I’m safe. Or am I? Who wouldn’t be safe here in an office above a church. The local Christian radio station spins the latest contemporary hits over the office intercom. I’m alone today. My boss, Howard Miller, travels extensively. He’s head pastor over the ministers and their congregations in our district under the Midwest Gospel Association. Even though I’ve been his secretary for only two months, Howard has entrusted the care and management of the office over to me.
My main job editing the monthly newsletter demands most of my attention. This little endeavor has a circulation that rivals any secular magazine thanks to the two mega churches in our district. It feeds my creativity and my love for writing. Today I found a clever piece of clip-art with rats dressed up in their Sunday-go-to-meetings sitting in a church pew. I’ll paste it above Howard’s monthly sermon to all the pastors. Oh, the phone, probably Howard calling in for messages.
“Midwest Gospel Association, Rachel speaking, may I help you? Hello? This is Rachel. May I help you?” Not again. I manage to scribble the time on a post-it. “Is anyone there?” I play the game and wait for the click. Gripping the receiver with both hands, I hang up the phone.
There’s a long narrow hall outside my office door. If I turn to the left, the hall leads to the main entrance. If I turn to the right, the hall continues with offices on either side and dead-ends with a red door. Behind the red door is a staircase leading to a church below. Beginning last Friday, no one can enter the second-floor offices from these back stairs. That’s because my husband, Sam, installed a lock on the door; Reverend Jones, the pastor of the church, flirts with me.
Reverend Jones rents out the upper offices of his church to Howard and his staff. By the way, what staff? I’m the office manager, slash, secretary, managing myself. And I really don’t like being alone. This old building cracks and expands bellowing out queer noises. Like footsteps in the hall. The red door is secure, but I look down the hall anyway, the red door staring back.
All the pastors are courteous and nice. My birthday landed on their weekly prayer meeting last month. As I carried in the donuts and coffee they all stood and surprised me a chorus of Happy Birthday (Reverend Jones even played his trumpet). I admit I like the attention. I sense they like my perfume too, always mentioning when they come in the door, that it smells a lot nicer in here since I came on board.
Who’s there? Is someone behind the red door? It’s daylight, but without windows or the main light on in the hall, the red door remains forever nighttime. If Reverend Jones wants to come up now, he’ll have to walk outside and around to the main entrance like everyone else. I’ll switch the lights on in the hall, so I can keep an eye on the door. How do you prevent a pastor from entering his own church, anyway? Are certain doors and hallways off-limits to a man who owns the property? Can you lock a man out of his own building?
I love this job. The hours are flexible and there’s no one to micromanage me. Our own pastor, Reverend Owens, knew Sam and I needed the extra income. When Howard’s long-time secretary prepared to retire, he told us of the opening. I’d always heard of Howard being the top guy. He’s been a guest speaker at our church. A godly man and well respected. I knew by landing this job, not only would I bring in the needed money to keep the lights on, but respected, too, as the secretary to the big kahuna. Did I mention Howard and Reverend Jones are good friends? Golfing buddies, I believe. Howard is grateful to him for renting out the second floor of his church to the association.
“UPS!” A blast of humid air and heavy cologne envelope me. A stack of boxes barrel through the door. “Boss on the road again?” Ben says, his face peering over the top.
“Yes, but I get a lot—”
“Great day for it, a little warm. You want these in the supply room?”
“Sure.”
I hear boxes slam on the floor and immediately Ben rattles out with an empty dolly. “Hey, you’re not totally alone,” he says, pointing where to sign, “Reverend Jones says to tell you hi.” The oppressive humid air blows in again when Ben leaves, slamming the main door behind him. I sit motionless while papers flutter around my desk.
If I hurry I can edit the newsletter in record time. I hope everyone has a sense of humor about the pastors looking like rats. I’m new at working outside my home. Up until now, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Laura has band practice and it’s my day to car pool, so I need to slip out early. She misses her dad; we both do, deploying yesterday for another tour of duty. When I first told Sam, that Reverend Jones was flirting with me, I sensed he didn’t think there was anything to worry about: “Just keep a record of it, honey,” he told me, “the dirty old man.” I even told my dad: “Well, why wouldn’t he? You’re a beautiful woman, aren’t you?” was all the advice he gave me. I reported it to Howard, and all he said is to politely inform Reverend Jones that I’m busy and can’t discuss Italian cooking when he stretches his feet on my desk.
I should lock the main door. Especially with Sam gone and Howard traveling, and Monday being most preachers’ day off—not a lot of bodies coming in and out. But it’s good for getting things done, no interruptions. I’ll brew a pot of coffee and take a break. My feet are swelling again; I’ll slip off my shoes and get more comfortable. I know there’s a box of cookies around here, somewhere, leftover from Friday’s prayer meeting.
“Good morning, Rachel.”
“Reverend Jones!”
“I like the new dress code.”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I like my women barefooted. Should I help myself?”
“Excuse me?
“The coffee?”
“Oh, of course. Black, right?”
“I was thinking today I might need a little sugar.”
There’s a faint tune whistling in the hall. Reverend Jones arm is heavy on my shoulder as he reaches for the sugar, his belly resting on top of the counter. “There seems to be something wrong with the red door, Rachel. Do you know anything about it?”
“Something wrong?”
“I have maintenance working on it right now.”
Down the hall, I find the custodian kneeling next to the red door with Sam’s doorknob lying on the floor! Jack takes a break from his work. “Hey, Rachel.”
“Jack?” I find myself floating in the hall from the safety of the ceiling.
“The Reverend doesn’t want to be locked out of these upper offices in case of an emergency, isn’t that right, Reverend Jones? I got this new doorknob I’ll put on, and we’ll be outta your way. Shoot, I never noticed a lock on this door before—like I said, it’ll just take a minute and we’ll be outta your hair.”
Jack’s whistling drones on. I float back to the floor descending with the slow rhythm of the Old Rugged Cross. Reverend Jones, is peeling the foil off a Hershey’s Kiss from my candy jar with his feet on my desk. He leans back in my chair: “Do you want a Kiss?”
The phone rings. My chair creaks as he shifts his weight to answer it. “Midwest Gospel Association, this is Reverend Jones, may I help you?” He leans farther back in my chair, still holding the phone to his ear. “She’s right here in front of me,” he says. With his eyes set on me, he hands me the phone. “It’s your papa.”
Reverend Jones puts his arms behind his neck and leans back farther in my chair. Amy Grant’s, El Shaddai, belts through the speaker above our heads.
“Dad?”
“Hi honey, guess who’s in town? Uncle Nate.”
“Uncle Nate? In town?”
“Yeah, he wants to see his favorite niece. I’m sure they let you out of there to eat, don’t they? He’s come a long way to see you.”
With a force frightening and exhilarating at the same time, I exhale a gut-wrenching scream. It startles Reverend Jones. My mouth permits a foreign sound I barely recognize with my own ears. It’s my own voice. A voice loosed behind a red bedroom door.
Jack is yelling. Reverend Jones, the confusion in his eyes, his arms flailing can’t stop his backward motion. His head slams on the corner of the work table bouncing like a ball then sliding without his permission down the front panel to the floor. His chin nestles into his chest while clip-art of rats in suits and glue sticks fall alongside his head. His legs once crossed and relaxed on my desk, now entangled in the chair legs, the wheels spinning wildly from the freedom of his weight. His eyes staring only in the direction his head will allow, mouthing words.
With no voice.