Father Donald turned his head sideways, held it, then rotated to the other side. He snapped back and continued: “An extremely serious matter has surfaced. I don’t want to go into right now, although I probably should, but then, we really don’t have time, not if we’re going to get out of here by twelve, and I know how you feel, although not all of you, but most of you have homes to go to, not that everyone doesn’t have a home…” He executed a full neck roll. As his head returned to the frontal position, his eyes locked on Dorothy’s.
Even from my seat at the back of the choir stalls, I could smell the brimstone. Get on with it, man, I silently urged him, before she explodes. I’d seen Dorothy in action before. She ran a tight ship, whether it was the A.C.W., the Altar Guild or Father Donald. Even his current exercise craze was her idea. “It’s time he pulled himself together,” she’d told me, “took off some of that flab, toned up, showed a little discipline.” This from a woman who easily weighed 250 pounds.
“So, in light of what I’ve found out, discovered really, although I wasn’t looking for anything, I’m calling a special Parish Council meeting for Monday night at seven in the rectory.” Dorothy’s glare could have felled an ox at a hundred yards. Father Donald backpedalled rapidly, “Er, that is, not the rectory, but the church basement. Yes, that would be a better place, wouldn’t it? Although, on the other hand, not that you aren’t all welcome at the rectory, you understand, but with Dorothy’s spring-cleaning and all…” I saw her massive bulk lift slightly from her pew. So did Father Donald. He hurried on. “It’s to do with our monies, and you know how important that is, especially to our treasurer although, not as important as some things perhaps, as our Lord tells us ‘where a man’s heart is, there also is his treasure’,” and I saw it coming. One of his awful jokes. “And we all know where our treasurer’s heart is. It’s in that brand, spanking new boat of his, right, Morley?” Everyone laughed and nodded in agreement, but I saw Morley Leet turn deathly pale. Oblivious to everything, Father Donald launched into the service. “Page 185 in your prayer books,” he announced.
The service rolled on without incident except for a slight hitch when Edith hit the Samba button on the organ by mistake, and the second hymn, “Sweet Hour of Prayer”, was underlaid with a distinct “oom cha cha, oom cha cha”. Father Donald took the opportunity to twist and roll from the waist in time to the music, seemingly unaware of the inappropriate beat.
We all settled into the service groove, but when the time came for Morley Leet to pick up the offering plate, he had disappeared. Finally, Dorothy leaned forward and tapped George Anderson on the head with her hymn book. He got the hint and stumbled forward.
As Father Donald collected the full plate from George’s hands, I saw Morley Leet come in and stand at the back of the church. I wondered if he wasn’t feeling well again, since he’d looked so pale earlier. We all knew that Morley Leet suffered from “the nerves”, the same malady as Father Donald’s sister had. I could understand Dorothy’s malady, living with her brother as she did, but what Morley had to be nervous about, I couldn’t imagine.
Father Donald beamed broadly at George and said, “Well, looks like we got a new money man. Everyone wants to be treasurer, eh? Must be a pretty well-paid job.” He laughed at his own small joke, lifted the collection plate up and down several times as if he were bench-pressing a hundred pounds, mumbled the prayer and dropped it carelessly on the side table. I lunged for the plate and steadied it just as it was about to slip off the edge. I did this every week.
I took a deep breath and settled back. It was time for the sermon. I had a little game I always played with myself. It helped pass the time. I counted every instance when Father Donald said “although”, then qualified his previous statement. So far, the record stood at twenty-one, but I had hopes for something I could call Guinness about.
The past few weeks, I’d been off my count. Watching Father Donald under cover of the larger pulpit doing various flex-er-cises was distracting to say the least. From my vantage point, every bend and curl was easily seen.
“My text for today’s meditation,” he began, using his best sermon voice, deep and resonant and slightly British, “is Matthew, Chapter 21, Verse 13, ‘my house shall be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a hideout for thieves’.” I saw Morley Leet duck back out. He must be sick, I decided. Or smart.
There were only eleven “althoughs” today—not a record, but satisfying, nevertheless, and I might have missed a couple when he began to jerk and swing his hips from side to side, not seen by the congregation, but all too clear to me.
At the end of the service, a smattering of “amens” followed us down the aisle. As Father Donald passed Dorothy, she leaned out of her pew and smacked him sharply on the leg with her purse. “Coffee,” she hissed.
“Whaaa?” Father Donald halted suddenly. I glanced back. We’d lost him again. The procession straggled to a halt.
“Coffee Sunday!” she whispered urgently. “You forgot to mention it!”
“Oh! Oh! Shoot! Wait, just a minute. Hold the phone! I forgot. It’s coffee Sunday. Come on downstairs—coffee’s on. Although, not just coffee. There’s tea, too, although if you don’t like coffee or tea, I don’t know what you’ll do. You could have water, although on the other hand, we know our water’s not that good. Well, good enough, I guess. For coffee, anyway.” Dorothy smacked him again. He pulled himself together and joined us at the door.
Later in the vestry as I disrobed, I noticed that the collection plate which Mindy had brought in was still on the table.
“Where’s Morley Leet?” I asked her. “He hasn’t picked up the offerings.”
“I think I saw him going downstairs. Shall I go and get him?”
“Never mind. I’ll take it down to him.” I scooped the money into an old envelope and shoved it in my pocket. “Let’s go and take our lives into our hands with a cup of St. Grimbald’s coffee.” Only the fact that it had been perking for the last two hours made it drinkable at all. Father Donald wasn’t kidding about our water.
Mindy and I left the vestry, marched through the now-deserted pews and gathered up Father Donald, who was still at the back of the church. Together we descended the steep stairs into the dank, dark nether regions under the church which the wardens and the A.C.W. had ineffectually tried to render habitable. The usual miasma of mildew and old hymn books was mercifully overpowered by the sharp, heady tang of coffee.
We used Father Donald as a battering ram to take us through the throng to the counter. It wasn’t difficult, since he’d already caught sight of Carol Morgan’s butter tarts and was moving in on them like a elephant who’d spotted a bag of peanuts. Unfortunately, Dorothy was on an intercept course, and at the last moment, she scooped up the plate of tarts, shot him a triumphant glance and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Shoot!” Father Donald visibly sagged under the disappointment.
“Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” Someone handed him a cup of coffee. Before he could take a sip, the cup was snatched from under his nose.
“I’ve got your coffee here. Sweetener and just a little skim milk.” Dorothy took the offending cup and handed it to Edith, who was waiting in line next to the coffee urn. “Here,” she said, “you can have this one.”
“Shoot!” Father Donald sipped glumly, bending gently at the knees as he did so.
I remembered the offering envelope in my pocket and looked around for Morley Leet. “Have you seen Morley?” I asked Dorothy.