Heavens to Betsy (25 page)

By the time I’ve finished talking with the staff at the health-care center and I’ve contacted the funeral home about Dottie, several hours have passed. When I finally meet LaRonda for coffee, I’m still pondering whether I can let God be God or whether I’ll keep insisting on letting Betsy be Betsy. Am I as stubborn as Dottie? Have I spent my spiritual life counting over and over to one hundred without listening
for a higher voice? Do I really have a call to ministry, or did I just want to have one because the church is supposed to be a safe place, the world’s biggest come-as-you-are party?

“I ordered for you,” LaRonda says and slides the latte across the café table to me. She looks as tired as I feel.

“You’re a goddess.”

“Tell that to my parishioners.”

The discouragement in her voice jerks me out of my own woes.

“What’s up?”

I look at her—really look at her, instead of just giving her a cursory glance as I did when I came in—and see the dark circles under her eyes.

“The grapevine at my church has been functioning overtime.”

“About you?”

She nods, her lips twisted too tightly for speech. Pain etches every line of her face, and she looks much older than her thirty-two years. I’ve seen more signs recently of the toll it takes on her, being a wunderkind of a preacher, but I assumed it was a temporary thing that would pass.

“What are they saying about you?”

I’m sure it’s one of the usual rumors, the kind you learn to dismiss out of hand. That you’re interviewing with another church. Or you’re having an affair with a married man. Or you don’t like men at all. Garden variety vicious gossip you just have to ignore.

LaRonda sighs. “A certain contingent has decided I’m not spiritually fit to be their pastor.”

My bark of laughter causes several nearby heads to swivel toward us. Slumping down in my chair, I sip my latte and then sigh. “Honey,
if you’re not spiritually fit to pastor, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

LaRonda drains the dregs of her coffee and snaps the cup down on the table. “Evidently I’m damned for all eternity because I divulged the secret recipe.”

Latte almost shoots out my nose. “What secret recipe?”

“The ladies auxiliary’s sacred cow. The recipe for Death-to-the-Diet Brownies.”

If LaRonda weren’t so upset, this would be very funny. “Their sacred cow is a brownie recipe?”

LaRonda twists her cup between her palms. “They hold a huge fund-raiser every year. People drive in from Kentucky, Mississippi, Georgia—you name it. Since the ladies auxiliary won’t give away the recipe, people buy dozens of brownies and freeze them.”

“How did you give away the recipe?”

LaRonda looks away. “I sent it in for my sorority’s alumnae cookbook. Under my name.”

For a long moment we’re both silent, because while I can understand what drove her to it, I can see we’re both thinking the same thing. It was wrong.

She smiles, but there’s no happiness or joy in it. “C’mon, Betz, you know what a lousy cook I am. I was desperate. All my sorority sisters are going to judge me on that recipe. What was I supposed to do? Send instructions for microwaving a Lean Cuisine?”

I don’t know what to say, because LaRonda’s never disappointed me like this before. “I guess you cut the wrong corner.”

“Yeah. I didn’t realize how serious they were about the secret part.”

Okay. Technically, recipes can’t be copyrighted. I learned that in
my first church when the ladies auxiliary put together a cookbook for the church’s one-hundredth anniversary. Two women submitted identical recipes for congealed carrot salad, and it was weeks before we sorted out the claims and counterclaims. LaRonda didn’t do anything illegal.

“Okay, so you gave away a recipe. Not a great thing, but it doesn’t make you a bad pastor. It just means you’re human.”

In LaRonda’s case, or in the case of any female minister, you have to wonder how much of the ladies auxiliary’s ire comes from the fact that they were betrayed by one of their own. If a man had divulged the recipe, would they have demanded his resignation? Or just been delighted that he exhibited an interest in baking?

“So, what will happen?”

LaRonda sighs. “It will blow over. Eventually. Until the next time I make a mistake. And then it will become part of the litany of my sinful ways.” LaRonda rubs her temples with her fingertips. “You know, Betz, I’m tired of trying to live my fathers life and my mother’s life simultaneously. I feel like I’m the preacher and the preacher’s wife.”

LaRonda’s always been so sure, so determined. It’s disconcerting to see the uncertainty in her eyes.

“Will you leave your church?”

It scares me to think of LaRonda giving up. If she can’t make it as a woman pastor, who can? But then I wonder why I care when I’m leaving the ministry anyway. I guess I want to know that someone can make it work, even if I can’t.

“Actually, I’m going to South Africa,” she says.

“Very funny, Ronnie.”

“I’m serious, Betz.”

Her eyes plead for understanding. “I’m going to teach in the school for AIDS orphans.”

“When did you decide this?” Hurt, anger, frustration all rise up from my stomach into my chest. “You had to have been thinking about this for a while. Why didn’t you tell me?”

No, no, no! This can’t be happening. First Velva, then David, and now LaRonda. It’s too cruel. I ignore the niggling voice in my head that says I’ve been keeping my own secrets.

“You can’t walk away,” I protest. “It will prove them right.”

“Prove who right?”

“Them. The ones who don’t want us in their churches. The ones who are always waiting for us to fail so they can pick apart our carcasses like vultures.”

“Do you seriously think male preachers don’t have their own circling buzzards?”

“But you made it, Ronnie. You did it. Senior pastor. Large church. The ‘in group at the ministers’ meetings.”

“And it wasn’t worth the price, Betsy. Not for me.” For the briefest of moments, I get a glimpse of the real LaRonda, the one she’s been hiding behind the fabulous makeup and the aura of power. Loneliness haunts her eyes, and responsibility has bowed her shoulders. “That was my father’s ministry. Not mine. I’m not serving God to prove a point. I’m serving God to, well, serve God.”

“And to do that you have to go to South Africa?” Panic takes up residence with the grief and hurt. “You can’t serve God in the continental United States?”

“Don’t judge me, Betsy. You haven’t been where I am. When it
comes to being a minority, I’m a double-dip. At least in the black community in South Africa I’ll only have one strike against me.”

“Oh, well, I see. Now the truth comes out. I thought we were equals, but apparently I’m been second-tier all along because I’m not as successful or as oppressed.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m not in the mood to be fair.” I know I’m pouting like a six-year-old deprived of a treat, and I’m not proud of it. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want to tell you earlier because of Velva. I know you’re hurting,” LaRonda snaps, “but don’t take it out on me.”

“But you’re leaving! What am I supposed to do?”

“That’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it?”

I hate it when LaRonda goes Zen on me.

“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds I might incriminate myself.”

“That makeover’s got to be more than skin-deep. You’re going to have to figure yourself out sooner or later, Betz.”

“Yeah, well, at the moment, later is an attractive option. I have enough to sort through in the short term. Besides, weren’t you the one who told me I couldn’t play it safe? That conflict is good?” I wish my tone of voice wasn’t bordering on the hysterical.

LaRonda arches an eyebrow. “Did something happen with Velva’s roommate?”

“Nothing. I mean, something did happen, obviously. She passed away while I was there.”

LaRonda seems grateful for the change of subject. “Was it traumatic?”

Part of me longs to tell her the truth, to seek her advice about
what it all means. But even though she’s still my best friend, something’s changed in our relationship. I always thought of her as a big sister with all the answers, and now I’m realizing that she’s just as human as the rest of us. She doesn’t have any secret knowledge, no guarantees.

“Betsy, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” When in doubt, act innocent.

“You’ve been acting funny for the past couple of weeks. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I screw up my courage. “Yes.”

“And that would be?”

I hang my head. “That I’m leaving the ministry.”

To my distress, I see something on LaRonda’s face I’ve never seen there before, and it looks a lot like contempt. It feels that way too.

“I never thought you’d be a quitter.”

That stings. “I don’t think I’m quitting. I’m just correcting my course. And I can’t believe you’d sit there and condemn me when you’ve just said you’re leaving too.”

“I’m not leaving, just refocusing. What happened to your call to ministry?” she says.

It’s the scariest question one minister can ask another. Because if we’re wrong about something as sacred as being called to be a minister, how can we be certain about anything? The most threatening thing to preachers isn’t personnel committees, declines in the offering, or even acts of God knocking down the sanctuary. It’s someone deserting the ranks.

“My call? What happened to yours?” I snap.

“You’ve been pretty sure for the past eight years.”

“So just because it’s not all sunshine and roses, you get to ditch the church?”

“You’re leaving your church. Why can’t I leave mine?”

LaRonda waves away my question. “We’re talking about you now. Have you told David about this?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Tears well up in my
eyes.
“Before or after he told me that he had no romantic interest in me whatsoever?”

“Ouch.” She may be mad at me, but she’s still sympathetic to my pitiful love life. “I guess last night didn’t go so well.”

“It’s been a tough week.”

She looks at me, and I see the pain in her eyes. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I mumble.

“Evidently, it’s my week to be disappointed.” She reaches down by her feet and snags her purse. “Look, Betsy, I’m sorry. Maybe it’s better if I just go.”

I try to catch her arm, but she slips by me. “Ronnie—”

“No, Betz. Not now. Maybe later.” She chokes on the words, and I know she’s about to cry.

“But—”

“I’ll call you later.”

And then she’s gone. The last crossbeam in my shaky hut of a life.

Angeliques on the phone, a frown creasing her face. “Yes, Mrs. Tompkins.”

I meet Angelique’s gaze and roll my eyes, but she doesn’t answer in kind. The frown on her lips matches the lines on her forehead.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says to Edna and then, after saying good-bye, she slowly places the receiver in its cradle.

I’m prepared for some very un-Christlike venting about what a pain in the neck Edna can be. Last night, when I wasn’t replaying my fight with LaRonda or mourning the debacle with David, I was stewing about how to confront Edna. “What’s up with Edna?”

“Didn’t they call you from the hospital?” Angelique asks.

“The hospital?”

“Edna was attacked in the church yesterday afternoon. They had to take her to the emergency room.”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. But Edna was gone,
wasn’t she, when I left to meet LaRonda? I saw her leave the sacristy myself. “Is she okay?” I may not like Edna, but I don’t hate her or wish her ill.