Heavens to Betsy (11 page)
Authors: Beth Pattillo
“You can’t play it safe in the ministry, Betz. Security means you’re not doing your job.”
“Doing my job means I’ll lose my job.”
LaRonda’s rueful chuckle acknowledges the truth. “It’s a delicate balance.”
“I’m no good at that delicate balance stuff.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to learn.”
LaRonda sounds confident of that, but I’m not so sure.
“You have to trust it, Betz.”
“The last time I trusted a church, I got fired and humiliated.”
There’s a pause. And then LaRonda says, “I know you want guarantees, but there aren’t any. You can’t expect them.”
Which just reaffirms my decision to leave. How can anyone live without at least a few guarantees of some kind? How is that possible?
LaRonda knows she’s not getting anywhere with me and changes the subject. “Isn’t it about time for you to meet David for lunch?”
I look at my watch, and my heart trips into overdrive. “I can’t go looking like this.”
“Looking like what?”
I give her the thumbnail version of my encounter with Jed and my climb through the inner workings of the baptistery.
“You can’t dodge David forever, Betz. Get a comb and some lipstick and hit the road.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Don’t make me come over there.”
She’s not going to let me duck and run. “Okay. But only because you’re forcing me.”
“Well, somebody’s got to.”
Now it’s my turn to pause. “Listen, Ronnie, thanks. I appreciate your advice, even when I don’t like it.”
I can sense her smile. “I know, hon. Now get your booty in gear and go meet David.”
“Okay. Bye.”
I set down the receiver, fish my purse out from underneath my desk, and head for the restroom to see how much of the damage I can repair.
I hate it when LaRonda’s right. I really do. Because it usually means I’m going to go do something I don’t want to do. All in all, I’d rather eat dirt, but I don’t think it’s on the menu at 12th and Porter.
Whenever I want
to have lunch or dinner away from the watchful eyes of my parishioners, I head for 12th and Porter. My congregants wouldn’t be caught dead in this art deco/funky/retro temple. So I can gorge on Pasta YaYa without each calorie noted and each sip of my rare glass of wine observed and judged.
David’s already there when I arrive. He’s poached our favorite table by the window. Just the sight of him makes it hard to breathe. When did
that
happen? When did he start messing with my most basic functions?
My sexy heels feel six feet long, so I endeavor not to trip over the step beside the hostess station as I make my way to the table. David’s smile holds a hint of wariness, but he stands to give me a hug. For the first time in forever, I don’t want him to hug me. All those other times his touch didn’t matter. It was as comforting as tomato soup and grilled cheese. But all that changed in a darkened movie theater, and if he puts his arms around me, if I feel the strength of his chest against the softness of my own, I won’t have enough wits about me to get through this lunch.
So, instead, I stick out my hand. “Hey.”
David looks at me as if I’ve sprouted antennae. He looks at my hand, and then his gaze rises to meet mine.
“Are you that mad at me, or are you too glamorous to hug now?” Hurt lines his forehead.
“Don’t be stupid. Why would I be mad at you?” Call me Cleo, Queen of Denial. I slide into my chair and stow my purse underneath. “I guess you saw the makeover segment.”
He grins. “One of my parishioners taped it and brought it over first thing this morning.”
“They couldn’t wait to rat me out, huh?”
“Apparently it confirmed his opinion that letting women into the ministry was tantamount to asking strippers to do a pole dance during worship.”
I hate myself for it, but I have to ask. “Well? What did you think?”
David rubs his chin. “Now I know why you were so dolled up last week.” His gaze drops from mine. “Took me a minute to figure out it was you.” He tilts his head and looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “Looks okay, but I miss the curls.”
I make a move like I’m going to stab him with my fork. “Do you never learn?” It works to cover up my disappointment. I really thought the makeover might at least get David to acknowledge I’m a female of the species.
“Don’t get mad. It’s just that it’s so … stylish.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“It’s just not you, Betz.”
Well, at least it’s not me in David’s eyes, and I’m suffocated with the realization that it never will be. He just doesn’t see me as girlfriend material.
LaRonda’s always saying I should clarify my goals. Well, given the state of things, here are my goals for this lunch with David:
1. Convince him it’s a good idea I took the interim senior-minister job.
2. Convince
myself
it’s a good idea I took the interim senior-minister job.
3. Don’t let on to David I have the urge to lean across the table and nibble on his neck.
4. Don’t actually lean across the table and nibble on his neck.
There’s also the small matter of not letting the whole law-school acceptance thing slip out. Or talking about the rather disturbing phone call I received last night at 2:00 a.m., which consisted of heavy breathing and muffled pounding. Muffled pounding? What’s that all about? An enigmatic pervert is all I need to make my life complete.
Our smiling waitress appears tableside. Like the restaurant, she embodies art deco/retro/funky. Her eyebrows, nose, and lip are pierced. Strangely, her ears are not. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I’d like a single-malt scotch straight up, but that’s not going to happen. “Diet Coke, please.”
David smiles in that boyish yet charming way of his. “Iced tea.”
The waitress smiles back at him, and I resist the urge to take her out at the knees. Fortunately for her, she disappears as quickly as she came.
“So.” David lounges back in the chair, his lanky frame sprawled everywhere. If it weren’t for the clerical collar, you’d think he was a dot-com whiz or a struggling artist. Amazing what a symbol of respectability will do for someone.
I unroll my silverware from my napkin and make a good show of arranging it in front of me. Then I take my time placing my napkin just so in my lap.
Finally, I have to look up at him. “Well.”
In eight years we’ve never been awkward with each other. I don’t know how to smooth it over, how to make it like it was. Before, I wasn’t hiding all these secrets. Now I feel as though every guilty transgression is inscribed on my face.
“Betz, what are you doing?”
“I’m arranging my silverware. It’s a common dining custom in many nations.”
David curls forward, languor gone. He puts both elbows on the table and clasps his hands. “I’m serious, Blessing. Why are you doing this?”
“So I can consume my food when it arrives?”
Of course, I know perfectly well what he’s talking about, but I can’t tell him I need the senior-minister job for six months and that they have me over a barrel. I have to lie to him, and I’ve never lied to David before. I don’t really know how to do it. Not with confidence, anyway.
“I told you on the phone. I just want a shot at being the top dog. I want a little bit of what you get every day.”
David frowns. “This isn’t the way to get it. You’re a convenience to them, not a real senior pastor.”
How can he not feel the heat that’s coursing through me just sitting here looking at him? I’ve never noticed his hands before. Have they always been that large? And his forearms. Did they always have those little ropes of muscles running from his wrists and disappearing into his shirt cuffs? Pounding a hammer on Habitat for Humanity houses all the time must be better than Nautilus.
What was he saying? Something about being a convenience. Oh yeah. I need to defend my choice here.
“It’s not the conventional way to step into the pulpit, no, but maybe I have to take it by any means I can get.”
“Are you saying you want the position permanently?”
The waitress returns with our drinks. I’m grateful for the pause so I can figure out how to answer the question. Maybe I can be truthful about this part.
“I don’t know if I want the permanent position. But I don’t know that I don’t want it, either.”
The waitress lurks tableside, so we have to order. Even after we’ve asked for two plates of Pasta YaYa, she seems reluctant to leave. In fact, she’s flirting with David! What kind of shameless hussy flirts with a man in a clerical collar? And he’s certainly not shutting her down, either. The sight of David smiling at another woman is worse than his disapproval of my recent career choice. Beneath the table I wipe my clammy palms on my artfully arranged napkin and resist the urge to kick David in the shin.
Eventually, the multiply pierced hussy leaves.
David turns his attention back to me, and I’m both alarmed and ecstatic. “Betsy, you deserve your shot at a healthy pastorate. This isn’t it. Not when you go into it at a disadvantage.”
It doesn’t help to know that David is absolutely right. “I can overcome disadvantages. I’ve had to every day of my ministry.”
“You can’t change a sick system, Betsy, and that’s what you’re trying to do. Codependent no more, babe.”
“David, I’ve made the decision. I don’t need you to question it. I need you to help me live with it.”
He frowns. Who knew he was adorable when he frowned? How could I have known him for eight years and not noticed this?
“Okay, if you’re hellbent on doing this, you need to know a few senior-pastor secrets.”
I straighten my spine in righteous indignation. “There are secrets? You never told me there were secrets.”
He grins. “You didn’t need them. You weren’t a senior pastor.”
I bristle. “I was too. I was a senior pastor in my first church.”
“Nope. You were a solo pastor. That’s different. I mean the secrets you need to know when you have to supervise other church employees, other ministers. When you’re in a significant congregation.”
That smarts. “As opposed to all the insignificant congregations out there?”
A faint blush rises in his cheeks. Good. Every once in a while, I have to call him out when he develops symptoms of SPS—senior-pastor syndrome. At least I’m not the only one uncomfortable here.
“I can’t believe you’ve never told me there were secrets.” Suddenly, I feel normal with David again. Evidently, equal discomfort means equilibrium. We could be back in the student pub processing the divinity-school mantra of “minister as theologian” over endless cups of coffee.
David leans forward and lowers his voice. “Information like this is shared on a need-to-know basis only.”
I lean forward too, liking the conspiratorial aspects of this conversation, as if someone’s giving me the secret handshake for the Old Boys’ Club. As I lean forward, though, the waitress appears and slides my Pasta YaYa in front of me so my nose almost wipes across it. The steam stings my eyes.
“Thanks.” David smiles at the waitress, and she more or less melts. What is it with women and their attraction to men in clerical
collars? There’s probably some deep psychosexual explanation courtesy of Freud.
Ew.
David twirls some pasta around his fork. “Okay, Secret Number One.”
I wish I could pull a pen and paper out of my purse, but I feel stupid enough already. “Yes?” I’m not even paying proper attention to my pasta, which tells you how much I want to know this stuff.
“At least once during each sermon, hold the Bible up in the air and wave it around.”
My fork falls from my fingers. “I thought you were serious.” David teases me all the time, or at least he used to, but I’m too raw right now to cope with it.
He laughs. “I’m not kidding. Congregations want someone who will ‘preach the Scripture.’ If you give them the image of you holding your Bible up in the air, they’ll think that’s what you’re doing.”
I’m impressed. And also appalled. “How’d you learn that?”
“Same way you are.”
“Over Pasta YaYa?”
He twirls more pasta on his fork. “No, you dope. Another minister told me.”
