The Soprano Wore Falsettos (3 page)

“Absolutely,” I said, handing Marilyn a cup of coffee and taking a sip of my own.

I picked up my own coffee at The Ginger Cat on my way to the church and one for Marilyn as well. She’d given me a heads-up. Father George had taken to making the coffee for the morning meetings at the church. We’d been used to getting Community Coffee, shipped to us from Louisiana, but the good reverend had decided that it was too expensive. Now he personally went to the Food Mart and bought the cheapest generic brand he could find. He definitely didn’t have the taste buds the rest of us did. It was weak as a baby squirrel and about the same color. He’d drink his two cups and the rest would be thrown away at about noon. The real coffee drinkers now had to walk across the square and pay for their cup of cheer.

“Squeal,” I said.

“You know Benny Dawkins?”

“Sure,” I said. Benny was the thurifer at St. Barnabas. The best incense-swinger around. “What about him?”

“He’s suing the organist. Umm…substitute organist,” she corrected. “Agnes Day.”

I’m sure I looked surprised. Marilyn continued.

“It seems he brought his great-grandfather’s old violin for her to look at and give him some advice on selling it.”

“Did she?”

“Did she
ever.
She bought it from him for eight hundred dollars.”

“That sounds like a good deal,” I said. “Most old violins aren’t even worth that.”

“This one was,” said Marilyn, “and more. A whole lot more. I don’t know how much, but Benny was very upset. Anyway, she sold it in New York and he’s suing her.”

“I don’t think he’ll win,” I said.

“That’s what Logan told him, too, but he doesn’t care.”

“So, Logan wouldn’t take the case?”

“Nope. Benny found a lawyer in Asheville, though. Some guy that advertises on TV.”

“Hi there,” said Beverly Greene, walking in to the room and cutting our conversation short. “I’m
so
glad you’re back. Did you get me one of those, too?” She pointed to my coffee.

“I’m
not
back,” I said. “I just came for the meeting. And sorry about the coffee. I only had two hands.”

“I have some coffee here,” said Father George, the next into the room. He was juggling a carafe and his stack of meeting papers.

“Umm…no thanks,” said Bev. “I forgot that I already had two cups this morning.”

The rest of the folks made their way into the room in the next few minutes. Bev was the new Parish Administrator. It was a part-time position that she’d taken over at the beginning of January. Even after Rob Brannon, Father George’s first choice for P.A., had been arrested for murder and fraud, Father George was still convinced he needed an administrator. He didn’t like conflict and like most folks who don’t like conflict, he couldn’t bring himself to be put in that position. He could make the call; he just didn’t want to be the hatchet man. He’d sooner go in for a root canal than have to fire someone. He also didn’t want to be responsible for making any financial decisions. The rector had a discretionary fund, but he didn’t have to answer to anyone for that. Everything else he wanted out of his purview. When he interviewed Bev for the job, after she mentioned that she wouldn’t mind giving it a try, he asked her if she would have a problem disciplining a member of the staff or telling a volunteer that his or her talents might be better used elsewhere.

“Hell, no,” she said.

“Let’s say that the sexton steals something from my desk when he’s cleaning up.”

“I’d fire his sorry butt,” she said, then added demurely, “with your permission, of course.”

So now, as Parish Administrator, Bev was in charge of writing the checks (although she didn’t keep the books), scheduling the building, and all other various and sundry chores that fell under her “job description.” One of them was to come to the worship committee meetings. The books had been kept, since the dark ages, by Randall Stamps, an ancient bean counter who had come to a grisly end last fall. Now they were sent to an accounting agency. Beverly was still in charge of collecting pledges, however, and making sure they were kept current by gentle reminders.

Also present at the meeting were Brenda Marshall and Joyce Cooper. Brenda was the St. Barnabas Christian Education director. She hadn’t been a popular appointment with many of the old guard Episcopalians, being, as far as anyone could tell by her freely-spouted, touchy-feely theology, a Uni-luther-presby-metho-lopian. She had never even attended an Anglican church before being hired by the previous priest, something she alluded to frequently with a certain amount of pride. Bev was just itching to fire her, and she’d actually thought that Brenda was the reason that Father George had hired her — to bring down the ax. Privately, Bev had confided to me that it was going to be tough to get rid of Brenda. She’d been there over a year, she hadn’t actually done anything wrong and there would have to be a very good reason for her dismissal. Brenda had seen the writing on the wall and was already hinting at lawsuits having to do with the previous priest. Bev didn’t know if she was bluffing or not.

Georgia Wester, one of my good friends, had been on the worship committee when I left last October, but she had rotated off in January and had been replaced by Joyce Cooper, a member of the Altar Guild.

“Good morning, everyone,” said Father George, bringing the meeting to order. “And I’m sure we’d all like to say ‘thanks’ to Hayden for coming.” He addressed me. “I’d really like your input on our services even though you’re technically on leave.”

The rest of the group nodded in agreement.

“I brought some coffee, if anyone would like any,” said Father George, pushing the carafe into the center of the table.

“No thanks,” said Bev.

“I’m trying to cut down,” said Brenda.

“I already have some,” I said.

“Me too,” added Marilyn.

“I think I’m allergic,” said Joyce. I snorted, but managed to turn it into a cough. Joyce, sitting next to me, whispered out of the side of her mouth, “It’s all I could think of.”

Father George, shuffling through his papers, didn’t seem to notice.

“As you are all aware,” he continued, “Easter is three weeks away.” He turned to me. “We’ve already made plans for Holy Week.”

“Of course,” I said, with a genuine smile.

“But, feel free to make whatever suggestions you’d like. We’ll try to incorporate them if we can.”

“I probably won’t,” I said. “I’m sure that whatever you’ve decided to do during worship services will be meaningful and appropriate.” I meant it. Really. In the days before my sabbatical, I had been very involved in planning the services, but now that I wasn’t actually attending St. Barnabas, I was having a hard time generating any concern. If I was going to be asked for my opinion, I probably couldn’t keep quiet, but I was sure going to try. Less stress, I told myself.

“How’re we doing on the Maundy Thursday service?” Father George asked.

“I think I have it about finished,” said Brenda.

I froze, the coffee cup just touching my lips, as an icy feeling crept up my spine; in spite of myself, I looked over at Marilyn. She was avoiding my gaze, fighting to keep a smile off her lips.

“I went over all the material Father George gave me,” Brenda said to me, in that wonderful tone of voice with which she used to terrify children, “and so, when designing the service, I used the traditions of the Episcopal Church as well as incorporating some other denominational material and several ideas of my own.”

The worship committee looked over at me.

“I’m sure it will be wonderful,” I said, sweetly. “Sometimes it’s a
really
good idea to design your own services. People will find it very meaningful.” It was a sarcastic comment, but I did my best to kept all the disparagement out of my voice. If the words hadn’t come out of my very own mouth, I might have thought I actually meant them. Marilyn, across the table, was not fooled. She was losing her battle and had started to chew on her tongue.

“George,” I said. “Seriously. You know, you don’t really have to ‘design’ services. It’s been done. They’re right there in the prayer book.”

“Oh, I know, Hayden, but I thought that Brenda needed the experience of planning the Maundy Thursday service. I gave her all the literature as well as the prayer book. It’ll be fine.”

“That’s great,” I said, with a big smile.

Chapter 3

“
You married?” she asked, sipping her drink with the slurping sound of a dentist’s vacuum, the one that hangs on your lip like a giant fishhook and hoovers up your spit before it overruns and dribbles onto your bib.

“
Nope.”

“
Seeing anyone?” I liked a woman that got right to the point.

“
Now and then,” I said. I tried to think of Francine, but my mind kept leapfrogging like a Greek sailor back to the vision in front of me. I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself.

She shrugged. “Well, maybe we can get together some-time. You know, off the books.”

I nodded, trying to maintain eye contact.

“
Anyway,” she said with a smile, “I’m from the bishop.”

“
The bishop?” I frowned. I knew all of the bishop’s gals, and Memphis Belle wasn’t one of them.

“
Not your bishop. The Presiding Bishop.”

“
Ah,” I said with a nod. “The Presiding Bishop.” The fog was clearing. My bishop had quite a stable, but this filly was something special. The Presiding Bishop was the bishop’s bishop. The king bishop, if you will. And, as the saying goes, it is good to be the king.

Memphis Belle and I spent the rest of the afternoon up at my place, engaged in a steamy theological discourse about the American view of eschatology and dispensational pre-millennialism.

Nah. Not really.

• • •

“This is just awful,” said Meg, joining me at my table at The Ginger Cat.

“I thought you said you didn’t hate it.”

“I wasn’t talking about your writing, which is not especially awful. Just moderately awful.”

“What then?” I asked.

“I just got appointed to a church committee.”

“It’s a bad one?”

“It’s the worst one. I was put on because I’m on the vestry and someone thinks that I’d be a good chairman.”

“Chairwoman,” I corrected. “It’s because you’re so irresistible. What’s the committee?”

“Chairperson. It’s the committee to decide how to spend sixteen million dollars.”

“Yikes,” I said, “but don’t you mean four million? Four million a year for four years. That’s what the settlement was.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” said Meg. “But the bank’s accountants have now decided that it would be in their best interest to pay the entire amount this fiscal year rather than to stretch it out. They’ve got their reasons I suppose, and whatever their rationale, we’re going to have sixteen million dollars by the end of April.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Put it in a money market account and forget about it for a long time.”

“I wish,” Meg grumbled. “The congregation found out about it, and they all have great ideas on how to spend it. See what you miss when you stay at home? Speaking of money, has anyone cashed that Powerball ticket yet? It jackpot was up to a hundred and twenty million.”

“I haven’t heard.”

Cynthia Johnsson came over to take our order. She’d been working at The Ginger Cat off and on, since it opened a few years ago. She was also a certified belly dancer, giving lessons and doing quite a number of parties around the area. I asked her once how one became “certified.” She just winked, and I didn’t inquire further. I’d once gotten Meg some lessons for her birthday, but had been informed, rather brusquely, that my generosity was hardly a present for
her
and
my
birthday was quite a way off. Luckily, I’d had a back-up present in hand.

“What’ll it be?” Cynthia asked.

“Turkey and sprouts on whole wheat,” answered Meg. “And some raspberry tea.”

Cynthia wrote it down and turned to me.

“Got anything bloody? Something out of a cow?”

Cynthia shook her head. “No beef. Annie’s on a health kick. Chicken salad or turkey. Hey! How about a bean curd and chive sandwich on toasted sourdough? Or maybe a portabella mushroom wrap with avocado paste?”

I shuddered. “Turkey,” I said. “On rye. No sprouts.”

“It
comes
with sprouts,” Cynthia said. “And a side of baby carrots in an almond glaze.”

“Give ’em to a rabbit,” I griped. “Put some cheese on that sandwich and an extra slice of turkey. And make it rare.”

“Our turkey’s already cooked,” teased Cynthia, “but I could put some strawberry jam on it. You can pretend that it’s blood.”