want him within sight.
My business line rang. The sudden noise made me cry out as if I’d been struck. I dived for it.
“What?” I shouted. If it was a client, I thought belatedly, I could kiss this booking good-bye.
“Goldy?” came the tentative, frightened voice of Zelda Preston. “Are you all right? I mean, I know you aren’t all right … you can’t be after what’s happened …”
Zelda Preston, mother-in-law to scarecrow Agatha in the church kitchen, was a current Altar Guild member and, until very recently, the organist at St. Luke’s. Zelda and Lucille Boatwright had both been widowed about a decade ago. The two women were almost constantly in each other’s company now, except when Zelda met with the master swimmers and did her weekly three miles’ worth of laps. With her attenuated face that always reminded me of a camel’s, her wiry muscles, and her long braid of gray hair wound on top of her head, Zelda Preston seemed the tall, rod-thin counterpart to Lucille’s stodgy, solid self.
I said, “Are you calling about Lucille?”
“Oh, my dear Goldy. No. I’m calling about you. I want to do something for you, poor dear….” Her voice faltered.
Zelda carried a painful past, but we’d never had any sisterly soul-baring talks. An older female Episcopalian would rather die impoverished than discuss psychic wounds, a conversation she would put in the same category as comparing bra sizes. Nevertheless, Zelda’s attempt to offer sympathy touched me, and awakened guilt. I hadn’t called
her
this past month, when the many disagreements she and Father Olson had had about ecclesiastical music had ended up with his firing her. Still, what would I have said?
You want to have lunch and talk about how getting fired is like getting divorced?
I didn’t think so.
“Zelda. You are thoughtful to call. I don’t need anything, thanks.” I cleared my throat, keenly aware that I needed to keep both phone lines clear in case the police needed to reach me. I didn’t know which number they had. Since I had no call-waiting, I couldn’t risk giving the police a busy signal. But explaining all this, plus Tom’s disappearance,were more than I could handle at the moment. “I need to go.”
“Oh, all right. But Goldy,” she went on meekly, “I am so terribly sorry to bother you about this, but I’m just trying to see what you want done with your wedding flowers. Lucille isn’t available, as you probably know, so I need to step in for her to help plan the Holy Week services and the funeral for Father Olson.” She paused. “Have you heard anything? I mean, about what happened to him?”
“Not yet.”
“Well … If you wish, we could try to use these flowers for Father Olson … I know it sounds petty, but someone must start to make the decisions, and Doug Ramsey is
impossible….
If you donated the flowers, it would certainly save the parish money, goodness knows. However, I do not know what our
new
priest will want. Not our new priest,” she corrected herself, “whoever those people down at the
diocese
send to us.” Zelda’s voice dropped on the word
diocese
in a way that left no doubt as to her opinion of that ecclesiastical body.
“Tell you what,” I said placatingly, desperate to clear the phone line. “Why don’t you donate them to the Catholic church? Their parish is bigger; they’re sure to have a wedding coming up soon.”
“The Catholics! Having a wedding during Holy Week? For heaven’s sake, the least you could do is donate them to someone from our parish who is ill. Honestly, Goldy. The
Catholics.”
“Fine, Zelda. Really. Who’s in the hospital at the moment? Whatever will make you happy.” This whole conversation was absurd. But however much we might disagree or be upset, Episcopalians did not hang up on each other.
She trilled, “Roger Bampton is home from the hospital, although …” She broke off and announced, “Victor Mancuso has shingles, but I don’t know which
My business line rang. The sudden noise made me cry out as if I’d been struck. I dived for it.
“What?” I shouted. If it was a client, I thought belatedly, I could kiss this booking good-bye.
“Goldy?” came the tentative, frightened voice of Zelda Preston. “Are you all right? I mean, I know you aren’t all right … you can’t be after what’s happened …”
Zelda Preston, mother-in-law to scarecrow Agatha in the church kitchen, was a current Altar Guild member and, until very recently, the organist at St. Luke’s. Zelda and Lucille Boatwright had both been widowed about a decade ago. The two women were almost constantly in each other’s company now, except when Zelda met with the master swimmers and did her weekly three miles’ worth of laps. With her attenuated face that always reminded me of a camel’s, her wiry muscles, and her long braid of gray hair wound on top of her head, Zelda Preston seemed the tall, rod-thin counterpart to Lucille’s stodgy, solid self.
I said, “Are you calling about Lucille?”
“Oh, my dear Goldy. No. I’m calling about you. I want to do something for you, poor dear….” Her voice faltered.
Zelda carried a painful past, but we’d never had any sisterly soul-baring talks. An older female Episcopalian would rather die impoverished than discuss psychic wounds, a conversation she would put in the same category as comparing bra sizes. Nevertheless, Zelda’s attempt to offer sympathy touched me, and awakened guilt. I hadn’t called
her
this past month, when the many disagreements she and Father Olson had had about ecclesiastical music had ended up with his firing her. Still, what would I have said?
You want to have lunch and talk about how getting fired is like getting divorced?
I didn’t think so.
“Zelda. You are thoughtful to call. I don’t need anything, thanks.” I cleared my throat, keenly aware that I needed to keep both phone lines clear in case the police needed to reach me. I didn’t know which number they had. Since I had no call-waiting, I couldn’t risk giving the police a busy signal. But explaining all this, plus Tom’s disappearance,were more than I could handle at the moment. “I need to go.”
“Oh, all right. But Goldy,” she went on meekly, “I am so terribly sorry to bother you about this, but I’m just trying to see what you want done with your wedding flowers. Lucille isn’t available, as you probably know, so I need to step in for her to help plan the Holy Week services and the funeral for Father Olson.” She paused. “Have you heard anything? I mean, about what happened to him?”
“Not yet.”
“Well … If you wish, we could try to use these flowers for Father Olson … I know it sounds petty, but someone must start to make the decisions, and Doug Ramsey is
impossible….
If you donated the flowers, it would certainly save the parish money, goodness knows. However, I do not know what our
new
priest will want. Not our new priest,” she corrected herself, “whoever those people down at the
diocese
send to us.” Zelda’s voice dropped on the word
diocese
in a way that left no doubt as to her opinion of that ecclesiastical body.
“Tell you what,” I said placatingly, desperate to clear the phone line. “Why don’t you donate them to the Catholic church? Their parish is bigger; they’re sure to have a wedding coming up soon.”
“The Catholics! Having a wedding during Holy Week? For heaven’s sake, the least you could do is donate them to someone from our parish who is ill. Honestly, Goldy. The
Catholics.”
“Fine, Zelda. Really. Who’s in the hospital at the moment? Whatever will make you happy.” This whole conversation was absurd. But however much we might disagree or be upset, Episcopalians did not hang up on each other.
She trilled, “Roger Bampton is home from the hospital, although …” She broke off and announced, “Victor Mancuso has shingles, but I don’t know which
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