parish hall first. He was in something of a state, going on about the one laywoman on the committee having a stroke and what were they going to do now? Canonically, the committee had to have twelve members to conduct interviews of candidates for the priesthood in December; the same group would administer the oral ordination exams in April. Father Olson pulled on his beard, Moses in distress. If he didn’t find a competent replacement soon, the feminists would pressure the bishop and he’d be in hot water. I wanted to ask him why, when men were looking for a woman to do anything, they assumed they’d have a problem with competence. Perhaps the real worry was that they’d find somebody who was more competent than they were.
“Oh, dear,” Father Olson was wailing, “why did this have to happen just when I’ve been named head of the committee?” He slumped morosely into one of the chairs I had just set up. “I really don’t know what to do. I just don’t even know where to begin.”
Although I thought a prayer for the stroke victim might be in order, I murmured only, “Start by resetting the table” to his unhearing ears. He traipsed unhappily off to the office while I removed the twelfth place setting. The two laymen on the committee came in and sat next to each other. Both had an air of quiet seriousness, as if they were awaiting instructions. The first group of priests plunged through the heavy doors like a gaggle of blackbirds, laughing and jostling and telling clerical Halloween jokes. What do you get when you cross a bat with an evangelical? Heads waggled. You get a hymn that sticks to the roof of your mouth. The two laymen exchanged looks. This was not their idea of a joke. I served a tray of triangles of sourdough toast spread with glistening pesto. Father Olson made his somber appearance.
“Olson!” one of the blackbirds shrieked. “You’re doing trick-or-treat as a priest!”
Father Olson chuckled patronizingly, then intoned the blessing. I hustled around with the sole while the meeting began. The food elicited numerous compliments. While the news of the stroke victim was being relayed, the priest of the bat joke even ventured jocularly that I should be the replacement on the committee.
“Then you could bring food to every meeting!” he said in an astonished tone, as if he seldom had such great ideas.
It’s a compliment, I reminded myself as I quick-stepped out to the kitchen for the Sorry Cake. When I returned, Father Olson stared at me and ruminated. Perhaps he was reviewing his standards of competence in the light of culinary prowess.
“You do have some experience as a Sunday school teacher ,” he murmured as if we were in the middle of an interview.
I nodded and doled out large pieces of cake.
?We are looking to see that the education of seminarians is complete before they begin to minister to others. What are your academic qualifications, Goldy?”
“I’ll send you a resume.”
“Tell me,” he continued, unperturbed, “how would you define faith?”
“What is this, a test?” Careful, careful, I warned myself. After all, Brad Marensky had had enough faith in me to make me his confessor. And if this group would ever pay, I could always use more bookings. “Well,” I said with a bright smile while they all listened attentively, “I have faith that if I put chocolate cake in the oven, it’s going to rise.” There were a few ripples of laughter. Encouraged, I slapped down my tray and put my hand on my hip. “I have faith that if I cater to any group, even a church group, they’re going to pay me.” Guffaws erupted from the two laymen. “Faith is like. . ,” and then I saw Schulz in my mind’s eye. “Faith is like falling in love. After it happens, you change. You act differently with faith. You’re confident, con fidem,” I concluded with what I hoped was an erudite lift of the eyebrows. In heaven, my Latin teacher put a jewel in my crown. I picked up the tray.
?Ah, Lonergan,” said one of the priests. Father Olson looked as if he were about to have an orgasm. He cried, “You’ve just paraphrased a prominent Jesuit theologian. Oh, Goldy, we’d love to have you on our committee! I had no idea you were so … learned.”
I bathed them all in a benevolent smile. “You’d be surprised at what a caterer can figure out.”
I hightailed it home as soon as the dishes were done, so I could get started on my next assignment of the day. Father Olson was in a state of high excitement, for all the priests had credited him with giving me such a good theological education. I made him promise that if I did cater to the ecclesiastical heavyweights, I would be paid standard food-service rates. Father Olson waved his hands, muttered about the diocesan office, and said something along the lines of money being forthcoming. Good, I said, so was my contract. Education was nice; practicality, essential.
Arch had left me a surprise note in the mailbox. Mom, it said, Have a great Halloween. Be careful! I will be, too. Forgot to tell you, I got a B on a social studies test. Love, Arch
When I got inside, the phone was ringing: Audrey Coopersmith. Would it be all right if Heather came down to the Tattered Cover with us? She was supposed to go with a friend, but that hadn’t worked out. Of course, I said. Audrey said they’d be over in fifteen minutes.
The computer disks! In the rush with the committee, I had completely forgotten them. I pulled the stolen disks Brad had given me out of my apron pocket. Each label was hand-printed with the word Andrews. Call Schulz or see if I … oh, what the heck. I tried to boot first one, then the other, on my kitchen computer. No luck. I pulled out the platters of food for the bookstore reading and phoned Schulz. His machine picked up. I left a three-fold message: A confidential source had just given me Keith Andrews’ computer disks; I would be catering to the prep school crowd tonight at the bookstore; and would he like a little trick-or- treat at my house afterward?
The doorbell rang: the Coopersmiths. As usual, Audrey clomped in first while her daughter hung back, skeptically assessing the surroundings. Two spots of color flamed on Audrey’s cheeks. Knowing her ex-husband was on a cruise with the long-term mistress, I couldn’t imagine what new crisis would bring such anger.
“You okay?” I asked unwisely.
“I have had it with that bitch Ferrell,” Audrey spat out.
“Now what?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Heather approach the platters of food on the counter next to the computer.
“Do you know what college she recommended for Heather? Bennington! Bennington! What does she think we are, hippies?”
“It’s unstructured,” murmured Heather over her shoulder.
“She’s getting a kickback,” Audrey fumed. “I just know it. Ferrell recommends some college to the school’s best students, and the college gives her ? -“
“What is this?” exclaimed Heather.
Oh, damn. One Andrews disk was still in the computer, one was on the counter. I’d never make it as a Republican; I couldn’t cover up a thing.
“How did you get this?” demanded Heather. Her pale eyes narrowed behind the pink-tinted glasses.
?I … don?t know,? I said, fumbling. I can?t say.?
“You stole it,” she accused me. “Nobody can put anything down at that school without it getting lifted.”
Not anymore, I longed to say. “Please don’t give me a hard time,” I chided the girl gently. “Somebody gave Keith’s disks to me because I found him that night and because Arch was threatened. They thought the disks might help. I can’t make hide nor hair out of them and I’m just going to hand them over to the cops.”
“Huh,” grunted Heather. Disbelief was heavy in her voice.
“What is it?” Audrey was momentarily distracted from her harangue against Miss Ferrell. I took the disk out of the drive and slipped it into its sleeve. Audrey picked up the other one from the counter. “Oh, my God,” she said with a sharp intake of breath, “where did you get this??
“Never mind.” I reached over and deftly unplugged the computer. The screen flashed and went blank. “The police will deal with it.” I slipped the disks into my purse.
“They won’t deal with it if they don’t use WordPerfect,” Heather announced smugly.
“You see how smart she is?” Audrey’s voice gushed pride.
“We need to hit the road,” I replied. And with that we began trucking platters of goodies out to the van. But if I thought Audrey was going to relinquish the subject of the superior and underappreciated intelligence of her daughter, I was sadly mistaken. As the van sped down I-70 toward Denver, Audrey ordered Heather to tell me about her summer internship at a Boulder engineering firm, Amalgamated Aerospace. It was a complicated thing dealing with a simulator. To me, virtual reality was something you dealt with when you did your finances. To Heather, it was something quite different.
