Dear Wife(35)

A few minutes later, I step into a full-on recording studio. Modern and airy, furnished with sleek black chairs and leather couches arranged in clusters around a stage. Multiple rehearsal rooms each with their own mixing panel are lined up along the wall, across from a soundproof recording booth. Behind its smoky glass, a spongy microphone hovers like a spaceship from the ceiling.

“Hello?”

A thump, followed by a muffled curse, drifts up from somewhere behind me. I turn and that’s when I see them, two stovepipes of dark denim ending in orange Nikes, poking out from under one of the mixing panels. He wriggles himself out and heaves to a stand, holding out a hand.

“Erwin Andrews,” he says, smiling behind his clipped white beard. “And you must be Beth.”

I shake his hand, swallowing a flutter of nerves. It’s been years since I’ve been on a job interview, especially one for which I am so monumentally unqualified. I know how to scrub a toilet, yes, but what if he asks about prior experience? What if he asks for references?

“Why don’t we sit?” The Reverend is fit despite his age, popping off the ground with surprising speed and agility. He leads me with long, nimble strides to a matching pair of couches to the right of the stage. He’s a runner, judging by his shoes and his build.

He points me to the couch, then plucks a chair from the stage and swings it around, placing it so we’re almost knee to knee. Not too close, but not far away, either. Relaxed and informal.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, clasping his hands. “Why would the pastor of a place this size want to interview every potential employee? Why not let someone else do it? The office manager, maybe, or the head of the cleaning crew.”

It’s almost word for word what I said to Martina last night, when she told me she’d set up the interview. She didn’t know the answer, either.

“Martina says that you interview everybody.” I tell my nerves to shut up, but they don’t listen, and neither does my body. Sweaty hands, hammering heart, the works. I clear my throat, struggling to rein myself in.

“I do, Beth, and I’ll tell you why. Because we are a community here at CCTA, and as its leader, it is my responsibility to keep people from harm. Everyone who walks through that door needs to know that they are sheltered. Regardless of where they came from or what brought them here. That is the promise I have made, to provide a secure, positive, healthy environment where everyone, from the worshippers to the volunteers to the janitors, know that they are safe.”

In other words, he needs to ensure I’m not a criminal. He says it without rancor, but still. Reverend Andrews is the godlier version of Miss Sally. I wouldn’t want to cross him, either.

I nod, plastering my most law-abiding look on my face. “That makes total sense.”

“Good. Excellent.” He slaps his thighs. “Now, I assume you know how to operate a mop, so we can skip the boring parts of this interview and get right to the part where I ask if you can sing.”

“I...” I blink, frowning. “I’m sorry, what?”

He waves an arm at the setup along the edge of the stage, guitars and microphone stands and a drum set worthy of Charlie Watts. “Music is an essential part of worship at CCTA, an essential part of our culture. God has blessed me with parishioners who have the voices of angels, to make up for others who are...how shall I say this...not put on this earth to carry a tune. Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways, and other times He is painfully obvious.” He sticks a finger in his ear, jiggles it around. “What I want to know is which one are you?”

“I fall in the second category, unfortunately.”

Another lie. I can sing, and I can read music, too. But admitting to either would mean getting shoved onto this stage or worse, the one upstairs, in a cathedral that must seat thousands. The spotlight can feel too hot, too bright, even when you’re not trying to hide. No way I’m letting them shine it on me.

“What about an instrument? Do you play anything?”

Piano—or I used to, until you mangled my left pinkie.

“No.” I shake my head. “Sorry.”

The Reverend looks mildly disappointed. “What about a beat? Can you carry one of those?” He taps his foot, snaps his fingers in a slow, rhythmic cadence.

I can’t help but smile. “I can do that.”

“Excellent! Then you can play the tambourine. We always have room for more tambourine players.”

And here it comes. The invitation to attend Sunday services. Reverend Andrews wants to save my soul, and he wants me to play the tambourine while he does it. I picture me in a singing, swaying crowd, joyous faces tipped to the heavens, while he holds his healing hands above us all. There will be no tambourine playing in my future. No church service, either.

He swings an ankle over a knee, leaning back in the chair. “Do you have a favorite team?”

I dip my chin, raise my eyebrows. Team?

“You know, sports. Football, baseball, basketball. And don’t be looking at me like it’s a crazy question. More than half the hard-core Atlanta United fans I know are female. Fifteen-nine our first season. You like soccer?”

“I’m not really much of a sports fan.”

For the next twenty minutes, the Reverend wanders topics like a drunken bumblebee, bobbing from bloom to bloom. We talk about movies (I haven’t seen one in ages), books (I will read anything but horror), whether or not I thought the TV show did The Handmaid’s Tale justice (yes, absolutely). He asks me my favorite color (what am I, twelve? Fine, yellow), and what do I think about when I’m alone in my car (how not to get pulled over). We touch on favorite foods (mine: french fries, his: pizza) and this place I absolutely must visit, the BeltLine, a walkable, bike-able trail that connects dozens of in-town neighborhoods, because I haven’t lived until I’ve had the truffle fries at Biltong Bar (ask for extra mayonnaise). Our banter is more suited to a bar, or maybe a match.com chat group. I don’t know what this conversation is, but it’s definitely not an interview.