offices of the minister and his secretary are on the second floor of the Sunday school wing.
If I ever resume going to church, my choice won’t be Shakespeare Combined, or SCC, as the locals invariably call it. SCC was formed when lots of conservative splinter groups amazingly coalesced to combine incomes and hire a minister and build a facility that would serve them all.
They’d found the Reverend Joel McCorkindale and they’d fund-raised and collected until they’d had enough to build the church, then the Sunday school building. The Reverend McCorkindale is a super fund-raiser. I’ve seen him in action. He remembers everyone’s name. He knows everyone’s family connections, asks after ailments, condoles about losses, congratulates on successes. If he is ever at a loss, he humbly confesses it. He has a spanking-clean wife and two toothy, clean boys, and though I believe Joel McCorkindale truly loves his work, he makes the skin on my neck crawl.
I’ve learned not to ignore the skin on my neck.
As far as I know, Joel McCorkindale has never broken the law. Probably he never would. But I feel his potential to do something truly dreadful simmering right beneath the surface. I have lived one step away from losing my mind for years. I am quick and accurate in spotting unstable streaks in others.
So far, that strange streak has only shown itself in his hiring of the church janitor. Norvel Whitbread had shown up on the church doorstep one morning drunk as a skunk. Joel McCorkindale had taken Norvel in, given him a good dose of the Spirit (rather than spirits), and taken him on as church maintenance man. Like his boss, Norvel looks good on the outside; he is supposedly now sober, he has a genuine knack for fixing things, and he keeps a smile on his face for church members. He is voluble in his gratitude to the minister and the congregation, which makes everyone feel good.
Though Joel McCorkindale may have a dark monster inside, it may never surface; he’s done a great job so far, keeping it contained and submerged. Norvel, however, is simply rotten inside, through and through. All his cheer is a sham, and I am sure his sobriety is, too. He is the most touched-up of whited sepulchres.
SCC pays Norvel’s rent at the Shakespeare Garden Apartments, and a salary besides, and members of the church are always inviting him home to meals. In return, Norvel keeps the church bathrooms and the church floors clean, washes the windows twice a year, empties the garbage cans daily, picks up trash in the parking lot, and attempts minor repairs. He also does a little work for Pardon Albee at the apartments. But he won’t do anything remotely domestic, like loading the huge church dishwasher or making and serving coffee. So I get the overrun of church duties, if none of the sisters of the church are available to serve for free.
This quarterly board meeting, comprising those elected to sit for staggered terms on the preschool governing board, is always a lively event, and I’m almost always hired to set up the coffee and cookie trays, because any sisters of the church overhearing this group would be liable to (depending on their individual temperaments) die laughing, or stomp out in exasperation.
Norvel Whitbread was lounging in the church kitchen, which is at the end of the preschool building farthest from the church, when I came in. A large broom and dustpan were leaning against the counter, establishing his bona fides.
“How’re you [har yew] today, Sister Lily?” he drawled, sipping from a soft-drink can.
“I’m not your fucking sister, Norvel.”
“You want this job, you better watch your mouth, woman.”
“You want this job, you better stop spiking your Cokes.” I could smell the bourbon from four feet away. Norvel’s thin, nose-dominated, undernourished face showed plain shock. I could tell it had been a while since someone had spoken to the church’s pet convert in plain terms. Norvel was dressed in clothes
If I ever resume going to church, my choice won’t be Shakespeare Combined, or SCC, as the locals invariably call it. SCC was formed when lots of conservative splinter groups amazingly coalesced to combine incomes and hire a minister and build a facility that would serve them all.
They’d found the Reverend Joel McCorkindale and they’d fund-raised and collected until they’d had enough to build the church, then the Sunday school building. The Reverend McCorkindale is a super fund-raiser. I’ve seen him in action. He remembers everyone’s name. He knows everyone’s family connections, asks after ailments, condoles about losses, congratulates on successes. If he is ever at a loss, he humbly confesses it. He has a spanking-clean wife and two toothy, clean boys, and though I believe Joel McCorkindale truly loves his work, he makes the skin on my neck crawl.
I’ve learned not to ignore the skin on my neck.
As far as I know, Joel McCorkindale has never broken the law. Probably he never would. But I feel his potential to do something truly dreadful simmering right beneath the surface. I have lived one step away from losing my mind for years. I am quick and accurate in spotting unstable streaks in others.
So far, that strange streak has only shown itself in his hiring of the church janitor. Norvel Whitbread had shown up on the church doorstep one morning drunk as a skunk. Joel McCorkindale had taken Norvel in, given him a good dose of the Spirit (rather than spirits), and taken him on as church maintenance man. Like his boss, Norvel looks good on the outside; he is supposedly now sober, he has a genuine knack for fixing things, and he keeps a smile on his face for church members. He is voluble in his gratitude to the minister and the congregation, which makes everyone feel good.
Though Joel McCorkindale may have a dark monster inside, it may never surface; he’s done a great job so far, keeping it contained and submerged. Norvel, however, is simply rotten inside, through and through. All his cheer is a sham, and I am sure his sobriety is, too. He is the most touched-up of whited sepulchres.
SCC pays Norvel’s rent at the Shakespeare Garden Apartments, and a salary besides, and members of the church are always inviting him home to meals. In return, Norvel keeps the church bathrooms and the church floors clean, washes the windows twice a year, empties the garbage cans daily, picks up trash in the parking lot, and attempts minor repairs. He also does a little work for Pardon Albee at the apartments. But he won’t do anything remotely domestic, like loading the huge church dishwasher or making and serving coffee. So I get the overrun of church duties, if none of the sisters of the church are available to serve for free.
This quarterly board meeting, comprising those elected to sit for staggered terms on the preschool governing board, is always a lively event, and I’m almost always hired to set up the coffee and cookie trays, because any sisters of the church overhearing this group would be liable to (depending on their individual temperaments) die laughing, or stomp out in exasperation.
Norvel Whitbread was lounging in the church kitchen, which is at the end of the preschool building farthest from the church, when I came in. A large broom and dustpan were leaning against the counter, establishing his bona fides.
“How’re you [har yew] today, Sister Lily?” he drawled, sipping from a soft-drink can.
“I’m not your fucking sister, Norvel.”
“You want this job, you better watch your mouth, woman.”
“You want this job, you better stop spiking your Cokes.” I could smell the bourbon from four feet away. Norvel’s thin, nose-dominated, undernourished face showed plain shock. I could tell it had been a while since someone had spoken to the church’s pet convert in plain terms. Norvel was dressed in clothes
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