Page 32 of Dear Wife

“His hands, when he hurts you. Are they closed or open?”

The logical part of me understands Father Ian’s reluctance to believe you would be capable of such cruelty. He’s known you most of your life, guided you through so many sacraments. And we were together for two years before you shoved me into that hotel wall. It was two more years before you punched me, and another year after that before you punched me again. The violence came on so gradually, and then so fast. To Father Ian, to everyone but you and me, my complaints came out of nowhere.

In the end, we compromised: Father Ian would counsel you on the proper ways to handle an argument, and I would pray to become a better wife.

A honk comes from behind me, two friendly, rapid-fire beeps. I look up to find a pretty blonde in my rearview mirror. She waves, diamonds winking on her wrist, and I try to remember what Martina called them, these wealthy women from the northern suburbs. Betty somethings. I gesture for this one to go around, but she doesn’t move, and the road is too narrow for me to turn around. With a sigh, I put the car in Drive.

The two-lane road slices through a manicured lawn clotted with oakleaf hydrangeas and boxwoods sculpted into perfect circles. Before I can find a place to turn around, it dumps me into a parking garage, five-plus stories of stacked concrete. I swing the Buick into a visitor’s space, finally shaking off the blonde on my tail. She motors past, rounding the corner to the next level.

The holy hush—that’s what I’ve since learned it’s called, this brushing of allegations like mine under the altar rug, though I suppose I should give Father Ian a little credit. He lived up to his end of the bargain and talked to you. But whatever he said only made things worse. You came home looking for a fight, one that ended with a concussion and a weeklong ringing in my ears. That Sunday, Father Ian pressed the communion wafer through my split lips like nothing had ever happened. As soon as I turned away, I spit the thing into my hand.

I realize that not every church operates this way. That ignorant and willfully blind priests like Father Ian are, for the most part, a dying breed. I once read an article about an abused woman who claimed church was the only thing that kept her going, the one hour each week she allowed herself a glimmer of hope. And yet I stare out my windshield at this one, and I feel nothing but dread.

Martina all but guaranteed they would hire me on the spot. She said she told them that I clean like she does, powering through six toilets in the time it takes others to scrub one, even though she’s never seen me work so much as a sponge. I have no idea why she has taken up the role of my protector, but I’m not exactly in a position to turn her down. I do a mental count of the bills strapped to my stomach. After Jorge and groceries, it’s a whole lot lighter than it was just yesterday. It would take me days to find another job, which means church or not, I can’t afford to walk away from this one. I brace myself and climb out of the car.

The garage stairwell dumps me out at a side entrance, and I step into a hallway that smells like pine and incense. I follow it past a long line of double doors, then stop at an open one, gawking into a cavernous space three stories high. Rows and rows of plush crimson seats, thousands of them, are arranged in sections on a gentle slope around a podium hung with stage lights and two giant LED screens. And what’s that—an orchestra pit?

Voices come from somewhere behind me, and I continue down the hallway, following the signs to the administrative offices. Colored light trickles down from stained glass windows high above my head, painting patterns across a freshly vacuumed carpet. I can’t imagine why they need another person on their cleaning staff. So far, everything I’ve seen here has been spotless.

The executive offices are bright and spacious and, as far as I can tell, span the entire length of the church. There’s a reception area straight ahead, with hallways dotted with doors on either side. A woman sits behind the receptionist’s desk, one I recognize. Prim white blouse, understated pearls, diamonds at her wrists, blond hair teased into a helmet atop her head. Up close, she’s not half as pretty as she was in my rearview mirror.

She greets me like she’s never seen me before. “Welcome to the Church of Christ’s Twelve Apostles. What brings you in today?”

“I’m here to see Father Andrews.”

“It’sReverend,” she corrects, turning to her computer. She punches a few buttons on the keyboard with a baby pink nail. “Do you have an appointment with the Reverend?”

“Yes, at ten.” I arrange my face into a careful neutral. “My name is Beth Murphy.”

She tells me the Reverend had a minor emergency in the music room and asked me to meet him there, then rattles off a series of convoluted directions for what is basically a trek to the basement. I thank her, then head in search of the stairwell.

A few minutes later, I step into a full-on recording studio. Modern and airy, furnished with sleek black chairs and leather couches arranged in clusters around a stage. Multiple rehearsal rooms each with their own mixing panel are lined up along the wall, across from a soundproof recording booth. Behind its smoky glass, a spongy microphone hovers like a spaceship from the ceiling.

“Hello?”

A thump, followed by a muffled curse, drifts up from somewhere behind me. I turn and that’s when I see them, two stovepipes of dark denim ending in orange Nikes, poking out from under one of the mixing panels. He wriggles himself out and heaves to a stand, holding out a hand.

“Erwin Andrews,” he says, smiling behind his clipped white beard. “And you must be Beth.”

I shake his hand, swallowing a flutter of nerves. It’s been years since I’ve been on a job interview, especially one for which I am so monumentally unqualified. I know how to scrub a toilet, yes, but what if he asks about prior experience? What if he asks for references?

“Why don’t we sit?” The Reverend is fit despite his age, popping off the ground with surprising speed and agility. He leads me with long, nimble strides to a matching pair of couches to the right of the stage. He’s a runner, judging by his shoes and his build.

He points me to the couch, then plucks a chair from the stage and swings it around, placing it so we’re almost knee to knee. Not too close, but not far away, either. Relaxed and informal.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, clasping his hands. “Why would the pastor of a place this size want to interview every potential employee? Why not let someone else do it? The office manager, maybe, or the head of the cleaning crew.”

It’s almost word for word what I said to Martina last night, when she told me she’d set up the interview. She didn’t know the answer, either.

“Martina says that you interview everybody.” I tell my nerves to shut up, but they don’t listen, and neither does my body. Sweaty hands, hammering heart, the works. I clear my throat, struggling to rein myself in.

“I do, Beth, and I’ll tell you why. Because we are a community here at CCTA, and as its leader, it is my responsibility to keep people from harm. Everyone who walks through that door needs to know that they are sheltered. Regardless of where they came from or what brought them here. That is the promise I have made, to provide a secure, positive, healthy environment where everyone, from the worshippers to the volunteers to the janitors, know that they are safe.”

In other words, he needs to ensure I’m not a criminal. He says it without rancor, but still. Reverend Andrews is the godlier version of Miss Sally. I wouldn’t want to cross him, either.

I nod, plastering my most law-abiding look on my face. “That makes total sense.”

“Good. Excellent.” He slaps his thighs. “Now, I assume you know how to operate a mop, so we can skip the boring parts of this interview and get right to the part where I ask if you can sing.”

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