From the Heart Page 7

  I started a string of small talk, weather, my move, the price of peanuts in Peoria. She wasn’t really listening or looking at me. Her eyes were only on Bob, for whom she’d seductively licked her lips. He turned briefly and she caught his eye. I had front row seats to it all, and I swear, before Bob smiled, there was a hint of something other than adoration for Delta Cheney crossing his face. Now, I’ve been all wet about relationships but you know about looks. Pastor Bob may have been gushing good gravy about Delta Cheney, but his eyes didn’t reciprocate. Just FYI, Bob is married, which of course, didn’t stop some men—didn’t bother a few preachers, either.

  Suddenly something I had said got her attention. “What? What did you say?”

  Apparently even though she was inches from me and discounted that I was there, she had heard me say that I’d been raised by the Amish on a turnip farm in Toledo. We both knew she wasn’t listening so I asked, “Which teen in the youth group is yours?”

  With a coquettish, toothy smile, Delta fingered the bracelets cascading up and down her arms, like someone might an abacus. I was hypnotized by the fat sapphires that sparkled on her ears, the ring of diamonds and rubies around her neck, and the opal as big as Rhode Island on her thumb.

  “Jane. Delta. Glad you’re getting on like a house on fire.” Pastor Bob broke the trance just as I was pondering why the woman didn’t have that pushed up, prefab boob look, like some with her style. Plastic enhancement is big business in Vegas, or so I’d been told by a telemarketer who had called the evening before last.

  We certainly hadn’t been talking about fires or houses, but Pastor Bob sounded like an on-the-take politician running for reelection. He pulled our elbows, gathering Delta close to me, and spouted about building for God in a way that would have made God blush. Talking louder, he touched Delta on the shoulder, and the woman glowed. Bob? Again, I could have been wrong—I often am—but a tiny corner of his upper lip slipped south.

  “Our Delta is the CEO of the Philemon Society of America, locally known as PSA. For five years, right? Know you’ve heard of it. Just had a feature in a parenting magazine. Got a call from our local newspaper guy, the Las Vegas Review Journal, about it, too. Why, don’t you know, rumor has it People magazine is going to run an article. A few weeks back, 60 Minutes even sent a scout out here to get some background information. All hush-hush, mind you, Pastor, top secret, I suppose, since the producers wouldn’t say why they wanted to know. Gosh, those television people frown a lot.”

  He rambled, then took a deep breath, and I thought he’d stop. Wrong again. “We’re certain it is because they’ve touched hearts and placed children in God-loving homes. Oh, yes, hallelujah and oh, boy, here we have real live angels working in this sinful city of Las Vegas. The angels sent by God have created one of the best faith-based adoption organizations in the world, right here, I say, right here. Right in this little old dusty city, yes, I say, right here. These are great times, say hallelujah, brothers and sisters, great times for forgotten orphans, I tell you, great times, and for our city, too. I am proud to be a small part of your work and the work of our Lord who is directing you, Delta.”

  Two waved their hands skyward, another shouted, “Amen.” With the fervor he’d created, it’s surprising they didn’t start rolling on the floor and speaking in tongues. I’d seen the good pastor at the pulpit. The guy had been called charismatic; I called it overly dramatic for my traditional tastes, but he was certainly spirited with this group. Looking at the glowing glances of his adoring fans, I had a feeling Pastor Bob was about to jump with both feet right onto the sermon box.

  Delta Cheney yelled, “Oh, yes, Bob, yes, oh, yes,” in a way I didn’t even want to connect with anything outside of his preaching. It creeped me out, big time. Or so I thought until she reached one manicured index finger, touched his chest, and the man became mute. That was creepier by far.

  “Oh, Bob, don’t go filling this little pastor with such stuff. We’re just a-doing what we can.” The southern accent poured out, like gravy over biscuits with a Denny’s breakfast. “You’re doing God’s real work in here.” Then she looked down at her perfectly polished fingernails and twisted the bracelets. Fluttering mascara-laden eyelashes, she dipped her chin and whispered something to Bob. It was too much for me to stare this time. I turned and gagged.

  Bob glanced at his Rolex. “Off you go now. Know you have to all get going. Hallelujah. Brothers and sisters, I say hallelujah. Good to have you here. We’ll do it again soon.”

  As the crowd filed out, I stood like a bump on a log, although my eyes were glued to the cozy chat between the pastor and Delta Cheney as they walked to her cream-colored Mercedes. He bent close. He cocked his head. I wanted to dash to the restroom and scrub my hands, face, and entire body with antibacterial soap.

  Even in the short time I’d been in Vegas, I knew that Delta and this crowd weren’t that unusual. A few of the people, I had come to learn, seemed to think that living here automatically turned them into missionaries serving in a foreign land. A few residents I had met in this church family seemed to wear their citizenship like a bright medal.

  As a newcomer, I didn’t want to upset the applecart to tell them every city and town has a dark side. I wondered what the crap dealers, pit bosses, cocktail servers, and the thousands of other workers at the gambling palaces thought about their lives. Mind you, it is the service industry, but did some of them need more in life? I had no answers. Besides, what did I know, being a new preacher on the block? These ideas zipped through my caffeine-addled brain as I smiled brightly. Hey, I’m not a hypocrite. Smiles are part of the job because, I’ll have you know, preachin’ is like sales. Yeah, think it over.

  However, as soon as possible, I’d dive into Google to get the scoop on Delta and PSA. Maybe God in His wisdom had plopped Delta in my life because I’d thought of adoption. If it hadn’t been for adoption of my father into Gramps’ family, well, there wouldn’t have been me. Delta seemed to be doing a heavenly job.

  As Pastor Bob returned, he snagged my elbow and said. “Coffee, Jane? Oh, see you’ve already got some. What I wanted to do was some strategic brainstorming on an idea Delta, um, well, the others had. You’re going to love it. It’s got everything we need, including raising much-needed funds. Wait until you hear.”

  He ushered my unwilling body into his office and said, “All the hubbub of ballroom dancing, and everyone nowadays is fanatical about it. Banking on that and the fact we need to raise money, if we want to construct a youth building, we must do something. Mind you, we have seed money, but this shouldn’t just depend on sponsors. Don’t you agree, Pastor Jane? Of course you do. Why, we must take action. Right now, hallelujah.” He was waving his arms and speaking as if there were a roomful of converts rather than just little old me.

  Taking the guest chair, I placed my Starbucks iced coffee drink cup on the creamy colored carpet, careful to put it in a safe spot so I wouldn’t knock it over. I relaxed and sipped occasionally from my cup, listening to the rest of his spiel, including occasional hallelujahs, and the air conditioner was lulling me into agreement until Delta Cheney’s name came up in one of his outpourings.

  I waved my hand like an excited first-grader and yes, I was amazed when he allowed me to ask, “Ms. Cheney comes here to church? I haven’t seen her before.”

  “Hardly.” But that didn’t seem to bother the man as he continued, “Our Delta talks about attending church, says she does when she’s in New York. Says our little dusty church right here is as good as it gets. Oh, what a help she is. You understand that she’s on call 24/7, busy with the PSA.” He looked at his steepled fingers and added, “I pray one of these days Delta’s heart will change. Jesus is speaking to her. I can tell these things, Jane. I’m praying hard. Hallelujah.”

  Could he tell? Could anyone tell what was going on in another person’s spiritual walk? When would the hallelujahs stop?

/>   Pastor Bob bounced in his overstuffed chair, which quivered but stood fast to its task of holding up the pastor. He leaned forward in the leather chair the color of butter, re-folded his hands in a steeple on the broad desk’s polished mahogany surface, and seemed to inhale something that smelled bad. He looked down his nose and became pious. Not a good look for him.

  I sniffed the air—politely, mind you. But all was well in my air pocket.

  Then he turned over the papers scattered on his desk so that prying eyes, such as mine, couldn’t see what he was working on. His sermon? Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise for Sunday? Perhaps he was working on his stock portfolio? I didn’t care, until he looked at me, swallowed, and shoved the papers into the top of his desk drawer. My limited interest flipped into overdrive. It revved again as he locked the desk. “Now, back to dancing.”

  I wanted to ask, “What are you hiding?” but managed, “Ms. Cheney is going to teach ballroom dancing for the VBA or youth group?” Visions of a statuesque chorus girl complete with humongous purple feathers cha-cha-ing in the church multipurpose hall tangoed around my brain.

  Pastor Bob clasped his hands in front of him with a slap. “Why, hallelujah, Jane, you are a team player. I knew it. This has to do with our precious teens. It was just dreamed into reality by those folks you’ve met. We’re going to raise money by auctioning off dance partners from the elite of our little desert community. Brilliant or what?” He rubbed his hands together and grinned like he’d just had a visit from Publisher’s Clearing House.

  Oh, my goodness, and could it be that his plans included me? Is the pope Catholic? What I thought really didn’t make any difference. First of all, I knew a steamroller when one hit me. I’d been squashed. Second, my service as youth pastor at Desert Hills would be for just six more months and then I’d be off to another location. The previous youth pastor would be back after maternity leave, and she would deal with Pastor Bob’s ever-enthusiastic ideas. “You’re going to host a dance?” Logic screamed, “Head for the hills. Get out while you can.”

  Good manners, a regular paycheck, and the A/C kept me glued to the chair. Besides, it was about the kids. They needed that center, and if I could help raise the money so they’d have a place to congregate, rather than the mall or worse, then I wanted to be counted in.

  “Not just any old dance with crepe paper roses and strings of lights or disco balls. Get with the program. Delta has clout. Why, we have real stars—yes, celebrities—in this old town out here in the wilds. Don’t need the mayor or the stuffed-shirt governor when we can get the hot ticket names. You know Gladys Knight? Yep, Delta’s pals with her, but she’s peanuts compared to Madonna, Cecile, or Rosie.” He was standing now, flailing his arms, preaching to some unseen congregation and me. “Bundles of celebrities come and go, playing the huge shows here. Why, Pastor Jane, go on, really, name anyone, and I bet Delta knows them. Jennifer Lopez? Yes, she knows her. Matt Somebody. Brad? How about that little blonde gal that the teenagers are so wickedly wild about, what’s her name? Whatever. Yes, yes, yes. Why, think of the Blue Man Group, or would that be Two Blue Men, which doesn’t sound grammatically correct, but that’s show biz. She knows them. Knows them all. How about Carrot Top? We went out to dinner, Delta and I, with the guy, and what a scream. And what about some circus acts from Circus Circus? Lions and tigers. Why not.? Imagine—just imagine—the bundles of bucks generated in just one event. Why, my good Pastor Jane, we would have enough funds to build that youth center in the next six months—well, maybe next year—and you can put down money on that.”

  Now, our denomination isn’t against blue men or circus acts, but the idea of them performing in a dance-athon would get no agreement from me, lowly, sub-sub stand-in pastor that I was.

  Then, jumping up and down like the winner on Wheel of Fortune, he exploded with the kicker. “Tom Jones. That’s who we need to MC.”

  “The Tom Jones?” I sucked in air and there was a wheezing sound.

  “One and the same. Delta’ll get him. You can bet on this. The program will be gargantuan.” He rubbed his hands together and flopped back into the desk chair, which squeaked under his pastoral weight.

  When I could breathe, I gulped out, “The same man who made ‘What’s New Pussycat’ a hit decades ago? Nothing against Mr. Jones, but just bringing up visions of him swiveling his middle-aged hips and making suggestive faces on the stage in the church multipurpose hall for a fundraiser so that we can build strong moral character among our teens seems a tad inappropriate, at least in the circles I’ve been preaching in before coming here.”

  Pastor Bob jumped, figuratively, at me. “Deal with it. This is Vegas.”

  “Are you going to bring this up to the church board, sir?”

  “They have no say,” he snapped. “Why even bring that up, Pastor Jane?”

  Hold the phone, I wanted to shout, but asked, “The church board doesn’t have a say?”

  “You can bet on that, Missy. Wouldn’t know a good deal if it was tied around their necks with balloons. Concentrate on this. The whole enchilada will be up to us. We want sophistication, big-timers. Nothing else. My um, well, friend Delta can make all that happen. She’s connected like ugly on an ape to everyone here in Vegas, New York, and in D.C., too. I’ve been to the PSA offices and seen pictures she’s taken with all the last three presidents and a bundle of other VIPs. Now, back to our little church in the desert.” He chuckled again, repeating one of his favorite phrases because there was nothing little about the humongous Desert Hills Church. “Why, we have a responsibility to our families. And perhaps there’s good from this, we’ll never know. We’ll never know why Delta has come into our fold, or close to it, so to speak.”

  The idea of dancing lions jumping through fire hoops flashed in my mind as Tom Jones swiveled, leering and winking at our youth, would be forever engraved on my eyelids. He stood and smoothed a hand over his spare tire, a Dunlap, as the kids say, as his belly “dun lapped” over his belt. “Wonder if my Armani tux still fits well enough? Do you think I should get a new one?” He patted his bulging midsection. I diverted my eyes. “Yes, we want it formal. Frilly dresses for the ladies. Better hold it on the Strip, mind you, not here. At church. Churches won’t bring in the money, I mean, folks. Ah.” He leaned back. “Can’t you just imagine that?”

  “Excuse me? You’re suggesting this will be held at a casino?” I was speaking but at the same time going through a mental list of the board members and those I knew well enough to announce that their pastor was crackers. The few I’d met would probably rubber-stamp his ideas. Was it power? Charisma? They just gobbled him up like I did with chocolate. Which was odd, because I typically fall for anything that sounds reasonably sensible, like the grapefruit diet and candy bars as health food.

  “We’ve got them all over this little town. Casinos with grand ballrooms. Nothing cheesy.”

  “Then our teenagers would not be involved?”

  “Oh. Um.” The runaway train huffed and puffed.

  “Because of the part about the kids in the casinos?”

  His eyes widened. “Yeah, well, you’re right, Pastor Jane. We’ll need to noodle that.”

  “We just might, Pastor Bob,” I said, wondering if he had a noodle in that noodle, but I nodded. “If, that is, you’re planning an appropriate function for our youth.”

  He slowed, sputtered and stopped. He took a breath and plopped in his chair. He inhaled, refocused his glassy eyes, and bam, started again. “Good, good.” He rubbed his palms together as if he were about to gobble a five-star meal. “Glad we’re on the same page, Pastor. Now let’s put our brains cooking. Better yet, why don’t you start without me?” He glanced at his Rolex. “I want you to put all your energy into this because I want a class act, and I know you’ve been well recommended. This is ambitious, big, big, big, Jane, and I’m only asking because I’m certain you’re pe
rfect for it. I was going to wait until Monday to tell you. But you’re right here right now so I’ll pop the news. We want you to captain the challenge. You’d be our point man. The top banana. Head honcho. Guardian angel. All that, I tell you. Why, I am positive God is asking for you to say ‘Yes.’ and amen. I tell you the truth, I’m absolutely certain of it. Just think of the legacy you’ll leave and the report I will forward to the District Council. Pastor Jane, my friend, you’ll be known as the pastor who single-handedly helped fund our youth building. You’ll go down in our church history. Oh, yes, ma’am, I’ll be able to write to the District Council that Pastor Jane Angieski is ready for a senior position, oh, yes, I certainly will.”

  Okay, my attention was officially grabbed, even if I back pedaled a bit. “I have no experience organizing dances, Pastor. Mind you, I don’t even dance well.” Fresh in my mind was being in an unflattering, flattening position over the top of a local journalist. It still made my cheeks burn down to my toes.

  “Listen, Jane, you started a church in one of the roughest districts in L.A., and it’s still got a chance to survive. I was chatting to one of the directors with the District Council about you the other day, and they were telling me how that strip mall church has changed that entire community.” He stood up and walked around to my chair.

  I could feel the nastiness ooze from that remark and knew I was being used. He knew about all me and knew my fears. The smile on his lips told me I could not say no if I wanted to stay in the ministry. He was a bully. His way or the highway, and I’d been recruited to captain the Good Ship Lollipop with the fate of the youth center steering its course. God willing, we’d dock safely, but I had a boatload of doubt. Shaking off the cruising metaphors, I gathered my purse and exited his office before agreeing to anything else.