Killing Casanova (23 page)

I’ll cut to the chase. The pastor and the board, with pressure from parents who had decided that they wanted VBS, but never got around to organizing one even though all the advertisements went out to the community over the last month, voted last night that the teens, who didn’t work during the day, could run it. Of course, mind you, no teens had volunteered nor heard about this, and their youth minister, moi, didn’t know nothing no how, either. Bottom line? Two hundred children would show up at Desert Hills at 9:00
A.M.
Monday morning, and I was to give them a week of Godly training. Oh, me and whatever teenagers I could scrounge up in just over forty-eight hours.

You might wonder what happened to the children’s ministry leader who should have been in charge of VBS. Me, too. Every workplace has skeletons, yet Desert Hills seems to be over its national average. “Oh, just taking some time off.” “Guessing she needs a vacation, baby on the way and things.” “Something like a sabbatical.” Even Vera looked off into the distance and got a soft look on her drill-sergeant face, which was so nipped and tucked it was hard to tell if she was smiling or grimacing. Only thing she said was, “You’ll need to talk to Pastor Bob about this, Jane.” So I stopped asking because my first question about the children’s ministry leader had to be to good old Ab Normal himself. Clashes happen, even in churches, and the District Council in its wisdom sometimes pulls ministers away from their flocks, such as me being yanked screaming and kicking from that inner-city church. Somebody was bound to spill the beans eventually. See, contrary to the word on the street, I can be patient.

A few minutes later Vera dropped her plentiful posterior in the straight-backed chair across the desk from me, plunked a cup of coffee in front of me, and rolled her big brown eyes. The need to know what happened to the previous children’s minister was far, far away in another galaxy.

“Read it? Didn’t have the heart to tell you over the phone.”

“I know VBS is good for kids and great PR, but honestly, Vera, can I handle this?”

She tipped back the coffee mug, pursed her lips, coated deeply with layers of pink and lined with red, which perfectly matched the Hawaiian print of her form-fitting shirt. Vera wiggled her eyebrows up, squished her nose and said, “Beats the heck out of me.”

“Thanks a bundle.”

Holding the doorframe to the cubicle Vera said, “Harmony Miller is waiting to see you. She’s got a nasty bruise on her arm. Thought you should be the one to ask about it.” Then she lifted her eyebrows, and I saw a fleeting bit of grandmotherly emotion cross her eyes. “Want me to stay?” Again, as Vera reached for my now-empty cup, even her face, plasticized by surgery, softened.

“Is she in your office? She wasn’t in the foyer when Pastor Bob and I had our chat.”

“No, think she went to the kitchen to help prepare the lunch the women’s group is taking to the rescue mission. The Daily Bread Team feeds about hundred each day and sometimes more on Fridays. But hey, you know that, since you’re there often enough. Either you like what they’re doing or you’re going for the free lunch — just kidding.”

Have you ever noticed when people say, “just kidding,” they’re really not kidding at all?

• • •

I saw the bruise before I focused on Harmony. It was fierce and covered much of her forearm, more purple than black. I’d always thought she looked like a very young Meg Ryan, but her vocabulary could have made a sailor squirm, until I reminded her that even this kitchen was part of the church. Lately it would only make a Marine squirm.

“What’s on the menu for the Daily Bread today?” I flopped an arm on her shoulder and felt her stiffen before she wiggled out. I dropped the arm. She wouldn’t have been the first kid, or adult, to show dislike for a pushy preacher. Second guess? More bruises under her scruffy T-shirt.

“Chicken or cheese sandwiches, pickles, chips, and fruit,” she replied and moved out of my reach, rubbing her shoulder. “Always, coffee, water, soda, and milk, too. We’ll leave the platters of veggies, hummus, and pita bread for the crowd that comes at night.”

“Sounds better than the stuff I have at home. Harmony, you wanted to see me?” I asked in a light, hopefully non-threatening way. I stayed close, but didn’t touch.

“No,” she snapped in response.

Harmony wasn’t like the whiney kids in the youth group. This was the first I’d seen she had a temper and honestly? It made me feel a micron better because all the fight hadn’t been kicked out of her like some of the kids that I’d known who had been tossed from one foster home to another.

We both stared at her feet in dusty, ragged, high-top basketball shoes and then, I hope without her knowing, I allowed my gaze to travel to her face, noting she could be the Goth poster girl since black was the only color of her wardrobe. As I looked into her blue eyes, I could see a frightened little girl in there. I continued, “Vera said you asked for me. I have time now. Want to come to my office with me or when you finish?”

She turned away. I wondered if she was willing her eyes in another direction, then she turned quickly, only to turn away again before saying, “I didn’t want to talk to you. Vera said I should.”

“We’re finished here for now,” said one of the women, placing the sack lunches in a box. “Thanks, Harmony. See you at the mission? You can get a ride over with me in about an hour if you’re going to help serve again today.” I waved to the ladies and then whispered to Harmony, “Want to head out of here and get something cold and slushy at Starbucks?”

Harmony looked at me for the briefest second. We walked into the hall and toward my office and then she finally said, “I gotta’ find a better place to live.”

I would have closed the door, but there wasn’t one. Taking a breath, I vowed to respond in my quiet voice, even if I were shocked, which I knew I’d be. “Are you hurt? Were you assaulted? Did someone touch you inappropriately? Molest you?”