The Lutheran Ladies' Circle: Plucking One String (18 page)

“Well, Phil, you win today’s religious quiz. So you get to stand here and hang onto this ladder.” Walt grabbed a paper-flame from Hettie, offering it to the youth director.

“Sorry, I’ve got a game.” Phil’s smile didn’t hold an ounce of sympathy. “I only dropped by to hand off Mrs. Henley’s portrait of Saint Peter. It needs to be displayed anywhere besides the youth room.”

Walt clenched the wooden rails, staring at the canvas. “Put it back where you found it.”

“The kids would discover it again in the bell closet. They made eye patches, sunglasses, and tattoos from sticky notes, adding them to her painting.”

“It probably improved it.” Walt nodded.

“And…they named it St. Scary. I found them making the little kids sit in front of it with half the lights out if they didn’t sing or behave.”

“Oh,” Allie stared, “Johnny said something about that.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said.

Allie squinted at the portrait. “Actually, it worked pretty well. Maybe I should borrow it.”

Phil thrust the painting toward Walt. “I’ve got a game in a few minutes.”

Walt shook his head. “Sorry, gotta hold onto this ladder, or Kay thinks it’ll turn to sawdust and she’ll die. I’m sure you’ll figure out something to do with it.”

“I’m setting it here in the corner.”

“Flip it around, so it’s not looking at us.” Kay said, but Phil had already waved his good-byes and was headed for the door.

“I’ll get it.” Hettie turned the canvas toward the wall. “It’s a difficult problem. What does the church do with donations? Vera invested a lot of time and lovingly made it, but it’s really hideous.” She shook her head, sticking out her tongue, as she turned away. “How many more flames do you need, Kay?”

“About twenty. What’re you going to do with it, Walt?”

He stared out the window and held up a line with a yellow flame swinging on the end. “Get to hanging, missy. I can’t lollygag here all day.”

When they’d finished, a swath of red, yellow, and orange fire-tongues danced from the ceiling, passing through the narthex. The ladies were packing up supplies, when Walt voiced a low complaint in Kay’s ear, “Since I’ve been hefting this ladder for you all morning, you can spare a minute to help me.” Before Kay could say something snarky, Walt pointed to the artwork in the corner, then he carried the ladder down the hallway.

“I’ve got things to do, too, you know.” She watched him disappear, mumbled words inappropriate for church, and followed him, toting the portrait of St. Peter.

When she caught up, Walt was unlocking a narrow door. He pointed to a dusty box of trash compacter sacks. “Stand in the hallway and secure that picture in a bag; I’ll set up.”

He opened, closed, and turned the ladder several times until it fit inside the tiny closet; its base angled through the doorway and into the hall. After a rough tug on the zip tie to check Kay’s bagging job, he gave a nod. “Thanks. You can skedaddle.”

She stared at him, arms crossed over her chest. He looked at the floor, shifting his weight foot to foot. His hand scrubbed over his mouth as he glanced at her a couple of times. “Okay, if you must know,” his words sounded terse, but his eyes asked for indulgence, “this is the only ladder that fits through the door and comes near the ceiling.”

“And that’s important because…” She peeked inside the room. “A mystery door in the ceiling?” A grin spread across her face. “I want to see what’s in the hidey-hole.”

“Oh! Now you
want
to climb the old, dangerous, ladder? The rungs don’t reach the ceiling, and you don’t have the muscles to hoist yourself through the opening. It’s not a secret. Just rarely used. It’s the attic for the organ pipes. Hand me this picture when I get up there.” He picked up the portrait-in-a-bag.

“Just watch me.” Kay climbed, accompanied by Walt’s complaints. She flipped open the hatch, and pulled herself into the darkness. “Hades Fire! It’s huge up here.” Sticking her head back through the opening, she frowned. “Won’t Vera ask about the portrait?”

“I think she’s forgot. I hope so anyway. Too much is changing since Jim died. She’s busy squawking and trying to keep a grip on things.”

“So you think this is the right thing to do?”

“Putting Vera’s painting away and letting future generations decide is the kindest decision. The kids like it now; maybe they’ll still like it and display it in twenty years. After I’m dead and gone. It’s dry and it’s temperature controlled up there.” He climbed several rungs and offered the plastic bag toward the hole. “The other option is to discuss it. Committees like Sanctuary Arts, Property, and The-Society-For-Cruelty-To-The-Seeing will wrestle it around. So tell me; do you think Vera’s feelings will be hurt if there’s talk about re-hanging this thing?”

“Give it to me.”

“Put it with the other bags. You want me to get you a flashlight?”

“What’s in these other—”

“Don’t ask.”

When she emerged from the hole, Walt grabbed her feet and guided them to the top rung. As she reached the floor, he gave her a hug. “Thanks. If anything happens to me, you know where the skeletons are hidden.”

She slapped the dust from her jeans to cover her surprise. She’d never seen Walt show any tenderness except toward tools. “You could’ve done this by yourself. Are you feeling guilty about those bags up there?”

“Not a lick. Everything up there is a kindness to somebody. I appreciate you being my confederate.”

“Nobody knows?”

“Ruby, my wife, knew. Pastor Henley knew. They’re both gone.”

Kay studied the white-haired man. He looked away, seeming to shrink under her assessment. “Then I’ll carry the secret to the grave, too.” She stuck out her hand.

Walt shook it, a shy grin crossing his face and disappearing just as quickly. “You want one of my cinnamon rolls?”

“I’ll trade you a fancy-pants cup of coffee for one.” She gave him a pat.

Walt nodded. “Maybe I’ll get a light, little ladder you women can tote around.”

OFFICIALLY, IT WAS Pentecost—fifty days after Easter. Unofficially, it heralded the beginning of summer vacation when slacker attitudes and a do-nothing energy began its slow ebb through the congregation.

The irony was lost on most people. Pentecost, the flaming arrival of the Holy Spirit, enabled believers to go out and spread the word. Instead some were inspired to go to the lake where they felt God sat around with them, beer in hand, watching waves and witnessing to crows and crappie.

At the Shaded Valley’s Pentecostal celebration, worshippers were greeted by paper flames dangling over their heads. Red geraniums decorated the sanctuary. The plants became table decorations, and in a few days, they’d end up in flower beds around the church. The floral committee, honoring their efficient German ancestry, was especially pleased they’d decorated and landscaped with one purchase.

Coffee hour featured a large sheet cake covered with red banners and dotted with white doves. Nuts, mints, and a punch bowl of cranberry-7Up ensured folks would hang around after church, instead of wandering home to nap or garden. Lorena slipped into a chair next to an aged woman in the back corner of the Fellowship Hall.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Lorena asked the elderly stranger.

“Why, no.” Ocean blue eyes beamed from a tiny face, and the Dutch-boy haircut jumped when she shook her head. “Not at all. Vera left me in this corner so I wouldn’t get into trouble.”

Lorena talked slowly and loudly for the woman’s old ears. “Are you a friend of Vera’s?”

“Are you?”

“I…uh…well, yes.”

“Naaah. You aren’t. That was a church-lady response. Vera doesn’t have friends, at least not any close ones that I’ve ever known.”

“I guess you aren’t her friend either.”

“I’m a relative. Aunt Ula.” She stuck out a tiny hand mapped with the raised lines of blood vessels in her thin skin. “There was quite an age difference between my sis—who was Vera’s mom—and me. I was fifteen when Vera was born. Sometimes I tell people she’s the older one. They believe it. She was born a Methuselah.”

“I’m Lorena.” She squeezed the old woman’s fingertips. “How should I call you Miz—?”

“Aunt Ula! I already introduced myself. Goodness, child, your hearing’s worse than mine. No wonder you’re sitting in this forlorn corner with me.”

“Well, Aunt Ula, I’m sitting back here because I had a little hissy fit at church weeks ago, and I don’t want to parade through the crowd and hear anyone say something about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because…” Lorena weighed the long and short explanations. “It would hurt my feelings.”

Allie set a piece of cake on the table and lowered herself into a chair. “I hope it’s cooler in this corner.”

“I hope you’ve got two babies in there. If not, you don’t need that cake.” Aunt Ula pointed to the bulging midline of Allie’s shirt.

“Good try, but you’re not getting my cake.” Allie took a forkful and nodded at Lorena’s shocked gaze. “I met Aunt Ula earlier.”

“LoWena, be a dear—”

“It’s Lo-
Rena
.” She pasted a smile on her face.

“Dear, get an old lady a piece of cake. Vera said she was going to bring me a piece, but that was hours ago.”

“Now, ma’am,” Allie pointed her fork. “Vera already gave you cake, and she wanted you to park it here so she could find you.” The young woman covered her mouth, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. The hormones have removed my mouth filter.”

“Call me
Aunt
Ula, and I won’t mind your mouth if you go get me a piece of cake.” Allie pushed away from the table as the old lady added, “Don’t get a square with any of that red icing. It’s as sour as a tin can. See if you can get a little dove on my piece.”

Lorena eyed the old woman’s shoes. Low-top Keds. A circle of the canvas material was cut away on each foot just below the big toe. Lacy anklets peeked through the holes. “You’re pretty tricky, Aunt Ula. Is that why Vera sat you here by yourself?”

“I’m not alone anymore. I’m sitting with a pregnant woman and the church outcast, and I’ve got a piece of cake coming. I’m doing pretty well. How about you?”

“I…”

“You can say it. Even if we are in church, LoWena.”

“Lorena!”

“Well, quit worrying about other people. Say what
you
think.”

“I already did. I was loud and angry about all the changes on Easter Sunday. That’s why I’m sitting in this corner with…” Lorena gave the old woman a pointed stare, “with you.”

“Do you regret it? I mean, what you did, not about sitting with me. You may feel badly about sitting with me, but I don’t give a rat’s tail. Are you sorry for your actions?”

“I should’ve done it another time and another way instead of exploding.”

“So apologize.”

“That would be even more embarrassing,” Lorena said.

“How can you be forgiven if you have nothing you’re sorry for? What do you practice in this church? Even a cantankerous ol’ woman like me knows you need to repent if you’re trying to do some internal housecleaning. And believe me, I’ve had to do a lot.”

“I believe it,” Allie said as she slid a paper plate with a big corner piece of cake and extra frosting in front of Aunt Ula.

“Who would I apologize to?” Lorena shrugged. “I don’t even know which people saw my emotional meltdown.”

“Aaaw! There’s no little dove on this piece.” Aunt Ula gave her waitress a sugary smile. “Thank you, Allie. I bet the next piece will have a little bird on it.” She scraped her fork across the icing and stuck a big clump into her mouth. “Lo-Wena,” she emphasized the last syllable, “I’d say you’re not sorry about diddly; you regret people thinking you’re a loon.”

“Holy carrotballs,” Allie licked her fork, “you sure don’t pull any punches.”

“I’m old. I don’t care. I’m tired of folks living to please everybody else. I’ve been around them all my life.”

“And now you’re visiting Vera and sharing your opinions?” Lorena grinned.

“No. My house in Ponca City was condemned, so I’m living with Vera. She hasn’t changed a bit. She was born giving orders and handing out opinions.”

“Does she try to order you around? I’d like to see that,” Allie said.

“LoWena, while you’re getting a refill, get me a cup, too, and another piece of cake. Get a little dove on it this time.”

“It’s
Lorena
. And I don’t even have a cup. I’m fine.”

“You don’t want people to gossip about how you made a pregnant mother and a crazy old woman wait tables. Not after what they already think of you.”

With a big sigh, Lorena left for the serving line.

“That was kind of mean. This is the first time she’s been back since her blowup.” Allie wiped frosting from her lips. “Now tell me how you manipulate Vera when she orders you around.”

“Oh, I don’t fight with Vera. I’m just a guest there. She could put me out in the street—but she won’t. Poor thing. I’ve always felt sorry for her.” She shook her head, staring at the crowded room, not seeing anyone.

Allie leaned forward as far as her belly would allow. “Why feel sorry for her?”

It took a moment for the words to break through Aunt Ula’s thoughts. She blinked then took a bite of cake. “Well, she was supposed to be a boy.” She nodded at Allie’s frown. “Vera’s daddy was a pastor. He prayed for a boy to follow in his footsteps. He was disappointed when their little “Vern” turned out to be a Vera. She’s spent the rest of her life trying to make up for it.”

“There are women ministers,” Allie said.

Aunt Ula’s eyes widened as though she’d heard blasphemy. “Not back then.”

“She could’ve become a nun,” Lorena spoke behind them, making the old woman jump. The full-figured blonde grinned as she pushed cups of punch toward each lady.

“She could’ve done a lot of things, but following in her daddy’s footsteps was the only sacrifice she felt would please him, so she married a pastor, controlling everything around her to meet her daddy’s expectations. And why did it take you so long to bring this punch?”

Lorena’s eyebrows rose. Her forehead furrowed. “I said hello to a few people, Your Highness, and maybe I stopped to slip something in your drink.” Aunt Ula stared at the mug but didn’t touch it.