Heavens to Betsy

by Beth Pattillo

  A pained expression crosses his face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

  “No.” But I may let him off the hook for now, since I’m feeling quite at home in his arms, and I’m not ready to stand on my own two feet again just yet.

  Actually, I’m still a little miffed that David left me to swing in the wind by myself. “So all this railing at my cowardice was projection?”

  “Pretty much.” He looks past my shoulder and around the steeple platform. “Isn’t there anyplace to sit down up here?”

  “Not that isn’t covered in dirt or bird droppings.”

  Over my shoulder, David looks at his watch. “We have eight minutes until LaRonda comes back.”

  I smile with what I hope is a hint of seduction. “We could practice our sermons on each other.”

  “Or not,” David says and pulls me even closer. And when he kisses me again, I forget to lecture him about not practicing what he preaches.

  My brilliant plan for LaRonda to lock us in the steeple has worked very well. There’s only one hitch. LaRonda forgets to come back.

  As David and I watch the sun set over Nashville, he fumes and I freeze. He’s already missed the building-committee meeting. What’s worse, he’s in danger of missing The West Wing.

  He’s been holding my hand, but at some point, as the sun sinks farther below the horizon, his fingers fall from mine. The outdoor lights on the steeple provide us with enough light to see by.

  “We’re going to have to find a way out of here,” he mutters, as if I didn’t know.

  “Well, if you’d remember to charge your cell phone, we could call for help.” I say this with minimal inflection, but he bristles and shoots me a look that isn’t hard to interpret.

  “If you hadn’t arranged for us to be locked in here, we wouldn’t need my cell phone.”

  A classic chicken-or-the-egg situation all around.

  “At least being locked in here made us open up,” I offer helpfully.

  His expression softens, his eyes going gooey chocolate, and he takes my hand again. “Yeah. That’s worth missing a building-committee meeting.”

  I snort. “A root canal is worth missing a building-committee meeting for. Is it worth missing The West Wing?”

  He takes a moment too long to answer, so I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Hey!” he protests, but he’s smiling. “Guess I should remember to set my VCR if you’re going to be locking me up in steeples.”

  “It’s sad that I’m the one bringing organizational ability to this relationship.”

  “Yeah, well, I still get to handle all the power tools.” He might as well flex his biceps to prove his point.

  “No problem.” I have better things to do with my time than roam the aisles of Home Depot. Like pull my hair out by the roots.

  David gives me a sidelong look. “I hope this part doesn’t change.”

  “Which part?”

  “The mutual torment and disrespect.”

  I smile. “No way. That’s the fun part.”

  David leans toward me. “I thought this was the fun part,” and he kisses me again.

  Okay, I enjoy it for a moment, but then I shove him away. “We need a plan.”

  He moves toward me again. “I like this plan—”

  “David. I’m hungry. Plus, I’m really cold.”

  He sighs and shrugs out of his jacket, which he wraps around my shoulders. “Okay. Got anything useful for getting us out of here?”

  “Nothing on me.”

  David’s eyes skim down my pink dress and back up again. “I’d have to agree with that statement. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. But I don’t think you’d better try preaching in that getup.”

  “No, duh.” I roll my eyes. “Empty out your pockets.”

  “My pockets?”

  “Weren’t you an Eagle Scout? Don’t you have a flare or a mirror to send an emergency signal?”

  David turns his pockets inside out and produces two quarters, a paper clip, some string, and a rubber band.

  “How old are you anyway, eleven?” I ask with a laugh.

  “You scoff now, but I’m better than MacGyver with this stuff.”

  “Who’s MacGyver?”

  “Don’t you ever watch reruns on TV Land? He’s the guy who can build a bomb out of a lipstick and a pair of sunglasses.”

  I frown. “We don’t need a bomb. We just need to open that trapdoor.”

  David gives me a measuring look. “Tell you what. If I can get us out of here with what I have in my pockets, then you have to confront Edna.”

  “I did confront Edna.”

  “When?”

  “At the specially called personnel meeting. I cut her off at the pass.”

  “No, sounds like you outmaneuvered her. Not confronted her. There’s a difference.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll confront her.” That’s an easy promise since there’s no way he can open that trapdoor with the assorted nothings from his pockets. “If you can get that thing open, I’ll have my showdown with Edna.”

  “And you have to stay at Church of the Shepherd. No law school.”

  I can’t believe I haven’t told him yet about the personnel-committee meeting. It completely slipped my mind. I have to disguise the merriment I know is in my eyes. I sigh with dramatic gusto. “But law school was my ticket out.”

  “Was?”

  “Um … I mean is, is my ticket out.”

  “You’ve already decided not to go, haven’t you?”

  Okay, there’s going to be a downside to being romantically involved with someone who knows me this well.

  “Yeah. I leveraged the personnel committee into a one-year contract.”

  David beams and holds out his hand for a high-five. “Now that’s the Betz I know and love.”

  And then there’s dead silence, because those words ring with authenticity. The love part, I mean.

  In true manly form, David immediately changes the subject. “So, what changed your mind about law school?”

  “Ironically enough, it was Edna.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “She confessed she’s always felt called to the ministry, but everyone told her it was of the devil.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  I stiffen. “But it doesn’t excuse her behavior.”

  “No. You’ll have to do that.”

  I hate it when David’s right. Because he is, much as it pains me to admit it. I have to forgive Edna for what she’s done, not just revel in my victory.

  “I guess I’m not finished with her, huh?”

  David grins. “Betz, you’re not going to be finished with her until you officiate at her funeral.”

  Okay, that may sound mean, but he says it in a matter-of-fact way that preachers understand. Marrying and burying are part of our everyday reality. And if we grieve or rejoice at particular instances of those things, it goes on inside our hearts and heads, not publicly for everyone to see. At least, that’s how it should be.

  “Okay. You get us out of here, and I’ll have a showdown with Edna.”

  “Don’t think of it as a showdown. Think of it as a PMI.”

  “A PMI?”

  “Personal maturity intervention.”

  And then he kisses me. So now I’m going to get unsolicited advice in addition to lip-lock. Mmm. Beats the previous setup hands down.

  “Enough.” I push him back. “To work, Mac-Whoever. We need to get out of here.”

  And wouldn’t you know it? Fifteen minutes later he’s fashioned a sort of fishing device with the paper clip for a hook, the quarters bound to the string with the rubber bands (as weights), and he’s slipping the contraption down the crack between the trapdoor and the floor. His face twists in concentration, and he’s never looked more adorable.

  “I … think … I’ve … got it!” I hear a telltale click, and David’s throwing the trapdoor open.

  “You did it.” Well, he can’t remember
to program a VCR, but he does have other uses.

  “And you doubted me.” He’s grinning like a Boy Scout who just won the soapbox derby. Then he glances at his watch. “If we climb down fast, I can catch the last fifteen minutes of my show.”

  “You’ll never make it. It’ll take you half an hour to get home.” David lives in an anonymous apartment complex down in Franklin, where rents are cheaper, but you pay for it with a half-hour commute up Interstate 65 every day.

  David winks at me. “I’ll make it, ’cause I’m coming to your house. It’s the least you can do after trapping me in here and using your feminine wiles on me.”

  Hah! He knows I have feminine wiles. I’m so pleased with his acute powers of observation that I think I’ll let him watch the rest of The West Wing at my house without interference.

  After our escape from the steeple, I leave David alone with the couch and the remote while I call LaRonda.

  “What happened to you?” I demand, half-mad and half-worried.

  “Sorry. I got an emergency call from the hospital. Parishioner in cardiac arrest. By the time I remembered you guys, you were already gone.”

  “Well, luckily David does a good MacGyver impersonation.”

  “Mac-Who?”

  See? I’m not the only one who doesn’t spend all her free time watching TV Land reruns.

  “Is your parishioner okay?”

  “She’ll be fine. Fortunately, she was already in the emergency room when she had her heart attack. Her grandson broke his arm earlier in the day.” She pauses. “So, how’d it go?”

  I giggle. It’s completely junior high, but I can’t help myself.

  “Hallelujah!” LaRonda shouts so loudly she almost bursts my eardrum.

  “Shh. He’ll hear you.”

  “He’s there?”

  “Yes, but he’s leaving right after his TV show finishes. Now that Edna knows about Web cams, there’s no telling what kind of surveillance I’ll be under.”

  And so LaRonda and I celebrate on the phone as only two girlfriends can—with intermittent squealing and laughter. In fact, David has to wave his hands in front of my face to get my attention when he’s ready to go. He can’t leave without a parting shot, though.

  “So you’ll call Edna tomorrow?” he asks me between good-night kisses on the porch.

  “Okay.” I agree like a sulky adolescent who’s been asked to take out the trash.

  “Good.” He steps back and looks at his watch. “If I hurry, I can catch my second-favorite show.”

  That catches me off guard. “You have a second-favorite show?” I thought I knew everything about David.

  He smiles the slow, sexy kind of smile that makes me want to kiss him some more. “Oh yeah. It’s called ‘Holy to Hottie.’ I watch the tape every night at bedtime.”

  “David!” I playfully slap his shoulder. “You told me you erased it!”

  He moves back in for one more kiss. “I lied.” His lips meet mine for a satisfyingly long moment. “So sue me. I wasn’t going to part with it.”

  A warm flush rises from my toes. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who’s been experiencing these weird feelings over the past few weeks.

  I give him one last, soft kiss. “Sweet dreams.”

  “No problem,” he says as he disappears into the night.

  So the next morning I have to pick up the phone and call Edna. But first, there’s another conversation I need to have. I climb in my car and head for the Woodlawn Cemetery on Thompson Lane.

  You’d think I’d have trouble finding Velva’s headstone because this newer part of the cemetery only allows flat markers with a vase for flowers. But I walk straight up through the Garden of Something-Peaceful-Sounding to her grave. They’ve cleared away the flowers from the funeral, and the grass is freshly mowed. Lots of people bring plastic flowers because they last longer, but Velva would have hated those. Instead, I bring a different kind of remembrance I think would make her happy.

  I kneel down in the grass and let my fingertips trace her name and the dates of her birth and death. There’s nothing here to tell about what kind of woman she was, who she loved, and who loved her. No list of accomplishments. The only thing that will distinguish her grave from all the others will be the people, like me, who come to visit it.

  “Hey, Velva.” I feel a little stupid talking to a headstone, but that’s the way they always do it in the movies. Besides, it feels better to say the words aloud, although I do glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s around to hear me talking to a dead person.

  “I have something for you.” I reach in my Kate Spade knockoff and pull out an envelope. The return address has the Vanderbilt emblem printed in the corner, and inside is the sheet of paper I thought was my ticket to happiness.

  With appropriate ceremony, I lift the envelope in front of me as if I’m lifting the bread or the cup at the communion table. “I won’t need this.” And with great deliberation, I tear my law-school acceptance letter in half, then in half again. I continue a section at a time until the paper is shredded into postage stamp-size pieces. When I’m finished, I hold them in my two cupped hands and say a little prayer.

  “Grant me faith, Lord.” As if releasing a dove, I toss the future I never needed into the air. The wind catches it, and Velva and I are both showered by a gentle rain of providence.

  Now I’m ready to confront Edna.

  I stop by my house first to pick up something I forgot. I’m going to need it for this particular pastoral visit. I gather some papers and put them in a manila folder. I’m not calling ahead this time because I want to catch Edna unawares. As I’ve said before, the best defense is a good offense.

  Alice greets me at the door. “Good morning, Reverend Blessing.” She shows no surprise at finding me on the doorstep. I wish I had her discretion. I’d probably make bishop in a week.

  “Good morning, Alice. Is Mrs. Tompkins at home?”

  She smiles. “Let me tell her you’re here.”

  Alice waves me into the foyer, and I wait there patiently while she goes to tell Edna the preacher’s paying an unexpected call. Normally, it’s an event that will make even the most seasoned parishioner quake with fear, but I’m sure it won’t throw Edna off balance. I mean, we are talking about the woman who showed no qualms about framing me for felony theft.

  Alice returns and leads me to the sun porch. Edna’s there, ensconced in a comfortable chair with the newspaper on her lap and a cup of tea at her good elbow. She’s wearing the sling, which must make the newspaper a little tricky to handle. In the bright morning sunlight, she looks older and feebler than she did at the personnel-committee meeting a few days ago. Her back-comb droops from its once-formidable heights.

  “Good morning, Edna.”

  “Betsy. This is a surprise.” A surprise akin to having an emergency appendectomy, judging from the way her lips are thinned.

  “I apologize for not calling first.”

  She makes a face that indicates she’s not shocked at my lack of manners. “What more do you want from me?” she snaps. “I would have thought you’d be home gloating.”

  To my surprise, a stab of compassion pierces my midsection. As unpleasant as Edna has been to me, I know I’m probably the one person at Church of the Shepherd who understands what it’s like to be shamed for who you are. For better or for worse, Edna and I are joined in a bizarre form of spiritual unity.

  “I wasn’t aware I had anything to gloat about.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Let’s not pretend here, Reverend. You have what you want. And you have Marjorie’s support, so why shouldn’t you be feeling a bit smug? I think I would, in your place.”

  Well, at least she’s honest. She probably would.

  “I don’t think my ministry is a competition,” I say instead. “At least, I don’t want it to be.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’ve brought you something.” I take two steps toward her and hand her the folder.
She takes it from me with her one good hand and lays it in her lap.

  “Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you going to look at it?”

  “I know what’s in it. A request I resign my membership from the church, with a possible admonition to be grateful you’re not turning me in to the police.”

  Okay, that shocks me. “You’re kidding.”

  Edna glowers. “I never kid, Reverend.”

  A fresh wave of sadness washes over me. In Edna’s mind, that’s how church works. And maybe in a lot of places, that’s true. While I can’t change what happens in other churches, I think I can change Edna’s view of ours. At least I’m going to try.

  “It’s not a request that you resign your membership.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Look and see.”

  She frowns, shoots me a dark look, and then opens the folder in her lap.

  “These are some sort of application forms.”

  “Yes.”

  She studies them for a long moment, and I let her. To my surprise, her hand, fingering the forms, shakes visibly.

  “This isn’t funny, Reverend.”

  “No, it’s not,” I agree.

  And then an expression crosses her face that I usually see only when someone’s child or spouse has died. Tears pool in her eyes, but she’s not about to let them trickle onto her cheeks. Her shoulders begin to shake like her hand.

  “It’s too late,” she whispers.

  I close the remaining distance between us and kneel by her chair. “You know, Edna, I’ve only just learned it’s never too late.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and I can’t feel anything but compassion for the pain I see there.

  “They’d never let me,” she says.

  “On the contrary. They’d be thrilled to have you.” I cross my fingers behind my back, a little prevarication for a good cause.

  “I’m too old.”

  “You’re the voice of experience.”

  “I’m not smart enough.”