Chapter 29

My first appointment as an official elder of the church came on the afternoon of the 25^th. I'd let the church know that Sunday afternoons would be best for me – each elder, since we all worked, had to fit his church work around his paying work – and the week before one of the older ladies of the church had caught me after the first service and set the appointment up.

I now had a key to the front doors, and the code to disable the alarm so it wouldn't go off while I moved around inside the building. I also had an office, and a key to it – Tyrone's office, I still thought of it as, though of course he was retired and it had my name on the door. I sat in the office, looking at the walls where I had copies of both my ordination certificates in frames, and a few prints – a couple of pictures by Renoir, one each by Winslow Homer and Andrew Wyeth, and a portrait of Charles Spurgeon. I didn't have many books on the shelf, nor did I expect I would – my study at home, especially now that I had such a huge one, would remain my main sanctuary when I needed to study or pray. But I'd brought over a spare set of Matthew Henry's Bible commentary, and a couple of copies of the Bible that I hadn't been using much, and a few other odds and ends of books that either were extras at home or which I didn't expect to need much there.

The lady appeared on time. Her name was Gloria Reynolds, and I knew she was somewhere over 60, though just where I couldn't remember, if I'd ever known. I had her sit down, and I got in my chair behind the desk – an ordinary computer chair, with plastic arms and blue cloth upholstery. "What can I do for you?" I asked.

"Well, this is kind of embarrassing..."

I knew I was going to hear a lot of embarrassing things if I was an elder very long. The things you generally go to see a pastor about – whether your church has just one, or a whole pastoral staff, or a body of elders – aren't things you'd feel comfortable talking about in McDonald's. I glanced at the door. I would have preferred to keep it open, so that anyone passing in the hall could glance in and see that I wasn't doing anything I shouldn't, but you don't tell people to discuss private matters when the door's open. And I knew I was safe – not just with Mrs. Reynolds, but with any woman, however young or pretty she might be. I've had women come on to me, and I've found I'm immune. The promiscuity of my high school days burned out of me not long after I got my diploma.

I nodded. "I'm sure it is, but the only way we can deal with it is if you tell me about it."

She nodded in turn. "I know it. But ... well, it's about my husband."

"Is there something wrong with him?" I'd seen him that morning, and he'd seemed fine, but not all problems produce visible evidence, or if they do it might come later. You can live for some time, for instance, with the death sentence of AIDS before anyone can tell there's anything wrong.

"Well, he's 67 – he's a little older than I am – and he, well, he..."

I've been married long enough that I though I could make a wild guess and maybe hit the mark. "He still, um, comes after you?"

"Yes." The relief she felt at having me say it instead of forcing her to do so was clear in the relaxation of her shoulders and face.

"Maybe I'm just dense, sister, but I don't see the problem."

"But we're old, Darvin!"

"Depends on what you mean by 'old, '" I told her. "I'd say y'all are just getting going." I smiled at her. "And I'm only about half joking too. You're not old till you're 70 at least, maybe older. I'm not but 20 years or so younger than y'all."

"Well, we're not young people anymore. We're past that ... that passionate stuff."