on a row of hooks before joining the women. I hung back, tempted to retire to my room and collapse. Talitha derailed that plan by waving me over to join them. Beth grinned enigmatically as I crossed the cavernous room.
Baara laid a fire and the crackling snaps from its flames made a pleasing background. After fending off several probes from Talitha about my personal history, I was able to ask what was meant by “standing.” Surprisingly, it was Cozbi who answered.
“Standing has to do with a woman’s place within the church, although some people say it’s not scriptural for women to have any such thing.” Her eyes cut to the church office. “Men are ranked according to the service they perform for Abraham or how much he trusts them. Those with the highest rank are called the Seven; they work most closely with Father. Wives receive their standing based solely on the husband’s rank.”
“What if a woman isn’t married?”
Cozbi merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s why there’s always such fuss about an unattached man,” Talitha chimed in.
“Or even some married ones,” Cozbi said, her eyes tracking a woman as she crossed the room to the stairs. Baara frowned at the insinuation, but the other women passed knowing looks among each other. The woman they were watching reached the stairs and began climbing. If not for her cheeks flushing scarlet, she might have gotten away with pretending that she wasn’t aware of their stares.
Mental note to self: check her out. If she was on the outs with the group, she might prove to be a weak link. Beth’s next words confirmed the possibility.
“Have they decided to shun?” Beth asked quietly.
“They can’t prove anything,” Cozbi answered cryptically.
“You know, I’d heard…” Talitha began. She came to an abrupt halt as Moses stepped into the doorway leading down the hall to the office and front door.
Cozbi froze under his scrutiny, instantly morphing her body smaller, less noticeable. Watching the eerie transformation from woman to wary woodland creature was disturbing. By the time her husband reached the group of women Cozbi had erased her personality, leaving a woman-shell behind.
From a distance, Moses was attractive, exuding an aura of power that was highly compelling. Closer inspection, however, revealed a peculiarity that stripped him of physical appeal. From his patrician nose up, Moses was handsome—blond hair thick enough to get your fingers stuck in, frosty sea-blue eyes that were gorgeous by any standards.
Unfortunately, the lower half of his face bypassed almost any form of chin, sliding directly into his neck. In fact, he resembled an attractive Pez dispenser.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Cozbi rose silently and followed him to the door with the group chorusing feminine “good-byes” in her wake. As Moses cleared the door frame, she whipped her head around, winking at us. Nice to know she was still alive under there.
“Are they always like that?” I asked.
“Well, they are, but don’t worry. None of the other men are that strict. Moses is just…” Talitha trailed off, not wanting to continue.
“Why did she marry him?”
“Because he sought her out,” Baara said. “And he was ranked third then too.”
“I don’t think she cares about that,” one women added.
“She’ll care if she gets dropped back to third again,” Beth said. “If Maliah gets her way—”
Talitha interrupted. “I don’t see that happening. I know it’s not Maliah’s fault that Enoch took off, but standing is based on the husband’s status. With no husband…” She shrugged.
“Even if she loses her standing, they might let her keep her privileges. Maybe not a cabin, but a big room to herself, for sure.”
“Okay, I’m lost,” I admitted. “Who’s Maliah, and why would she lose her standing? And what are privileges?”
The woman who had commented earlier answered.
“I know it’s confusing. I’m Naomi, by the way.” In her late fifties, with graying hair escaping in wisps from her bun, Naomi sat next to Beth. I recognized her from the first Peace meeting; she’d been Cheryl’s handler. “Some of this will be explained to you in your orientation meeting, but it’s hard the first couple of days. Especially when you sit in the middle of us chatter-boxes.”
“If Maliah does the Orientation, she won’t explain this part anyway,” Beth said.
“Privileges come with added responsibility,” Naomi continued. “As our founder, Father lives in the big house. The higher ranked men and their wives get to live in the cabins around the property. After Enoch deserted, there was talk of Maliah moving back to the lodge, but nothing has happened yet. There’s a lot of confusion about what will happen to her. She can’t re-marry, but of course her husband no longer holds rank. There’s been a lot of dissension about what should happen.”
“We don’t know that she can’t remarry,” Baara objected. “With Enoch leaving, maybe it means the marriage is dissolved. Remember First Corinthians 7:15 says if a spouse departs, the believer isn’t bound.”
“That explains why she’s sniffing around the new guy,” Talitha said. “If he sought her out, she’d regain her standing.”
“She’s got her work cut out for her,” Beth said. “A single man here is like a twelve-point buck on Opening Day. And I can’t believe how quickly you all call open season on the poor guy. He’s only been here a few weeks, hasn’t he?”
The group giggled.
“Father wants to avoid any distractions,” Talitha said, “so he encourages us to marry as soon as the Spirit leads the man to the right woman. As far as Maliah goes, she’s attractive, I grant you. But I’ve seen him eying Tirza.”
“That’s because Tirza wears makeup,” Baara said. Her face set in a scowl.
“And Maliah doesn’t?” Talitha’s sarcastic comment cut in milliseconds before my own question.
“Is that allowed?” Hope made my voice lilt.
“Not exactly,” Naomi said. “False adornment is a sign of vanity. Anyway, Maliah doesn’t wear makeup. I was a witness to her scrubbing with soap and water in front of Father. She’s… obedient.”
“It’s not fair,” complained Baara, ignoring Naomi’s assertion. “Tirza gets to wear it too.”
“Tirza can only wear it at work,” said Talitha. Turning to me, she explained, “She’s a real estate agent. Father only gave her permission, because they thought it might affect her sales. Besides, she works with infidels, so it doesn’t matter if they’re tempted.”
“I’d be pretty with makeup.” Baara remained wistful and unconvinced.
“Everybody would be prettier with makeup,” said Beth.
A chorus of agreement rose like a cloud and seemed to signal the end of the knitting circle. Women stood, gathering jackets and totes full of fabrics and needlework. Talitha dropped a ball of yarn, sending it skipping under several armchairs, twining around the legs. I dove after it, untwisting tangles as I went. There was a shocking amount of dust and wood ash along the floor so that when I finally captured it, I was covered in dust woofies, the bun in my hair knocked askew. Crawling out from the forest of chair legs and women’s feet, I nearly bumped i
nto a pair of leather work boots topped by faded jeans. A hand reached down to pull me to my feet.
There in front of me, the smell of cold air and wood smoke rising from his wool jacket, stood Eli.
Chapter Ten
I made it to my room by luck rather than design. Eli couldn’t have surprised me more than if he had jumped out of a birthday cake wearing pink tassels and a twirling hula hoop. Like most drunks, I had plenty of experience with “when-worlds-collide” syndrome, but it had been a while. The last time had been when I had gotten tipsy at a company Christmas party a lifetime ago. Tipsy as defined by blowing daiquiri-induced chunks all over the clinic director and her festive holiday Pradas. Twice. She threw up shortly after as well.
That same Christmas I’d gotten a copy of Watership Down by Richard Adams. The one about the community of wild rabbits who, when completely freaked out, fall into a near-catatonic state. Tharn, they called it. I could relate.
In a state of full-on tharn, I stumbled over the threshold into my room, scaring the crap out of my new roommate. I guess she wasn’t used to strange women bursting through the door and falling at her feet.
What the hell is Eli doing here?
As if fate wanted to get one more giggle out of this night, I recognized her as the woman who had caused such a stir when she walked across the Gathering Room. The perfect opportunity to ingratiate myself and all I could manage was a wide-eyed, blank stare and a nose twitch. Definitely tharn.
But even as I struggled with early onset dementia, I was struck by her beauty. Mossy green eyes. A finely carved, yet strong bone structure. Hair that whispered several shades beyond blond, sleek and silvery. An ancient, archetypal beauty.
How long has he been here?
She was very kind. Pretending everything was normal, she graciously repeated her name. Three times, in fact. I finally had her spell it—Priella.
Once we had the introductions sorted out, I confessed I couldn’t manage any more. I was toast. I told Priella—truthfully—that I had a headache and went to my nightstand for more Tylenol.
Surprise.
No Tylenol. No cell phone. No Bible. Probably more was missing—my purse felt considerably lighter—but I didn’t know what.
I stood staring dumbly into the ransacked drawer, waiting for words to arrange themselves along the dead circuitry of my brain.
“Letty?” Observing my trance-like state, Priella sounded concerned.
“Somebody took my stuff,” I said, turning to look at her. My voice squeaked querulously, making me sound twenty years younger as I rattled off the list of missing items. “Who would steal a Bible?”
“It’s not like that,” she started.
“Not like what? My stuff is gone!” I pointed at the drawer, since she obviously didn’t get it.
“I know. But it’s not because of a thief. It’s because there are certain rules that we live by here. You’ll learn about them—”
“Tomorrow,” I interrupted. “Yeah, I heard.”
“Cell phones don’t work up here anyway. No towers. But the idea is we’re supposed to devote ourselves to the Elect and the fellowship, to study and prepare ourselves for purity. And Tylenol is a drug,” Priella said. “We pledge against caffeine and nicotine too. And of course alcohol.”
“Okay, I get the cell phone, and I can deal with the Tylenol. Maybe. But what’s with taking the Bible?”
Exhausted, I sat on the edge of my bed. My headache kicked up a notch in direct opposition to my assertion, forcing me to sort her words through pulsing thumps.
“We all come to the Elect with ideas we’ve learned from the world”—thump—”Father believes it’s necessary”—thump—“to begin our studies fresh”—thump—“to break through false teachings”—thump—“so that we can all move forward”-–thump—“as one.”
Dangling my feet off the edge, I lay back on the bed. It was lumpy.
“So we can start with a clean slate,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“All on the same page.”
“Yes.”
“One for all and all for one.”
“Well…”
“Never mind, Priella. I have a lot to learn. Tomorrow.”
Using the last remaining below-sub particles of energy in my bones, I got ready for bed. I didn’t just fall asleep that night. Sleep reached out and snatched me down.
In spite of sleeping like I had OD’d on Seconal, I didn’t feel rested. Vague memories of waking up hot and sweaty throughout the night as I fought with lumps and demons left me groggy. Worse, I awakened at five a.m., with no chance of falling back asleep and no hope for coffee. Deciding to make the best of it, I showered and headed for the dining hall.
Jala, Seth’s roly-poly wife, was elbow deep in breakfast preparations. French toast, from the look of it. She greeted me with a strong Scandinavian accent that stretched vowels like warm taffy.
“Aren’t you the early bird?” Apparently Jala was of the dreaded species—morning person. Very chirpy. Cheerful enough to make me squint.
“Not usually,” I said. “But I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Oh, yeah. I know what you mean. It always takes me at least three days to get used to a bed. Well, I guess I mean nights, don’t I? And there’s so much to get used to around here, isn’t there?”
“It’s a big change,” I acknowledged.
“You won’t regret it,” she said. “It’s so wonderful seeing new faces come into the community. Helping people come to the Lord and all. Like the Good Book says, “Go to the lost sheep, preach this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’ Matthew 10:6-7. And of course, the Great Commission. Same book, 28:16-20.”
Hoo, boy. Scripture-speak was like a secret language, and someone had stolen my magic decoder ring.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “I don’t know the Bible that well. That’s one of the things I want to change. I was really surprised that they aren’t allowed.”
“What aren’t allowed, dear?”
“Bibles.”
“Oh, my. That policy, yes. I’d forgotten. Of course, they couldn’t take mine. I keep it all up here.” Laughing gaily, she tapped her forehead. “Of course, some people would say that’s not the safest vault in the bank.”
The speed and efficiency she displayed as she bustled around the kitchen defied her claim of ineffectiveness. In addition to cutting slices from homemade bread loaves with a quickness that would have cost me a knuckle, she had been darting in and out of a commercial-sized walk-in cooler, gathering eggs, milk, and jugs of juice. Seemed like an awful lot of work for one person.
“Do you set up breakfast by yourself?”
Her voice echoed off the metal walls as she foraged deeper into the chilly space. “Oh, no. I’m not supposed to. That girl, Jazzy, was supposed to be here bright and early. Wouldn’t you know she’s late?”
“Put me to work, Jala. I’m just standing here.”
“Oh, sure. That would be great. Aren’t you the nice one?”
After sending me to wash my hands, she set me up cracking eggs into a huge mixing bowl. I never had the opportunity to stare down at more than two dozen egg yolks quivering like yellow eyes in clear goop before. Blech.
“Add some milk there. It’ll go farther,” she instructed as she stuck a whisk in my hand. I flailed at the eyes, killing several, and feeling better for it.
Then the back door slammed. A familiar voice called out:
“Hey, Ma. What’s for breakfast?”
“Oh, you. Get out of my kitchen. And don’t you call me Ma. I’m not that old, yet.” Jala hooted and fussed playfully as Eli and Moses sauntered in to the kitchen.
My skin flushed hot as Eli’s eyes found me.
The Paul Bunyan look worked on him. Faded blue jeans with a forest green flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up past his forearms. Very rugged. Very tasty. The whisk went wild, splashing egg glop onto my shirt front.
“Can’t, Ma. I’m starving.” Eyes twinkl
ing, Eli turned back to Jala, burying his grin in his teasing. “Did you make me some bacon?”
“Uff da. You’ll get me in trouble with that. You know the rules. Besides, what you need is fruit.”
“Meat.”
Eli and Jala continued the light-hearted banter as he took a seat with Moses at the small dining table tucked into the corner. Fluttering about her tasks, Jala managed to continue cooking while providing the men with bowls, cereal, toast, and milk.
Moses sat silently, not joining in. His ice-blue eyes found me too, spreading over my chest like the egg glop on my shirt. Flipping a kitchen towel over my shoulder so that it draped my front, I instinctively flashed him a decidedly nonsubmissive “back-off” glare. His eyes tightened and he turned away, pulling a small spiral notebook from the pocket of his down vest.
“She’s got Orientation at nine,” Moses stated, apparently talking to his notebook. Eli and Jala both fell silent, staring quizzically at him. He raised his eyes to Eli, speaking directly to him. “The new girl.” Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he indicated me. For the second time that morning a flush swept over my body. Different man, different reason.
“Oh, this is Letty,” Jala said. “I thought you met last night or I’da introduced you.”
Moses looked blankly at her.
“Nine o’clock, hey?” Jala persevered valiantly. “That’ll be nice. Is that with Maliah?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Now when does she meet with you, Eli?”
Eli looked over at me appraisingly. “Letty’s the last one in. And she’ll be the last for a while.”
“Oh, you mean because we’re closing entry? I hate that. It doesn’t seem right. The Great Commission, you know. How can we ‘make disciples of nations’ with our doors closed?” For the first time, Jala looked truly upset.
Eli walked over and patted her shoulder. “It’s not permanent,” he assured her. “We just need to get some kinks in the system straightened out.”
“Eli’s head of Security now that Enoch...” Catching Moses glare, hotter than the stove she was cooking on, Jala veered away from the subject of the deserter. “It was quite a thing, him joining up. Eli, I mean. Saved Father, don’t you know?”
The Blood We Spill: Suspense with a Dash of Humor (A Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery Book 4) Page 8
