“Of course, yes.” He steps aside and motions back to his office. “If you’ll follow me through that open door, we can begin to plan her service.”
Casting a quick glance and smile at Elliot, I follow the pastor’s footsteps into his office.
He shuts the door behind me and settles into his seat. He’s quiet for a moment, his hands steepled beneath his chin. To avoid looking at him, I look at his framed degrees. When I look back at him, he’s still staring at me.
I clear my throat, my mind grappling to come up with a sentence that won’t make whatever this is any more awkward, but the good boy pastor beats me to it.
Eyes locked on mine, he says, “Word on the street is that you killed Pastor Blake.”
6
Now
My whole body is stiff.Arms, legs, even my toes.
“I’m not responsible for his death.” My voice is cool, but inside I’m hot, hot, hot.
That terrible night teeters on the periphery in my mind, the memory threatening to dislodge itself from its place in the locked trunk in the back of my mind. The room I’m sitting in is bright, but bits of dark night float through my vision. The smell of pine furniture and manly cologne compete with the scent of his shampoo and I feel his breath, sour and unwelcome, and then later, the acidic bite of our fear.
That night was bad enough, but to then be hauled into the police station for questioning? Eight years later, and though it’s no longer by law enforcement, I’m still being questioned.
Pastor Thomas’ fingers remain steepled beneath his chin. His eyes on me, he says softly, “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
My chin juts out, lifts high, and my eyes scrunch. “Is that right?”
He nods but doesn’t speak. The silence stretches on, and I’m nearly ready to reach across the table and squeeze some words from his mouth.
My hands fist and my fingers intertwine on the top of the desk. That should keep me from strangling the pastor. Finally, I’d be guilty of the crime they fear I committed.
When he finally speaks, he says, “The real victims of his death are his children.”
I frown, his statement throwing me. Whoever is supplying this guy with his information has been telling him lies.
“Pastor Blake didn’t have children,” I inform him, my voice even.
“Sure he did,” Pastor Thomas says, sitting up and dropping his hands to his desk. He points at me. “You, for one.” He points back at himself. “And me.”
My teeth clench. “I was not his child. But your existence? That I can't explain.”
He leans back, his hands settling in his lap. “I was raised by a single mom. She didn’t tell me about my father. Not until four years ago, after she died, did I find out the truth. I came here looking for him. The ladies of this church were very happy to share with me all the details of the untimely passing of their cherished pastor. The story of his death sounds like gossip, yet it has a ring of truth to it.”
“It does not,” I grit out. “You shouldn’t take everything you see and hear at face value. Surely you know the Devil dances in the background, looking for the chance to create mayhem.” My tone is mocking. “I believe they covered the proclivities of the Devil in theology school, yes?”
Pastor Thomas barks a laugh. “Once or twice, yes.”
I lean forward. “Did you just happen to share the same career choice as your dad, or did you go to school to follow in dear old daddy’s footsteps?”
“I was already a pastor. Joyful Noise happened to be in need of one.”
I cock my head to the side. “How convenient is that?” My voice is saccharine, and obviously fake.
Reaching out, I snatch a small notepad off his desk and a pen. The notepad has the words Jesus Is My Homeboy embossed onto the top. I hastily write down my phone number, then toss it in front of him and stand.
“I came here to plan a funeral. The next time I hear from you, it’ll be with a list of what needs to happen so I can get my mother in the ground and get the hell out of this place. And to set the record straight, I didn’t killyour father. He was probably eaten up inside by the sheer fact that he was a deplorable excuse for a human.”
Pastor Thomas stares at me, his lips parted, and once again, he has no words.
I slip out of his office and walk toward Wilma’s desk. Her back is to me, and beside her, in a chair that has been pulled up to the computer, sits Elliot.
