Chapter 2: Girlfriend

After handing him a service to lead on something like five minutes warning, Englehard would be hard-pressed to ever complain about how David behaved. Jen, on the other hand, might get justifiably angry over a phone call dragging her out of a sickbed to ask about her sickness. He did, however, read the lectionary for the next week. Remembering what Jen had said about the danger of Independence never hearing anything but the gospels, he considered the passage from Thessalonians. He held off calling Jen until Wednesday and contacted Englehard for a report first.

“This is David,” he began when he got her, “I hope you are feeling better.”

“Better,” she replied. “Not good.”

“I’ve been going through the Old Testament -- lectio divina -- so I preached on Exodus. It wasn’t a passage from the lectionary, but you didn’t give me much warning.”

“I didn’t have much warning, myself.”

“Well, they were kind afterwards. They did get some sort of service. Anyway, Sunday is the first Sunday of November. You celebrate Communion on the first Sunday of the month, don’t you?” He knew she did. He’d taken communion on the first Sundays of September and October.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to do it? Frankly, you still don’t sound recovered.” She sounded far from recovered, and Englehard thought it would be another week before she did.

“Could you? And I’m sorry to miss the lunch.”

“I’ll call your district superintendent and establish my bona fides.” She seemed to like him personally. Finding him useful in her professional life could only increase that. “Don’t worry about the lunch. I’m sorry, too, but I’m sorrier that you have to go through the sickness.”

“It’s only a cold. I keep telling myself. It feels more like the black plague.”

“I’d bet against the black plague, but have yourself checked out. It’s an upper respiratory infection; I can hear that over the phone. But people die from the flu, and you could have pneumonia.”

“I’ve been to the doctor.”

“Good. I’ll call your DS.”

First, he called the Conference office for the phone number. Jen had to have it close at hand, but he didn’t want to strain her even that much. Then he called the DS’s office. He was put through.

“Ed Campbell speaking.”

“Reverend Campbell? I’m David Blake. I teach at Garrett and have been attending Independence UMC. When Reverend Saunders was taken ill, she asked if I could conduct the service, and I did. She’s still fairly ill, and doubts that she could handle this coming Sunday. Well, anybody can preach, but the sacrament is another question.

“I said I’d check with you to establish my bona fides. I’m a member in good standing of Wyoming Conference. Reverend Metzger has used me for pulpit supply. Would you mind if I presided at Independence this coming Sunday?”

“Yes, Professor Blake. I’ve heard about your coming in at the last minute. Good reports on your sermon.”

“Well, it was short. That guarantees someone will like it. I had something between five and ten minutes warning. If I do say so myself, it sounded like I’d had much longer, maybe half an hour.”

Campbell laughed. “I’d have loved to hear it. Too bad it wasn’t recorded. Anyway, it’s Jen’s pulpit. If she says you can occupy it, that’s what the Discipline requires. I’ll check with Metzger, but I don’t seriously suspect a Garrett professor of claiming credentials he doesn’t have. And thanks for filling in.”

“You’re quite welcome. Actually, I feel it’s part of the contract between clergy and laity. I’m guaranteed a job; they’re guaranteed somebody in the pulpit. Well, I’m keeping you. Thanks, and goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Now, he got seriously to work on a sermon. He dealt with his lessons, but he set Paul and Exodus aside. That Sunday, Jen attended, but he led the service. He was about to suggest that Englehard drive her back when another man took the responsibility.

Jen, however felt able to handle the service the next week. She looked as though she’d recovered, and he took the chance of calling that Monday.

“Independence United Methodist Church.”

“This is David. You sounded much better, yesterday. Have you recovered, or was that a false dawn?”

“You always identify yourself. And it’s never Dave. I think I’ve recovered. It was only a cold.”

“One of those things which they describe as, ‘it’s not fatal; you only wish it were.’”

“Pretty much.”

“I wondered if you think you’ll be recovered enough next Sunday to go out for another lunch. That was supposed to be an invitation; I’m sorry if it sounds so convoluted.”

“That’s the potluck. Are you coming?”

“Of course! Where two or three Methodists are gathered together, there shall a potluck be also.” She laughed. “I’ll bring my famous Pauline chili.”

“Who’s Pauline?”

“You don’t know her. I chopped her up to add to the chili. No. ‘Pauline’ is an adjective. I make the chili according to the directions of St. Paul.” And then, hating to end the conversation, but needing to leave the joke to simmer, “Well, I’m keeping you. Bye.”

He did produce a large pot of chili, using half as many jalapeno peppers as he would use for the same quantity for himself. He might be wronging them, but the congregation looked fairly bland to him. Jen looked healthy on Sunday and preached a good sermon. He considered joining her table, but that might be seen as an imposition. He repeated and extended his “Pauline Chili” joke, however so that Jen could hear it.

“I tried to follow the advice of Paul. He says to cook chili a long time over very low heat, so all the flavors mix in -- but the dish isn’t scorched.”

She bit. “I had a thorough introduction to the letters from Paul taught by an excellent professor.” Hot dog! That ‘excellent professor’ was worth the drive and cooking the chili. “The course didn’t mention chili.”

“I can’t see how it missed it. Somebody have a Bible?” Someone at his table pulled out a pocket New Testament. “Excellent, please read First Corinthians, Chapter seven, verse nine.”

The man holding the book looked it up and laughed. Then he passed the book to David. “You read it.”

“For it is better to marry than to burn.” He got groans out of that. Jen groaned more loudly than most, probably because he’d let her marinate in the joke longer. But that started others off on bible-based humor. Fools tried to get friendly with “regular folks” by pretending to be “regular folks,” themselves. David never made that blunder -- maybe because he was so far from being “regular folks.” He was, however, a joker, and people were glad to relate to him as a joker.

He stood by his pot while all the rest was being cleared up. When Jen looked ready to go, he offered her a ride. She declined on the grounds that the parsonage was close. So, he put the pot in his trunk and walked her back. She accepted that. Even better, when they got there, she turned to him.

“Would you like to come in?” She meant in the parsonage, but the answer was still yes.

“Thanks.”

And when the door closed behind them, he took her in his arms. He kissed her. It was the sweetest kiss he’d ever had, well worth the slap if she slapped him. Instead, she hugged him. Through coats and all, but it was a hug.

“You don’t know,” he said when he had to abandon the kiss, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“The first day?” The lady wanted a declaration. Why had he bitten his tongue so long?

“Not quite.” He should be honest with her. “I tried to teach the course without my glasses. No reason for you to remember. Anyway, fourth or fifth class, I gave up. I wore the glasses and could see you clearly. Stupid of me to have deprived myself of that sight for so long.”

“You never showed it.” He was not so sure. Still, of all the complaints from students of which he had heard, none mentioned ogling a coed.

“Well, I tried not to. What would your classmates have said! Still, I’m not sure I hid it all that well.”

This time, she initiated the kiss. His cock twitched at the thought. He initiated the tongue-kiss, but she cooperated in that. When she stepped back it was to open her coat. He tossed his towards the couch.

When they kissed this time, he could feel her shape -- the shape that had haunted his dreams for so long. Her breasts were soft on his chest while he stroked down her back and cupped her bottom. He was stiff as a board. The only good way to end this was in bed, but his car was still parked at the church and people knew where he had gone. Besides, that Jen had cooperated in the kiss didn’t mean that she was ready to fuck. He had to get away while his big head still had some say in what his body would do.

“It is as good as my dreams,” he said. “I’m going to leave while I can. I’ll call.” And he walked out. He put his coat on outside, then got his car from the church. The first half of the drive back was spent recalling the kisses. Then he began to plan. They’d gone about as far as they could go in her parsonage, one hell of a lot further than was wise for her to go. And, if he could get a kiss at the end of his dates, he wanted more dates than every other week. More Sunday afternoons would meet with revolt from the church members; they expected to host her then.

Well, weekday evenings were a better deal in many ways. He could move up to one a week without messing her meeting schedule up too much. If the roads kept clear, they could eat in Chicago. They could even eat in Evanston, maybe in his apartment in Evanston. When he got back to his apartment, he called Jen. He got only her answering machine and went through a moment of panic. What the hell? There were many more plausible reasons for her not answering the phone than that she’d had a relapse in the last hour.

Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when she called back.

“I didn’t mean for this to be on your bill,” he told her. “I’ll keep it short.”

“I’m in a comfortable chair,” she replied. “I meant for it to be a long call. Minimum salary isn’t that minimal.” Which certainly sounded like she enjoyed talking with him, and not -- from her tone -- to scold him for taking advantage of her.

“Well, I’m not too bright, but sometimes ideas do get through. Y’know, your congregation wants to feed you on Sundays. There is no reason that I have to compete with that. I know about committee meetings; Lord, how I know. Still, are you available any week nights? What’s your schedule this week?” There was a pause, but not a daunting one.

“I have trustees on Wednesday and choir practice every Thursday.”

“I have late afternoon classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Would Friday cut into sermon prep too much?”

“Friday would be fine.”

“Expect me then. Parsonage at five o’clock?” She agreed. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to end the conversation, either.

Now, if only the weather would cooperate. He’d get there through a blizzard if he could, but he couldn’t expect her to come back to the Chicago area unless the roads were clear, and the sky looked like they would stay clear. Disaster, for once, didn’t strike. He showed up a few minutes before five, and she didn’t keep him waiting.

“Look, I’m sorry for springing this on you,” he said as soon as they were both in the car, “but I wanted to see the state of the roads first. How would you like to eat in Chicago?”

“That sounds lovely. But it means two round trips for you.”

“No bother. The roads are fairly clear. Probably less driving than you do on a hospital visit day,” he pointed out. Then he changed the subject.

“Have you ever eaten Korean?”

“Bulgogi?” Well, she had eaten Korean.

“Bulgogi is to Korean cuisine what McDonald”s is to American,” he told her. “Feeling adventurous?” he asked.

“Let’s.

“You were a great hit on Sunday,” she continued. “People were talking about you before and after the trustees’ meeting.”

“My popularity didn’t extend to my cooking. I don’t think anyone but myself took seconds on my chili.”

“You know what Johnson said about women preaching?”

“When a dog walks on its hind legs, you don’t ask how well he does it?”