“No. Everything’s fine.”
He eyed me for a moment, letting the calmness of a post-sermon church on Sunday wrap around us. I could hear cars outside, the murmur of voices — but not inside the church. Those were flowing in through the cracked window behind him.
“Hattiesburg,” he said again. “That's a long way to come for a job posting.”
“I wasn't finding what I needed closer to home.” A careful answer. He'd get the same answer the same way if he asked again. I wasn’t playing around.
He considered me for a moment. Then: “What do you need?”
Not what are you looking for. Not what brings you to St. Francisville. What did I need.
“Beg pardon?” I remember saying and going red in the cheek for it.
It didn’t catch him off guard. He was well aware what he did to people — what he did to silly little Mercies.
“I asked what do you need?” he repeated, slower.
I should have been put off by the presumption of it. I should have thought: who the hell asks that in a job interview. Instead, I heard it and felt something in my chest go very quiet and thought: oh, that's a dangerous question to ask me right now.
I needed coffee.
Food that didn’t have a microwave on the packaging.
A place to stay.
But most of all, I needed money.
I said none of that to him.
“Stability,” I said eventually. “Work that matters. A place to be useful.”
He should’ve spotted the bullshit from a mile away. Maybe he didn’t because I had actually meant it. I was good at being useful if I had set my mind to it, and I had, indeed, set my mind to it.
He nodded, slowly.
“The position is yours,” he said and leaned forward, his voice doing that thing charismatic voices did — dipping well below reason — “If you want it.”
I blinked a few times. Weighed his words. “Don't you want to ask me anything else?”
His glance lowered to something on his desk which I couldn’t see from where I was sitting, but I assumed it was my CV.
“I have your references.” He folded his hands on the desk. Nice hands, I noticed. Long-fingered. A faint scar along one knuckle. Some rings — silver on his pinky finger and one thickband on his thumb. “And I've been doing this long enough to know whatI'mlooking for.”
I thought about asking what that was. Long legs that looked good in her Sunday best? I didn't have long legs so I didn’t ask.
That’s a lie, actually. Ididhave long legs. I was 5’9’’.
“When would you want me to start?” I asked.
“Monday,” he said. “Darlene will show you the apartment above the food bank. It's small but it's clean.” He paused. “Welcome to St. Francisville, Mercy.”
He said my name again the same way. Like a souvenir he had just paid for.
I got up from the chair and IthoughtI saw his eyes slipping down my body, but I was hot, there was barely any air in his office and I might’ve been hallucinating.
Pastors didn’tcheckpeopleout.
Well — alright, sometimes they did and that wasnotvery pastorly of them.
