Dear Wife(67)

But the Reverend is not stupid. He’ll know the reason for my vanishing act, just like how everybody else in this place will be making their own assumptions.

Guilty.

And then what? I’ve heard those sermons the Reverend practices in his office, the ones about uncertainty and grace and turning the other cheek. Will he do the same with me? Will he let me go, or will he dispatch the police to the address on file, the one I listed on my application—stupid, stupid mistake—the one for Morgan House. And next week is payday. I picture my paycheck languishing in the bottom of Charlene’s drawer like catnip. A whole week’s worth of salary, down the drain. I need that money, every cent.

“Come with me, will you?” the Reverend asks. “I’m putting together welcome bags for the newcomers, and I could use some help.”

I follow him down the hall into his office, where he settles the cardboard box on the conference table. Printed papers and shiny, colorful brochures are spread across the table in neat stacks. He points them out one by one. “Pastor’s letter, church brochure, invitation cards to various clubs and groups, a Bible booklet and a feedback form. What I need you to do is clip them together and drop them into an envelope.” He pulls a pile of envelopes from the box and hands them to me.

I smile. “Sounds simple enough.”

“Once you’re done, the packets go into one of these.” He drags a white canvas bag from the box and shakes it out for me to see. The logo is a variation of the one on my T-shirt, a sketch of the church skyline with God Lives Here underneath. “Every tote also gets a coffee mug, personalized pen and refrigerator magnet, all of which are in the box. If you run out of anything or need help, just give one of the office ladies a holler. I have to dash to visit a sick parishioner on the other side of town.”

While the Reverend gathers up his things, I sink onto a chair and get started. Pile, fold, clip, stuff. The work is slow and monotonous, but it beats scrubbing floors, and at least I can do it sitting down. I think of Martina and Ayana downstairs, sterilizing toys and bonding over their shared distrust of me, and I wince. I’d hate me, too, if I were them.

“See you tomorrow,” the Reverend says.

I look up, and he’s standing at the door, his suit coat folded over an arm, his leather wingtips dangling from his fingers. He smiles, and it’s all I can do to return it.

“See you tomorrow.”

  I’m working my way through the piles when Martina sneaks into the Reverend’s conference room without making a sound. I look up and there she is, watching me from the doorway. I smile, but she doesn’t return the greeting.

I ignore the snub, working with the papers in my hand, fastening them with a paper clip. “Don’t tell me. They sent you up here to talk to me, didn’t they?” I picture the cleaning crew cornering her in the break room, demanding she march up here and... Do what? Confront me? Pat me down? I keep my eyes on the papers and Martina in my peripheral vision.

She shuts the door behind her. “Can you blame them? They have pretty much all done business with a guy like Jorge, if you know what I mean. They’re nervous as hell, just like I am. Just like you should be.”

I look up at her with a frown. “Who says I’m not? And if you came up here to lecture or accuse me, you can go ahead and leave now. The church ladies have been giving me the side-eye all afternoon, and I already feel shitty enough.”

“This isn’t some kind of game, Beth. I got you this job. I vouched for you. If the Reverend finds the two thousand dollars in that thing strapped to your waist, what do you think is going to happen to me?”

“So you think I took it, too. Great.” I lift both hands, let them fall to the table with a smack.

“The church ladies had Bible study this morning.”

“So?”

“So the offices would have been empty. You would have had an opportunity. And we both know how you like to hoard money.” Her eyes stray to my waistline. “How much is in there anyway?”

I push to a stand, make myself loose at the knees. One wrong move, and I’ll mow her down on my way to the door. “None of your business, that’s how much. And what about you and Ayana? Y’all were up here, too, bickering about which one of you was the bigger thief. I saw both of you go by Charlene’s desk more than once.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have access to the Reverend’s keys.” She pauses, and I brace for what I know is coming next: “You do.”

I shake my head to hide that I’m squirming inside. “I’m not going to stand here and defend myself when I haven’t done anything wrong. Especially when it sure looks like you’re the one who took Ayana’s money. Well, did you?”

Martina squints. “I already told you. I’m not a thief.”

“Then who took it?”

She tosses up her hands. “Who the hell knows? There were always a million people going in and out of her apartment. And her hiding place wasn’t exactly subtle. If I found it, others would have, too.”

I reach for a stack of envelopes and think about Martina’s answer. Her tone is sincere, but that still doesn’t explain why she was searching behind Ayana’s toilet. Who goes looking for money they’re not planning to steal?

Martina sighs and slumps against the wall, looking around. “What is it you do up here all day, anyway?”