down my pen again when I heard the front doorbell ring, wondering who could be calling at eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Listening carefully so I’d know if I wanted to be available, I heard the scuffle of Lillian’s shoes with the run-over heels as she walked to the door, then the low rumble of a male voice. Who in the world?
“Miss Julia?” Lillian said as she appeared in the library doorway. “The Reverend Mr. Ledbetter come callin’.”
“Well, for goodness sakes,” I murmured, considering, then deciding against, a correction to the Reverend
Dr.
Ledbetter by virtue of an honorary degree. “What does he want?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Lillian answered. “He don’t tell me, but he waitin’ in the livin’ room.”
“Ah, well,” I said, putting aside my notes and preparing to go in and be as gracious as possible while turning down whatever committee on which he wanted me to serve. In spite of Connie’s rant about
giving back,
I’d about had my fill of giving either to or back to church committees. Besides, Connie didn’t support any church at all, and I’d spent my life taking on one church-related job, project, or program after another. “Thank you, Lillian.”
I walked down the hall to the living room, where I found Pastor Ledbetter standing in the middle of the room.
“Have a seat, Pastor,” I said. “How nice to see you. I hope you’re well.”
He looked up, surprising me with the lines of strain on his face. “Is there a place we can talk?” he asked. “Somewhere a little more private?”
I started to tell him that Lillian was the only one who could possibly hear us, and she wasn’t at all interested in what he had to say, and that I’d probably tell her whatever it was, anyway. The anxious look on his face stopped me.
“Why, yes,” I said. “Let’s go into the library.”
He followed me back to the library, stood back as I entered, then pulled the door closed behind us.
Whatever was on his mind seemed serious enough to warrant a soothing fire in the fireplace, so I turned up the gas until a small blaze began to warm the room. I motioned to one of the wing chairs beside the fireplace, but he took a seat on the leather sofa on the other side. I took the wing chair facing him, and waited.
“Well, Pastor,” I finally said, since he seemed reluctant to begin, “is there something I can do for you? Although I will tell you now that my calendar is full and I simply can’t take on another thing, at least before Christmas.” Of next year, I mentally added.
He shot a quick look at me, then darted his eyes around the room. Sitting there in a typical male position—legs a-spraddle with hands clasped between his knees—he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than where he was. Whatever proposition he had to present, it was looking more and more likely that I wouldn’t want it.
“Miss Julia,” he said, looking past his hands toward the floor and ignoring my attempt at cutting him off, “I must ask you to keep this conversation confidential. I considered asking you to my office, where confidentiality is assured, but I couldn’t sit still long enough to wait for you. I’m in a desperate situation, and I need help.”
I knew it,
I thought as I fought to prevent my eyes from rolling back in my head.
Somebody has had to drop out, and he needs a Sunday school teacher or a committee chairman or a representative to the General Assembly for a week somewhere in Texas
. No, no, and no again.
“I hate to turn you down, Pastor,” I said, although I didn’t really mind at all, “but, as I’ve said, I can’t accept another thing, and besides . . .”
“No,” he said, holding up a hand, “this has nothing to do with the church. I mean, it does, but not directly. I mean, it affects the church in that my ability to lead and minister to our members is badly hindered. But . . .” He stopped and looked directly at me. “This must not get around, Miss Julia.
“Miss Julia?” Lillian said as she appeared in the library doorway. “The Reverend Mr. Ledbetter come callin’.”
“Well, for goodness sakes,” I murmured, considering, then deciding against, a correction to the Reverend
Dr.
Ledbetter by virtue of an honorary degree. “What does he want?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Lillian answered. “He don’t tell me, but he waitin’ in the livin’ room.”
“Ah, well,” I said, putting aside my notes and preparing to go in and be as gracious as possible while turning down whatever committee on which he wanted me to serve. In spite of Connie’s rant about
giving back,
I’d about had my fill of giving either to or back to church committees. Besides, Connie didn’t support any church at all, and I’d spent my life taking on one church-related job, project, or program after another. “Thank you, Lillian.”
I walked down the hall to the living room, where I found Pastor Ledbetter standing in the middle of the room.
“Have a seat, Pastor,” I said. “How nice to see you. I hope you’re well.”
He looked up, surprising me with the lines of strain on his face. “Is there a place we can talk?” he asked. “Somewhere a little more private?”
I started to tell him that Lillian was the only one who could possibly hear us, and she wasn’t at all interested in what he had to say, and that I’d probably tell her whatever it was, anyway. The anxious look on his face stopped me.
“Why, yes,” I said. “Let’s go into the library.”
He followed me back to the library, stood back as I entered, then pulled the door closed behind us.
Whatever was on his mind seemed serious enough to warrant a soothing fire in the fireplace, so I turned up the gas until a small blaze began to warm the room. I motioned to one of the wing chairs beside the fireplace, but he took a seat on the leather sofa on the other side. I took the wing chair facing him, and waited.
“Well, Pastor,” I finally said, since he seemed reluctant to begin, “is there something I can do for you? Although I will tell you now that my calendar is full and I simply can’t take on another thing, at least before Christmas.” Of next year, I mentally added.
He shot a quick look at me, then darted his eyes around the room. Sitting there in a typical male position—legs a-spraddle with hands clasped between his knees—he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than where he was. Whatever proposition he had to present, it was looking more and more likely that I wouldn’t want it.
“Miss Julia,” he said, looking past his hands toward the floor and ignoring my attempt at cutting him off, “I must ask you to keep this conversation confidential. I considered asking you to my office, where confidentiality is assured, but I couldn’t sit still long enough to wait for you. I’m in a desperate situation, and I need help.”
I knew it,
I thought as I fought to prevent my eyes from rolling back in my head.
Somebody has had to drop out, and he needs a Sunday school teacher or a committee chairman or a representative to the General Assembly for a week somewhere in Texas
. No, no, and no again.
“I hate to turn you down, Pastor,” I said, although I didn’t really mind at all, “but, as I’ve said, I can’t accept another thing, and besides . . .”
“No,” he said, holding up a hand, “this has nothing to do with the church. I mean, it does, but not directly. I mean, it affects the church in that my ability to lead and minister to our members is badly hindered. But . . .” He stopped and looked directly at me. “This must not get around, Miss Julia.
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