Faking grace, p.12
Faking Grace, page 12
“All right. What about leaving the paper early today so you could play beauty shop with this Jem girl?”
I’m starting to feel incompetent—and wet. Protesting the cessation of his belly scratching, Woofer is licking my hand. I resume my duty to him. “You make it sound as if I was derelict in my work. I assure you, I got it done before leaving this afternoon.”
“But your work now includes this investigation. Tell me how allowing Jem to make a mess of your hair has anything to do with that.”
“As you know, she’s given me more insight into the goings-on at Steeple Side than anyone.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Insight is good, but it does not a story make—nor does getting too close to someone you’re supposed to be investigating.”
As I know well, and the memory of that career-altering naiveté gives me a hard shake. Maybe Tessie’s right. Maybe I am getting too close. Liking Jem more than I should. Praying for her, for goodness’ sake. Then there’s Jack, whose lunch invitation I wanted to accept. Whose accent I wanted to savor. Whose laughter I wanted to hear.
I’m definitely heading down the wrong path again, and when I get to the end of it, neither Jem, nor Jack, nor any of the other Steeple Side employees will be there for me. I’ll be alone again, and likely worse off, as Tessie will have every reason to turn her back on me after all she’s done to help me get my act together.
I frown as the word act reverberates through me. That’s not all I’m about, is it? That’s not all this is? No, this is real. Even if I do find myself acting out a bigger Christian life than I’ve known, it’s for a worthy cause.
“Are you with me, Maizy?”
Once more abandoning Woofer, I clasp my hands in my lap. “I am. In fact, I found out something tonight when I was with Jem.”
Her face brightens. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Because I wasn’t going to say so, and now my conscience is going to town on me, just as it did before I flubbed the Seattle story. But I am not going to flub this one. “It’s not much … just another piece of the puzzle.”
She relaxes into the pillows. “Pieces add up to pictures, and once we fit all the pieces we can get our hands on and fill in the holes with educated guesses”—she sniffs—“a story is born.”
But what if those educated guesses are wrong? I start to ask, but it doesn’t require every piece of a puzzle to see the big picture.
“So what piece did our little Jem provide?”
“Remember my feeling that she’s anorexic? She is.” Ignoring my groaning conscience, I continue. “When I probed to find out if she was getting help, she told me she wasn’t ready but asked that I pray for her.”
Tessie’s eyes roll. “Christians are so cliché.”
I’m not surprised by her reaction or by my own—indignation—which is in direct opposition to my renewed determination to get the story. Indignation that is going to get me in trouble if I don’t control it. And at the moment, it seems the only way to control it is to eliminate the one causing it.
I check my watch. “No wonder I’m so tired. It’s after ten—and on a Monday night.”
Tessie unfolds from the sofa. “I’ll let you get to bed.” She steps forward, halts at the sight of The Message, and peers over her shoulder. “I’m not going to ask.”
“What’s to ask?”
She considers me. “You’re not going to find the story you’re after in that silly Bible, so don’t waste your time. Or mine.”
A moment later, she’s gone, and I’m left with an unsettled feeling that leaves me tossing and turning the whole night and causes Woofer to migrate farther and farther down the bed until I hear a thump. With a low growl, he pads over the carpet and out of the room.
“Fair-weather mutt,” I mutter and drag the pillow over my head.
NINE
Of all people…
I catch Jack’s widening eyes as I slam to a halt on my approach to the sidewalk. Great! Not that I didn’t know I’d have to face him, but I hoped it would be later rather than sooner.
Gripping my purse hard to keep from fingering the dark hair I subdued with a headband, I give a wooden smile. “Good morning, Jack.”
He halts in front of me. His eyes move left to right and right to left before settling on my face which, according to my mirror, is as pale as my hair is dark. He shakes his head. “I was fairly certain you weren’t a blonde, but I’m positive you’re not a brunette—leastwise not on the darkest end of that spectrum.”
Act as if it’s perfectly normal to go from one extreme color to another and everyone will forget about it. I smile. “Are you saying you don’t like my new ‘do’?”
Jack’s eyebrows peak. “Are you saying this was planned?”
Not even his British accent can soften the blow. Though I know I shouldn’t care what he thinks, I hate that he’s seeing me like this. Thus, the pressure to save face makes me consider Lie Number Seven: of course it was intentional! Or might that be Lie Number Five? After all, as I confessed to Four and Five, Number Six could move into Number Four’s slot, and Number Seven into Number Five’s slot…
Too complicated. And all the more reason not to tell another lie. “Not intentional. Amazing how much trouble one can get into with a box of hair color.”
Jack crosses his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t know.”
Envisioning Jem twittering about his head with a coloring bottle, I chuckle. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Do you mean to go back to blond?”
“Actually, at this point I’d be thrilled to return to middle-of-the-road brunette—my natural color.”
He smiles. “I thought so. It goes with your eyes and coloring.”
He noticed? As I struggle with the implications, Todd Wynde appears and slaps Jack on the back. “This looks promising.”
Is he implying that Jack and I …?
He grins. “Didn’t recognize you at first, Grace.”
I shrug. “It’s a different look for me.”
“I’ll say! Decided a change of scenery was in order, huh?”
I glance at Jack, whose lower jaw is slightly thrust forward. “Something like that.”
“Well, I don’t know what Jack thinks of it, but I prefer your blond days.”
One would think I’d asked for his opinion. “Thank you. I’ll take that into account the next time I color my hair.” I consult my watch. “I’m going to be late.” Avoiding Jack’s gaze, I step past him. “Have a nice day.”
The consensus is that blond is better, and a medium brunette would be best. But what do they know? It’s all about adjustment. If Jem’s stylist can’t do a thing about my hair, that’s what my opinionated co-workers will have to do—adjust. Hope I can.
Perched on the edge of the toilet seat in a stall at the far end of the ladies’ room, I balance the notebook on my knee to complete my notes about Gwen’s husband. While I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on her and her friend, both of whom work in advertising, I had no choice. After all, there I was, alone in the cafeteria, Jem having pulled a no-show, and there they were two tables away, making no attempt to prevent others from straining to listen in on their conversation.
I was saddened to learn that Gwen’s husband, who converted to Christianity shortly before they married, is on the brink of a change of heart. As for her friend, though she was eager to console, twice she reminded Gwen that she had warned her that something like this could happen. In the midst of nose blowing, Gwen nodded, and I bristled.
It’s true that I’m new at Christian etiquette, but I can’t believe an “I told you so” attitude is what Gwen needs. However, in defense of Gwen’s friend, the woman’s sympathy did seem sincere, and I was touched when she asked if she could pray for Gwen. To my surprise, she did just that—right there.
So here I am, on the edge of a toilet seat, compiling notes that will allow others a glimpse of the faces behind the mask Steeple Side wears—a good thing, especially as I intend to be fair by presenting the positives alongside the negatives. No hidden agenda. No misleading slant. Just the truth.
I scan my newly inked notes, then flip to the notes on Jem. I’d glimpsed her earlier on my return from the Graphic Arts department. She was heading the other way and didn’t see me—at least, didn’t appear to. Then, for the first time since I started at Steeple Side, she didn’t join me for lunch. Because she feels bad about my hair? Because of her anorexia? Coincidence? I’ll have to call her.
I snap the notebook closed, but as I start to stand, someone enters the ladies’ room.
“Thanks for having lunch with me,” Fiala says. “It means a lot to have someone to talk it over with.”
Talk what over with? The reason behind Fiala’s chill behavior, which Jem has yet to spill on?
“Certainly.” This from my boss, Linda.
I glance at my stall door, which is several inches ajar, just as the other unoccupied stalls were when I entered. I usually latch it, but this time I forgot. So it appears as if there’s no one else in the ladies’ room. As I waver between alerting Fiala and Linda to my presence and adding to my investigation, I hear a door close farther down the line of stalls, then the one immediately to my right.
The bad news—I lose my grip on the notebook. The good news—the notebook tumbles to the left and hits the floor in concert with the sharp latching of the door beside mine. More bad news—my feet are showing. I lift my knees and swing my feet to the side.
“It’s so hard not to be angry at God.” Fiala’s voice sounds from two feet away.
A stall talker. I’ve never been comfortable carrying on a conversation across restroom stalls, but some women think it’s the most natural thing in the world. Now if Linda is one of them…
“I’ve been there too, Fiala.”
We have dialogue. Unfortunately, my abdominal and thigh muscles are starting to cramp, evidence that it’s not only Woofer who needs more exercise.
Fiala sighs. “I just can’t believe God would allow this. It’s as if He doesn’t care.”
“You know He cares.”
“Do I?” A note of bitterness, to which Linda doesn’t respond and which leaves me hanging—rather, teetering—on a hard piece of plastic.
My thighs! And stomach! I lean back and wrap my arms around my knees. It helps, but not much. Perspiration forming on my brow, I’m relieved by a distant flush and nearly go limp when Fiala flushes. Thank you, thank you!
“He cares,” Linda says as she and Fiala approach the sinks. “But as I’ve learned with my son, the problem doesn’t always go away with prayer alone. Until your husband wants to change enough to get help for his—”
The taps come on, garbling the rest of it, but I believe I heard the word gambling. If so, it’s no wonder Fiala is less than amiable.
The taps go off. Footsteps retreat. The towel dispenser clunks.
“I’m going to talk to our pastor again,” Fiala says as she and Linda go out the door. “Maybe he can convince Will to come in and speak with him.”
The door closes.
I drop my feet to the floor and clap a hand to my abdomen. An instant later, my groan turns into a yelp when the automatic toilet I’m perched on assumes I’ve done my business and flushes. At the realization that it could have done so anytime during my covert operation, I feel dizzy. Way too close. Another sign that I’m not cut out for this kind of work?
Mustn’t think like that. It could as easily be a sign that God approves of my mission. That He’s watching out for me.
“Yeah.” I reach for my notebook. “Watching out for me.”
But when I return to my desk and Fiala approaches with an armful of folders, an impassive face, and eyes that at first glance appear shot through with annoyance but at second glance lean more toward sorrow, I feel guilty.
“I’ll be there, Grandma.”
“Seven seventeen sharp. Don’t forget.”
I wouldn’t dare. “Seven seventeen sharp.” A week and a half from now, yet she makes it sound as if she’s flying in tonight.
“And call to make sure the plane isn’t ahead of schedule. I don’t want to be waiting around at night in a strange city. I’m too old for that.”
Peering at the fingernails on my left hand, I nod. “I’ll call ahead.”
“About that dog, what are you going to do with him while I’m visiting?”
I search out “that dog,” but he’s nowhere to be seen. Probably has his head under a rug in anticipation of Grandma’s visit. “Woofer and I had a little heart to heart, and he’s agreed to keep a low profile.”
“Well, so long as he stays out of my way, we’ll get along fine.”
No doubt Woofer will be happy to accommodate. “I don’t think that will be a problem, Grandma.”
“Good. Now about my visit. I’ve drawn up a list of the places I want to get all tourist-y over. Top of the list is the Grand Ole Opry.”
I bite my tongue.
“I also want to see the Ryman Auditorium, Cheekwood Gardens, and the Parthenon, which I understand is worth a trip to Nashville all by itself.”
Obviously she needs to know that the paper put me on full time. But not about Steeple Side. That would be awkward.
“Then there’s the Belmont Mansion, The Hermitage, the … Sche … Scher …”
“The Schermerhorn Symphony Center. Grandma, I’m sure we can fit in some of those, but now that I’m working full time—”
Gasp. “Full time?” Her pitch has shades of relief as well as disappointment. “When did the paper put you on full time?”
“Fairly recently, and of course I’m thrilled to be able to pay my bills, but it means I can’t take you to all those places.”
“Of course not, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the sights. I’ll just hook up with a tourist company. You’ll look into that for me, won’t you?”
Relieved that she’s taking it well, I nod into the mouthpiece. “I’ll be happy to.” And now to check in on her friend. “How’s Edith?”
A sharp breath whistles across the phone line. “She’s hanging in there. Though they’re still telling us it’s only a matter of weeks, Edith is having nothing to do with their doom and gloom. In fact, at times I think she might beat this, but then she has a bad day.”
“Maybe there’s hope yet.”
“There’s always hope with God, Maizy Grace.”
She says stuff like that—upping the ante with God when I don’t include Him. “Of course.”
“But I do think the doctors are right, that the Lord is calling Edith home. I just …” Her voice thickens. “I hope He comes for her while I’m visiting you. I can’t take much more of this. It’s hard on my poor heart.”
Dare I ask? “Grandma, has Dad—?”
“He hasn’t. Busy, busy, busy. And that wife of his too.”
“That would be my mom.” Although I often let her backhanded slaps pass, something impels me to speak up. Maybe it’s this dark hair of mine, which Jem’s stylist said would benefit more from a series of deep conditionings than another bottle of color.
“Yes, your mother. She and that husband of hers—”
My dad. Her son.
“—never have the time to visit. As for that daughter of theirs—”
My sister.
“—she doesn’t even pretend to be busy.”
“I’m sorry, Grandma, but the good news is that you’ll be here with me in a couple of weeks, and as much as possible, I’m going to show you a good time.”
“That is good news, isn’t it?” She sighs. “Well, it’s late there. I’ll let you go.”
“I look forward to your visit.”
“Remember, 7:17 sharp.”
I finger a tress of hair. “You may not recognize me.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m a solid brunette. And very dark.”
“Like your mother?”
“Sort of.”
“Why on earth would you go and do that? Not that I much liked your skunky look, but dark brunette?”
“I needed a change.”
“Now, Maizy Grace, you know”—her teeth clack—“I certainly understand the need for change.”
Thank You, God.
“All right, I’ll let you get to bed. Good night.”
“ ‘Night, Grandma.”
I push the handset’s Off button and glance at my watch. Has Jem picked up the message I left on her answering machine? I gave her the scoop on her hairstylist’s recommendation, told her I missed her at lunch, and said I hoped we could get together tomorrow. Did she try to return my call? At times like this, I wish I had call waiting.
I set the handset down and groan as I unfold from the sofa. My thighs! And abs! Cannot believe my balancing act in the bathroom stall would make my muscles so sore. I need to start working out.
I glance at the DBGC, then at The Message. Though I’m too tired to do any serious delving, surely I can squeeze in ten minutes before bed. In fact, it might be just what I need to put me to sleep.
TEN
What’s a Hypocrite to Do?
So you’re starting to feel that Christianity might be the thing for you. Starting to feel you’re part of something big and life changing. Maybe even starting to look like one of the “in crowd” (that is, Jesus’s crowd). Hold it! Before you get all goopy eyed and mushy kneed, let’s talk about … hypocrisy.
An ugly word. But if you’re in this for the long haul (a.k.a. eternity), you’ll have to get up close and personal with the hypocrisy that piles into pews on Sundays. Imagine a man whose hand is always raised high in praise but was raised for an entirely different reason when he was cut off in traffic. How about a young woman who dresses conservatively for service but abandons modesty for a day at the mall? Then there’s a stiffly starched mother who disciplines her children for impolite behavior only to snap at her own mother. Not to be overlooked—the guy at the end of the pew who proclaims, “Amen,” when the minister preaches on treating the poor fairly. He owns a pawn shop that does a thriving business.
Ah! A deacon’s wife. Sunday after Sunday, she presents a spotless example of Christianity, but last Sunday she ripped into a library volunteer who wasn’t shelving books in the prescribed manner. Then there’s you. Hate to break it to you, but to some degree or another, you have been, are, and will be a hypocrite no matter how much effort you put into being like Jesus. You’re not alone. Not only “seekers” (those searching but not yet committed to the faith) but also mature Christians put on their best faces when they walk into church, struggle to hold them in place, and sometimes let them slip. But that’s no excuse not to reach for something beyond your grasp—to get as close as possible to overcoming hypocrisy. So what’s a hypocrite to do?
