26

It had been so long since Sam had interviewed for a job, he’d forgotten the protocol. He couldn’t remember whether he was to call them, or they were to call him. He was a nervous wreck waiting to hear from Ruby Hopper.

“I wonder if she’s misplaced my phone number,” Sam told Barbara. “Maybe I should call her.”

“Don’t do that. Ruby Hopper said she would be in touch with you. Give them time. I’m sure they haven’t forgotten you. You know how Quakers are. It takes them forever to make a decision on a pastor.”

“Dale Hinshaw and Fern Hampton found a new pastor in ten minutes,” Sam said.

“That’s because they’re idiots,” Barbara said. “And it’s not going to last. He’ll be gone by this time next year. I’m actually glad Hope is making this move carefully. It’s a big step, for them and for us.”

A week after the interview, late one evening, Ruby Hopper finally phoned. “I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to respond,” she told Sam. “The truth is, we’ve run into a bit of a snag and aren’t sure how to resolve it.”

“Perhaps I can help,” Sam said.

“It’s about your criminal record. I mentioned to you we’d be doing a background check.”

“Yes, I remember you saying that.”

“It seems you’ve been charged with resisting arrest,” Ruby said. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but it has several of the people here concerned.”

“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Sam explained. “One of the elders at Harmony Meeting phoned the police after I neglected to return my key to the meetinghouse. When the police came to talk with me, I was a bit abrupt and the officer arrested me. It was a big misunderstanding.”

“The papers we were sent said you were under investigation by Homeland Security,” Ruby said. “What can you tell us about that?”

“As I said, it was all a mistake. The police officer was a bit exuberant.”

“It says in the report you called him a bald-headed fascist.”

“Did I? I might have, but I don’t remember that.”

“Some on the committee are concerned it shows a lack of judgment,” Ruby said.

“It was not one of my finer moments,” Sam said. “I had told the elders I had lost my key to the meetinghouse, but one of the elders apparently didn’t believe me.”

“I called my cousin Miriam and she told me as much, and said it amounted to nothing. But you can see why it might give us pause.”

“Yes, I understand. It would concern me, too.”

“I’m grateful for the clarification,” Ruby said. “I’ll share what you’ve told me with the committee.”

“I’d be happy to come up there and tell them myself, if you think it would help.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ruby said. “It seems pretty straightforward. I’ll be back in touch with you by tomorrow or the next day. I’m almost certain it will be good news. We were very impressed with you and Barbara.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m looking forward to hearing from you again.”

Sam hung up the phone, then went in search of Barbara to tell her the news.

“Did I actually call the policeman a bald-headed fascist?” he asked her.

“Apparently, among other things,” Barbara said. “When I came to pick you up, he mentioned a few of them. You kind of lost it that day.”

“I think it was fourteen years of pent-up hostility all coming out at once.”

“I hope you’ve apologized to that young man.”

“Not yet. But I will. Tomorrow. I promise.”

He did it the first thing the next morning, right after breakfast. Walked the four blocks to the town hall, and into the police room, found it empty, so went to the Coffee Cup, and found the officer sitting at the counter, still bald, drinking coffee and eating a cinnamon roll. Sam apologized for losing his temper, paid for the officer’s coffee and pastry, and promised that if he were ever arrested again, he would go quietly and not call anyone names.

He stopped by the Unitarian church to visit with Matt, and told him about his interview at Hope Meeting and their fascination with pie.

“It’s a weird thing about Quakers,” Sam mused. “The meeting here in town is all about chicken and noodles, and this new meeting is all worked up about pies. I’ve never seen anything like it. Are Unitarians that way?”

“We have a lot of vegans and vegetarians,” Matt said. “The pitch-in dinners here are god-awful. Thirty tofu dishes, and not one piece of fried chicken anywhere. You know I grew up Southern Baptist?”

“Yes, I remember you telling me that.”

Matt sighed wistfully. “Now there was a group of folks who knew how to have a pitch-in. Fried chicken, pot roast, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, apple pie, green beans, baked beans, soup beans. Sometimes I regret leaving them.”

“So why did you?”

“They kind of helped me along. I was pastoring a church and appointed a woman to be a deacon. Asked her after church one Sunday and was fired before the day was out.”

They commiserated over their various terminations, then Sam took his leave, walking around town. With the increased prospect of leaving his hometown, he was feeling kinder toward it, more willing to forgive its shortcomings. He was even starting to feel an odd sympathy for Dale Hinshaw, suspecting the pastoral tenure of Paul Fletcher would be both brief and nasty, and Dale would be blamed. Not that he didn’t deserve blame, but Sam felt bad for him nonetheless. It was easy to feel charitable toward someone he no longer had to see on a regular basis.

He stopped at the library and checked out a murder mystery.

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Janet Woodrum commented. “Lots of gore. A rather peculiar choice for a Quaker pastor.”

“A currently unemployed Quaker pastor,” Sam said, “and therefore free to read whatever he wishes. I might even check out the sex book after Matt returns it.”

“Which he might not do for some time. Considering how popular that book is, I may need to order another copy.”

“Speaking of Matt, are you and he getting married?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“I think maybe you should ask him to marry you,” Sam suggested. “Women do that these days, you know.”

“Just last week you told me not to marry a minister. You said it was no kind of life.”

“Did I say that? I don’t recall saying that. Why would I have said that?”

“I believe you told me ministers were too nosy and didn’t mind their own business.”

“Well, there you go,” Sam said. “Consider yourself warned.”

“Oh, before I forget. Barbara mentioned your interview at Hope Friends. I grew up very near that church. In fact, the Girl Scout group I belonged to met there.”

“Talk about a small world.”

“My parents still live there,” Janet added. “Dad just retired. He was a doctor. My mom still works. She’s a principal at one of the local elementary schools.”

“Do your parents have a church home?” Sam asked, trying not to sound too eager at the prospect of a potential convert.

“Is that all you ministers ever think about?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“As a matter of fact, they do have a church, but they’re not happy there.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sam said. “Are they miserable enough to leave and go somewhere else, say for instance a Quaker meeting?”

“I don’t know,” Janet said, “but I will certainly let them know you might be moving to their neighborhood.”

Sam finished checking out his book, and walked home, elated. A brand-new murder mystery to read and two potential converts to a church he hadn’t yet begun to pastor. A doctor and a school principal. People with brains. It was shaping up to be a fine day.