Dear Wife(36)

“Well, Beth,” he says once the topics are exhausted, “sounds like you’d fit in just fine around here.”

I blink in surprise. That’s it? Interview over?

“You seem surprised.”

“Not to be rude, but don’t you want to ask me about my experience? Question me about cleaning skills or ask me about... I don’t know, my relationship with God or something?”

“Your relationship with God is just that—yours. It’s no business of mine unless you make it that way. And Martina already vouched for your cleaning skills. Everything I’ve seen and heard from you so far lives up to what she told me.”

I don’t ask what she told him, because I’m not sure I could keep a straight face when he rattled off what must have been a string of lies and fabrications. I’ve known Martina all of two days, and the longest conversation we’ve had was on that first night, when I bumped into her in the kitchen. She knows nothing about me other than what she’s seen, and I’ve made sure she hasn’t seen much. And yet she’s told the Reverend all about me—yet another favor, yet another reason for me to question her motivations. What does that girl want from me?

“There’s some paperwork that needs filling out upstairs,” he says, standing. “The official application so we can process your paycheck, and another one so the USCIS doesn’t come banging on my door with a big, fat fine. I assume Martina told you to bring some identification?”

Trotting out my new ID feels as precarious as walking the ledge of a cliff, but I pat my bag with a nod. “Not a problem.”

“Then welcome to Church of Christ’s Twelve Apostles, Beth.” He sticks out a hand, and we shake, mine pressed between his two warm palms. “We’re glad to have you join our ranks.”

“Thank you, Reverend. Really, this means a lot to me.” To my absolute horror, my eyes grow hot, the tears welling so quickly it’s impossible to blink them away. I choke on a small but audible sob. “I can’t even tell you how much.”

The Reverend takes me in with a kind expression. “Are you all right, child?”

I wipe my cheeks with my fingers, but new tears tumble down before I can mop the old ones away. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Or I will be. I don’t even know why I’m crying.” I force up a throaty laugh. “I promise it won’t be a regular occurrence.”

I hate to cry. For the past seven years, my tears have been slapped, backhanded, punched, yanked, kicked, squeezed and one time, burned out of me. Tears are a sign of weakness, followed always by punishment. Only losers cry.

But this man doesn’t taunt me for them, and he doesn’t look away. “If you ever want to talk about anything,” he says warmly, patiently, “you should know that I’m a good listener. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I take care of my flock.”

I murmur another round of thanks, though the only thing I can focus on is getting out of here and into the restroom across the hall, where I can splash the splotches from my face and reapply the mascara I’m almost certainly crying down my cheeks. He lets me go, and I’m almost to the door when he stops me.

“Oh, and Beth?” His lips curve into a gentle smile, and I can see how it could melt a churchful of people, hanging on his every word. “What I said before, about taking care of my flock... That includes you. Whatever brought you here, whatever burdens you think you’re carrying, you can lay them down. You’re one of us now.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m back in the church basement, where Martina is busy attaching a battery-powered vacuum to my back.

“Did he ask you to be in the band?” Martina says, holding up the straps for my arms.

The two of us stand in the center of a room that does triple duty as a kitchen, break room and cleaning supply closet. An old television is pushed against a wall in front of mismatched sectionals, and to its right, a workstation with multiple sinks for rinsing buckets and rags. Two walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that belong in a grocery store cleaning aisle, or maybe an episode of Extreme Couponing. Sponges and mops, neatly stacked buckets, every cleaning product imaginable.

My uniform came from the giant Tupperware containers on the bottom shelf, khaki pants and a white T-shirt with the church logo and God Works Here embroidered in looping navy letters across the front. The getup looks ridiculous over the pleather Mary Janes I wore with my interview dress, but I didn’t think to bring sneakers.

“He asked me if I could sing or play an instrument, yeah.” I shove one arm through the loop, then another, and she settles the thing on my shoulders. For a piece of machinery, it’s pretty light.

“I knew he would. He asks everybody to be in the band.” She reaches around me from behind, snaking the harness around my waist, and I stiffen. Her fingers brush over the money belt but don’t linger. She smells like bleach and peppermint gum. “What else did you talk about?”

“I don’t know. Lots of stuff. TV shows and books and truffle fries. It was the weirdest job interview ever.”

She grabs me by an arm, turns me around to face her. “Did he tell you the joke?” I shake my head, and she grins. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus who?”

“Jesus Christ, open the door.”