Almost Friends (6 page)

"W
hat do you mean, you need three months off?” Dale Hinshaw screeched at the Harmony Friends monthly business meeting.

“I want to care for my father,” Sam said, with a calmness he didn’t feel. “He and my mother need my help.”

“I suppose he’ll want it off with pay,” Stanley Farlow muttered to no one in particular, though making sure everyone heard it.

“In the olden days,” Sam said, with an appeal to tradition, “pastors took several months off each summer for rest and renewal. I’ve been here six years, now my father needs me, and I’d like to help him.”

“It’s fine with me,” Asa Peacock said. “I let a field lie fallow every now and then. Don’t see why Sam can’t take some time off. Especially to help his father.”

Dale frowned, then began thumbing through his Bible. “I’d ask you to consider the ninth chapter of Luke’s Gospel, verses fifty-nine and sixty. ‘And he said unto another, “Fol
low me.” But the man said, “Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father.” Jesus said unto him, “Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.”’ Well, there you have it, Sam. Do you want to follow Jesus or your father? Seems pretty clear to me.”

Everything was clear to Dale Hinshaw, which was another reason Sam needed time off.

“Does anyone else have a leading on this?” Miriam Hodge, the clerk, asked.

“I’ll tell you my leading,” Dale chimed in.

“We’re well aware of your thoughts on the matter, Dale. Let’s give someone else the opportunity to speak.”

“I’m against it,” he continued. “Faith is what Sam needs. Not time off.”

He turned to Sam. “Nothing personal. Just trying to keep you on the narrow way that leads to heaven.”

Miriam’s hands twitched, forming a choking motion.

“I say we give Sam three months off,” Jessie Peacock said. “With pay. He’s more than earned it.”

“Friend Jessie speaks my mind,” Judy Iverson said. Judy could always be depended upon to be charitable.

They sat in silence for several moments. Miriam searched each face, gauging the mood, then proceeded carefully. “Are Friends clear that we should offer Sam Gardner three months off to care for his father? With pay.”

“If you ask me, it’s a big mistake,” Dale said.

“We’re not asking you,” Jessie Peacock said. “So zip it.” Jessie had been awakened the past three nights by Dale’s
telephone ministry, and the lack of sleep had apparently made her edgy.

“When would he start?” Opal Majors asked.

“His father needs help now, so I imagine immediately,” Miriam answered.

“Who’ll be our minister while he’s gone?” Asa Peacock asked.

“For our first two hundred years, Quakers didn’t have pastors. Surely, we can minister to one another for three months,” Miriam suggested.

“Sounds like a lot of work to me,” Stanley Farlow grumbled.

“Or,” Miriam continued, “we could phone the superintendent and see if the seminary has a student minister who might join us for that short time.”

“A new minister,” Asa Peacock said. “That sounds interesting. Let’s do that.”

The room buzzed with anticipation of a fresh face, all the other fresh faces having fled.

“Are Friends agreed we should release Sam for three months with pay and that I should contact the superintendent and ask for an interim pastor while Sam is gone?” Miriam asked.

“Approved,” they chorused, and with that Sam Gardner was a free man.

Miriam phoned the superintendent the next morning and explained their need.

“Got just the man for you,” he told her. “In fact, I believe you’ve met him. I’m thinking of my nephew.”

Miriam had indeed met his nephew and had been singularly underwhelmed.

“Actually, we had something else in mind. We’d like you to contact the seminary and arrange for a student pastor to be with us.”

“You sure about that? You know these students nowadays. They’re awful liberal.”

“Nevertheless, that’s what our monthly meeting approved.”

“So be it. I’ll call Dean, and we’ll send you over a nice young man.”

“Why does it have to be a man?” Miriam asked. “We don’t care about gender. We want competence.”

“Does Dale know this?”

“It’s time Dale Hinshaw learned he’s not the only person in our congregation.”

Dale, she was sure, would fly into fits if they hired a woman pastor, which made Miriam all the more determined. “In fact, I think we’d prefer a woman. It’s time we broadened our horizons. Yes, you tell Dean Mullen we’d like a woman pastor.”

“Dale won’t like this,” the superintendent warned.

“What Dale Hinshaw likes or doesn’t like is of little concern to me these days,” Miriam said. “He hasn’t exactly endeared himself to the rest of us lately.”

Later, Miriam would wonder if wanting to provoke Dale had been worth it. But for now, she was quietly pleased at the prospect of irritating him.

Had she not lost her objectivity, she would even have concluded that her behavior was no better than Dale’s. But revenge is a sweet dish when eaten warm, and Miriam Hodge was hungry.

On the second day of class, Krista Riley was summoned to Dean Mullen’s office. It felt a bit like being called before the principal, like being ten years old and ordered to report for a stern lecture. But Dean Mullen greeted her with a smile and ushered her into his office. “Sit, please sit. Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps you’d like a donut.”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“That would be nice, thank you. A little sugar, please.”

Dean Mullen poured two cups of coffee and carefully placed Krista’s on the table beside her chair.

He sat across from her, eased back in his chair, and smiled pleasantly, his eyes crinkling. “Well, Krista, how are your studies?”

“So far I enjoy them, though I had no idea there’d be this much reading.”

The dean chuckled. “Yes, well, it pays to sharpen your scythe before the harvest. And speaking of harvest, we have an opportunity for you.”

“An opportunity?”

“Yes, I got a phone call today from the superintendent of the yearly meeting. Seems one of our meetings is in need of a pastor. Place called Harmony, a couple hours from here. Their regular pastor, Sam Gardner, is taking the next three months off. His dad had a heart attack, and they need his help.”

“That seems like a lot of driving each day.”

“You wouldn’t go there every day. Many of our students pastor churches at a distance. They drive to their churches on Thursday after class and come back here on Sunday afternoon.”

“If I took the job, where would I stay?”

“I’ve been told they have a furnished apartment for you.”

“When would I do my studying?” Krista asked.

“As you had time, same as everyone else.”

“What can you tell me about the meeting?”

The dean hesitated. “Well, it’s in a nice little town. Very peaceful, a quiet town.”

“Yes, but what about the congregation? What are they like?”

“Tremendous cooks,” Dean Mullen said. “They have a Chicken Noodle Dinner every year that’ll knock your socks off.”

“So it’s a peaceful town with good cooks.”

“You’ve got it!” exclaimed the dean. “That sums it up nicely.”

Krista sighed. “What kind of church is it? Progressive? Traditional? Middle-of-the-road?”

“It’s rather hard to say. It defies an easy description.”

“But it’s just for three months?”

“Yes, ma’am. Three months, that’s all. Meanwhile, you’ll gain some experience and earn a little spending money. Interested?”

Krista sipped her coffee and sat quietly, thinking, then asked, “Have they ever had a woman pastor?”

“I don’t think so. But when I told them about you, their clerk seemed intrigued. They’ve got a lot of strong women
in that meeting, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem. In fact, I think you’ll fit right in.”

“When would they like me to start?”

“Now.”

“I’ll do it,” Krista said, abandoning her usual discretion with a leap into the unknown.

“Fine, then,” Dean Mullen said. “I’ll give them a call and tell them the good news. I’m sure they’ll be delighted.”

Krista left Dean Mullen’s office excited, though with a trace of concern. The dean had seemed rather vague about Harmony Friends. Oh well, she thought, it’s only three months. What can go wrong in three months?

She spent the rest of her day in classes, then hurried home to Ruth Marshal’s and began writing her first sermon. Although she’d written dozens of sermons, this would be the first one people would hear. She resisted the urge to dump a full load on them and decided instead to use their initial meeting to introduce herself, reliable information being preferable to speculative gossip.

That evening, after supper, while she and Ruth Marshal were drinking iced tea on the front porch, she spilled the beans. “I’ve been given my first church. It’s just for three months, filling in for a pastor who’s caring for his parents.”

“Well, what fine news that is!” Ruth Marshal exclaimed. “It sounds like a wonderful opportunity. What meeting is it?”

“It’s a few hours from here. Harmony Friends Meeting.”

“Oh, my. Well, as you said, it’s only for three months.”

“What do you mean by that?” Krista asked.

“Nothing at all, dear. You’ll love it there. It’s a pleasant little town, very peaceful. Wonderful cooks, from what I understand. Care for more tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Krista had more questions but was afraid to ask them for fear she might not like the answers.

“There’s a man there,” Ruth Marshal said, tentatively. “He’s rather odd. I don’t know him well, but one hears things.” She paused, as if trying to determine whether she should continue, then plunged ahead. “I really shouldn’t tell you this. It feels like gossiping, but I think you should know.”

“What should I know?”

“Again, I don’t know this man well. I’ve only spoken with him once, but I’ve observed him at yearly meeting for many years now. His name is Dale Hinshaw.”

“What about him?”

“To put it simply, he’s a kook.”

“Hmm,” Krista said, letting this revelation sink in. “Surely they know that about him and don’t let him run things.”

Ruth Marshal chose her words carefully. “Krista, you will learn, if you haven’t already, that churches are vulnerable to domineering people. Even if they aren’t officially given power, these people find a way to get it.”

“Schools are much the same way,” Krista said. “I suppose that’s true of any human institution.”

“But it’s especially tragic in the church. These people earnestly believe they speak for God, and it causes much harm.”

“I suppose I can handle anything for three months,” Krista said. “Even this Dale Hinshaw.”

“Poor habits formed early in one’s ministry have a way of establishing themselves. It’s important you handle this well.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Krista promised.

“Be loving, be honest, and be yourself,” Ruth Marshal said, reaching across to squeeze her hand, “and you’ll do just fine.”

Despite Ruth Marshal’s misgivings, Krista was elated at the prospect of pastoring her own church and phoned her parents to tell them the good news. Her father had his doubts, attributing her foray into ministry to a premature midlife crisis. Her mother, however, was genuinely thrilled. “Oh, honey. I’m so happy for you. You’ve wanted this so long. When do you start?”

“This Sunday.”

“What will you preach about?” her mother asked.

“I thought I’d use the opportunity to introduce myself.”

“Wonderful thinking. I’m sure they’ll fall in love with you. Oh, Krista, I’m so proud of you.”

It is breathtaking to be called by a church to ministry, though the approval of one’s mother runs a close second, and when Krista hung up the phone, she was filled with a profound joy.

Had she known the events leading up to her call, she might have been less thrilled, but ignorance being bliss, she couldn’t wait until Sunday.

K
rista Riley arrived in Harmony on Friday a little before noon and, faced with the choice of lunch at the Coffee Cup or the Legal Grounds Coffee Shop, she chose the former and consequently became the topic of the day.

It had been 1962 since a woman had dared cross the Coffee Cup’s sacred threshold to eat lunch. It was done in protest by the late Juanita Harmon, who in a bold strike for women’s rights, marched in, took a seat at the lunch counter, and wouldn’t leave until she’d been served. One taste of the food convinced her there were better ways to fight for equality.

There are, of course, exceptions to the no-woman edict. Penny Torricelli is permitted access, since she and her husband, Vinny, do the cooking. Heather Darnell is the waitress and resident eye candy, so the men welcome her presence. Bea Majors plays the organ on Italian Night, when it is generally understood that women are welcome—Wednesday nights, five to seven.

But not in recent memory had a woman entered the Coffee Cup at lunchtime for the express purpose of dining. All over the restaurant, forks were laid down and voices fell silent.

“Would you look at that?” Stanley Farlow said. “It’s a woman.”

There had to be a reasonable explanation. Perhaps she was a stranger traveling through, lost, in need of directions.

“Can I help you?” Vinny asked.

“Yes, I’d like iced tea, a grilled chicken breast sandwich”—all over the Coffee Cup men blushed at hearing a woman say the word “breast”—“and a fruit dish,” Krista said, smiling pleasantly.

“Most of the women, they like eating at the Legal Grounds,” Vinny said quietly.

“Oh, not me. I like diners. And this is quite a lovely one.” Then, to the utter astonishment of everyone present, she crossed the room and sat down in Asa Peacock’s booth.

“Uh, that seat’s taken,” Vinny explained.

“I don’t see anyone sitting here.”

“Asa, he doesn’t get here till after noon. He likes listening to the farm report first. But that’s his booth. He always sits there.”

“It’s a large booth,” Krista pointed out. “He probably doesn’t take up the whole table, does he?”

Dale Hinshaw was ready to faint dead away. This, he knew, was the beginning of the end, yet another sign of the impending apocalypse. It was all there in the Bible—the rise of the nation Israel, the coming of the Antichrist, and one-world government culminating in a woman eating lunch at the Coffee Cup.

He approached Krista cautiously, fearing she might sprout claws and slice him to shreds. “Dale Hinshaw’s my name. Don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Krista said.

“There is?”

“Yes, I’ve never been here.” She offered her hand to Dale, who after some hesitation, shook it briefly. “My name is Krista Riley. I’m your new pastor.”

Witnesses, recounting the story later, would say they never saw Dale even open the door, so quick was his exit. “It was a blur, everything happened so fast,” Stanley Farlow told Bob Miles from the
Herald
. “At first, he just backed up a few steps, then he turned white and lit out like a scared rabbit.”

Within two minutes, he’d reached Sam’s home, where Barbara greeted him at the door.

“We got ourselves a problem. Is Sam here?”

“No, he isn’t, Dale. He’s over at his parents’ house. If this is church business, he’s not available. He’s on sabbatical. You’ll have to see the new pastor.”

“That’s our problem!” Dale shrieked. “They sent us a woman! We got ourselves a woman minister. They put a woman in charge of us.”

“It’s about time,” Barbara said, closing the door.

There was nothing like sacrilege to put a spring in Dale’s step, and he was home within five minutes. Seated at his desk, he began compiling a list of grievances he could nail to the meetinghouse door.

“A woman minister!” he screeched repeatedly. “They sent us a woman minister. Can you believe that?”

“Women do all sorts of things now,” Dolores Hinshaw said, in a vain effort to settle him down. “They even have women firemen.”

Dale fixed her with a glare. “There is nothing in the Bible that says a woman can’t be a fireman. But the Scriptures are clear on women pastors. First Timothy, chapter 2, verse 12.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You don’t seem very upset about this.”

“It’s only for three months. Besides, I think it’ll be interesting to hear a woman preach.” Every now and then, to Dale’s distress, Dolores Hinshaw rummaged around, found her backbone, and spoke her mind.

“Well, you won’t be hearing a woman preach, because she’s leaving,” he declared emphatically.

Within a half hour, word of Krista Riley’s arrival had circulated through town. Bob Miles arrived from the
Herald
just in time to photograph her eating the last of her chicken sandwich, which, to Vinny and Penny’s delight, she pronounced the finest chicken sandwich she’d eaten in some time.

“How did you prepare that?” she asked Vinny. “It had such a delicate flavor.”

Unaccustomed to compliments, Vinny blushed, then stammered, “I don’t know what they put on it. I get it frozen from the warehouse.”

“The secret must be in the grilling then,” Krista said. “It was simply delicious.”

New woman pastor declares Coffee Cup sandwich best she’s ever eaten,
Bob Miles scribbled in his notebook. She must not get out much, he thought to himself.

“So where you from?” Bob asked, rooting for more information.

“Right here in Indiana, from Danville, up in Hendricks County,” Krista said.

“How long have you been a pastor?”

She glanced at her watch. “Three days, two hours, and eleven minutes.”

“You’re the first woman minister we’ve had in our town,” Bob said, studying her with a mixture of fascination and curiosity, like one would scrutinize a two-headed turtle. “What does your husband think of you being a minister?”

“If I ever have one, I’ll ask him and see,” Krista said.

“Hmm, not married. Very interesting. Well, maybe you’ll meet someone while you’re here.” He turned to Vinny and Penny. “Did you hear that? She’s not married.”

“I don’t know how you’ve lived this long without the pleasure of washing a man’s underwear,” Penny said.

Vinny and Bob frowned.

“Well, don’t you worry about it,” Bob said. “Once the bachelors in our town find out you’re available, you’ll have to swat them away like flies.”

New woman minister seeks helpmate,
he wrote in his notebook.

“Actually, I’m not interested in dating just now,” Krista said. “I’m quite busy with school, plus I have a job.”

“You should never be too busy for romance,” Vinny said.

Penny snorted. “What do you know about romance? Just last week I asked you to whisper something nice in my ear and you talked about baseball.”

“What’s wrong with baseball? Baseball is nice,” Vinny grumbled.

Argument erupts as new pastor arrives in town,
Bob scribbled in his notebook.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting all of you, but I must go now,” Krista said, rising from her seat. “I have an appointment at the meetinghouse.”

“Best of luck to you,” Bob Miles said. “I think you’re gonna like it here. They’ve got some wonderful cooks at that church.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’s been a pleasure visiting with you,” Krista said, shaking Bob’s hand. “And Vinny and Penny, thank you for a lovely lunch.” She gazed around the Coffee Cup, taking in the swordfish mounted on the back wall over the salad bar, its blue skin casting an aqua glow on the wilted lettuce. “Simply lovely. That’s all I can say.”

She paid her bill, left a generous tip, and with a wave of her hand slipped out the door.

“That right there is enough to make anyone become a Christian,” Vinny Torricelli said. “A true lady.”

“I can’t remember the last time Sam Gardner said anything nice about our food,” Penny said.

“He’s not much of a tipper either,” Vinny added.

Finding the meetinghouse was not at all difficult. The door was unlocked, so Krista entered and called out, “Anyone home?”

“Down here,” a voice yelled back.

She walked down the stairs to the basement. It smelled musty; a faint odor of noodles permeated the air. “Hello.”

“In here, for crying out loud.”

That’s when she noticed a door, set back in a shadowed corner. She opened it slowly. A lone lightbulb hung over what appeared to be a janitor’s sink. A gnarled, elderly gentleman wearing paint-spattered pants was filling a coffeepot.

“Are you the janitor?” Krista asked.

“Nope, the secretary. Name’s Frank.”

He turned to shake her hand. He had a profusion of hair growing from his ears, giving him an owl-like appearance.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, of course. I’m Krista Riley, the new pastor.”

“Been expecting you.”

“Well, yes, uh, is Pastor Gardner here?”

“Nope. Probably over at his parents’ house. His father had a heart attack, you know.”

“Yes, I heard.”

Frank finished filling the coffeepot and turned off the spigot. “Care for some coffee?”

“No thank you.”

She followed him up the stairs into his office. “We were supposed to meet at one o’clock.”

“He’ll be here then. Sam says he’ll be somewhere at one o’clock, he’ll be there. You can wait for him in his office, if you want.”

“I thought I might look around the meetinghouse.”

“Suit yourself,” Frank said. “But stay out of the noodle freezers. It upsets the ladies something terrible.”

Interesting man, she thought to herself. He was certainly different from any church secretary she’d ever met.

She walked in the meeting room. It was quite lovely—a high-ceilinged room with pale blue walls that contrasted handsomely with the cherrywood pews. The carpet and hymnals appeared new. She walked forward down the aisle, her senses sharp, and took a seat behind the pulpit. In the quiet, she could hear the rhythmic tick of the clock across the room. Three large windows lined each side of the meeting room. The north windows looked out upon the town’s main street. An occasional car flashed past. The windows across the meeting room offered a view of a rolling meadow, speckled with bales of hay waiting to be gathered. Off in the distance a stream draped around the field like a necklace.

She walked over to the window and gazed out at the field, watching a half dozen buzzards circle on the thermal winds, waiting for something to die.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” a voice behind her said.

Startled, she turned around to find a thin-haired, tallish man looking at her, his hand outstretched.

“I’m Sam.”

“Oh, yes. Hello, Sam. I’m Krista Riley,” she said, shaking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was sorry to hear of your father. How is he?”

“Recovering, but slowly. We’ll know he’s better when he starts grouching at my mom.”

Krista laughed. “It sounds like our fathers are cut from the same cloth.”

“Have you met Frank?”

“Yes. He’s certainly, uh—”

“Interesting,” Sam suggested.

“Yes, that’s just what I was thinking.”

“I think you’ll like him. He’s a good guy, but he wouldn’t want anyone to know that.”

“At first, I thought he was the janitor.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s what he gets. I’ve told him to dress nicer, but he never listens.”

Sam showed her around the meetinghouse, pointing out the various curiosities—the framed pictures of the 1926 centennial picnic, the Frieda Hampton Memorial Clock, the noodle table, and the chart in the entryway that showed they’d raised $112.59 for their building fund.

“Oh, are you building a new meetinghouse?” Krista asked.

“Not planning on it. We thought we’d start a fund just in case.”

“Well, it appears you’re off to a grand start,” Krista said.

“Never hurts to plan ahead,” Sam said. “Come on, I’ll show you the office.”

Frank was seated at his desk. “So you’re our new minister, eh? Well, you’re a darn sight prettier than our old one, let me tell you.”

Krista blushed, Sam and Frank laughed, and in the warmth of their fellowship Krista Riley felt she’d come home.