Splitting Harriet

by Tamara Leigh

  Can’t believe I did that to Jelly Belly, which is as close to a friend as something edible can come, considering the little beans and lots of prayer helped me kick the nicotine habit years ago. Were there a Jelly Belly fan club, I’d ban me for life.

  The stainless-steel soup pot in the drain rack catches my eye, and I lean forward and peer at my distorted reflection. Not only is my auburn hair wisping all over the place, but mascara is smudged beneath my eyes, and my smattering of freckles stand out more than usual against pale skin. Hoping Harriet can stall Pastor Paul, as her mobile home is a mere two-minute walk away, I soap and rinse.

  Jeans and a light sweater, I determine as I tighten the taps, but then a knock sounds. I swing around, and as I light on Pastor Paul’s mesh-shadowed face on the other side of the screen door, my arm connects with something.

  Oh no! All the colors of the rainbow—and then some—soar past me. Little bean-shaped colors. Melt-in-your-mouth colors. Very expensive colors. And with a sound akin to hail, they hit the linoleum.

  Reflexively, I step forward. And glimpse surprise on Pastor Paul’s face as the beans beneath my slippers sweep me off my feet.

  “Harri!”

  I can’t say what hurts more: the places where my body hit as I went down, the embarrassment, or that I’m lying among fourteen dollars’ worth of Jelly Bellys that were supposed to last me all month.

  Pastor Paul is suddenly stooping next to me, gripping my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  I squeeze my lids tighter. “No. Not all right.”

  “Is anything broken?”

  Does my heart count? After all, it took a half hour to pick out the flavors that no amount of creative mixing can make palatable: licorice, mango, cappuccino—

  “Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

  “No, I—”

  Hold up! That wasn’t Pastor Paul. That voice came from somewhere to my right and, instead of concern, reflected amusement.

  Not that man! Not here. In my kitchen. With me flat on my back amid colorful little beans that surely confirm I’m the silliest woman he’s ever met. As the heat in my face deepens, I decide embarrassment does hurt more than the loss of Jelly Bellys. Definitely embarrassment.

  I open my eyes.

  Above me, Pastor Paul smiles uncertainly. “Okay, Harri?”

  I avoid looking to my right, where I glimpse khaki pants alongside the kitchen cabinets. “Tell me, are any Jelly Bellys left in the container?”

  “Maybe a handful.”

  Might get me through the night. Of course, that depends on whether or not he’s about to string me up and kick out from under me the high horse I’ve been riding. “Then I should be all right.”

  With a sigh, he straightens and reaches a hand to me.

  I allow the hangman to pull me to sitting. It’s then I’m socked with a visual reminder of my state of dress—house slippers, lounge pants, T-shirt. Lovely.

  I pull my hand free and survey the disaster around me: dirt, dust, and Jelly Bellys. If only I hadn’t neglected to mop the floor. Of course, it’s not easy holding down two jobs, even though both are “officially” part time—mornings waitressing the breakfast crowd at Gloria’s Morning Café and afternoons fulfilling the duties of the director of women’s ministry at First Grace.

  Still, it is a small kitchen, made smaller by the addition of two men, one of whom I’m going to pretend doesn’t exist. Sweeping beans aside, I lever up. As I straighten, I press my shoulders back to the tune of snap, crackle, pop.

  “Sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” says the one who doesn’t exist.

  Can’t take a hint, hmm? I turn. “I’m a lot tougher than I appear.”

  It’s then I get my first real look at the man where he leans back against the counter. Not bad looking, but not great, and all because of a nose that’s a little too narrow and a little too long. Speaking of long, that curly hair of his could use a cut. Not that it’s long long, but the cleaner cut, the better. I do not like men with long hair. At least, not anymore. As for the eyes that travel down me, they’re unremarkable. But, oh, those lashes!

  “Actually”—he sweeps those lashes up—“you look pretty tough to me.”

  That was not a compliment, and I’m miffed, especially considering all I’ve given up to project my feminine side. I am the director of women’s ministry, and though I hardly reflect it at the moment, he did see me in a skirt and blouse at church.

  Pastor Paul draws alongside me. “This is Maddox McCray. Maddox, Harriet Bisset.”

  Six feet of lean, muscular man steps forward. “A pleasure to meet you, Harriet, or do you prefer Harri?” He extends a hand.

  I slide my hand into his and am relieved when no current of attraction passes between us. While the absence of a wedding ring attests to his being single, I do not want to feel anything for this man whose eyes laugh at me. “Harri’s best, as it avoids confusion with our church secretary, Harriet.”

  He gives my hand a squeeze. “I can’t imagine anyone confusing you with that sweet little woman.” Before I fully register that wasn’t a compliment, he lowers his gaze. “Nice tattoo.”

  Suppressing the impulse to clap a hand over the crown of thorns revealed when my sleeve rode up, I mutter, “Leftovers,” and pull my hand free.

  “Leftovers?” His smile widens. “As in PK?”

  He knows I’m a preacher’s kid? I jerk my chin up, though not too far, as he’s only a few inches taller than my five foot nine.

  “Or, more accurately”—he hikes an eyebrow—“PKS?”

  And he knows about preacher’s kid syndrome. “Exactly who are you?”

  “Maddox is a consultant.” Pastor Paul steps forward with the air of someone about to referee a fight. “First Grace has hired him—”

  “First Grace hired him?”

  “Yes, Harri. The board recently approved and budgeted for a consultant.”

  The board, which didn’t leak a word to me. Of course, it’s no longer my father’s board, as the faithful dozen have been replaced with younger members handpicked by Pastor Paul—and with the blessing of my father, who convinced several older members to step aside. Now only five of the faithful remain. A minority.

  “And exactly what’s this consultant supposed to do?” Yes, I’m revving up to be difficult, and I know I should back off, but the gears are engaged.

  “Maddox will observe the workings of our church. Once he understands where we’re at, he’ll help us map where we need to go and how to get there.”

  I look at Maddox, one of those newfangled church-growth consultants who thinks that without a fasten-your-seat-belts gospel delivery system, we’re a bunch of backward, puddle-jumping, tobacco-chewing—

  Stop it, Harri! You are not Susan Braddock, EX-assistant coroner, and this is not a television show. You are at stake here, and so is God. Try not to disappoint Him any more than you already have.

  Unfortunately, the best I can do is dumb it down. Wishing I could take an eraser to Maddox’s self-assured mouth, not to mention those boyish curls, I say, “I suppose you had something to do with the decision to junk our organ.”

  “Actually, that was me,” Pastor Paul says with…regret? “And according to Maddox, I went about it wrong.”

  He did? And it was this supposed church consultant who made him see the error of his ways? I narrow my gaze on Maddox. Something’s not right. But before I can question it, the screen door squeaks.

  “Oh, my girl!” A tin of biscuits in one hand, Harriet halts in the doorway. “What have you done now?”

  As I look across the bean-spilled kitchen floor, regret returns in force. A whole month’s supply… “I spilled my Jelly Bellys.”

  She turns to Pastor Paul, as if for confirmation that they weren’t thrown.

  I roll my eyes and on the unroll land in the middle of Maddox’s gaze.

  “I think I’ll take a walk,” he says.

  I know what that’s all about. He was here as a safegua
rd, but with Harriet’s arrival, he can leave. Though I shouldn’t begrudge Pastor Paul the precaution against false accusations that could bankrupt his family and career, my stomach churns. I may disagree with him, but I would never make false accusations.

  “Brother Paul,” Harriet says, “you two go in the living room, and I’ll sweep up.”

  I step toward her. “No, I can—”

  “Harri!” She gives me the “look.”

  I sigh. “All right, but let me get the broom.” She may be a sprightly little old woman, but her bones are more brittle than mine.

  A short while later, as I sit across from Pastor Paul hugging my Jelly Belly container and denying myself a single bean despite a terrible craving, I hear the click and rattle of tutti-fruitti, blueberry, very cherry, and forty-five other flavors (less the inedible ones) beneath Harriet’s brisk strokes.

  “Harri, I came to apologize.”

  I startle. Is this Jelly Belly withdrawal?

  Pastor Paul nods. “I jumped the gun in introducing the new music.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maddox was scheduled to arrive last Friday. When he was delayed and it seemed like he might be delayed another week, Stephano and I went against his advice and decided to forgo this latest round of organ repairs.”

  Then Stephano was in on this? Or was he just going along with Pastor Paul—something he does more of lately and is infuriatingly out of character?

  Pastor Paul clasps his hands between his knees. “Surely you noticed Bea couldn’t get through a single verse this past Sunday without a stuck or missing note?”

  Everyone noticed.

  “We had two options. More Band-Aids to limp it along, or re-leather the entire organ, rebuild the console, and replace the internal wiring.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t make sense to continue pouring money into it, considering it’s being phased out. Thus, the board approved its removal.”

  I frown. “The board approved it?”

  “The majority. It seemed the best thing, especially since, in the last six weeks, two of our young families have transferred their church membership. Despite our assurances that First Grace will continue to update its worship services and children and youth programs, they grew tired of waiting.”

  I knew about the families and felt bad about their leaving, but it was for the best. And it’s not as if First Grace hasn’t lost some of its older members as well.

  Pastor Paul scoots to the edge of the sofa. “I believe I’ve been anointed to deliver God’s Word in a dynamic, get-right-to-the-soul manner.”

  His messages I have no qualms with. He’s good. Even as frustrated as I am, I have only to close my eyes and sink into his words to feel God. And word of mouth about his gift has drawn in younger families, among them the unchurched. But if that’s not enough for them—

  “Unfortunately, it’s not enough, Harri. Call it shallow faith if you must, but today’s Christians have needs that are different from past generations.”

  “Different needs? They don’t need God like my parents did? And Harriet?”

  “Leave me out of this,” Harriet calls from the kitchen.

  I knew she was listening. “What about the Feteralls? And Jack Butterby—”

  “And you.” Aha! say Pastor Paul’s eyes.

  Self-serving, says Harri’s conscience.

  “Look, Harri, after you left today, Maddox and I discussed the repair of the organ. In short, he feels we ought to give the older members time to adjust.”

  I nearly come up out of my seat. “Really?”

  He holds up a hand. “Band-Aids. Full restoration is too cost prohibitive for something that will rarely be used once the switch to contemporary worship is complete. At that point, the organ will be removed.”

  My shoulders slump. “Oh.”

  “Bea knows all about it. Maddox and I met with her and several other residents at Harriet’s home before coming here.”

  “And?” In anticipation of what Bea’s reaction was, I flinch.

  “She’s not happy. In fact, she riled up several other residents.”

  That’s probably putting it mildly.

  “Problems are bound to occur, Harri, but I believe we’ll get through them. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m asking you to continue supporting me and the board. As the beloved old pastor’s daughter, the reformed prodigal—”

  Ouch.

  “—you have the ability to influence older members who know you’ll watch out for them. However, their best interests do not lie in a dying church.”

  I shake my head. “But it’s not dying.”

  “Twelve years ago, membership exceeded six hundred. When I was hired, membership was below two hundred. That’s a dying church.”

  And that hurts. “It wasn’t my father’s fault.”

  “I know.”

  Mine, then. That’s what he’s saying, and what I sometimes think in spite of my parents’ assurance otherwise. After all, if a pastor can’t control his own child, who is he to lead others?

  Despite my body language that’s surely throwing up Stop signs, Pastor Paul says, “While our numbers are on the rise—”

  Since he took over from my father.

  “—if First Grace is to thrive and continue to reach the unchurched, it’s going to take its older members opening themselves to change. A willingness to mentor those with little or no spiritual depth. Sacrifice on all sides. Are you up to it?”

  Nearly swamped by the old guilt that makes me cling to the status quo, I stare at all the pretty colors in the container I clutch to my chest.

  “Harri?”

  I look up at him and, out of the corner of my eye, catch Harriet peering at me from the kitchen. “Hmm?”

  “We don’t want a split.”

  A chill goes through me as I’m rushed with memories of the near split that bred rebellion in my sixteen-year-old heart when I learned that not everyone who professed to love my family did. I’d felt betrayed by members of the congregation who wanted a contemporary form of worship and threatened to start their own church if things didn’t go their way.

  “No.” I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. “We don’t want that.” Not only for First Grace, but for Pastor Paul’s eight-year-old son and thirteen-year-old daughter. Nor for his soft-spoken wife. Standing, I shift the container to my right arm. “I’ll do what I can.”

  His relief—and is that a glimmer of triumph?—displaces the serious set of his face. Though I don’t mean to be offended, I am. “However, don’t expect me to go blindly along with everything. As you said, the older members are counting on me to watch out for their best interests.”

  He rises from the sofa. “Glad to have you on board. From here on out, you’ll report not only to me but to Maddox.”

  Maddox who, according to him, I now belong to. “She’s all yours…”

  Pastor Paul looks toward the kitchen. “If you’ve got a minute, Harriet, I have a question about tomorrow’s meeting.”

  She offers a smile that, despite advancing age having caused her teeth to shift out of alignment, is bright. “I can give you ten minutes. Gotta get my beauty sleep, you know.”

  I head for the door. “I think I’ll catch some fresh air.” However, I’m struck by an unanswered question. “Pastor Paul, you said you jumped the gun, so I’m assuming the drums and guitars will be removed before Sunday’s service.”

  He shakes his head. “Maddox and I decided to go forward and present the new style of worship to see what kind of response we get.”

  “Oh.” I really need some fresh air. I push open the screen door and descend the stairs to the little lawn I’ve been known to clip by hand when the push mower I share with my neighbors is unavailable. Planting my feet, I drop my head back to stare at the dark sky where God has hung a bazillion stars. So beautiful. So tranquil. So calming.

  I groan. “I could really use a cigarette.”

  “Regular or me
nthol?”

  I swing around. And there, leaning back on the fragile legs of my green resin chair, is Maddox McCray’s head. Actually, all of him, but from the neck down he’s in shadow. Was he there all this time, listening in on what became a personal exchange with Pastor Paul?

  I take a step toward him. “Weren’t you going for a walk?”

  “I did. Saw all there was to see and came back.” He reaches into his light jacket. “Regular or menthol?”

  It’s the second time he’s asked, but this time comprehension kicks in. He’s offering me a cigarette! Does he know how that sounds? Not that some Christians don’t smoke, but in a position such as his, he has to know that such a vice can be a stumbling block for others.

  “I don’t smoke anymore.” The chill in my voice could prove painful were it a metal pole he stuck his tongue against.

  “Neither do I.”

  Frowning, I move closer and lean down to determine what the yellow and green packs are. Oh. Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit and Doublemint gum—a.k.a. regular and menthol. I straighten. “I think I’ll stick with Jelly Bellys.” And if he thinks I’m going to share, he can think again. After all, it’s something of his fault that I’m down to a handful. I turn and attempt to pick up where I left off with the night sky, but it’s no good, not with my skinny rear in ratty lounge pants facing him.

  “Oh brother!” I cross the lawn to the asphalt. As I start down Red Sea Lane, the little street that separates east side from west, I reach into the container beneath my arm and snag a bean. I know Jelly Bellys so well that at first chomp I identify it as orange sherbet. I chew slowly, savoring the resulting juice before swallowing.

  Maybe one more—but just one, as it’s bound to be a long night. This time I pick a caramel apple. Not my favorite, but not bad. It lasts to the corner of Calvary Court. One more? As I reach in, I catch the sound of footsteps, the stride of which is too far reaching and smooth to belong to Jack Butterby. It’s him.

  When Maddox draws alongside, I halt. “You’re a risk taker, aren’t you?”

  The glow from the streetlight reveals a bewildered face.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Aren’t you afraid of false accusations?” Pastor Paul certainly was.