Chapter 5 #2
Then, a homily was read by an awkward, teenaged girl named Bekah Springer, who remained red-faced throughout.
“Genesis, 38:7-10 ‘And Er, Judah’s firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the Lord; and the Lord slew him. And Judah said onto Onan, Go in unto thy brother’s wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother.
And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went unto his brother’s wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother.
And the thing which he did displeased the Lord: Wherfor he slew him also. ”
After that the collection plate was passed.
I peeked around trying to figure out if anyone else’s head was spinning after that homily.
I mean, seriously? God slew Onan for not wanting to have a baby with his sister-in-law?
And were we supposed to think that any woman, any widow, would be like, ‘Hey bro-in-law, hubby’s dead come knock me up? ’
I’ve met some horny girls but, like, wow.
Nana Cole elbowed me yet again when the collection plate came by. I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out a few coins. They made a loud, clanging noise when I dropped them onto the metal plate. People turned around and looked at me. Okay, so most of what was in the plate was paper money.
Even before the collection plate made its way completely around the church, we were up singing another hymn.
Thankfully, it was not about screwing your brother’s wife.
Instead, it was about how loving and kind God was.
I couldn’t help but think it was at direct odds with the homily we’d just heard.
I felt sorry for Er. What had he done that was so wicked he had to be struck dead?
Wicked is such a subjective idea. He might have done almost nothing.
Certainly, I’d had my wicked periods and thankfully was never smited, smoted, smote… whatever.
After the hymn ended, Reverend Wilkie invited Dottie Hamlin to come up and read the week’s announcements. There would be a bake sale on Thursday to benefit the Hessel family and help with the funeral expenses.
“And wasn’t that a wonderful funeral service last Tuesday! A big thank you to those of you who attended.”
Then she asked that we pray for Herman Echevial—she took two tries at his name—since he had prostate cancer, Wanda Berry whose mother in Grand Rapids had had a heart attack, and Linda Geiger whose beloved cat, Caboose, had been diagnosed with the feline leukemia.
When Dottie was finished, Sue Langtree stood up at the organ and turned around.
“I just want to say…”
From the reactions of people around me, I could tell this was not how things were usually done.
It was also the first chance I’d gotten to really look at her.
Other than the white hair, she looked to be a very healthy, strong-featured woman in her early seventies.
Her skin was wrinkled but a robust looking pink.
“I just want to say how nice it is to have Reverend Wilkie back again. He should never have retired. He’s too young and vibrant. Some of us have missed him very, very much.”
There was a smattering of applause before Reverend Wilkie stood up again at the lectern, and said, “Thank you for coming today. Please join us for fellowship in the community center.”
“Community center?” I whispered to my grandmother. “Does he mean the pole barn out back?”
“Shhhhh.”
A pole barn, for the un-initiated, is a metal building sitting on a concrete slab held up with a frame of poles.
Hence the name. The ‘Community Center’ did have several upgrades.
There was indoor/outdoor wall to wall carpet with a noticeably thin pad underneath and sheet rock on the walls, so it looked sort of like a regular room—except cheap.
The walls had been painted white and there was nothing on them except for a few scuff marks toward the bottom from moving furniture around. There wasn’t even a picture of Christ.
A folding banquet table had been set up for fellowship with an industrial sized coffee pot, two trays of sugar cookies and a gigantic jug of lemonade all set out on a plastic gingham tablecloth. Scattered around the room were half a dozen folding chairs.
Most of the congregation had trickled over.
I’d tried to get out of it, questioning whether Nana Cole had the energy to stay.
She snapped at me, letting me know she’d be staying for fellowship even if it killed her.
Then I tried to get her to sit in one of the folding chairs but that didn’t work either.
Giving up, I got us both a lemonade and then asked, under my breath, “So what was that thing Sue Langtree said all about?”
“I don’t know. I thought everyone loved Reverend Hessel. He was nothing but wonderful to me.”
“People liked him more than Reverend Wilkie?”
“Much more. Reverend Wilkie is sloppy, I guess you’d say. Like today. The homily should really go with the sermon. They should support each other. I don’t know why he’d choose Genesis for a homily.”
“Maybe the girl chose it.”
“Oh she couldn’t have. Didn’t you see her? She was so embarrassed. Mortified, really.”
“I heard Sue Langtree backed out of directing the choir suddenly.”
Nana Cole nodded. “There was a rumor going around that she had cancer.”
“She doesn’t look like she has cancer.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She seems very happy to be back.”
She nodded.
“And very happy that Reverend Wilkie is back.”
“Yes. That was made clear.”
I was wondering what was going on there. My guess was that Reverend Hessel had something to do with them both stepping down. Was it blackmail? Was something romantic going on between the choir leader and the reverend?
“Is Reverend Wilkie married?”
“He is. Tragic story. His wife has Alls-heimers. She’s in a home. Been there for years. People say he only goes to see her once a week, after the service to tell her how it went. Typical male. It’s all about him.”
“What do you want him to do? Talk politics?”
That earned me a sniff. Friends of hers began stopping by to tell her how well she looked and how happy they were she was getting better. I tried to smile when she introduced me but—outside of a West Hollywood gay bar—I sort of suck at small talk.
“You should mingle,” she said, under her breath. “Try to find out more about this hate crime idea.”
I just shook my head. Even if I believed that theory, there’s no way anyone there would be able to give me more information.
I refused to mingle and stood there for another fifteen minutes.
Then I remembered that one of the two offices at the far end of the room was the one Reverend Hessel was killed in. That was something I wanted to see.
Nana Cole was chatting with a woman twice her size who talked about her dog, managing to use the term ‘wiener dog’ about three times in each sentence.
Subtly, I drifted off to the other end of the large room.
Both office doors stood open, I peeked into the one on the right and found what looked like a conference room, or maybe a break room, I couldn’t be sure.
There was a large table in the center, a cupboard with a sink in the center, and a rolling cart that held a microwave.
Not the room Reverend Hessel was killed in.
The second door opened onto an office. It smelled freshly of paint. There was a large desk, a credenza, a chair behind the desk and two chairs in front of it. Pictures and diplomas sat on the floor waiting to be hung. They were Reverend Wilkie’s. He’d already moved back in.
Bludgeoned, I remembered. Did that mean Reverend Hessel bled a lot? Had the killer tried to clean it up or had someone else—
Oh crap. That’s why it smelled like paint. They hadn’t been able to clean the blood off the walls. They’d painted over it. Which made me wonder, What about the clothes the killer wore? Had they been destroyed? Or were they still floating around somewhere?
Then I noticed a cardboard box sitting behind the desk next to the credenza.
Slipping all the way into the office, I could see that the box held pens and pencils, floss, a stapler, a coffee cup that read Treble Maker, a bottle of aspirin, a family photo of Hessel with a red-haired woman, and an Emo-looking teenaged boy—well, young man really, a certificate of honorable mention for a piano competition in Downers Grove, Illinois, and a photo of Ronald Reagan.
There were a few things underneath I couldn’t see.
I was about to do a deeper dive into the box, when someone behind me cleared their throat. I turned and there was Reverend Wilkie.
“Oh, hi,” I said. “I was looking for the bathroom?”
“The bathrooms are in the church itself. On either side of the vestibule.”
I thought it was cute that he thought I knew what a vestibule was. He must have read my mind—a creepy talent in a minister, if you think about it—because he added, “Just as you enter the church.”
He meant the lobby. Why didn’t he just say lobby? I smiled at him, saying, “Okay, I guess I’ll just do that.”
“I suppose you think it’s inappropriate the way I’ve moved my things back in.”
“No. Why would I—I mean, my opinion doesn’t matter a whole lot, does it?”
“It was my office first, you’ll recall.”
“Actually, I don’t recall. I mean, I just got here in February.”
He looked me up and down. I considered hopping from foot to foot as though I urgently had to pee, but I didn’t think he’d buy it.
“You’re Emma Cole’s grandson, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Judgmental. The two of you.”
I opened my mouth to object—I mean he didn’t know me from Adam—but then I stopped.
He didn’t like Nana Cole, but she seemed popular at the church.
And only half the congregation applauded when Sue Langtree talked about how nice it was that he was back.
So, was there a whole group who were against him? Was that part of why he retired?
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to go find that vestibule.”
As I walked across the pole barn, Nana Cole called out for me, “Henry, come here for a second.”
She was standing with Sue Langtree of all people. When I got close enough, my grandmother said to Sue, “Ask him. Go ahead.”
“Do you sing?” she asked. “We’re in desperate need of a tenor.”
“I don’t.”
With a glance at Nana Cole, she asked again, “Not even a little?”
I shook my head. Nana Cole poked me in the arm.
“What?”
“He’s lying,” she said. “Henry has a very sweet voice. He should come sing for you. When would be a good time?”
“Oh, no, no… I cannot—”
“We have fifty dollars a week for a good tenor,” Sue said.
The money was tempting, of course, but getting paid would not make me a good singer.
“How about Wednesday afternoon around three?” Sue suggested.
“I can’t leave my grandmother. Her health—”
“Bring her with you,” Sue said, then noticed someone across the room waving at her. “Oh God, Carla Allen. I have to hide. She wants us to do selections from Godspell.”
And with that she was gone.