Read Online The Soprano Wore Falsettos by Mark Schweizer - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Schweizer
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time here. That’s a lot, but there’s someone here who gives St. Barnabas $1259 every month and has been doing it for sixty-seven years. I added it up the other day because I was just amazed.”
I watched Malcolm as he did the math in his head. He did it quickly, and, although his expression changed ever so slightly, to most observers, he seemed as interested as the rest of the congregation.
“When I asked her about it,” Bev continued, “she told me that her tithe is one half of the settlement pension she receives from the Georgia Pacific Lumber Company. It comes to her every month since her husband was killed in a mill accident in 1938, and she’ll continue to receive it until her death. Every month she receives $2518, and she gives half of it to the church. She told me that she just didn’t need that much money to live on. Anyway, when you add it up, it comes to a little over $1,012,000.”
I looked over at Malcolm. He smiled and answered with a slight inclination of his head. No one said a word.
“The person who has given the most money,” Bev said, in her sweetest voice, “is Lucille Murdock.”
Two hundred heads turned toward the back of the room. There, sitting in her usual place in the corner, was a tiny, eighty-seven year old woman, both her hands tightly clutching a black purse in her lap. Her snow-white hair was tied back in a bun, and she peered cautiously across the room through two gigantic, coke-bottle lenses that magnified each of her frequent blinks, making her look like a frog in a fishbowl.
“Thank you,” she said in a shaking voice as she rose slowly to her feet. “I will certainly pray about it.” Lucille Murdock walked out of the parish hall to complete silence.
“Could this be the hand of God?” I muttered with a smile.
“I hope so,” said Meg.
Chapter 7
“ Tell me boys,” I said, my roscoe dancing back and forth between them like a nervous ballerina on opening night. “Just how do you go 165,000 clams over budget?”
“ Fabric samples,” said Biff. “They aren’t cheap, you know.”
“ Don’t give me that malarkey!” I barked. I had ‘em scared now--scared as a bad writer in a roomful of English majors--so scared that I thought Biff was going to jump right into D’Roger’s arms. The egg started to cry.
I needed answers and I needed them pronto. A little bird told me I smelled a rat, and when I smell a rat, there’s usually a red herring around. Also rats.
“ Something’s fishy,” I said with a sniff. “You’re not pros. You boys smell like last week’s perch pie.”
“ What?” said Biff, obviously hard of herring.
“ Don’t shoot, mister,” the egg blubbered. “She paid us to come up here. She said you were a pushover.”
“ Guess what?” I said.
“ What?” said D’Roger and Biff in unison.
“ I ain’t.”
• • •
“Did you happen to take any of those wandering musician church jobs, yet?” asked Meg. We were working in the kitchen of her house, whipping up some lunch. Actually, Meg and Ruby were working. I was sipping a Long Island Ice Tea and contemplating the two women with my number six ogle — the one that got me banned from Myrtle Beach. Meg looked a lot like Ruby, whose hair was still mostly black, although now, as she neared seventy, it was becoming streaked with silver. She was still a striking woman, tall and statuesque.
“Quit looking at me like that,” said Ruby. “You should be ashamed. I’m old enough to be your slightly older, very good-looking second cousin.”
“Which is legal in North Carolina,” I added, ducking a piece of celery aimed at my head by Meg. “And, to answer your question, my dear, yes, I did take one of my many offers, but only for the Sunday after Easter. The job was too good to turn down. The chance-of-a-lifetime, if you will.”
“Really. What, pray tell, is it?”
“You’ll laugh,” I said, taking another sip of my very refreshing drink.
“I promise I won’t
I watched Malcolm as he did the math in his head. He did it quickly, and, although his expression changed ever so slightly, to most observers, he seemed as interested as the rest of the congregation.
“When I asked her about it,” Bev continued, “she told me that her tithe is one half of the settlement pension she receives from the Georgia Pacific Lumber Company. It comes to her every month since her husband was killed in a mill accident in 1938, and she’ll continue to receive it until her death. Every month she receives $2518, and she gives half of it to the church. She told me that she just didn’t need that much money to live on. Anyway, when you add it up, it comes to a little over $1,012,000.”
I looked over at Malcolm. He smiled and answered with a slight inclination of his head. No one said a word.
“The person who has given the most money,” Bev said, in her sweetest voice, “is Lucille Murdock.”
Two hundred heads turned toward the back of the room. There, sitting in her usual place in the corner, was a tiny, eighty-seven year old woman, both her hands tightly clutching a black purse in her lap. Her snow-white hair was tied back in a bun, and she peered cautiously across the room through two gigantic, coke-bottle lenses that magnified each of her frequent blinks, making her look like a frog in a fishbowl.
“Thank you,” she said in a shaking voice as she rose slowly to her feet. “I will certainly pray about it.” Lucille Murdock walked out of the parish hall to complete silence.
“Could this be the hand of God?” I muttered with a smile.
“I hope so,” said Meg.
Chapter 7
“ Tell me boys,” I said, my roscoe dancing back and forth between them like a nervous ballerina on opening night. “Just how do you go 165,000 clams over budget?”
“ Fabric samples,” said Biff. “They aren’t cheap, you know.”
“ Don’t give me that malarkey!” I barked. I had ‘em scared now--scared as a bad writer in a roomful of English majors--so scared that I thought Biff was going to jump right into D’Roger’s arms. The egg started to cry.
I needed answers and I needed them pronto. A little bird told me I smelled a rat, and when I smell a rat, there’s usually a red herring around. Also rats.
“ Something’s fishy,” I said with a sniff. “You’re not pros. You boys smell like last week’s perch pie.”
“ What?” said Biff, obviously hard of herring.
“ Don’t shoot, mister,” the egg blubbered. “She paid us to come up here. She said you were a pushover.”
“ Guess what?” I said.
“ What?” said D’Roger and Biff in unison.
“ I ain’t.”
• • •
“Did you happen to take any of those wandering musician church jobs, yet?” asked Meg. We were working in the kitchen of her house, whipping up some lunch. Actually, Meg and Ruby were working. I was sipping a Long Island Ice Tea and contemplating the two women with my number six ogle — the one that got me banned from Myrtle Beach. Meg looked a lot like Ruby, whose hair was still mostly black, although now, as she neared seventy, it was becoming streaked with silver. She was still a striking woman, tall and statuesque.
“Quit looking at me like that,” said Ruby. “You should be ashamed. I’m old enough to be your slightly older, very good-looking second cousin.”
“Which is legal in North Carolina,” I added, ducking a piece of celery aimed at my head by Meg. “And, to answer your question, my dear, yes, I did take one of my many offers, but only for the Sunday after Easter. The job was too good to turn down. The chance-of-a-lifetime, if you will.”
“Really. What, pray tell, is it?”
“You’ll laugh,” I said, taking another sip of my very refreshing drink.
“I promise I won’t
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