The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String

by Kris Knorr

  She saw Pastor Poe glance at her. Twice. He stuttered then checked his notes. When he looked at her a third time, she pulled her fingers away from each other, mouthing, Stretch. He hesitated.

  Seeing Roger on the back row, Hettie stuck her head next to his ear. “Help me. Quickly.”

  As they exited, Pastor Poe leaned farther and farther sideways from the pulpit in order to see through the doorway. He watched Vera do a barefoot stomp on a tiny blaze on the carpet. When the door hushed shut, he straightened, checked his notes, took a deep breath, and continued.

  *

  Another gust had whistled through the shoe-wedged door. More partially burnt sins, edges glowing orange, floated out of the can, drifting around the narthex with the others. “Grab them,” Vera ordered as one wafted past Roger.

  A corner of his mouth turned up as he stepped on a smoldering sin. Neon fingers of lightning spread through the sky. Thunder rattled the windows. Vera stared at Roger, daring him to say something. He grabbed the trash can and set it outside.

  “It’ll get damp,” Vera gasped, going after it.

  He stepped back to let her by. “If it sets off the smoke alarms, we’ll have to evacuate the church.”

  “Oh.” She stopped.

  Hettie was picking up escaped confessions. “Look at this. It’s completely burnt, but you can still see the words on the blackened paper.” She oscillated it in the light, reading “I hate my mother-in-law.”

  “Hettie.” Vera snatched it, fracturing it into pieces.

  “I wasn’t reading it. I was just showing…never mind.”

  Vera checked her watch. The prayers of the day had begun. “There’s no time to go home and get ashes from my fireplace.”

  “Maybe somebody has an ashtray-full of cigarette cinders in their car,” Hettie said. “Who smokes?”

  Tight-lipped, Vera turned to Roger. “Can you think of anything?”

  “Yeah.” He waited for her to say something else. In the silence they could hear the wind growling in the rain. After a moment, he turned and went outside.

  “He didn’t even have a coat,” Hettie said. Before she could quick-step to the door, it opened a few inches. Vera’s shoe flew inside.

  Hettie whirled, facing Vera. “That’s the limit. We need to talk.”

  Vera stared back, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other; then she picked up her shoe.

  “I don’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but you’ve become mighty righteous,” Hettie said, “as if you’re silently judging all the time. You’ve always been serious, but you used to laugh at mistakes—even your own. Now you don’t make mistakes, and those of us who do are fools.”

  “I’m sorry you think so.” Vera’s face was stony. She snatched paper towels from the pile and sat on an upholstered chair.

  “I know for years you’ve felt as though you had to pick up loose ends, but it’s time others stepped up. And they’re not going to do it the way you think it should be done. You’ve got to let go and let them—”

  “Why?” Vera crammed then removed paper towels from the toe of her wet shoe. “Why do I have to step aside? Just because Jim is gone, it doesn’t mean I’ve outlived my usefulness.”

  “Nobody’s saying that.”

  “But they’re doing it. Communication is terrible. I’m not kept in the loop, even though I take care of most of the details. The ladies skylark through meetings.”

  “The Ladies Circle has always been a walk through a chicken house. Everyone’s squawking about a different thing. And it all gets done, doesn’t it?”

  “Barely.” Vera narrowed her eyes at Hettie. “Sloppily. It’s all a big joke.”

  Hettie bit her lip, turned, and stared out the window. She didn’t see Roger. She’d meant to keep watch in case he got lightning-fried in the parking lot. She hoped he’d taken refuge in the lawnmower shed, although with all the fuel, oil, and paint cans, it may not have been safer.

  “Where was Walt?” Hettie flinched, feeling Vera’s voice flog her.

  “I couldn’t find him. Roger never asked a question, just came when I asked.”

  “He wouldn’t have come if it were me doing the asking.”

  Hettie sighed. “He would have, but it would help if you’d be nicer to people. Starting with Roger.”

  “I am not ugly to him.” Vera’s face was a mask, her eyes cold. “I simply do not put much value into whatever he says.”

  “And you argue that you’re never wrong. Other people are—”

  “Other people don’t take life seriously. Serving the church has been my whole career. Now, I’m reduced to silly tasks like torching sins, but I will earnestly do it—” The first chords of the communion music bisected her words.

  “Oh-oh.” Hettie stared at the sanctuary doors. “Doesn’t Pastor put the ashy crosses on our foreheads when we take the wine? Isn’t it too late now?”

  “He’ll have to impose ashes at the end of the service. Pastor Poe loves change. He’ll get to adapt like we do.” Without glancing up, Vera scrubbed the toe of her shoe as if she were rubbing jailbird graffiti from a wall. Hettie didn’t reply. The thrum of the rain filled the silence between them.

  In a few minutes, Roger entered, hunched over the container, protecting the contents from the torrents. His shirt and pants clung to his body as though he’d gone swimming in them. Rivulets of water trickled down his face. Vera grabbed a handful of the blackened notes and crushed them into the sea shell she’d pulled from her pocket. The papers turned into bits and flakes, but not ash suitable for drawing.

  “Maybe he can get a few pieces to stick to people’s foreheads, especially if they’re oily,” Hettie said.

  White-lipped, Vera opened the sanctuary door, holding the sea shell high, so Pastor Poe would see it. She stood, awaiting her cue to bring the ashes forward. Roger stopped behind her. Droplets of rainwater fell from his chin onto her shoulder.

  “You’re welcome, Vera,” he whispered.

  Lightning opened the skies. The—crack—that followed made her jump.

  Holy Week

  THE FORTY DAYS of Lent were accompanied by the fanfare of an awakening world. Each day, sunrise rushed to the horizon a few minutes earlier. Peeper-frogs ardently serenaded their lady friends. Pregnant buds bulged on tree tips. Sunny mornings often roiled into gray-green afternoons filled with storm and tornado warnings. Roger and Walt intended to dig up the newly-sprouted mole mounds dotting the church lawn, but yellow jonquils had spiked through the dirt piles, so the men left them.

  Two weeks before Easter, Robert Fullerton paused in mid-brushstroke at the wall he was painting for church-wide clean-up. With furrowed brow, he studied a wispy collection of dried, colorless flowers in a black vase. Slowly his head turned back and forth, scanning the line of black vases that had appeared in window sills over the past weeks. The sound of voices interrupted his thoughts, and he quickly finished his brushstroke to whitewash scuff marks. Two women said hello as they walked by. Kay and Nan had seen the confused headshake he’d given the vases. They glanced at each other and held their laughter until treading downstairs to the Fellowship Hall.

  “Oh good.” Micki looked up as she took several Chocolate-Haystack cookies. “Kay and Nan are here. Now we have enough for a quorum.”

  “When has that ever mattered?” Vera shuffled through her papers.

  “Vera! You made a joke,” Micki said.

  Kay slouched into a chair. “I don’t feel like meeting, even if Vera’s going to tell jokes. I’ve got the blahs. I don’t want to do anything, especially clean a stove.”

  “Well, that won’t be any different.” Vera glanced at her.

  “Vera! You made another joke,” Micki said.

  “I certainly didn’t mean to.” Her straight white hair fell close to her face as she wrote on her agenda. “The Kitchenettes already have begun this morning.” She straightened her papers by tapping their edges on the table. “So this will be a short meeting, then we’ll help them spr
ing clean. First off, more and more black decorations are appearing. I am greeted by a new display every week.”

  Kay focused on the cuticles of her right hand. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I like the dried flowers, maybe the black ribbons are a bit much,” Micki said.

  “The cattails in burlap bags next to the pulpit are quite artistic,” added Nan.

  “And Lorena had the Sunday school children draw those pictures of sinners crying,” Hettie said. “She put them right next to the entrance. Parents love seeing children’s artwork displayed, even if it is sad.”

  Vera closed her eyes as she spoke. “Lent is about reflection and hope.” She tapped her pencil to the beat of her last three words. “It’s beginning to look like a community memorial where people leave flowers and notes. I’m surprised she hasn’t included teddy bears.”

  “That’s harsh.” Hettie gave Vera a flat stare. “I know for a fact Lorena has tried very hard to provide tasteful and eloquent visuals to help people reflect on their lives.”

  “She’s using the boiling-frog technique.” Vera punctuated her sentence with two more pencil taps. “Surreptitiously, she adds a little each week, slowly turning up the heat so the frog won’t notice and jump out of the pot.”

  “You boil a lot of frogs?” asked Kay.

  The corners of Vera’s mouth warped upward even as she tried to hold her lips in a tight line and look at the floor. A laugh had almost blurped out before she could squeeze it off with a cough. She quickly smoothed the twist on her mouth, and narrowed her eyes. “I knew this would happen. I said as much.”

  “None of us wanted to decorate.” Kay shrugged. “And you have to admit, Lorena’s kept it interesting. I move we buy her a coffee card for putting in so much effort every week.”

  “I’ll second that.” Hettie locked eyes with Vera. “We don’t have to love her style, but we can be nice.”

  “Are you saying I haven’t been polite?” The two women stared, silence stretching between them. Vera’s frown deepened as she internally berated herself. This is what she got for tolerating Lorena’s ever-growing chapel of darkness. She should’ve said something the first week. Of course, she would’ve been accused of harping too soon. She’d tried to be good-natured.

  The sound of Kay digging through her purse made Hettie look away, and gave Vera the chance to tack a few more hobnails into her defense. “When excess becomes a distraction, purpose is lost. It says, ‘Look at me,’ rather than, ‘Think of God.’ It’s like a flashing halo delivering the announcement of salvation. The listener doesn’t know which to focus on.”

  “Good grief, Vera.” Hettie glanced at Kay again, who seemed to be ignoring the fracas in front of her and texting on her phone. “You’ve managed to insult two people with one sentence.”

  “I apologize. I was putting the worshippers’ needs first, but there are better ways to handle this. Who is in favor of recognizing Lorena’s efforts with a coffee card?”

  Mumbled ayes circled the table, except for Nan, who made a show of busily counting the stitches in her knitting.

  “Pssst, Vera…” Kay ducked her head, holding her hand to her mouth. “I’ll let you borrow my halo if you’ll give me one of your frog-boiling recipes to put in my biker-chick cookbook. I prefer a recipe with cheese.”

  This time Vera didn’t smile; she checked her notes as though she’d become deaf. “All right. I know when to pick my battles. Because all of you esteem the Lenten decorations, I’m sure you’ll want to show our organist your appreciation, too. Nan needs a choir leader for the children’s Easter songs. She will not be playing for Easter services.” Faces turned toward the organist.

  Nan gave an apologetic shrug. “I can’t. It’s my allergies. That many lilies and I’d need a respirator and new lungs before the church service is over.”

  “Why hasn’t this been a problem before?” Micki asked.

  The click of Nan’s needles stopped. She stared at the floor. “In the past, the flower committee made concessions for my sinuses. We used white azaleas. They lasted longer, looked great, and folks could plant them afterward. Now there are new people on the committee, and Pastor Poe asked if we could try lilies this Easter, so—”

  “I’m substituting for Nan,” Vera said. “Who is going to work with me and lead the children’s Easter songs?”

  The women stared at the table, floor, or air.

  “I’ve already done the hard part,” Nan said. “We’ve rehearsed for several weeks.” She turned to the chairwoman. “I’ll ask a Sunday schoolteacher to herd the kids.”

  “Kay?” Vera narrowed her eyes at the short woman. “I believe you have a relationship with the children. They love you after you taught them they’d receive flashing headgear when they went to heaven.”

  “Oh, Vera, you funster, you made another joke.” Kay gave her a flat smile as she put away her phone and grabbed her third cookie.

  “I have my hands full.” Vera held up a clipboard covered with lists. “I’ll be assisting Altar Guild with Maundy Thursday and Good Friday and playing the organ on Easter Sunday. Someone needs to volunteer for this.”

  “You know, this is like one of those condo/hotel pitches in Cancun. We were lured here by the anticipation of Vera’s comedy show and her secret frog recipes, but now we find out she wants us to teach kids corny songs they don’t want to sing in order to get our free stay and jeep rental,” Kay said.

  “What are you talking about?” Hettie squinted at her.

  Kay’s eyes shifted to Vera. “I’m getting a coffee before my shut-up muzzle completely falls off. She pushed away from the table, and headed toward the kitchen.

  Hettie called after her. “Stay there. Maybe the Kitchnettes will let you clean the stove.”

  *

  Spring Cleaning went as Vera expected. The Kitchenettes issued orders to any man or woman who happened to venture into their command center. They’d earned the right years ago when three long-standing members, frustrated with fuzzy surprises in the cabinets and dirty dishes in the sink, staged a kitchen coup. They’d cleaned, labeled drawers, created rules, and posted signs. Your mother DOES work here. Honor your mother.—The Kitchenettes

  They were an efficient army, flushing out the downstairs cobwebs. Vera was happy to let them have their territory of spatulas and appliances. They assigned the Ladies Circle to unpack and sterilize 40 new plates and sets of flatware, recently purchased with the congregation’s collection of boxtops.

  Vera left the workers. Too many generals made a battle. She chose to work alone in the library, intermittently pausing to listen to the sounds of chore parties throughout the church. Late in the afternoon, she stopped shelving and alphabetizing. She went to the door and listened again. Satisfied everyone had left, she walked through silent hallways toward her goal.

  She arrived at the sanctuary, noting two black wreaths had been added since this morning. This really wasn’t something she wanted to do, but Lorena had made a death saga out of Lent. They’d all known it was going to happen. On Friday, God’s Friday, members and many visitors would attend the unique, ancient Tenebrae service.

  They wouldn’t be greeted by this horror.

  Karfreitag

  THE SORROWFUL FRIDAY…“darkness overcame the land”

  Luke 23:44

  WALT PUSHED THE okra and fried pumpkin seeds around his plate. He preferred pecans in his vegetables for a little crunch, but his daughter-in-law had brought him a bag of raw, green pumpkin seeds, saying they were good for prostate health.

  Shocked that she would even mention this private manly part, much less give him food for it, he’d left the bag on the shelf for a month. It would’ve still been sitting there if he hadn’t forgotten to buy pecans. The green kernels stuck to the okra. They sure were chewy little critters. What starving fool had been so desperate he’d discovered seeds were food?

  The red light from the answering machine continued to wink at him. He’d ignored it when he’d walked in the doo
r from a day of fishing. While he was in the shower, getting ready for Good Friday services, he’d heard the phone ring again. Most likely, it was his son checking on him. Instead of calling back, Walt had cut off a chunk of fresh bass. Fried it with okra, sprinkled the whole mess with pumpkin seeds and had supper, adding store-bought pudding for dessert.

  Ruby would’ve insisted on a leafy salad. He hated that rabbit-food, but if his late wife had been there to fix one right now, he’d have eaten it. She had wandered through his mind a lot this morning.

  He hadn’t cared if he caught anything; he liked being outdoors, watching Roger’s boys. They whooped and jumped when a fish hit their lure. Their eyes lit up like halogen bulbs. That was something to see.

  Ruby would’ve said, in that hushed, knowing voice of hers, “Why Walt, I believe you’re getting soft in your old age. Maybe you should have an experience like that with your own grandchildren.”

  Walt glanced at the blinking light again. Yeah, he’d mention it when his son came by. He’d receive a visit if he didn’t return the phone calls. He would duck his head, act hang-dog and take the scolding for not letting them know he was all right and wasn’t dead on the floor. He still won. He got to see his son and sometimes his grandkids. Often his daughter-in-law brought strange presents like chocolate-zucchini bread or pumpkin seeds.

  “They’re busy,” Ruby would’ve scolded.

  “Well, I won’t be around forever,” he spoke out loud to the memory. His mind crawled over the years. She was standing in front of him, blocking the kitchen doorway. He was holding that same rod he’d used this morning, arguing, “I work sixty hours a week. Stop trying to make me feel guilty about taking a day to fish.”