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“I...” I blink, frowning. “I’m sorry, what?”
He waves an arm at the setup along the edge of the stage, guitars and microphone stands and a drum set worthy of Charlie Watts. “Music is an essential part of worship at CCTA, an essential part of our culture. God has blessed me with parishioners who have the voices of angels, to make up for others who are...how shall I say this...not put on this earth to carry a tune. Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways, and other times He is painfully obvious.” He sticks a finger in his ear, jiggles it around. “What I want to know is which one are you?”
“I fall in the second category, unfortunately.”
Another lie. Icansing, and I can read music, too. But admitting to either would mean getting shoved onto this stage or worse, the one upstairs, in a cathedral that must seat thousands. The spotlight can feel too hot, too bright, even when you’re not trying to hide. No way I’m letting them shine it on me.
“What about an instrument? Do you play anything?”
Piano—or I used to, until you mangled my left pinkie.
“No.” I shake my head. “Sorry.”
The Reverend looks mildly disappointed. “What about a beat? Can you carry one of those?” He taps his foot, snaps his fingers in a slow, rhythmic cadence.
I can’t help but smile. “I can do that.”
“Excellent! Then you can play the tambourine. We always have room for more tambourine players.”
And here it comes. The invitation to attend Sunday services. Reverend Andrews wants to save my soul, and he wants me to play the tambourine while he does it. I picture me in a singing, swaying crowd, joyous faces tipped to the heavens, while he holds his healing hands above us all. There will be no tambourine playing in my future. No church service, either.
He swings an ankle over a knee, leaning back in the chair. “Do you have a favorite team?”
I dip my chin, raise my eyebrows.Team?
“You know, sports. Football, baseball, basketball. And don’t be looking at me like it’s a crazy question. More than half the hard-core Atlanta United fans I know are female. Fifteen-nine our first season. You like soccer?”
“I’m not really much of a sports fan.”
For the next twenty minutes, the Reverend wanders topics like a drunken bumblebee, bobbing from bloom to bloom. We talk about movies (I haven’t seen one in ages), books (I will read anything but horror), whether or not I thought the TV show didThe Handmaid’s Talejustice (yes, absolutely). He asks me my favorite color (what am I, twelve? Fine, yellow), and what do I think about when I’m alone in my car (hownotto get pulled over). We touch on favorite foods (mine: french fries, his: pizza) and this place I absolutely must visit, the BeltLine, a walkable, bike-able trail that connects dozens of in-town neighborhoods, because I haven’t lived until I’ve had the truffle fries at Biltong Bar (ask for extra mayonnaise). Our banter is more suited to a bar, or maybe a match.com chat group. I don’t know what this conversation is, but it’s definitely not an interview.
“Well, Beth,” he says once the topics are exhausted, “sounds like you’d fit in just fine around here.”
I blink in surprise.That’s it? Interview over?
“You seem surprised.”
“Not to be rude, but don’t you want to ask me about my experience? Question me about cleaning skills or ask me about... I don’t know, my relationship with God or something?”
“Your relationship with God is just that—yours. It’s no business of mine unless you make it that way. And Martina already vouched for your cleaning skills. Everything I’ve seen and heard from you so far lives up to what she told me.”
I don’t ask what she told him, because I’m not sure I could keep a straight face when he rattled off what must have been a string of lies and fabrications. I’ve known Martina all of two days, and the longest conversation we’ve had was on that first night, when I bumped into her in the kitchen. She knows nothing about me other than what she’s seen, and I’ve made sure she hasn’t seen much. And yet she’s told the Reverend all about me—yet another favor, yet another reason for me to question her motivations. What does that girl want from me?
“There’s some paperwork that needs filling out upstairs,” he says, standing. “The official application so we can process your paycheck, and another one so the USCIS doesn’t come banging on my door with a big, fat fine. I assume Martina told you to bring some identification?”
Trotting out my new ID feels as precarious as walking the ledge of a cliff, but I pat my bag with a nod. “Not a problem.”
“Then welcome to Church of Christ’s Twelve Apostles, Beth.” He sticks out a hand, and we shake, mine pressed between his two warm palms. “We’re glad to have you join our ranks.”
“Thank you, Reverend. Really, this means a lot to me.” To my absolute horror, my eyes grow hot, the tears welling so quickly it’s impossible to blink them away. I choke on a small but audible sob. “I can’t even tell you how much.”
The Reverend takes me in with a kind expression. “Are you all right, child?”
I wipe my cheeks with my fingers, but new tears tumble down before I can mop the old ones away. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Or I will be. I don’t even know why I’m crying.” I force up a throaty laugh. “I promise it won’t be a regular occurrence.”
I hate to cry. For the past seven years, my tears have been slapped, backhanded, punched, yanked, kicked, squeezed and one time, burned out of me. Tears are a sign of weakness, followed always by punishment. Only losers cry.
But this man doesn’t taunt me for them, and he doesn’t look away. “If you ever want to talk about anything,” he says warmly, patiently, “you should know that I’m a good listener. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I take care of my flock.”