The Soprano Wore Falsettos (6 page)

“Thanks, Bud,” I said, handing him a ten dollar bill. “You know, if you ever want to go into business, I’ll be happy to set you up.”

“I can’t until I’m twenty-one,” said Bud.

“You can’t sell wine until you’re twenty-one. But you can certainly sell advice.”

“Maybe. Let me think about it.”

Collette watched Bud walk back to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Well, paint me pink and call me Porkchop,” exclaimed Collette. “I never saw such a thing in all my life.”

Chapter 6

I was still thinking, something I do slowly and care-fully, so I won’t have to do it twice, when the door to my office banged open and in swished three men wearing neck scarves. They struck the traditional pose--elbows in, wrists out. I recognized decorators when I saw them.

“
Mornin’, boys,” I grunted. “What brings you to this side of town?”

They were a stereotype waitin’ for a bus. The blonde California-boy was wearing a pink button-down tied up around his midriff. The Latin egg was draped in red leather, and the muscle was a huge black man with a shaved head and I didn’t want to know what else.

“
Do not toy wis us,” said the egg, in broken English with just a hint of a lisp. “It is WE who are in charge of the coloration project.”

“
Settle down boys,” I said. “Have a squirt of eel juice.” I pulled four glasses out of my top drawer, spit in them and wiped ‘em out with my used handkerchief. I watched the boys shudder as I poured myself a shot.

“
No sank you,” snarled the egg. “My name is Raoul.”

“
And who are your friends?”

“
Zese are my associates, Biff and D’Roger.”

“
D’Roger?”

“
DO NOT TOY WIS US!” screamed the egg, snapping open a six-inch blade.

“
Now don’t start anything, boys,” I said, reaching into the other drawer for my heater. “You’re just here to talk, right?”

• • •

“Remember when I said that I didn’t hate it?” asked Meg.

“Yes,” I said. “That one comment has been my inspiration to continue.”

“I changed my mind. You now have a character named D’Roger, and you’re writing with a lisp. All bets are off. And let me ask you this,” she continued.

“Okay, ask.”

“You don’t have the choir any more, so you can’t be writing this story for them. Just who are you writing it for?”

“I think you mean ‘to
whom
for am I writing it?’ But that’s okay. Don’t feel bad. I
am
, after all,
a writer. Many people mix up who and whom.”

“Answer the question,” she growled. It was a sexy growl. “
Whom
are you writing it for?”

“Well, I may have a choir again someday,” I said. “But, to tell the truth, I just like to type on this old typewriter.”

Meg relaxed. “Okay then. If that’s the reason, you go on ahead. I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“Plus,” (and I was saving this news for last), “there’s a murder mystery blog that’s going to publish my collected works,” I said, “called
The Usual Suspects.
I already sent them the first three novelettes.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes! The first one is coming out next month.”

• • •

“Let’s call this meeting to order, please,” hollered Billy Hixon, simultaneously banging the silent microphone on the podium. “Is this stupid thing working?”

For a church that averaged about eighty in worship, there was quite a turnout. Everyone who called him or herself a member of St. Barnabas had showed up for this parish meeting. There were about eighty chairs set out. The other two hundred people were standing around the periphery of the room.

“Please, people,” said Billy, after someone walked to the front and showed him how to turn the mic on. “Let’s get started.”

The crowd settled down, and Billy called on Father George to open the meeting with a prayer.

“Is there a prayer for spending sixteen million dollars?” I asked Meg under my breath.

“I think so. There’d better be.”

It was a quick prayer that began by beseeching God, in His infinite wisdom, to leave us open to His will in all things and ended with an impatient muttering of amens sprinkled throughout the room.

“It is the vestry’s decision,” said Father George, “and let me just say that I agree with it, that the disbursement of the funds recently acquired by St. Barnabas will be decided by a committee of six knowledgeable people. It is not a job for the vestry, and it certainly is not a job for the priest.”

“Why not just invest the money, and we can use the interest to pay all of our bills?” asked Joe Wootten.

“That’s a good question, Joe,” Father George said. “And we certainly may do that with some of the money. But it is my feeling and the vestry concurs that making St. Barnabas a self-sustaining corporation would be a mistake in the life of the church. It is important for the people that are St. Barnabas to know that they are needed, that their gifts and their tithes are what sustain the church and that their talents are appreciated and invaluable. What would become of us if we decided that we were so rich that we didn’t need an Altar Guild? Why not hire someone to come in and fix the flowers every week? Or what if we decided that we were all too busy to bother to fix church suppers? It certainly would be easier to have every meal catered by the Hunter’s Club. Or why not have the choir replaced by a professional choral group?”

“Hey...what a good idea,” I whispered, just prior to an elbow hitting my ribs.

“The reason that we don’t do this is because St. Barnabas is its people,” he continued. “We are all connected and involved. It’s what makes this a wonderful place to be and to worship. We don’t want to change that.”

“But shouldn’t we put a couple million away in case the furnace breaks again?” asked Rebecca Watts, to laughter from the crowd.

“Well,” said Father George, as the laughter subsided, “the furnace has been replaced, and the physical plant is in good repair. I want you all to understand this. It is as important to the giver to be allowed to give, as it is to the church to be able to use the gift. We, as a congregation, need to give, and we are blessed in the giving.”

He looked around the room. “How many of you would continue to tithe and give to St. Barnabas if you knew that there was sixteen million dollars in the bank and all of the bills were paid?”

About half of the folks in the room put their hands up.

“Now, remembering that I am, in fact, a priest and that you are in church,” he continued with a smile, “I ask you the same question again.”

More laughter. Then, around the room, hands began to drop as people began to seriously consider the question.

“What are we going to do then?” asked a woman, whom I had never seen in church before. “Just give it away?”

“Some of it, certainly,” said Father George. “There is a lot of good we can do in the area. The Appalachian region is one of the poorest areas in the country, and we can certainly make a difference. And we certainly can plan for the future of the building itself and put away enough for any major repairs or work that needs to be done. But I think we can go much further.”

He looked around the room, his eyes bright. “I see this as a great opportunity. It might be a good idea, for instance, to create a scholarship fund. Not the entire amount needed to perpetuate it, but a beginning; something in which we can all have a part. Or perhaps we might launch a concert series or start a food kitchen for the needy in our community. But that’s what our committee will decide.”

“Very eloquent,” I said to Meg, under my breath. She nodded.

“There is nothing about this process that will be done secretly,” said Father George. “It will be as transparent as possible. The members of the committee are Meg Farthing, Malcolm Walker, Lee Dalbey, Hayden Konig, Billy Hixon, and Gwen Jackson. Once the committee has made its recommendation, the vestry will vote on it. Yes or no. If the vote is no, it goes back to the committee. Now, if any of you have any ideas or comments, and I’m sure a few of you do, I’ll open the floor to suggestions.”

• • •

The first one to come to the front was Russ Stafford. Russ was on the vestry and was a real estate agent and developer. He lumbered to the front, carrying an easel, several poster-sized drawings and a folder. He took a minute to set up his props, put his folder on the lectern and begin his presentation. Most people in the meeting weren’t prepared for such an elaborate presentation, assuming that this was going to be more of a brainstorming session. But Russ, ever the salesman, wasn’t going to be caught flatfooted.

“I have a proposal,” he began, “that, I think we will all agree, would be one of the most advantageous uses of this money. I recommend that we take some of this money and invest in building a new rectory for the church.”

I looked around the room. Everyone was listening politely, which was a change for St. Barnabas. Russ took this as a good sign.

“As you know,” he continued, “the current rectory is over seventy-five years old.”

This was true. Our rectory, the house provided to St. Barnabas’ priest, was built in 1927, but it was a beautiful old house constructed mostly of stone. I had never heard a priest complain about his or her living arrangements. There was one priest who chose to buy his own house rather than live in the rectory, and that was fine with everyone. In those years, we simply rented it out to another family. The house had ten-foot ceilings, hardwood floors, a newly designed and remodeled kitchen, fireplaces in the bedrooms, and was situated one block off Main Street — just a five-minute walk from the church. I thought it was a wonderful house.

“I propose that we begin construction on a house in The Clifftops. There are many advantages to this as I think you will see…” Russ flipped the first board over. It was an artist’s rendition of what I presumed was the clubhouse at The Clifftops, nicely drawn and professionally colored. “The Clifftops,” Russ explained, “is a gated community with two professionally designed eighteen-hole golf courses. It’s located eighteen miles from St. Germaine on two thousand acres. It’s going to have six hundred home sites, two clubhouses, tennis courts…the works. Very upscale. All the homes will be in the one to six million dollar range.” He grinned a toothy, real-estate grin and flipped to the next board. It was a picture of a grand house overlooking a stunning gorge view. At the bottom were the words “St. Barnabas Rectory.” A murmur went through the crowd.

“If we get in now, on the ground-floor, the price of the house we build will double in the next three years. And I’m here to tell you, people, that’s a darn good investment!”

I looked around the room again. People were nodding their heads just a little — not committing themselves, but acknowledging the unabashed and obvious genius of Russ’ plan.

Russ smiled a big smile now, the smile of the closer. “What do y’all think?” He directed the question to Meg, Malcolm and me, who were all sitting together. The other three members of the committee were behind us somewhere.

“We can certainly take your idea under advisement,” said Meg, diplomatically. “I’m sure there will be a lot of ideas coming forth over the next month or so.”

“No, I mean it,” said Russ. “This is a great idea, isn’t it? Look around. Everyone thinks so. So, tell us. What do y’all think?” The room was very still.

“It’s a bad idea,” I said, finally.

“It’s a really bad idea,” said Meg.

“It’s a terrible idea,” agreed Malcolm. The other three committee members kept quiet.

Russ was startled, and his smile faded. He was getting angry now. “Why is this a bad idea? This is guaranteed! Everyone knows that the price of real estate in this part of the country is going up and up! If we had a rectory out at the Clifftops, the value would double, even triple in just a few years. Not only that, but if we could offer a priest a chance to live out there in a three or four million dollar home, we could attract a really good one.” He’d said it before he realized it, but there it was. “Hmm…sorry, Father,” he said. “But you all know what I mean. It’s all fine and good to give all our money away. But just tell us: why isn’t this a good idea?” He stood with his arms crossed in front of him in defiance.

Meg, Malcolm and I looked at one another like three contestants on “What’s My Line,” deciding who was going to be the one to stand up. Finally Malcolm said, “I’ll do it,” stood and walked to the front.

“First of all,” said Malcolm, “let me say a few things. Father George is right in many of his views about the money, but I don’t agree with him wholeheartedly. It seems to me to be financially prudent to take a significant portion, if not all of that money, and invest it wisely so that St. Barnabas no longer has to worry about any financial problems either now or in the future. But I am just a sixth of this committee. I’ll be happy to state my views, but I’m only one person.