The Mezzo Wore Mink (12 page)

Unfortunately, Rule No. 1 had exceptions as well and one of them occurred when a new rector showed up for the first time. That was the canon under which I was currently operating as I sat at the St. Barnabas conference table surrounded by the Worship Committee: Georgia Wester, Carol Sterling, Meg, and Joyce Cooper. Marilyn, the long-suffering church secretary, was there to take notes.

We were busy sharing a pot of coffee and exchanging pleasantries when Beverly Greene walked in wearing her Parish Administrator demeanor, followed by an overweight and extremely muculent man in a priest’s collar. His hair was sparse and hung in damp tendrils around his ears. Perched on his nose was a pair of oversized glasses that he was continually pushing back up the slippery slope with his index finger. He was followed into the room by an unsmiling woman of equal girth and humidity, sporting a hairdo reminiscent of Moe Howard, the greatest of the Three Stooges. I shuddered involuntarily.

“
This is our new
interim
rector,” said Bev, a frozen smile on her face. “The Reverend Dr. Adrian Lemming. Bishop O’Connell called this morning to give me the good news that he’s found us a
temporary
priest.” She put a lot of stress on the words “interim” and “temporary”—more, in fact, than might have been necessary—but the Reverend Dr. Lemming didn’t seem to notice.
Mrs.
Reverend Dr. Lemming
did
notice. Her nostrils flared just a bit and her eyes narrowed oh-so-slightly. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

“
Good morning, everyone,” said the moist man in an even moister voice. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the beads of sweat off his pallid pate—sweat that had formed despite a room temperature in the low seventies. “First of all, I think you should call me Father Lemming. That’s really my preference, dontcha know.”

I shot a sideways glance at Meg. I knew for a fact that she
hated
it when people said “dontcha know.”
Hated it!
She was now displaying the same Arctic smile that spread across Bev’s features.

“
This is my wife, Fiona Tidball-Lemming, dontcha know,” said Father Lemming, gesturing to the woman now seated at the head of the table with a nod.

Scattered “good mornings” and muttered “pleased to meet yous” filtered across the table as Father Lemming took a seat next to his wife.

“
Why don’t we all introduce ourselves?” suggested Bev. “Father Lemming, perhaps you could start. Tell us a little about yourself.”

“
The first thing I’d like to say is that Fiona and I are a ministry team, dontcha know.”

We nodded as though we
did
know.

“
Fiona and I were raised Southern Baptist. In fact, I was a Minister of Music in a Baptist church in Bobo, Alabama, when I started out in church work. Worked there for the better part of twenty years, dontcha know.”

I could feel everyone’s eyes dart momentarily in my direction.

“
Fiona was the church secretary,” he continued, smiling over at her, “and Director of Christian Education. After my divorce, she and I were married, and it was God’s will that we leave the Southern Baptist denomination. It was clear that He was calling us to the Episcopal Church to continue our ministry, dontcha know.”

We nodded again.

“
I graduated from the seminary and here I am.”

“
Your doctorate?” ventured Meg.

“
I was granted a Doctor of Ministry degree in 1998 by Liberty University, dontcha know.

“
Jerry Falwell’s university?” Joyce said.

“
Oh yes,” said Father Lemming, proudly. “I had my Doctor of Ministry even before I went to the Episcopal seminary. Did it all from the comfort of my music office at the Baptist church, dontcha know. Liberty has quite a good Doctor of Ministry degree, dontcha know. They count ‘life experience’ toward your credits for graduation, dontcha know.”

The “dontcha knows” were now dropping from his mouth like teeth from Aunt Millie’s gums during last year’s taffy-pull. I thought Meg might scream.

“
We’re very pleased to be here,” he continued, “and although this is our first position in an Episcopal church, dontcha know, I want you all to be assured that both Fiona and I bring a wealth of ministry experience.”

We nodded again and Carol added a “dontcha know” under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear and stifle a snort.

“
Now then,” said Fiona Tidball-Lemming, offering her first smile of the morning—a smile designed by nature to freeze a predator’s prey before pouncing—“you’ve heard about us. Let’s find out about all of you.” Her fleshy finger moved around the table and rested on Meg. I could sense a gulp.

“
I’m Meg Farthing. I sing in the choir. And I’m on the Worship Committee.” She paused. “Vestry, too.” It was as succinct a recitation of responsibilities as I’d ever heard from Meg.

Carol was next. “Carol Sterling. Worship Committee. Altar Guild.”

“
Marilyn Forbis. Secretary,” said Marilyn in turn.

We made our way around the table, everyone being as concise as possible. No wasted words with this bunch.

“
Georgia Wester. Building and Grounds. Vestry. Worship.”

Finally it was my turn. I was the last. “Hayden Konig, organist and choirmaster.”

The Lemmings smiled and nodded.

“
First things first,” said Father Lemming. “It’s already mid-October. Do we have our plans for Christmas finalized yet?”

Everyone looked around the table and there seemed to be quite a bit of non-committal shrugging going on.

“
Hayden,” he said, “tell us about our musical plans.”

“
Hmm, let’s see,” I said, pulling out the pad Nancy had given me and flipping it open to the first page. There was nothing written in it, of course, but a little showmanship never hurt. “On the first Sunday of Advent…”

“
Advent?”
snorted Fiona Tidball-Lemming. “We’re talking about Christmas.”

“
Ah,” I said, flipping four or five more pages. “Yes, of course. Christmas. On Christmas Eve we’ll be having the traditional two services, one at…”

“
Not Christmas Eve,” said Father Lemming in exasperation. “We mean the Christmas
season
.”

“
Yes,” I said. “The Christmas season. Christmas Eve to January 6th. Actually, as you know, the season of Christmas doesn’t really start until Christmas Day, but we always…”

“
The
Christmas season
,” said Fiona. “December 1st through the 25th. There’s no sense in celebrating Christmas after Christmas!”

“
Right,” I said, flipping back the pages. “So on the first Sunday of Advent—that would be December 2nd—I was planning on doing Bach’s Cantata No. 62—
Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland
—in English, of course, maybe with a smallish orchestra. Then on the 9th…

I’ll tell you what,” said Father Lemming. “Since we obviously don’t have any plans, we’ve got some really great ideas for Christmas, dontcha know.”

•••

“
What’s the scam, Ginger?” I said. I knew the type. She was beautiful, as sassy as a three-year-old jar of mayonnaise, and so smart she spelled “floozy” with two z’s.

“
What do you mean?” she jiggled. “Can’t a girl buy a gumshoe a drink?”

I sat down and whistled up a beer-fraulein. “I’ll have a Mummy Martini,” I said. The waitress raised her Arian unibrow in confusion. “So dry I have to blow the dust off the top,” I explained, raising an eyebrow of my own at my considerable cleverness as I leaned across the table, Ginger in my sights.

“
I’ll have a Cement Mixer,” said Ginger, leaning in as well. “Hold the pickle.”

Our waitress trundled off to get our orders leaving us with nothing more than the space between us, a space that was narrowing as fast as the profit margin at Paris Hilton’s “Things Go Better With Coke” discount shoe store.

Ginger’s face was close and getting closer. I could smell

her breath, a pungent mixture of lilacs, persimmons and furniture wax. Our nose hairs entwined and danced together in the smoke, anorexic ballerinas in a pas de deux of aphrodesia, as our lips reached across the gap, camel-like, and plucked at the thorny twigs of our desire.

“
Man,” whispered Ginger in a husky whisper, her eyelids dropping to half-mast, “you can really write.”

“
Baby,” I replied. “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.”

•••

“
When we were at Mt. Olivet Baptist Church in Bobo,” Mrs. Tidball-Lemming said proudly, “we began a Christmas tradition that still continues even though we left the congregation four years ago. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it up here. It’s called
The Singing Christmas Tree
.”

Everyone at the table smiled politely.

“
We’d like to bring this tradition to St. Barnabas, dontcha know,” said Father Lemming, “and make it our gift to the community. In Bobo, we had to keep adding performances to accommodate the crowds, dontcha know.” He looked around the table, making contact with each one of us. “People came all the way from Tupelo. Last year, over a thousand people saw the show.”

We continued smiling.

“
I realize that it’s an expensive endeavor in the beginning. After all, the frame has to be bought and configured for the sanctuary, lighting and sound would need to be arranged for. But I think there is just enough time to get everything done if we start immediately. Besides, I understand that St. Barnabas has quite a generous endowment specifically for musical and artistic performances. And,” he added, “if we charged ten dollars per ticket—that’s what we charged in Bobo—we could easily make back our initial expenses over the course of seven or eight years.”

“
Well,” said Fiona Tidball-Lemming, sitting back triumphantly. “Isn’t that a grand idea? What do y’all think?”

Everyone glanced in my direction and waited.

“
Well,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to do a
Singing Christmas Tree
for some time, but Cornerstone Baptist over in Boone has been doing one for the past fifteen years.”

Father Lemming’s face fell, but Fiona was not to be denied. “That’s what? Twenty miles from here? There’s no reason why we can’t do one as well.”

“
I suppose not,” I said. “But the Cornerstone Baptist Tree has quite a following. People might think we’re trying to horn in on their Christmas ministry.”

“
Harrumph,” snorted Fiona. “They probably don’t even know how to stage a proper
Singing Christmas Tree
. When we did ours, we had solos, children dressed as dancing sheep…the teenagers even rode into the church on four-wheelers singing
Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire.
And that wasn’t even the grand finale. The people went wild for it!”

“
If I might suggest something,” I said. “We could consider an alternative that would preempt Cornerstone’s
Singing Christmas Tree
.”