Loose L.I.P.S., A Deweyville Church Secretary Novel

LOOSE LIPS

A DEWEYVILLE CHURCH

SECRETARY NOVEL

By

FRANKIE CARROLL

AND JOHNNIE MCDONALD

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Second Act Productions

2 Grove Isle, Unit B1403

Coconut Grove, Florida 33133

Copyright 2014 Frankie Carroll and Johnnie McDonald

All rights reserved

TABLE OF CONTENTS

READ THIS. WHY? BECAUSE WE SAID SO.

FOR BUD CARROLL

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

WHAT’S NEXT?

READ THIS. WHY?

BECAUSE WE SAID SO.

Try getting an autograph from Jackie McGrath: you’ll be sued for stalking the wrong person. Visit Deweyville, Texas: you’ll be wasting gas. Chase down a royal blue Chrysler PT Cruiser: you might get assaulted by a dude who has never read this book and doesn’t understand your obsession. Same goes with Gerié the organist, Gospel Bob of Religion Within Reach, and the Flavors of the Deweyville Delight. You can’t find them or any of Jackie’s zany friends, family, or congregation mentioned in this book because they don’t exist. All places and events are inventions created from the right hemispheres of Frankie’s and Johnnie’s silly brains, and any resemblance to anything, including the dogs, is purely coincidental. Got it? Good.

FOR BUD CARROLL

We can still hear him: trying to teach his ditzy teenage girls how to change a tire, doing his impression of Archie Bunker at the dinner table, or announcing he is going to see a man about a dog—his euphemism for a trip to the neighborhood bar. We never heard him chastise or fuss when rescuing us after curfew because we failed to put gas in our old clunkers. He told stories about his hard times as a kid, he did not elaborate about what he did in the war, and he dispensed wisdom with blue collar experience and the heart of a philosopher.

He was imperfect, but he was our hero.

Thank you, Daddy.

PROLOGUE

Have you thought much about humility lately? If you told your kids to try a little humility would they roll their eyes in confusion? Is humility a foreign concept to your teenage daughter who rejects the notion of modesty? Does your son look at you blankly when you suggest he wear clean underwear in case he gets into an accident?

I happen to believe dirty laundry should be kept in the hamper, washed in private, and hung out to dry only when mended and bleached. Those guilty of pride and deliberate conceit should literally be hung out to dry. According to James 3:16: For wherever there is jealousy and selfish ambition, there you will find disorder and evil of every kind. Yes, we definitely have disorder of every kind these days because of puffed up pride, one of the seven deadlies. Everyone wants to be a celebrity, and it doesn’t matter if it’s good celebrity or negative, just so long as they get their fifteen minutes of cable fame or have their blog hit by 100,000 viewers. Facebook has spawned a generation of narcissists who feel the world wants to know what they’re doing 24/7. Reality television has made celebrities of no-talent people whose only attribute is the ability to swear, shop, bitch-slap, dress like a ‘ho, or boo-hoo with crocodile tears.

Not only are people filled with selfish ambition, but they are without shame when their ambition destroys the innocent. In the case of bankers, they brought the country to a financial ruin while hording huge bonuses made on shady deals causing millions to lose their savings and their homes. Los Angeles is full of drug and prostitute addicted celebrities who aren’t humiliated when their mug shots appear on CNN. Athletes abuse their dogs and their wives—the shame factor reported in that preferred order—and ask their fans to forgive them. Under the heading of blind ambition politicians call each other whores, lie about their military records, practice witchcraft, quit their servant-of-the-people jobs to become lobbyists, hire prostitutes, demonize the president, and think an I’m sorry or I mispoke will get them off the hook. Where is the humiliation? Where is the shame?

Deweyville, a fictitious name for my home town of 45,000 inhabitants and eighty churches, is geographically situated on the Great Plains and belongs to the greater physiology referred to as the Bible Belt. Our citizens strive to carve out productive lives according to the dictates of their White Anglo-Saxon Protestant forebears, all the while speaking grammatically incorrect English accented with a drawl. Churchgoers in our community proudly thump their Bibles and boast they are the stalwart oasis in a world turned upside down by greed, jealousy, and narcissism. When church services are concluded, they quickly resort to their own brand of pride by badmouthing anyone and everything different from themselves which includes but is not limited to: Yankee accents, The New York Times, life partners, electric cars, micro greens, scientific facts, veganism, gun control.

It’s difficult for me to put my ego completely aside while trying to become more humble and wise. After all, I am responsible for keeping the pious from an implosion. You see, I work for the First United Methodist Church of Deweyville and have for eleven years. Because of selfish-ambition or the lack of true humility, we’ve been through numerous ministers, and with each departure, I am the one who holds the place together until a new one arrives. On a daily basis I organize, prioritize, sanitize, normalize, homogenize, and every other kind of ize you can imagine. I may have a personal life in need of izing, but when in my realm, I am sage mother, kindly sister, steadfast friend, trustworthy confidant, and efficient and reliable employee. I am: The Deweyville Church Secretary.

CHAPTER ONE

Sean, is Gerié here yet?

The walkie-talkie crackled. Yeah, Mom. He just walked through the back door.

What’s he wearing? Does he have on one of my hats or feather boas?

He’s wearing the red velvet jacket thing. No scarf or hat or nuthin’, Sean responded.

Good. We don’t have time for a wardrobe debate. We’re running behind, so tell him to play quietly until I give the go ahead with the planned program.

Mary Sue Metcalf’s wedding was to be a small affair with only one lady-in-waiting, but said lady-in-waiting had not yet arrived, and a couple people in the wedding party were MIA. While making my way down the steps from the balcony where my equipment was already set-up and running, I worried about the wheels coming off the wedding truck and how I might be blamed for any mishaps. Normally, I don’t plan the weddings held at my church, I just video them and orchestrate the proceedings as a second paid job to that as secretary for the First United Methodist Church of Deweyville. From my perch in the balcony, I call the shots and capture on film the celebrated and sometimes the notorious moments of marital commencement.

I was pressured into planning Mary Sue’s wedding as well as filming it at half price. You see, when Mary Sue learned I had blackmailed Big Deal Dale, a married man, into selling me a royal blue PT convertible she had already diddled him for, she wasn’t what you call pleased. I suppose she was still in need of transportation because I saw her sitting in the church pews with Jimmy Hondo of Hondo’s Hondas back in July. She brought the Cadillac dealer to church later in the month and the BMW salesman in August. I had to give her credit—she was definitely moving up the vehicular food chain with her car salesman of the month. When she called me recently with the news of her recent engagement, she requested a ceremony at the church, and she wanted it yesterday. I assumed she had committed unsafe diddling and was expecting an unplanned automobile acquisition. While I was pondering which make and model she was going to marry, she informed me she was engaged to the Porsche dealer in the next county. The son of the owner of the dealership had promised her a pricey Panamera, and she was itching to get the registration signed, the warranty documented, and the keys in her hand before his father nixed the deal.

My royal blue PT convertible is the materialistic love of my life and I didn’t have to diddle anyone to get it. I couldn’t turn Mary Sue down. But her wedding was getting off to a dubious start, and my ability to breathe getting shaky. I proceeded to tread lightly down the stairs from the balcony to check on the bride. The reason I tread lightly is because I’ve put on a few pounds in the last few years. I remember when I graduated high school, a year I will not divulge, I was a petite size two with a flat chest, a genetic condition making me ineligible for the cheerleading squad. When the marvels of modern science developed the wonder plastic making it possible for girls like me to protrude without cotton stuffing, I joined the millions putting foreign substances into our bodies. There was a side effect for coveting thy neighbor’s bosom’s to enhance one’s self-esteem: my perky enhancements went from size 34B to 38C when the rest of me went from size two to size eight. This sidebar has nothing to do with the wedding, just thought you needed to know I breathe heavily because of recently acquired pounds, newly diagnosed asthma, and unremitting stress.

I was gliding toward the waiting room off the narthex where Mary Sue was hidden from public view, waiting for the ceremony to commence, when I noticed the organ music. I asked over the walkie-talkie, Sean, why is Gerié playing so loud?

There’s some kinda noise comin’ from the choir room.

Are the groom and his best man still waiting outside the chancel door?

Yeah, but they don’t look happy. Do you want me to check out the choir room?

No, just tell the groom to hold on. I walked past Mary Sue’s anxious looking father and opened the door to the waiting room. Mary Sue was pacing the carpet with a cell phone crammed to her ear.

Mary Sue, where’s your mother? Have you heard from your bridesmaid? I inquired.

Hold on a sec, Jackie. What did you say? she screamed into the cell. The answer must not have been one she wanted to hear. Shock registered on her face. Jackie, Maureen’s on the phone. She says, uh, she says she’s been abducted or something.

What? She’s what?

She was getting into her car when somebody grabbed her, tied her up, and stuffed her in the backseat. She managed to get loose and use her cell to call me.

I grabbed the phone out of Mary Sue’s hand. Maureen, are you hurt? Have you called nine-one-one?

I’m okay. My dress is wrinkled and my makeup is messed up, though. Uh, no, I haven’t called nine-one-one yet. Guess I should do that now. She clicked off.

With tears streaking her mascara, and her lips quivering, Mary Sue grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me violently, and stuttered, Maureen’s okay…the police can bring her here…I can still have a wedding with a bridesmaid.

Having learned most brides experience temporary insanity on the day supposed to be heavenly perfection, I studied her with both surprise and sympathy. How did these generation Xers become so self-obsessed?

Although it was a Saturday, and he was not on duty, I used my cell to punch a number on my speed dial, the personal number for Police Chief Grant Howard. After divulging the news about a possible kidnapping, I imagined his eye beginning to twitch when he heard that I, Jackie McGrath, was in the middle of another potential front page news story. After talking to the man who has supplied me with many nights of romantic fantasy, I returned my attention to matrimonial matters. Mary Sue, let’s stall for an hour, determine if Maureen is all right, then we’ll consider how to proceed. Mary Sue was close to histrionics when I eased the door closed. Mr. Metcalf, who had previously seemed anxious, now sounded angry. I told him about Maureen the kidnapped bridesmaid, but he huffed, I don’t care about Maureen. What I want to know is: where in the hell is my wife?

Okay, that was a good question. My walkie-talkie squawked.

Mom, you gotta get back here. The groom’s gettin’ cold feet. Says he’s not gonna wait around. My fifteen-year-old son had definitely worked too many of my weddings if he knew how to slip in the euphemism of cold feet.

Realizing Mary Sue wasn’t going to be happy if she lost out on a Porsche, I shifted out of gliding mode and shuffled toward the front of the church, ignored the whispers of the few guests hanging out in the pews, ignored the pastor we had borrowed from the First Baptist Church, signaled Gerié to continue playing, opened the door behind the organ, shuffled down the hall and found Sean, the groom, and the best man huddled in front of the door to the choir room. Sean, who’s in there? I wanted to know.

Dunno. But whoever it is, they must be havin’ a fight.

Stand back, everyone. I have a key.

What we witnessed when I squeaked open the door to the choir room would have made a good romantic comedy starring over-the-hill actors if it hadn’t been live. The mother of the bride, that would be the missing Mrs. Metcalf, and the father of the groom, that would be Mr. Porsche Dealership Owner, were tangled midst the choirs’ purple robes, writhing around on the floor. With exposed limbs and body parts twisted in a Kama Sutra position not believed possible for their age demographic, their moans and sighs drowned out the gasps of outrage. The groom, that would be the salesman son of the Porsche dealership owner, shrieked, pulled his hair, and slammed the door as he ran out of the choir room. The shrieks and slams finally got the attention of the soon-to-be in-laws. It was too late for them to hide beneath the sacred purple robes, but they made a brave attempt to cover their nakedness and shame as the rest of us eased out of the room where sin was being committed. It was also too late for me to shield Sean’s bugged eyes—he had seen and heard all.

I discovered the groom in the men’s room, his head over the toilet. The best man, his younger brother, had his face over the waste basket. I put wet paper-towels on their necks, and ordered them to remain while I performed damage control. The groom mumbled something about wanting to go blind. The best man mumbled, Who’s going to tell Mother? I mumbled, Wonder what model Mr. Porsche Dealership Owner promised Mrs. Metcalf.

It was my place to calm the bride while advising her that the groom had suffered a momentary lapse in fortitude. It was also my duty to request the patience of the guests and the borrowed pastor for a while longer. Was it my place to inform Mr. Metcalf that I had found his missing wife? No. It was not.

It was to have been a brief, simple wedding. No frill, no thrills. As it turned out, the only ones getting a quickie were the amorous would-be in-laws. The turn of events was beginning to resemble a monster truck rally. I envisioned the rampaging trucks chasing me through the sanctuary, the massive wheels mowing me down. My chest was getting tight, and my inhaler was upstairs in the balcony, resting inside my big purse. I had to go up there and get a hit of faux air if I was going to do any more fixing.

I trudged up the stairs to the balcony and shot my asthmatic lungs full of air. While beginning to breathe easier, I heard sirens. I looked out the window to see a police cruiser hot on the tail of a speeding green Honda. The cruiser was followed by a canary yellow Chevy Cavalier weaving awkwardly from lane to lane. The three cars swerved into the church parking lot kicking up dirt and gravel. The cruiser braked within yards of the entrance, the Cavalier tapped the rear-end of the cruiser, but the Honda kept coming, dipping right and left as it climbed the church steps on its rubber wheels. I leaned over the balcony, and yelled for everyone in the sanctuary to run to the altar, and then I braced for the hit. At thirty miles per hour, the Honda came barreling through the double doors with an ear-splitting crash, sending splinters and leaded glass in all directions and frightened guests to their knees. In his panic, Gerié hit a loud, sour note on the organ keys, and plaster fell from the ceiling.

A moment of quiet hung in the air along with dust and debris and silent prayer. I shot another dose into my lungs for good measure, and tested the soundness of the stairs before I put my full weight on them. One foot was on the bottom rung when the police came charging through the door, guns drawn. Despite being pursued by armed professionals, the occupant of the Honda exited the car. At the precise moment, Mary Sue exited the waiting room.

Jimmy Hondo bellowed at the top of his lungs, Mary Sue. May Sue, don’t marry that spoiled brat. I love you.

What in the name of God are you doing, Jimmy? You’ve ruined my wedding, Mary Sue cried out before she went flying through the air toward the man, her veil and train a mere blur of off-white.

I silently disagreed with Mary Sue: Jimmy wasn’t the one who ruined the wedding, just the front doors.

Jimmy couldn’t answer Mary Sue because the hunky policemen who double as hunky paramedics/firemen tackled him to the ground. They were trying to handcuff Jimmy when Mary Sue jumped on his back and tried scratching his eyes out.

By this time, the guests were on their feet examining their bodies for cuts, bruises, or whiplash. I was certain some were already in the throes of post traumatic stress and trying to remember the name of that law firm on that TV commercial that would sue anybody for anything. The body parts definitely not incapacitated were fingers and thumbs. As soon as the collective shock waned, digits began punching at warp speed on miniature keyboards, and the instant texts and tweets were hurled into space. Images were being snapped with cell phones and the pixels were transported instantaneously to emails, Facebook, and Youtube. Taking advantage of the misfortunes of others through the miracle of apps has become a blood sport.

Maureen, the abducted bridesmaid, looking a bit like an alien plaything with the puffy sleeves of her daffodil yellow dress torn, the bodice ripped revealing generous cleavage, and the ringlets of her bridesmaid updo wilted, bounced through the opening which used to be a door and screeched, That’s him. He’s the creep who trussed me up like a pig and caused me to miss the wedding. With two cops and Mary Sue on top of him, there wasn’t much left of poor ole Jimmy Hondo’s skin to tackle, but Maureen managed to grab hold of his ankle and start gnawing.

With nothing left for me to do but gape, I was trying to tamp down a mounting case of nausea when the chief of police came striding through the new front door, his long legs swooshing denim and his felt cowboy hat shielding stern blue eyes I knew were twitching with displeasure. For once, I was not at the bottom of a dog pile, and I greeted him, Hello, Grant. So glad you’re here.

Chief Grant Howard grunted, Howdy, and nudged the cops with the toe of his boot. I suppose the mere presence of the chief of police, a man whose persona is commanding, was all it took for the dog pile to disassemble. Of course, the tower of Babel commenced with all parties trying to defend, explain, and blame.

Two more uninvited guests made their appearance through the new opening, but they were definitely wanted. Rusty Jackson rushed to my side, and Gordy Jackson rushed to Gerié’s side. Our boilermen had come to rescue us.

Jackie, are you okay? Rusty asked as he took me into his arms and searched my bewildered green eyes with his black-fringed brown ones.

A bit wobbly, but yeah, I’m okay. How did you get here so fast?

Gerié called Gordy on his cell. We were doing construction on the house, so we weren’t far. What happened here?

First of all, it wasn’t my fault….

CHAPTER TWO

My place of residence, Deweyville, U.S.A., had all the makings for a major metropolitan city at one time, but its growth stalled, faltered, and declined. It’s not as if people here are stuck in a time warp. Believe me, they know what’s going on in the world; they get their slanted updates via a particular unrepentant cable news station. As our population has aged and petrified, it has also grown more virtuous. By whose standard are they considered virtuous? Theirs, of course.

While listening to Bishop Zachery Scarsdale’s sermon yesterday from the balcony where I videotape services on Sunday mornings, his quote from Proverbs 11:2: Pride leads to disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom, caught my attention. I began to take stock, and decided I was coming up short in the wisdom department. My life is what you call chaotic and has been thrown into the headlights on more than one occasion. A few memorable moments include: going to jail for speeding and failing to renew my license, discovering my adulterous third husband had committed bigamy, taking a fourth job at our local funeral home to keep from filing bankruptcy, and being interrupted by hunky firemen while having a romp with the Boilerman at the Best Western. Did I feel shame, disgrace, and humiliation for these circumstances? You betcha. My circumstances may have resulted from poor planning or poor judgment—okay, I fess up—my blunders are usually the result of love-sickness. I might pray to the good Lord to forgive my failures, but I’m not excusing my stupidity because I’m running for political office, applying for sainthood, or auditioning for my own reality television show.

Well, I could possibly have a reality television show, and the Metcalf wedding would have made for a great episode. Are you curious how the wedding turned out? First of all, pictures of a green Honda sitting inside a church narthex surrounded by cops, an angry bride, and a half-dressed bridesmaid piled on top of a man squished on the floor went viral on the Internet. Buzz Bussard, the ever-vigilant local cub reporter, called me within an hour of the event and asked, Is that you, Jackie, standing beside the dog pile?

I couldn’t tell a lie. Yeah, Buzz, that’s me. If I wanted him to clip the shot of a short blonde with the look of horror on her face out of the picture, I had no choice but to give him the juicy details for his scoop in the Deweyville Daily.

Jimmy Hondo spent a few nights in jail, but Maureen ended up dropping charges for false imprisonment when she heard about Jimmy’s generous offer. Trading up from her Chevy Cavalier to a highly discounted Honda Accord complements of Hondo’s Hondas resulted in a case of kidnapping amnesia.

As soon as Jimmy agreed to pay for damages to the church, a curious turn of events occurred—he and Mary Sue eloped. From what I heard through the grape vine: mystery solved. Because of the commotion caused by the Honda crashing through the front door, neither the cockled Mr. Metcalf or the cheated upon Mrs. Porsche Dealership Owner found out about the hanky-panky transpiring between their respective spouses in the choir room. It was definitely in the best interest of Mr. Porsche Dealership Owner and his two sons to keep the indiscretion a secret from their delicate mother, a woman with family money and ties to the Dewey clan. When Mary Sue offered a deal, they took it. Blackmail is a well practiced vice in our town, and Mary Sue was not afraid to threaten a little of it in exchange for a brand new Panamera with the special spoiler package at dealer’s cost. Everyone was fairly happy, until Mrs. Metcalf and Mr. Porsche Dealership Owner ran away to Bermuda a month later, leaving me thinking car envy runs in the Metcalf family.

Mary Sue didn’t blame me for a marriage gone wrong. In fact, she paid me well, and took possession of the infamous video with Jimmy crashing through the doors proving the depth of his unrequited love. She bragged it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. I didn’t blame myself either, but there have been a lot of eyes on me lately: Bishop Scarsdale, Chief Howard, Buzz the reporter. Perhaps they, too, are questioning my wisdom. Keeping my head down, my nose clean, my peccadilloes under wraps the past month has been my personal quest for wisdom.

Speaking of eyes, there was someone sitting in the pews yesterday, midway back, giving me a wink. His are the only eyes I want on me. Rusty Jackson is the new man in my life. He is a real man, an ex Navy SEAL, retired Coast Guard, an HVAC professional, and a lifelong bachelor. Because of my less than stellar experience with men (have I mentioned I have three ex-husbands?) I have been drawing upon humility, taking things one day at a time, not seeking a commitment from Rusty. With a teenage son, four jobs, a shaky financial situation, and turmoil looming over my do-it-yourself blonde head on a daily basis, keeping a relationship at arms’ length but with occasional booty calls is probably a good thing.

* * *

Now, I might be a personal disaster, but I am a pretty good secretary for the church. I compose and type all matters of print material including the newsletter, pamphlets, sermons, and letters. I videotape Sunday morning services and screen them on two giant size televisions screens strategically placed on either side of the chancel for the myopically impaired. Videotaping is a meticulous job—I must be careful not to project any unseemly conduct such as ass scratching, nose picking, or leg fondling. I deal with problems ranging from broken water mains to malfunctioning computers; I calm irate or bereaving parishioners; I serve as the gateway to the pastor. My job is normally six days a week, but when a funeral falls on a Saturday, I work seven. Telephones are the bane of my existence, and Gerié, who works as my assistant as well as the church organist, had not yet come to my rescue when they started demanding my attention Monday morning.

First United Methodist, this is Jackie. My first call and I was still cheerful.

Oh, Jackie, you’re just the person I need to speak with. I want to talk to you about something of a delicate nature.

Uh, may I ask who’s calling? I usually recognize all my callers.

Oh, sorry, dear. This is Mrs. Harbinger. I’m Suzanne Dornan’s neighbor.

Yes, I remember you. How are you, Mrs. Harbinger?

I’m fine, just fine, thanks, but I’m calling about poor Suzanne. Have you heard the latest news?

Mrs. H., Suzanne’s not a member here, so I haven’t seen her. In fact, I haven’t been in touch with her or any of the old crowd for quite awhile.

Yes, as I recall, you, Suzanne, Paula, Lucinda, and Ivey were inseparable back when you were Mrs. Wood and lived in the neighborhood. Oh, and that nice Shirley Delaney, the dentist’s wife. At any rate, you were friends at one time, and I thought you might be interested in helping us perform an intervention.

What kind?

Dependency intervention, dear. You see, Suzanne’s friends and neighbors, people at the country club, are concerned about her. She’s been tipping the bottle quite a lot lately, missing tennis dates, getting plastered at lunch, throwing up in the locker room. The latest incident was the last straw, and it was a good thing I was the one to have discovered her or there might have been a scandal.

I didn’t interrupt Mrs. Harbinger’s eagerness to repeat the scandal.

She proceeded. Berto, the neighborhood pool boy, found Suzanne passed out on the deck of her pool last week. He came to me for help, and when I went over there, she was naked as the day she was born. Well, I threw a towel over her, and Berto and I dragged her into the house. I called Mr. Dornan, but he wasn’t very nice. He told me to sober her up, and he’d be home later to deal with her. When Suzanne came to, she not so politely ordered me to leave. I felt compelled to contact a chemical dependency counselor, and now several of her friends and neighbors are planning to confront her about her drinking problem. I remembered you and thought you might help us out.

Mrs. H., I’m sorry to hear about Suzanne. She was always kind and polite, and she seemed so devout, always talking about her strict Baptist upbringing. While the rest of us were imbibing, she never had more than one drink. But, again, I don’t think I should be included in your intervention.

Since you work for a church, Jackie, you probably have a lot to add, spiritually, I mean. Harbinger wasn’t giving up.

Thank you for thinking of me, Mrs. H., but I think my presence would not be helpful. Good luck, though.

I didn’t have long to labor over Suzanne Dornan’s plight when the phone rang again. First United Methodist, this is Jackie.

Miss Jackie, this is John the Baptist.

I gulped. Yes, John, how may I help you this morning?

Do you have water in the basin?

No, John, we don’t put water in the baptismal font unless we have a baptism scheduled.

When is the next baptism scheduled? Johnny Blanchard inquired.

I didn’t want to tell him, but he would see it in the newsletter. The Gonzales baby is going to be baptized in two weeks, John.

Okay, thank you, Miss Jackie. God bless you.

God bless you, too, John. I really meant it.

Third call of the day. First United Methodist, this is Jackie, I answered with a heavy sigh.

Miss, Jackie, this is Melva Malbach. My daughter put me in the nut house again. Can you put me on the prayer list?

Certainly, Mrs. Malbach. Should I put Mr. Cheney on the list again? Sometimes my job is to play straight man.

I don’t know, Miss Jackie. Dick has been acting funny these days. I haven’t heard from him since I put all those signs on the front lawn of the court house. You’d think the people of Deweyville would want an upstanding man like Mr. Cheney as the chief of police, but the cops took down my signs, and my daughter took away my bull horn. She said I was disturbing the peace.

The word about Melva Malbach being found at two o’clock in the morning in her nightgown, using her bull horn to address a non-existent crowd about the virtues of her secret lover Dick Cheney, former vice-president of the United States, had already reached my office. Mrs. Malbach, I’m sure your daughter has your best interests at heart. Think of this hospitalization as a vacation and try to get some rest.

"What I’ll do is concentrate on another campaign strategy. But, if I don’t hear from Dick soon, I might have to dump him. Do you know that handsome