Undead and Unwed Read Free Page B

applying! I should be a writhing tower of flame, not sitting impatiently in a pew waiting for God to send my soul to Hell.  
      I glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was after five in the morning; the sun would be up soon. Maybe a morning stroll would finish me off.
      I smelled starch, old cotton, and aftershave, heard footsteps, and turned to see the minister walking down the aisle toward me. He was a man in his early 50s, completely bald on top with a white monk's fringe around the sides and back of his head. He wore black slacks and a black short-sleeved shirt. His cheeks were pink from where he had shaved, and he wore thick glasses and sported a heroic Roman nose. A wedding band gleamed on the third finger of his left hand. He was about twenty pounds too heavy for his height, which meant he probably gave the most excellent hugs.
      He took in the scene at a glance: Cleaning Guy passed out and snoring on the floor, and Dead Girl sitting in the pew looking like baked dog shit.
      He smiled at me. "It must be Monday."
      I ended up telling him the whole story while he fixed coffee in the rectory. I drank three cups and finished with, "Then I came here, but none of the doors or Bibles or anything are hurting me." I left out the part about the cleaning guy trying to mack on me in front of the pulpit—no need to get anyone in trouble. "You don't have a cross on you, do you?" I added hopefully.
      For reply he unpinned the small silver cross on his collar and handed it to me. I closed my fingers around it, tightly, but nothing happened. I gave it back.
      "You can have it," he said.
      "No, that's all right."
      "No, really! I want you to have it."
      His cheeks were flushed, and the color deepened as I grabbed his hand, pressed the cross into it, and folded his fingers closed. "Thanks, but it's yours. You shouldn't give it to a stranger."
      "A beautiful stranger."
      "What?" First the cleaning guy, now the minister!
      As if in response to my shocked thought, he blinked and slowly shook his head. "Forgive me. I don't know what's come over me." He touched his wedding ring absently, and that seemed to give him the strength to look me in the eyes. "Please continue."  
      "There's nothing else. I'm lost," I finished. "I don’t have the faintest idea what to do. I'm sure you think I'm nuts, but could you just pretend to believe me and give me some advice?"
      "You're not nuts, and I don't think you're lying," he soothed. He had a faint southern accent which immediately put me in mind of grits and magnolias. "It's obvious you've had a terrible experience and you need—you just need to talk to someone. And maybe rest."
      I was too tired to stab myself in the heart with my coffee spoon to prove my point. I just nodded.
      "As to why the Bible didn't hurt you, that's quite obvious, m'dear—God still loves you."
      "Or the rules don't apply to me," I pointed out, but even as I said it I realized how arrogant and ridiculous that was. God's rules applied to each and every person on the planet...except Betsy Taylor! Shi…yeah. "So you're saying I should stop with the attempts at self-immolation?"
      "At once." He was still touching his ring, and his voice was stronger now, less dreamy. "You said yourself you helped that woman and her little girl, and you haven't bitten anybody. You're clearly in possession of your soul." He hesitated, then plunged. "A parishioner of mine works for a—a nice place in downtown Minneapolis. Could I give you her card, and could you call her? If you don't have a car I'll be glad to drive—"
      "I'll be glad to take the card," I said, then added the lie: "I'll call her this morning."
      The minister and I—he'd told me his name but I had forgotten it—parted on good terms, and when I left he was shaking the janitor awake.
      I headed home. The minister had thought I was a nutjob, but that didn't negate his advice. My old life was over, but I was beginning to see that