Club Sandwich (18 page)

But today, as he sings and Trixie misses his performance entirely, I only think about Tuesday’s lunch.

You know, it’s like this: how does a pastor’s wife sit there and listen to her husband’s sermon knowing he’s really saying, “Do what I say, not what I do”? She must keep a mental checklist as he presents each point, silently grading his performance at home. Well, Rusty sings, “You put this love in my heart,” and all I hear is Keith Green’s old tune, “You can run to the end of the highway and not find what you’re looking for.”

And then he sits down next to me, the little wife. He rests his arm across my shoulders, flips open his Bible, and we read the scripture together off the same page. But the fact is, we’re not on the same page at all anymore.

Mr. Moore inches his way up the path to his porch. His Bible hangs in a blue grocery-store bag from the hand that’s free of his cane.

“Ivy!”

I slam the car door and run over. “Good morning!”

“Just getting back from church?”

“Yep. Rusty sang this morning.”

“Hoo, that boy can sing. Mama loved to hear him sing.”

I smile. “Remember when he used to come over and sing to her?”

“Oh yes. I certainly do.”

“So how was your church?”

“A real blessing. Hearing about Jesus always is.”

I need to remember that earlier on Sunday mornings. Like when I first wake up. I need to stop giving God my castoffs and acting weary even about that. I need to lift His name in my heart before I can lift it with my mouth.

I feel like the priesthood in the book of Malachi.

“You’re a real blessing too, Mr. Moore.”

“Well, praise the Lord, then, child.”

“We’re having roast chicken for dinner. Why don’t you come on over? Rusty and Mom would be so glad to spend some time with you.”

“I believe I will. Let me drop off these things and put on a clean shirt.”

“You don’t need to go to any trouble. It’s just us.”

He lays a hand on my arm. “My mama taught me to be respectful of the table, Ivy. Which really means to respect those sitting around it.”

We drop Rusty off at the airport at seven. Life returns to normal.

I
couldn’t believe Brian agreed to meet me Monday afternoon. I needed to run out to Hunt Valley for shoes at the discount warehouse. If Persy’s feet get any bigger, I’m going to send him out to sea.

So here we sit at Panera sharing a loaf of oat bread and a tub of jalapeño cream cheese.

“So tell me what’s going on, Bri.”

“Sis …”

“No, really. I’m not going to come down on you. I promise. I just want to know what’s going on.”

He sits back in his chair. “Same old. Dad’s been calling me. Bugging me about a place to live.”

“No kidding. He wants to come live with you?”

“There’s no way I’ll have that man come live with me.”

I don’t blame him. “What about his fiancée?”

“She dumped him.”

“Big surprise there.”

He reaches forward and slices off more bread. “He’s about to lose the lease on his apartment and doesn’t have enough for a security deposit on a new place.”

“What about all that work he’s been doing down in Canton?”

“Showed up too late one too many times is what I’m guessing.
Of course, he’s got a ton of other excuses, and none of them are his responsibility.”

Sound familiar, Bri?

An unused apartment molders in our basement, nasty now, creepy-crawly. It reminds me of a setting in a movie where the killer lies in wait for the tough but feminine detective who’s frightened but moves forward for the good of society. But there’s a bathroom, a bedroom, a living room, and a kitchenette. Only spiders and our junk inhabit the space.

Crud. There you go, then, Ivy. Save the day.

I spread some more cream cheese on my bread. “How did a man who lived with our mother end up with nothing of her rubbed off on him?”

“Meaning?”

“Faith.”

“Oh.”

“No, I mean it, Bri. It’s like he doesn’t think about God at all.”

“Well, neither do I, if you want to know the truth, and I lived with her longer than he did. It doesn’t make him a bad person, Ive.”

He sits back in his chair again and stares at me. Crosses his arms.

“…”

He blinks. “Yeah, well it’s all okay for you, Ive. It does what it needs to do in your life.”

I want to tell him my life isn’t what he thinks,
I’m
not what he thinks, but something tells me to just let him keep going. So I stay silent. He fills it in, like we Starlings usually do.

“It’s not that I don’t believe in God anymore. It’s just never done much good in my life. Practically speaking.”

“How so? Just asking.”

He turns his knife over and over between forefinger and thumb. “Do you think I haven’t prayed to change?”

I shrug, trying to keep my expression open and accepting.

“Well, I have. And year after year, I just end up more like the old man.”

Go, Harry.

“Ivy, it shouldn’t be that hard for God to change one person who wants to change.”

“Nobody can change on their own, Bri.”

“I’m not trying to. I want help.”

“Brian, remember that day when you were nine and you walked down the aisle in church?”

“Sure.”

“Did you mean it?”

“I thought so. But look at my life now.”

“It’s nothing Jesus can’t fix.” I need to remember that myself.

He sets down the knife. “Well, maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I just don’t have the faith I need. I don’t know if I even believe in all that anymore.”

“So you want to change, but on your own terms?” I say this as gently as I can.

“Yeah, I guess. When it comes down to it.”

“You want God’s help, but not from God’s places and God’s people.”

He scrunches his brow.

“Why don’t you start coming to church with us?”

“If church was the answer, Ive, the world would be a better place than it is.”

I can’t argue with that. “Okay. I agree. I don’t get much from church either. Scrap that idea. But Jesus and the church are two
different things. How long has it been since you’ve read the Gospels?”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever read all four books.”

“Will you try?”

“I don’t understand all those antique words, Ive.”

I take a bite of my bread. “You should see the translations they’ve got available these days. Plain English now. Not all that KJV-only nonsense we grew up with. I’ll get you one.”

“It’s your money. But don’t expect much, sis. I think I’m a lost cause.”

“Nobody’s a lost cause.”

Except maybe Harry.

My soul recoils at my own knee-jerk observation.

“How about coming over for supper tonight? The kids just got
Pirates of the Caribbean
.”

“I’ve got a date.”

“Bring her.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Actually, I can think of lots of reasons, but sometimes you just need to go out on a limb, right?

I stop at the bookstore. Pick up a friendly translation of the Bible and pray. Dear God, let him show up tonight.

This prayer from the woman who can’t wait to see another man at lunch tomorrow.

Okay, correct me if I’m wrong, but God really does have a sense of humor. Brian’s latest girlfriend is a preacher’s wayward daughter. Only Brian doesn’t know this. I want to laugh myself silly, but I don’t. When I headed back to the kitchen to fix some snacks, Danielle followed me in her clingy jeans and cropped top. The girl’s abs ripple like you wouldn’t believe. John Basedow, look out.

She pointed to the plaque over my kitchen door, which reads,
Home. Where each lives for the other and all live for God
. “We had something like that in my house growing up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“My dad was a preacher.”

“What kind?”

“Independent fundamental Baptist.”

It certainly all makes sense now.

“That must have been tough.”

She nodded. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“I grew up in a strict church. Needless to say, I don’t go there anymore. No pants, no nail polish, Sister This and Brother That.”

“Sounds too familiar.”

“I didn’t realize there’s a whole big world out there in the church. It took me a long time not to feel guilty when I went to the movies!”

She laughed. “I’m glad to be past that.”

“Can’t blame you there, Danielle.”

“Sometimes I want to go back, but I’m not willing to risk it. It took me years to stop looking over my shoulder for lightning bolts. Call me Dani, by the way.”

“Hey, would you get the mayo out of the fridge? It’s in the door.”

“No prob.”

Dani’s about thirty, I think. Brian told me she’s a trainer at Gold’s Gym.

“You look great, Dani. How many hours do you work out a week?”

“Probably about thirty. But hey, it’s what I do. If I had as many kids as you and had to run a restaurant, I’d be totally out of shape.”

At least she didn’t put a
too
on the end of that. “You have kids?”

“One. A little girl, Rosa. She’s almost four.”

“I bet she’s cute.”

“She’s adorable. Best thing that ever happened to me.” She hands me the mayonnaise.

“Nice nails.”

“Thanks. What’re you making?”

“Just some mustard dip. I picked up those little smoked sausages at the store.”

“I love those.”

“You’re not a health nut?”

She grimaces. “No way. Now that’s one thing I kept from my heritage. The ability to ingest large amounts of animal fat.”

I like her.

“Know what you mean. My new church doesn’t believe in potluck suppers.”

“No way.”

“Now, I ask you, what’s wrong with a potluck supper?”

“I do miss the potlucks.”

I spoon two parts mayo to one part honey mustard into a small bowl. “When I was growing up, there was this one lady, Sister Norma, and she made the most gorgeous fried chicken. First platter to be cleaned.”

She picks up a sausage with a toothpick. “That was Brother Joe
at our church. Now his wife, Sister Grace, she made a broccoli salad like you wouldn’t believe. She sent me the recipe years ago, right after I got married, and darn it, I follow it religiously but just can’t make it taste like hers.”