Chapter 2: Covering

The phone rang while Jen Blake was on the toilet Saturday afternoon. That was what answering machines were for, but she couldn’t hear the message until she got out there. “Get it, will you?” she shouted to David. He could take note of the parishioners’ messages or get rid of the telemarketer.

But he was still on the phone when she got back to the hall.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Just a moment.” Then, to her, “For me. Bob Lawrence just had a stroke. Know him?”

“Not really. I’ve heard the name.”

“Stick around.” Then to the phone, “Yes Reverend Metzger.”

“Well, actually, you’d have to ask my wife. ‘Love her, cherish her, and attend her worship services.’ Isn’t that part of the standard service for the marriage of woman pastors? ... Strange. Campbell told me it was. Anyway, you can ask her.” He handed her the phone.

“This is Terry Metzger. I’m superintendent of the Northern District.” She knew that. “Bob Lawrence, the pastor of Aldersgate UMC in Evanston, just had a stroke.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And I need a substitute preacher for Sunday morning. Would you permit your husband to take that job?”

“Of course I will. I’ll keep him in my prayers, too.” She meant Bob Lawrence, not David.

“Did Campbell really put the promise to attend your services in the wedding vows?”

“No. Well, you can ask Reverend Campbell, but David’s like that. Don’t ask him about St. Paul’s recipe for chili.”

“May I speak with him again?” She handed David the phone.

He finished the conversation and made another call. When he finished that one, she asked, “And just why did you give Metzger that cock-and-bull story about needing my permission?”

“I do need your permission -- need your permission to do anything. I’m terribly henpecked.” A henpecked David was a laughable proposition. “Well, why should I do a favor for a DS? I’ll never need a favor in return. You, on the other hand, will be up for appointment by the cabinet every year he’s on it. Know how long that will be?”

“I could look it up.” Since this was Campbell’s last year, it wouldn’t be Metzger’s. “David, you are devious.”

“Devious enough to trap you into marriage. I’ve got to go prepare a sermon.”

“Want me to cook dinner?”

“It would take as long to hand over the details,” he said.

“And do you want to skip Chronicles tonight?”

“Well, you don’t skip ‘cause you’re going to preach in the morning. I’ll be all right. Remember, we had the study last Sunday.”

She was always invited for dinner to some parishioner’s house after church, and David had been included since they’d announced their engagement. Now she called the Watsons to tell them why David wouldn’t be able to make it.

David always prepared dinner on Saturday night because she had duties on Sunday, and he didn’t. Now that he had duties on Sunday -- and a sermon to prepare on short notice, too -- she should take over. David had refused, though. He was good to her.

One thing she did prepare for Saturday night was their study of one chapter from the Old Testament. It didn’t require that much preparation since she used the same questions from one week to the next. David varied his questions on the lectionary passages to fit the material, but she didn’t feel competent to do that yet.

She did clear the table and load the dishwasher after the study was over. He usually did this on Saturdays, but she’d done it before their marriage; she’d done one hell of a lot more housework before their marriage.

David bathed before she woke up, and she waited until after he left. Otherwise they followed their usual Sunday morning schedule. He even cooked breakfast. When she’d kissed him goodbye, she started her own preparations.

In church, she announced the stroke suffered by “Reverend Bob Lawrence,” and asked for prayers for him. In doing so, she mentioned that David was covering for him that morning.

Dinner at the Watsons’ was bland but bountiful and well- cooked. When David and she had merged their households, he’d moved in most of the contents of his refrigerator, including a jar each of kimchi and salsa verde. She sometimes suspected that there weren’t any other jars of either in Independence. She was fairly sure that none of her parishioners even owned a pepper grinder.

David was home when she got there. “You missed a fine meal,” she told him.

“What I really missed was a fine wife. Service go okay?”

“Except that I didn’t hear your voice on the hymns and the responsive readings.” And she’d missed that. “Yours?”