The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String (13 page)

Only a few people were left in the Hall when they pushed back their chairs to leave. “Wait, Walt.” Lorena’s eyes flittered between the floor and the Property Manager’s face. “I apologized to Robert for my bad behavior this afternoon, but I need to apologize to you. I’ll help you clean up the mess.”

“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have laughed when the ducks tried to eat you. I think Micki already cleaned that cup of feathers you served me.”

Lorena didn’t look relieved. “I’ll see you in the parking lot.”

Walt squinted at her. “You need a ride? Robert’s with me, but there’s room.”

“Never mind.” Lorena walked away.

Walt blinked. “What’d I do now?”

“She’s had a rough day.” Kay gave them a good-bye wave and hurried to the kitchen where Lorena was filling a pail with water. “Okay. What gives?”

“Kay, what have you gotten out of this
Faschnach
t Feast?”

“Unmerited forgiveness is a wonderful thing. Why?”

Grabbing some rags and hefting the bucket from the sink, Lorena hurried up the stairs. “I learned revenge is a bad idea.”

“What’d you do?”

Lorena continued through the front of the church doors, and into the parking lot. When she got outside, she set the bucket down and pointed at the men getting into the vehicle. “It’s too late now. Just watch.”

The men closed the doors. Lorena frowned as the guys carried on their conversation like they were in a coffee shop. She picked up her bucket and hurried to the Dodge. “Walt.” Lorena rapped on the window. “You guys are probably sitting in crap. There’s a goose behind your seat.”

He rolled down the glass. “And you toted that out here to clean it up for me?”

“I paid the kids to put the Satan Goose in your truck.”

“You’re a terrible influence on our young people.” Walt squinted at her, shaking his head as he cranked the starter. “It so happens, Vera saved you. She told me to transport your deadly goose to the lake. I asked the kids to help me catch it. They told me you’d already requisitioned them. It’s in the back.”

A cardboard box sat in the truck’s bed. A goose’s black-and-white-striped head poked in and out of a hole in the top.

“They were supposed to put it in the cab.” Lorena frowned.

“Well, considering what you paid for his capture, you should be happy about contributing to a good cause, but if you’re still feeling guilty, I’ll bring you the box to clean when I’m done.” Walt winked.

As the extended cab Dodge Ram pulled away, the goose rocked the box, beating his wings and making noises.

Lorena’s malignant stare followed the truck. “I told you that bird could hiss.”

THE NEXT EVENING, Lorena’s handiwork greeted worshippers. A rough wooden cross, entwined in black silk, hung from the church doors. Ends of the ebony scarf caught the breeze and circled as though beckoning penitent sinners inside.

The overcast February day matched the oppressive mood. Smells of damp earth and approaching rain hung in the air. Thunder rolled through the sky as a storm advanced from the north.

No musical prelude greeted the worshipers. Without speaking, each person entered and pinned a small square of burlap to their shirt, a rough brown reminder to be remorseful about their sins. They sat in silent meditation.

The great bell in the steeple rang once, a comfortless peal muted by low clouds. When the note faded, the choir stood and sang, “Alas, My God, My Sins are Great.” During another interlude of reflection, worshipers wrote their transgressions on small slips of paper to be burned.

Vera, wearing a somber face and carrying a dark wicker basket, walked up and down the aisles, collecting the written confessions. She had to wait for Micki to scribble two pages of sins before she could leave.

When Vera finally came through the door, Hettie, who waited in the Narthex, picking sickly-looking leaves off potted plants asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never burned sins.” Vera stared at the pile of scribbled trespasses. “I thought two of us would make the chore go faster, but there isn’t as much unbosoming here as I’d imagined.” She scowled. “The centuries-old tradition is to burn the fronds from the previous year’s Palm Sunday for ashes. Jim always did it in our fireplace. This is another ‘bright idea’ to spark-up worship. It’s not enough to come, confess, and receive absolution; we have to add
activities
.”

“You stored palm branches for a year then burnt them? That’s crazier than burning sins.”

Vera sighed. “It was symbolic. You know…the frond-waving cheer of ‘Hosanna. Here’s Our King!’ turning into an angry: ‘Crucify him.’”

“Well, I guess burning our wrongs is symbolic, too.”

“Yes. Yes. Let’s do something different.” Vera dumped the papers into a small metal trash can. “Let’s ignore the mystery of tradition. Let’s have immediate gratification. We need our sins to disappear in smoke and be rid of them.”

“If you feel that way, why’d you volunteer?”

“I didn’t volunteer; I was asked. Pastor Poe and I had a discussion yesterday. I believe this is his way of apologizing and assuring me he values my assistance. He said he needed someone he could trust to never read these confessions.” Vera moved the project outside the front doors and struck a match.

“And he thinks the rest of us would?” Hettie peered down into the container. “Look at that one. It’s a wad as big as a marble. I bet that’s a doozy.”

“Get some more paper, please. The fire doesn’t want to catch.” Vera frowned at the smoldering contents as a large drop of water splatted the top of her head. Hettie soon returned, carrying a stack of brown paper towels and several purple papers. “Ash Wednesday” was written across the top in wavy letters.

“I figured we could burn leftover bulletins—oh-oh.” A streak of lightning zigzagged to earth several miles away. Seconds later, thunder rolled over them. Sheets of water began pouring from the sky. Vera picked up the trash-can-of-sins, setting it inside the doorway.

“You can’t do that in here.” Hettie gaped as the white-haired woman snatched a bulletin from the container.

“They will need these ashes at Communion, and they’re already at the Nicene Creed.” She scanned the printed liturgy. “Most of the smoke should funnel out the open door.”

“I don’t think so.” Hettie shook her head, watching another of Vera’s matches snuff itself out.

They jumped from the flash a millisecond before the
crack
that ripped through the skies. The accompanying rain-noise sounded like punk-rock drummers on the roof.

“Whoo! That one was close.” The whites of Hettie eyes were big. “We need to shut that door.”

“We’ve got to get this burned.”

“Well, I only teach elementary-school science, but I can tell you—this isn’t going to work.” Hettie used her teacher-voice to broadcast over the sound of rain rebounding off the walkway.

“I’ll keep trying; you get your husband.” Vera threw another lit match into the can.

“He’s not here.” Hettie stared at the tiny flame as it shrank and winked out.

“Well, get Walt.” She shooed the teacher away with an anxious wave. As she left, Vera closed the door, set a paper towel on fire, and threw it into the sin-can. Pieces of paper caught and flamed. White smoke spiraled upward. She cracked the door open, then a bit more, to create a draft. Removing her right shoe, she jammed it into the gap. She fluttered both hands, encouraging the smoke toward the opening.

Inside the sanctuary, Pastor Poe had begun his sermon. Hettie chewed on a fingernail and scanned the rows. She didn’t see Walt, but then she didn’t know exactly what the back of Walt’s head looked like. She always sat behind the Hendrixes, so she could hear the bubble of the baptismal font and look through a tiny clear, diamond-shaped pane in the stained glass window. It was a strategic location for checking the weather and making afternoon plans.

She saw Pastor Poe glance at her. Twice. He stuttered then checked his notes. When he looked at her a third time, she pulled her fingers away from each other, mouthing,
Stretch
. He hesitated.

Seeing Roger on the back row, Hettie stuck her head next to his ear. “Help me. Quickly.”

As they exited, Pastor Poe leaned farther and farther sideways from the pulpit in order to see through the doorway. He watched Vera do a barefoot stomp on a tiny blaze on the carpet. When the door hushed shut, he straightened, checked his notes, took a deep breath, and continued.

*

Another gust had whistled through the shoe-wedged door. More partially burnt sins, edges glowing orange, floated out of the can, drifting around the narthex with the others. “Grab them,” Vera ordered as one wafted past Roger.

A corner of his mouth turned up as he stepped on a smoldering sin. Neon fingers of lightning spread through the sky. Thunder rattled the windows. Vera stared at Roger, daring him to say something. He grabbed the trash can and set it outside.

“It’ll get damp,” Vera gasped, going after it.

He stepped back to let her by. “If it sets off the smoke alarms, we’ll have to evacuate the church.”

“Oh.” She stopped.

Hettie was picking up escaped confessions. “Look at this. It’s completely burnt, but you can still see the words on the blackened paper.” She oscillated it in the light, reading “I hate my mother-in-law.”

“Hettie.” Vera snatched it, fracturing it into pieces.

“I wasn’t reading it. I was just showing…never mind.”

Vera checked her watch. The prayers of the day had begun. “There’s no time to go home and get ashes from my fireplace.”

“Maybe somebody has an ashtray-full of cigarette cinders in their car,” Hettie said. “Who smokes?”

Tight-lipped, Vera turned to Roger. “Can you think of anything?”

“Yeah.” He waited for her to say something else. In the silence they could hear the wind growling in the rain. After a moment, he turned and went outside.

“He didn’t even have a coat,” Hettie said. Before she could quick-step to the door, it opened a few inches. Vera’s shoe flew inside.

Hettie whirled, facing Vera. “That’s the limit. We need to talk.”

Vera stared back, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other; then she picked up her shoe.

“I don’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but you’ve become mighty righteous,” Hettie said, “as if you’re silently judging all the time. You’ve always been serious, but you used to laugh at mistakes—even your own. Now you don’t make mistakes, and those of us who do are fools.”

“I’m sorry you think so.” Vera’s face was stony. She snatched paper towels from the pile and sat on an upholstered chair.

“I know for years you’ve felt as though you had to pick up loose ends, but it’s time others stepped up. And they’re not going to do it the way you think it should be done. You’ve got to let go and let them—”

“Why?” Vera crammed then removed paper towels from the toe of her wet shoe. “Why do I have to step aside? Just because Jim is gone, it doesn’t mean I’ve outlived my usefulness.”

“Nobody’s saying that.”

“But they’re doing it. Communication is terrible. I’m not kept in the loop, even though I take care of most of the details. The ladies skylark through meetings.”

“The Ladies Circle has always been a walk through a chicken house. Everyone’s squawking about a different thing. And it all gets done, doesn’t it?”

“Barely.” Vera narrowed her eyes at Hettie. “Sloppily. It’s all a big joke.”

Hettie bit her lip, turned, and stared out the window. She didn’t see Roger. She’d meant to keep watch in case he got lightning-fried in the parking lot. She hoped he’d taken refuge in the lawnmower shed, although with all the fuel, oil, and paint cans, it may not have been safer.

“Where was Walt?” Hettie flinched, feeling Vera’s voice flog her.

“I couldn’t find him. Roger never asked a question, just came when I asked.”

“He wouldn’t have come if it were me doing the asking.”

Hettie sighed. “He would have, but it would help if you’d be nicer to people. Starting with Roger.”

“
I
am not ugly to him.” Vera’s face was a mask, her eyes cold. “I simply do not put much value into whatever he says.”

“And you argue that you’re never wrong. Other people are—”

“Other people don’t take life seriously. Serving the church has been my whole career. Now, I’m reduced to silly tasks like torching sins, but I will earnestly do it—” The first chords of the communion music bisected her words.

“Oh-oh.” Hettie stared at the sanctuary doors. “Doesn’t Pastor put the ashy crosses on our foreheads when we take the wine? Isn’t it too late now?”

“He’ll have to impose ashes at the end of the service. Pastor Poe
loves
change. He’ll get to adapt like we do.” Without glancing up, Vera scrubbed the toe of her shoe as if she were rubbing jailbird graffiti from a wall. Hettie didn’t reply. The
thrum
of the rain filled the silence between them.

In a few minutes, Roger entered, hunched over the container, protecting the contents from the torrents. His shirt and pants clung to his body as though he’d gone swimming in them. Rivulets of water trickled down his face. Vera grabbed a handful of the blackened notes and crushed them into the sea shell she’d pulled from her pocket. The papers turned into bits and flakes, but not ash suitable for drawing.

“Maybe he can get a few pieces to stick to people’s foreheads, especially if they’re oily,” Hettie said.

White-lipped, Vera opened the sanctuary door, holding the sea shell high, so Pastor Poe would see it. She stood, awaiting her cue to bring the ashes forward. Roger stopped behind her. Droplets of rainwater fell from his chin onto her shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Vera,” he whispered.

Lightning opened the skies. The—
crack
—that followed made her jump.

THE FORTY DAYS of Lent were accompanied by the fanfare of an awakening world. Each day, sunrise rushed to the horizon a few minutes earlier. Peeper-frogs ardently serenaded their lady friends. Pregnant buds bulged on tree tips. Sunny mornings often roiled into gray-green afternoons filled with storm and tornado warnings. Roger and Walt intended to dig up the newly-sprouted mole mounds dotting the church lawn, but yellow jonquils had spiked through the dirt piles, so the men left them.