Dear Wife(45)

I turn to see a woman—no, a girl—coming down the aisle toward us. She’s somewhere around sixteen or seventeen, though she’s helped along by her height, six feet and then some. Her skin is bronze and her hair is natural, a wild crown of curly ringlets over high cheekbones and big green eyes. She’s dressed like us, in the same khaki pants and God Works Here T-shirt, only hers are skintight, her shirt knotted on the side to reveal a seductive slice of coppery skin. She moves closer, and I see that she’s biting back a smirk.

“I work here. What’re you doing here?”

Martina shakes her head, and her hands tighten into fists. “You can’t work here. I work here.”

“Well I do.” The girl says it short and matter-of-fact. “Here I am.”

“Where’s the Reverend?” Martina pushes past, almost mowing me over in her hurry into the opposite aisle. “I need to find the Reverend.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “What are you going to tell him, that you stole my money?”

At the accusation, Martina does an about-face, arms slinging in fury. I press myself to the chairs and get out of her way.

“I already told you,” she shouts, “I didn’t take your goddamn money. I didn’t even know you had any until you accused me of taking it. And it’s not like it was your cash to begin with. That hooker you stole it from probably just came back to claim what was hers.”

They’re making a lot of noise, too much. I check behind us, scanning the rows of empty chairs, but as far as I can tell, there’s nobody else here. Still. I wish they would stop yelling and cussing.

The girl purses her lips. “That hooker did come back, and so did her pimp. Do you know what they do to people who take their money? You’re lucky they didn’t kill me.”

“What is that, some kind of threat? Because I didn’t take your stupid money, and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t make me say it again.” Martina’s accent is full-on south of the border now, all rolling Rs and short, staccato spurts.

The girl lifts a brow. “Your Mexican is showing.”

With a squeal, Martina rears back an arm, her hand squeezed into a hard fist, and I hook my hand in her elbow right before she punches the girl in the face. The move is not entirely unselfish. I like to stay out of catfights as a general rule, but seeing as Martina is the one who got me this gig, I’m thinking it’s better to stop this one before any blood is spilled. I’m too new to have established a good reputation yet. What reflects badly on Martina reflects badly on me, too.

I plant my body between the two women, holding up a hand in both directions. “Both of you, see that cross up there? Either shut up or take it outside.” Martina opens her mouth to protest, but I beat her to it. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

She shuts up. The tall girl, too. They glare over my head at each other while Martina does a deep-breathing technique, less meditation and more trying not to explode. I open my mouth to speak, but it’s the Reverend’s voice that rings out.

“There you are,” he says, and the three of us freeze. Footsteps sound to my left, and I turn to see him walking across the stage. He stops under a stage light, the skin of his forehead shining like wet glass. Particles of dust dance in the air above him, suspended in the beam of light. “Oh good, I see you’ve already met Ayana.”

Martina tosses me a panicked glance. How much did he hear?

But the Reverend’s a good fifty feet away, and he has to raise his voice to be heard. He watches us with a benevolent smile.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to work upstairs today, in the administrative offices,” he says, and I don’t know which one of us he’s talking to.

I nod, but Martina frowns. “What happened to Oscar?”

Oscar is the unofficial head of the cleaning crew, an ancient, gnome-like man who, according to his hunched back and knobby, arthritic fingers, is somewhere between eighty and a hundred and fifty. As far as I can tell, his sole responsibility is pushing a rag over the desks in the administrative offices and shooting the shit with anybody who wanders through. Any other person could do it in half the time, but in this place, seniority comes with the benefit of a cushy job.

“Oscar had to go to Florida, to visit his ailing mother. He’s asked us to keep her in our prayers.”

I make a sound of sympathy, even though I’m thinking, Oscar’s mother is still alive?

“Do you think you could take over, just until Oscar returns from his trip?”

“Of course, Reverend,” Martina says, volunteering in her best Southern Belle accent. “Beth and I will be happy to help.”

The Reverend leans back on his heels, his gaze flitting to Ayana, looking at her like she’s a child who wasn’t chosen for the party. “Maybe you can take Ayana, too. Introduce her around. Show her the ropes.”

Martina falls silent, and an angry flush climbs up her neck.

I smile up the stage at the Reverend. “Not a problem. We’d be glad to.”

“Excellent. Well...see y’all upstairs, I guess. And thank you. I’m so happy that God brought the three of you to me. I am blessed beyond measure.” He drops his hands in his pockets and wanders off, leaving the three of us standing in the aisle.

As soon as he’s gone, Martina swirls to face Ayana. “Swear to God, if you so much as look at me wrong, I’m telling the Reverend what you did.”