The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String (8 page)

Blank faces looked at her.

Vera cleared her throat and continued, “All of us will take orders for custom-made sandwiches from now until a week before the big game. We’ll sell them by the foot, up to three feet. Our ovens can’t bake buns bigger than three feet.”

Kevin snorted.

Vera gave him her dead-pan stare. “We’ll meet on Saturday before the game and assemble them so people can pick up their orders when they come to church on game day. All of us will be working together, ladies and youth. I have sign-up sheets for baking, manning the sales table, and helping shop for supplies. All of us will assemble. Any questions?”

“Didn’t Jesus kick over the tables and whip people who were, uh, you know, selling stuff at church? Isn’t this wrong?” Marcus had kept his hand in the air the whole time he’d asked the question.

“Way to pay attention in Sunday school.” Kevin smacked his brother on the back. Marcus replied by elbowing Kevin in the ribs. Rowdiness broke out as the kids began laughing and talking.

“Okay, okay.” Phil sprang out of his chair and stood bouncing slightly on his toes. “We’ll work out the theology. It’s a great start, and we want to thank Mrs. Henley and the ladies,
don’t we
?” Vera was squinting toward the back of the room.

“Mrs. Henley?” Phil asked.

She craned her neck forward, trying to peer into the darkened corner. There were four wooden chairs in a semi-circle, facing the wall. From the seats, one could have an eye-level stare into the face of the picture hanging there.

“Mrs. Henley?”

She gasped, “Is that my painting? Why is it in the High School Room?”

*

Vera did not wait until she got home to make the call. She proceeded to the secretary’s office, unlocked it with her personal key, and phoned Walt, the Property Manager. When he didn’t answer, she left a quiet message loaded with meaning, “Walt. I found Saint Peter.”

*

Walt, set in his ways for sixty+ years, only answered the phone if he felt like it, and often he wasn’t in the mood to be disturbed. He hadn’t had much use for chatter before his wife died, ten years ago. She was the one who used the phone. His kids had brought him an answering machine. He’d finally hooked it up and found it surprisingly handy. He could listen to calls and never even get out of his chair.

He used the remote to turn down the TV when the phone rang.

“Walt. I found Saint Peter.” He could imagine Vera’s face. Her mouth tight like two boards epoxy-ed together and eyes like drill bits biting into him. God bless the person who’d invented the answering machine.

Her St. Peter picture was like a squeaky floorboard. It kept coming back, no matter what you did to it. It must have been over fifteen years ago when she’d painted the thing.

The white hair on the old guy looked like it needed a dryer sheet, sticking out in all directions as though he’d been hit by lightning. Maybe he had been, because his overly large fingers curled inward like claws, and his eyebrows, black as night, fuzzed upward in eternal anger. It was the eyes, though, that gave out the jeebies. Walt had never seen a human with black eyes. They cut right through a person—at the neck.

He remembered talking about it with Ruby, his wife. She’d said that Peter sure was a scurrilous bub if that’s what he looked like. Walt agreed, saying that was a face to guard hell, not heaven’s gates.

He’d dutifully hung it in the narthex, as instructed by the Council. After all, it was a gift of art to the church. Walt supposed that he wasn’t much of an art connoisseur because he never heard anyone comment about how menacing it was. The ladies always sat the Christmas tree in front of it. Visitors stared at it. But no one
said
anything.

When it was time to paint the narthex, the portrait was removed and it never reappeared. Vera seemed pleased when she was told that her masterpiece was making guest appearances in the Sunday school rooms. It was true. If a Sunday school teacher found the painting in her classroom, she’d sneak it into another room because small children cried if they had to stay in a room with a guy who looked as though he’d cut off your hand if it caused you to sin.

When the kids were taught they were both sinner and saint at the same time, their eyes grew big. Imagining the scowling, pirate-faced portrait, they stuttered, “Like Saint Peter?” Walt figured those kids would need therapy to get over their exposure to that painting.

Then one day it had disappeared. Other members of the Property Committee told him it was in storage. He hadn’t spent much time looking for it, but he knew Vera had. He figured it must be in the attic with the organ pipes. It was the one place Vera couldn’t get to.

Now, it was Saint Peter’s second coming.

*

Walt had expected more phone calls from Vera during the next few days but heard nothing. Only Phil, the youth director, seemed concerned about the artwork.

“Hey, Walt.” Phil stopped outside of the propped-open door of the men’s restroom at church. Walt stood inside, on a ladder, replacing a ceiling light. “Pastor Poe said I should check with you to see if the youth could keep St. Peter a while longer. Mrs. Henley said it was an important piece of art that was to be installed in the narthex.”

“Uhh. It’s been missing for a while; where’d you find it?”

“Oh, when we had the all-night-gamer for New Year’s Eve, we unlocked the closet to the belfry. The kids wanted to ring the church bell at midnight.”

“Yeah, I heard that. It was grand. Hadn’t been done in years,” Walt said.

“Lots of people in the neighborhood called the church, thanking us for ringing in the New Year.” Phil shook his head. “Who knew? I figured we’d get complaints. Anyway, the painting was in the rope-pull closet. The kids really like him. He looks like a punk-rocker. They didn’t think anyone would mind if they stuck him in their room.”

“Just Vera…” Walt climbed down the ladder.

“No, she’s okay with it. She seems pretty pleased the kids refer to him as their mascot. Well, mostly the guys. The girls sometimes hang a scarf over it. I didn’t mention that. It might hurt her feelings.”

“That’s my #2 Rule: Never give ’em too much information. One-word answers if you can.” Walt flipped the switch to test the bulb.

“What’s #1?”

“Complain about everything.”

“Oh! Well, in that case, I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to let you know she said we could enjoy it for a while, but not to get too attached because you were scheduled to reinstall it in the narthex. Pastor Poe—he kind of likes it, too—said to check when you’re going to hang it.”

“Aaah, well, Rule #3 applies here. You and the kids just enjoy your new mascot. The Property Committee’s gonna have to discuss when and where to display that portrait.” Walt patted Phil’s shoulder. “And you know how long it takes some decisions to come out of committee.”

“What’s Rule #3?” the young man asked.

Walt picked up the ladder and started toward the maintenance closet, calling over his shoulder, “Try to get away as quick as possible.”

“LADIES. LADIES. I’D like to get started. We’ve lots to cover today.” Vera tried to speak over the settling-in noises of the January Circle meeting.

“Thank you, thank you!” Kay said as Micki set a plate of her Skillion Dollar Fudge on the table. “Has someone made coffee?”

Vera, who had been conspicuously ignoring Kay since the Christmas Eve incident, spoke over Kay’s last syllable. “We’ll start with new business because we haven’t made it that far into the agenda in past meetings. We will be working with—”

“Am I supposed to mail off that stuff from our Hygiene Drive?” Hettie asked.

“Hettie,” Vera nailed her with a stare, “I’d like to finish with my new business.”

“I agree, Vera,” Nan said, helping herself to the fudge and ignoring the inner voice that told her to shut up. “I just need to understand…when did we have a Hygiene Drive?”

“Oh, you know. Someone,” Hettie looked at Kay, “suggested a mission project, and I was privileged to do it—like always.”

“It was a joke,” protested Kay, waving for the dish to be hurried around the table.

Nan sat forward in her chair. “You’re kidding. When did we do this?”

“Well, it might have gotten a bit overshadowed by Christmas, but I put a box in the narthex to collect goods. I put a poster on it, but someone…” Hettie looked at Vera, “felt a sign that said ‘Hygiene Collection’ was inappropriate for the Christmas visitors. So I stuck a
tasteful
little ‘Donate” sticky note on it, but it kept falling off.”

“No. No. You needed a big honkin’ sign. One that smacks ’em in the head. ‘Soap for Missions’.” Kay waggled a large hunk of chocolate-walnut fudge in the air, “Marketing, Hettie, marketing.”

“Well, all right, Miss Funny Pants, you can do the next project.” Hettie smirked.

“Ladies.” Vera sent a stern look at the women. “The topic is the youth sandwich fund—Nan?” The church organist had turned away from the table, her head in her hands. “Nan? Are you all right?”

The organist faced them, her mouth scrunched tight, but a giggle squeaked out. “Can you imagine people trying to figure out what to put in a box intermittently marked: Donate and Hygiene?”

“Or who it was for?” Kay said.

“Did you,” Allie, the new member, asked, “collect anything in the nameless box?”

“I got some…” Hettie tried to restrain the laugh percolating up her throat, “feminine hygiene products.” Kay and Nan hooted.

“And some toilet paper,” Hettie tittered. “And…some paper towels. I can’t figure that one out.” Her face turned red as she pressed her fingertips to her lips.

“I gave that!” Micki’s mouth puckered in a slight pout. “I thought we were collecting stuff for the ladies’ restrooms.”

Hettie cleared her throat. “Thank you, Micki. That was nice, and the strangest thing happened to the box.” A giggle leaked between her words. “I found it…I actually didn’t find it.” Her face turned redder and a tear escaped. “Walt found it—” she squeaked, “in the men’s restroom.”

Squeals and yowls followed, except for Vera. She slowly tapped her agenda with her pencil, waiting for a moment of maturity to dawn. With a voice that could chip ice, she skewered anyone who would give her eye contact. “I am so sorry our December mission project became a joke. That is an important month with so many in need.”

“Oh, Vera, the weather’s miserable. We all needed a good laugh before getting down to business,” Kay said. The women were blowing their noses, dabbing their eyes with tissues, and trying to look as serious as Vera’s words.

“Well, Kay,” Vera’s voice carried a sandpaper edge, “since our last mission drive did not meet expectations, I believe you will be doing our next project. I think you have some catching up to do. Can you handle that?”

Kay frowned and studied Vera, deciding if she’d tossed out a put-down or a dare. Two-word replies flitted through her head.
Bite me
seemed kinder and more humorous than
Stick it
. Neither had ever gleaned the positive results she’d hoped but were immensely satisfying to say. After a moment of culling her thoughts, she gave Vera a measured look. “I accept your challenge.” She fanned a fudge-laden hand across the room. “I can see posters and newsletters: Socks for Saints and Sinners!”

Hettie broke into another giggle.

“I’m serious,” Kay said, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “Different groups in the church will collect new, unused socks. There’ll be a prize for the group that donates the most. We’ll send the whole shebang to Lutheran Missions.”

“I never meant for this to be a contest,” Vera said.

“I’ll bring socks.” Micki wiped her eyes with her fingertips.

“Fine.” Vera’s voice sounded tired. “Don’t go overboard with it, Kay. Now, as I was saying prior to this laughfest…our fundraiser with the youth—”

“Oh, we’ll just do it the same way we do youth dinners.” Hettie rubbed a tissue under her nose. “I’ll sell tickets with the kids because I like those teenage boogers. You buy the groceries, Vera, because you like watching the money, and everyone will assemble the sandwiches.”

“Well, there is the matter of baking the buns.” Vera consulted her list.

“Buy the buns,” Kay said flatly.

“Hettie and Merle love to bake, and it’ll save money.” Vera gave Kay a “that’s-that” stare.

Hettie’s giggles evaporated. Her teacher eyes narrowed as though she’d discovered someone cutting the lunch line. “That’s true, but I don’t remember volunteering myself or my husband to do the cooking.”

“Well, I like shopping, but I don’t remember saying I would buy all the supplies. This was your plan.”

“You’re right, Vera. You didn’t. We’ll switch. You bake. I’ll shop with the kids.”

“Buy the buns,” Kay droned, remembering that the Ladies’ last baking project had yielded little hamburger buns domed so high it required a reticulating jaw to get a mouth around them. “Homemade buns are goofy. Right?” She looked to Micki for support.

Micki put on a look of seriousness. “If Hettie’s doing the shopping, who’s selling tickets?” A timely change in the subject had always been her best peace tactic. Too late, she realized she’d suggested a new duty. Wide-eyed, she shrunk in her chair and studied the table, hoping she hadn’t volunteered.

Nan suddenly became busy with her knitting. The room fell silent. “Kay?” Hettie stared down the line of women. “And don’t use that
adiophora
stuff with me. Your kids are part of this group using the fundraising monies.”

“What’s
adiophora
?” asked Allie.

“It’s…complicated. I’ll tell you later,” Micki said.

“It’s not complicated.” One corner of Kay’s mouth kinked into a frown.

“You can teach Lutheran ‘middle issues’ later,” Vera’s voice tightened so the words snapped out. “Will you help or not?”

Again, Kay looked at her, replies rolling through her head. “Yeah, sure,” she finally said. “I’ll sit in the narthex, hawking socks and sandwiches.”

Allie raised her hand half-way. “I’ll help you.”

“You’re new. I’d hate for you to leave our church so soon,” Vera said. “Working with Kay is like hanging on to run-away horses.”