Dear Wife(56)

I don’t understand. Up to now, Martina, Ayana and I have been a team, scrubbing our way through the church like locusts through a field, and now the Reverend seems to be singling me out. I flick a glance at Martina, frozen on the other side of the day care room. She frowns, and the look she gives me makes me tense.

I wave a casual hand in her direction. “Should I bring some reinforcements?”

“That’s an excellent idea, but this room needs to be ready for the kids tonight.” The Reverend turns to them with a smile. “Why don’t you ladies finish up down here, then join Beth when you’re done. In the meantime, I’ll walk her up and explain what’s what.”

Martina’s brows dip even farther, but I have no choice other than to snag my bucket and follow the Reverend up the stairs, trying to tamp down my heightened sense of paranoia. Why has he called me upstairs alone? Does he know about the fake ID, the fake social security card, the fake everything?

Judging from his friendly chatter, he doesn’t. We wind our way through the church while the Reverend talks nonstop about his book collection—instructional manuals on expository preaching, a collection of antique Bibles, an entire shelfful of Sermons for Dummies some jokester puts in his stocking every year at Christmas.

“The problem is, my parishioners are always forgetting to return whatever they borrow. Last year my wife put those From the library of stickers inside every book, but it’s still a fifty-fifty shot if I’ll ever see it again.”

“You could create a sign-out sheet,” I suggest as we approach the double doors to the executive offices. “You know, like libraries have. After two weeks, their time is up. They have to bring the book back or risk... I don’t know, eternal damnation or something.”

He laughs and opens the door. “I’m not beyond an infernal threat or two, if it means books stop disappearing from my shelf.”

Charlene is perched behind the receptionist’s desk, a phone pressed to her ear. She smiles as we come inside.

“But the sign-out sheet is a great idea,” he says, ushering me down the hall. “Do you think you could make me one?”

I look over to see if he’s serious, why he’s asking me, a cleaner, and not his secretary. I study his profile, searching for whatever motivation fueled his question, but I can’t find anything beyond a request for help. I tell myself to chill and keep my expression steady and warm. “Sure. I’d just need a computer and a printer.”

“You can use mine. My password’s ErwinGrace2.” His kids. He smiles, obviously proud. “Just don’t tell Erwin Four or he’ll get a big head.”

In his office, we spend a few minutes in front of his shelves, floor-to-ceiling slabs of glossy wood stuffed with religious books and icons. The Reverend wasn’t joking when he said they were a mess. Bibles mixed in with devotionals and sacred texts and history books and evangelical tomes, spread across multiple volumes. There’s no order as far as I can tell, no reasoning for the way some shelves are half-empty, and others crammed to bursting.

“Look at this one,” he says, pulling a raggedy book off a middle shelf. “This is the Andrews family Bible, purchased by my great-great-grandmother and given to her son, Erwin Jackson Andrews the first, on his wedding day.” He peels the leather cover open, flipping carefully through the yellowed pages to a colorful one at the back. A family tree, the branches reaching out like leafy fingers, ending in handwritten names and dates. Births, deaths, marriages. He taps two at the bottom. “Erwin’s sister, Grace, and Erwin Four. One day, God willing, they’ll pass this down to their kids.”

“They’re lucky to have such a beautiful heirloom,” I say. “This one deserves its own shelf. A middle one. With maybe a spotlight shining on it.”

“See? I knew I had the right person for the job.” A muffled melody sounds from somewhere deep in his pocket, and he hands me the Bible. “That’s my wife. Excuse me a minute, will you?”

He ducks into the hallway, and I carry the book to his desk, setting it gingerly next to his computer. I’m not entirely sure I believe in God, but maybe I believe in a greater power, in some sort of order to the chaos. That there might be a reason why the Reverend brought me up here, to a room armed with a computer and no one to look over my shoulder. Maybe this is the universe laying out the pieces I need to survive, fate pointing me the way.

All day long, I’ve been smuggling snippets of time in the bathroom, scrolling through news on the tiny screen of my phone, fretting about how the searches are eating up expensive data I can’t afford. And now here I stand, next to a computer I know the password to. The sneakier part of my brain kicks into gear, and my whole body tingles.

Or then again, maybe this is a test. Maybe the Reverend suspects me of violating his trust, and this is a chance to prove to him I’m worthy.

The Reverend’s voice is gone now, faded down the hall. I check my watch, think of Martina and Ayana downstairs, wiping germs off a million plastic toys. They’ll be busy for another hour or more, but how long do I have before the Reverend wraps up his call? Seconds, maybe; minutes if I’m lucky.

I fall into his chair, and my insides thrum, my heart beating on overdrive. I tell myself I’m doing nothing wrong, that popping onto the internet is not a crime. The Reverend is a kind, accommodating man. If I’d asked him for a few minutes to check the news from home, I’m almost certain he would have said yes.