The Damnation of Tucker Tolliver

By Rev. Thomas O’Donnell

Question: What do you do with a reformed atheist?
Answer: You put him out to pastor.
So they did. They put former-attorney-turned-clergyman Tucker Tolliver out to pastor the Atherton Church of the Holy Covenant.
Second Question: How do you drive a man of the cloth away from God?
Answer: You put him in charge of the Atherton Church of the Holy Covenant, a band of rag-tag Christian misfits who put the ""dys"" in ""dysfunctional."" Then you wait.
Between church matriarch Agnes Hartnett, Wanda Peterson, ""The Duke of Cheswick,"" and even part-time sexton Jake Carlyle, the merry miscreants known as Atherton CHC are doing their best to drive Pastor Tucker Tolliver out. A man of the cloth on the outside; day by day he is being stripped naked on the inside.
But it doesn't matter what they do. He'll never walk away from God. He can't. Not for his sake. For Sarah's. If he ever abandons his church and his God, it will be for one reason and one reason only.
Because of God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 18, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462833061

Rev. Thomas O’Donnell

Reverend Thomas F. O’Donnell, Esq., is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ serving as pastor of Plymouth Bethesda Church in Utica, New York. He is the author of numerous other works, including his most recent works of fiction, The Damnation of Tucker Tolliver and The J, E, D & P Murders.

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THE DAMNATION OF

TUCKER TOLLIVER

Rev. Thomas O’Donnell, Esq.

Copyright © 2007 by Rev. Thomas O’Donnell, Esq.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

PART I

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

PART II

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

PART III

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

PART IV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to all those poor souls with

perfectly good Minds trapped inside broken Bodies

—individual or institutional, physical or spiritual.

PROLOGUE

Three Years Earlier

The Body just lay there, totally helpless. The Mind never even knew what hit the Body. For that matter, neither did the Body. It felt like a freight train doing a hundred miles an hour, but the Mind knew there were no train tracks in the three blocks from where the Body resided to the Shop Mart. So it must have been a car. Whatever it was, it sure did do the job. The Body was broken. Totally, irrevocably, irretrievably broken. Not one part would work, at least not those parts that the Mind used to control. Nothing would move, not the head or neck, not the arms or hands, not the feet or legs, not even the toes.

If only the Body could have cooperated a little, maybe the Mind could have gotten a peek at the car, if it was a car; maybe it could have caught the make of the car, or the color, or even the license plate. Maybe it could have even gotten a quick look at the driver. Was it a man, a woman, a teen-ager? Were they talking on a cell phone, or reaching for the radio, or eating a quarter-pounder?

Why did this have to happen? To this Body? At this time? There had to be a reason. There is always a reason. Why? Come to think of it, where was the other guy or gal or whoever? Where’d they go? Why weren’t they coming to help?

The Body tried to scream for help, but it was useless. The mouth wasn’t working, either.

Sshh, Mind, be quiet. Maybe the Body can hear something. Anything.

No. Just dead silence.

Was it real silence? Or, had the ears given up, too?

It was cold lying there on the pavement. Wet, too. That was a good sign. At least the Body could feel sensation. But there wasn’t any pain. Where was the pain? There had to be pain. How could there not be pain after getting hit by a two-ton vehicle speeding down the street? If there was no pain, maybe there really wasn’t any cold, or wet. For that matter, maybe this whole thing was one big mistake. Maybe the Mind really wasn’t awake at all. Maybe it was asleep, back at the house all snuggled up with the Body on the sofa in front of the nightly news. Maybe this whole thing was a dream.

Wake up Mind. Or Body. Whatever it is that sleeps when you sleep, wake up!

The Mind/Body duality is a funny thing. Each takes the other for granted. Until one breaks, that is. Maybe the Body thinks the Mind is broken. Maybe it is. All because the dumb Body needed a carton of skim milk. Not even whole milk. Skim milk. And there the Mind lay, imprisoned in an utterly useless body. What if the Body is dead? The eighteenth century philosopher Rene Descartes once said, Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. But what if I think that I am not? Then what? What if the Mind isn’t really thinking? What if it is somebody else’s Mind doing the thinking right now? But then, so what?

It all happened so fast. If only, it could be run through one more time. This time in slow motion. But in life, there are no do-overs. And now the Body is broken. The Body is like that childhood’s nursery rhyme, how’s it go? Oh, yeah, Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty-Dumpty back together again.

That’s what the Mind would do. What else could it do? Just relax, and wait for all the King’s horses and all the King’s men to come around. Hopefully, this time they could do it. This time they could put the Body back together again.

Or not.

PART I

OUT OF THE MUCK

Chapter I

Marching to Zion

Sunday, July 16, 11:06 A. M.

We have come into the sanctuary to be with the Lord and to be with one another in the spirit of Love. Now it is time to . . . Blah, blah, blah. The words rolled off his tongue with a stinging pain, like salt in a canker sore. On the final blah, Mrs. Dimblebee started pounding out the Postlude, and Tucker made his way down the center aisle like a fullback running for dear life. In the back of the sanctuary, directly underneath the portrait of Hannibal Hartnett, he prepared for the inevitable onslaught of humanity charging the exit. Soon it would be over, but not soon enough.

There was a time when he lived for Sunday mornings. In calendar years, not that long ago; in life’s experiences, an eternity. It was his time with God and his time with his flock. Right from the get-go, he would take to the pulpit like a relief pitcher taking the mound with the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, nobody out, and the game on the line. Everybody looking to him to be saved. He’d toy with the batter at first, tossing a few breaking curves and change-ups in the form of the Opening Greeting, Announcements, Words of Assurance, and incidentals. Just when he knew he had his unsuspecting victim right where he wanted, he’d bear down with his best stuff. It was called the sermon. And if Tucker Tolliver had anything to live for, he lived to preach.

That was then. This was now.

From his vantage point in the back, he was now staring into the backs of all the heads that were no doubt wishing Mrs. Dimblebee would hurry up and finish so they could hurry up and get out of there. Just like he was. His eyes darted around the sanctuary. Over in the far corner sat poor Millie Carver who last month celebrated her birthday and buried her husband of thirty-seven years all in the same week. Right in front of her, Jack Jamieson who just last week celebrated his second anniversary of being dry. But every day was a challenge and would be for as long as he had days left. Janet Underwood, Usher Emeritus, maintained her position at the side entrance, her husband Pete at her side.

And then there was dear Agnes. It mattered not that her back was to him, or that she was seated as far away from him as possible—all the way up in the second row. Tucker could see right through the back of her head, could feel her piercing eyes, her nostrils snarling, her mouth chomping at the bit. He shot a quick glance at the Mickey Mouse watch strapped to his wrist, a present Sarah had given him for his thirty-fifth birthday. Happier times. Mickey’s white gloves were arched upward in the classic V for Victory pose. Mickey was ever the optimist. 11:06. Six minutes late, but not bad. The postlude droned on—some classical piece that Tucker didn’t know nor cared to know. Come on, Mrs. Dimblebee, hurry up.

Way back when, preaching had always come naturally to him. Back when he used to care, he would increase or decrease his cadence as circumstances dictated, raising or lowering his voice for emphasis, milking silence for all it was worth. Maybe it was his training as an attorney arguing appeals. At times, he’d thrust his arms high into the air with unimaginable flair, just like Mickey was doing right now; sometimes, with equally unimaginable awkwardness. Flair—awkwardness, it didn’t really matter. Even the awkwardness he would somehow find a way to use. Like a pitcher setting up an unsuspecting batter. A change-up, down and at his feet, followed by some smoke, up and in.

That was then. This was now. For the past few months, ever since God and he had informally agreed to go their separate ways, the only thing that mattered was that he made it to 11:00 and got out of there. Ironically, this gave him a new bond with his parishioners, many of whom, he understood, felt the same way. When he first realized that he had fallen so low that his goal each week was mere survival, he found himself overdosing on a large dose of guilt and shame. But even that came to pass, and lately he had managed to convince himself that God understood. In fact, in some sick sort of way, God was on his side on this one.

Up front, Mrs. Dimblebee was finally winding down. There was a time when he used to look forward to the postlude. Her nimble fingers would dance over the keyboard as she would bring to life such great classics as Lord of the Dance. Lately, however, whatever she played and whenever she played it, the dribble all sounded the same. Like a funeral dirge. Then, again, that was probably how his preaching sounded. At least, that’s how it felt. Like an over-the-hill relief pitcher taking the mound knowing deep down inside he had lost his good stuff and had only deception to get him by. But he was deceiving no one. He’d lost a yard on his fastball, and the change-up fooled no one.

Mercifully, the Postlude played itself out, and the mad rush began. Through plastered grin and glazed eyes, he watched the line of humanity trudge on by, one by one. Sometimes two by two. Some, like Peter Prenderghast extended a firm hand, looked him straight in the eye, and told him how great he was; how he could depend on his support one hundred and ten percent. And he knew he could. Others, like Agnes Hartnett and Widowers’ Row, just snuck out the side door like a pack of thieves stealing away in the dead of night. Most of the rest opted for something in-between. They were the ones, like Marion Moseley, who stuck out a half-limp hand, stared aimlessly over one or the other of his shoulders, and smiled politely with nary a word. A sympathetic smile as if to say, That’s OK. We understand. Maybe you’ll do better next week. But it didn’t really matter how they got away. Just so long as they got away.

Bringing up the rear this day, as always, was eighty-four year old Penelope Cadwalader. Great message, Reverend, you gave ’em H today, she shouted as she limped up to him behind her freshly-shined trusty companion, a souped-up metal walker, complete with tennis balls for rollers. Her son Oscar had picked it up at a garage sale for her birthday last month. Rather than responding, he tossed her a solemn grimace, then snuck a furtive glance at Mickey. 11:18. Twelve minutes flat. A new personal best. Back on schedule.

Actually, back on schedule with a minute to spare. It would have been three or four minutes to spare if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Wentworth and her blow-by-blow description of her latest bout with shingles, or gout, or quadruple by-pass surgery, or whatever it was she was jabbering about. In any event, all that remained now was to slip out of his robe, out the back door, and back over to the parsonage. And he would have made it through another Sunday morning relatively unscathed.

Sunday, July 16, 11:47 A. M.

The worship service seemed like a thousand years ago. But if he had his druthers, he’d rather be back there. Or maybe even suffering through one of those insufferable PCRC meetings with Agnes Hartnett and Company dragging him over the coals. But that would come soon enough. Right now, the coals seemed plenty hot, thank you very much. He should have seen it coming when he first spotted her lurking outside his office. He had only himself to blame. He should have marched on out of the sanctuary, through the narthex, on out the front door, and over to the parsonage. But no, he had to give her an opening. He always was a sucker for a pretty face, and one thing for sure, there was none more magnificent than the face sitting across from him at this very moment. And it wasn’t just her face, either.

He thought he’d seen it all before, but he’d never seen anything quite like this. Every once in a while Erin Hathaway or Ashley Wainwright might show up in attire more appropriate for a day at the beach or a night of partying, but they were teenagers. They could be forgiven. Since when did thirty-five year old women show up in a skin tight halter top and an even tighter black mini-skirt? How could he not see it coming? She wasn’t even in the sanctuary today. Where’d she come from? And why? And why today of all days? 11:47, and he was still stuck in his office. Still in his robe. With no end in sight. So much for relatively unscathed.

She just kept droning on from across the desk. Somebody was always droning on at him from across the desk. Or wailing. Or whining, or berating, or complaining. This time, come to think of it, it was more of a wail than a drone. It started out as droning, definitely. Somewhere along the way, probably about the same time the tears started, it evolved into full-fledged wailing. He never should have offered her those tissues. That was his mistake—the tissues.

Back in the sanctuary, a barely audible Mrs. Dimblebee could be heard pounding unmercifully on the organ keys, already rehearsing for Wednesday evening’s healing service. Marching to Zion never sounded so threatening. As if his wretched plight wasn’t bad enough, the office reeked of a rare combination of eucalyptus and Sweet Ambrosia. The eucalyptus he had learned to tolerate. In his two years at the Church of the Holy Covenant, he may not have learned much, but one thing he knew for sure: where Jake Carlyle lurked, eucalyptus incense was never far behind. High church, Jake liked to call it. The Sweet Ambrosia, on the other hand, was another story. He hated Sweet Ambrosia. Actually, he loved it. Or, perhaps more accurately, he loved to hate it. He used to love to hate it, that is.

But now, coming as it was from the whiner across the way, he just plain hated it. Sweet Ambrosia, with or without the eucalyptus chaser, reminded him of better times. And the last thing he wanted at this particular time was to be reminded of better times. Back when life was good. Back when Sarah used to wear it. Even back then he couldn’t handle it for more than two minutes before he’d start the sneezing. But as much as he hated it, he still loved it because Sarah loved it. All that was gone now. In its place, Ambrosia, turned sour. Hateful Ambrosia. Despicable Ambrosia. His nostrils were already beginning to fill up. Soon breathing through his mouth would be his only option. But clogged nostrils were just a precursor of things to come. Any minute now, the eyes would start to tear, and he’d start sneezing. So whatever he did, he had to get rid of her. Before it was too late.

I can’t believe it, the sniffling woman across from him wailed on, "I can’t . . . (pause) . . . believe it."

He couldn’t, either. Believe any of it, that is. He couldn’t believe what he was doing here, what she was doing here, and most of all, he couldn’t believe the pause. It wasn’t so much a pause as a pose—a deep cleaning breath, her chest thrust forward like one of those young Olympic gymnasts after just having nailed a successful dismount from the pommel horse. 9.95, in his professional judgment.

Of course, it could all be perfectly innocent. Perhaps she was simply trying to catch her breath, or maybe she was engaging in some form of self-censorship, deleting some relatively choice expletives before they passed over those luscious lips. But try as he might, he simply couldn’t discard the third possibility. Call it fear, call it hope, call it whatever you wanted to, one undeniable fact remained: right or wrong, good or bad, intentional or otherwise, the woman across from him was heaving those gorgeous breasts his way, and in spite of himself, he was still a red-blooded American male whose blood was beginning to boil in places it hadn’t boiled in years.

Get a grip, Tucker, he told himself. This couldn’t be happening. Not to you. Not now. Not with everything else going on. For that matter, not ever, regardless of what was or wasn’t going on. No, she must just have a catch in her side. Yeah, a catch. But still, no matter how much he tried fighting it, part of him kept hope alive. No matter what her intentions, or, for that matter, his, and no matter how clogged up his sinuses were destined to be, he couldn’t help but give thanks for those pauses.

My husband, the woman protested through tears of anger, frustration, and disbelief, is screwing a woman who winds up sitting three pews in front of my pew. Can you believe it, . . . (pause) . . . three pews?

There it was again. Another pause, her breasts struggling to burst forth from their neon tangerine halter top. Realizing his eyes were locked on to forbidden territory, he quickly raised them up to hers. There was something surreal about the whole thing. Was it possible the tears were real and she was genuinely reaching out for a sympathetic ear and a dosage of pastoral care? Or was this her way of luring him deeper and deeper into a den of inevitable iniquity? Beads of sweat began dancing on his brow.

Three pews, she repeated herself, this time in a raspy, whispering tone.

Pause.

In spite of himself, in spite of all that was good and honorable and pure, he could feel his eyeballs darting from bouncing breast to bouncing breast. His heart writhed in his chest like a jellyfish. Who could blame him? The woman across from him could growl, she could whimper, she could screech, she could whine, wail, she could do anything she wanted to. Nothing she could do could change the simple fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Thank you, God, for the pauses.

Up, down. Up, down. Those beautiful mounds of flesh heaved and undulated. He felt like Moses crossing the Red Sea, except this time it wasn’t the Red Sea, it was the Neon Tangerine Sea, and this time the waves weren’t undulating, the flesh was; and this time he wasn’t leading his people to the Promised Land, he was keeping the Promised Land all to himself, staking it out with No Trespassing signs as he inched his way deeper in the Valley of Cleavage. Marching to Zion, beautiful, beautiful Zion.

That’s why I wasn’t in the sanctuary today, she whimpered. How could I go in with her in there? Little Miss Hussy. I’d be the laughing stock of the whole community. So I just waited out in the narthex.

Tucker nodded as though he knew what she meant. In fact, he didn’t have a clue.

I caught parts of it, though, she added as if tossing him a bone, then tossed him more than he could chew. "Something about going out (pause) on a limb (pause)—danger (pause)—excitement (pause). Something about (pause) an olive branch."

Paraphrasing the great hymnist, every pause grew higher, higher. And all doubt dissipated. These pauses weren’t to catch her breath and they certainly weren’t to clean up her language. These pauses were longer, more drawn out, and the words that followed, danger, excitement, an olive branch had a breathy quality to them. Like Marilyn Swanson in The Prodigal Daughter. Yup, there was no doubt any longer. He was Tyrone Galbraithe, and she was Marilyn Swanson. He was poor, innocent Berkeley, and she was Foo-Foo, Agnes Hartnett’s pathetic excuse for a dog. And the Sweet Ambrosia was growing sweeter by the moment.

Three pews. This time she growled while thrusting the three middle fingers of her right hand toward him in defiance. It was as if it were the geographic proximity, not the adulterous act, that made the whole thing so unbearable—as if five pews might have been all right.

Three pews, she whimpered.

He nodded as if he understood. Still, not a clue.

Growling, whimpering, whimpering, growling. Pause, Pause, Pause.

It was time for Tucker to say something, to do something. What, he didn’t have a clue. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the Sweet Ambrosia had taken its course. The explosion erupted without warning. A-A-A-A-A-C-H-O-O-O-O-O.

God bless you, she responded automatically, her head lilting slightly to the left. With a shrug of the shoulders and a forced giggle laced with innuendo, she paused once more.

But this time it was no ordinary pause. This time it was a pause to end all pauses. In fact, this wasn’t even a pause. They had now moved well beyond the world of mere pauses. This was one of those pauses punctuated by a human exclamation point. It came in the form of arms outstretched over the head, reaching to the heavens, hands interlocking, chest thrust forward, luscious mounds of flesh doing their own erupting. Like a woman might do first thing in the morning after awakening from a deep sleep, or last thing in the evening before engaging in raw, unadulterated sex with her lover.

I’m sorry, she murmured demurely, lowering her hands modestly back into her lap. My back has been acting up lately. If I don’t stretch it, I don’t know what would happen. Do you ever tighten up like that?

Tighten up was exactly what he was doing. No need to apologize, he thought to himself. I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry for how this is going to turn out, no matter how it turns out.

That scumbag, Tucker—I’m sorry, forgive me for my tongue, but that’s what she is. A lowly, insignificant, run-of-the-mill nobody. I can’t believe it, can you? The woman began to sob, and the neon tangerine mounds of flesh bobbed. She dabbled at the corner of her left eye with all that remained of the puffs of tissue he had offered her eons ago.

He knew who she was talking about. He had noticed an unfamiliar face in that general area of the sanctuary that morning, even made a mental note to himself to check the attendance roster for visitors. Somehow she’d managed to get past him at the end of the service, probably snuck out with the Widowers’ Row crew. She made a nice impression, mid-to-late twenties, attractive in a non-assuming kind of way, tastefully dressed in a navy blue business suit. She seemed to be paying attention, although you can never tell. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would be sleeping with another woman’s husband. It didn’t make any sense. But then again, neither did any of this.

But whoever she was and whoever she was sleeping with would have to wait. At the moment, Tucker had to do something. On the other side of his desk sat a half-hysterical, absolutely gorgeous woman who was either coming on to him, or about to lose it, or both. He had to do something. Anything. Thank God for the tissues! Whether he would ultimately opt to use them as a sword or a shield, either way, the tissues would buy him time. And time was exactly what he needed. Staring into the woman’s chest, he slid the box ever so slowly across the desk and on into No-Man’s Land.

At the same time, the half-hysterical, absolutely gorgeous woman was making her own move—sitting up erect in her chair and leaning her upper body ever so precariously forward. The tip of her voluptuous neon tangerine left breast was now dangling firmly over the edge of his desk in direct line and on a collision course with his right hand. Right hand and left breast were destined to meet. Unless somebody backed off.

He could feel his knuckles go white and his palms grow wet. The beads of sweat that had been dancing on his forehead were now trickling down his brow. Would she notice that he was melting right before her very eyes? How could she not notice? But who could blame him? Who would dare to dream that she would parry with a neon tangerine left breast? What ever happened to playing fair? After a strategic pause to consider his options, he decided he had none. With a modicum of caution and an excess of reckless abandon, he trudged forward. Onward to Zion and to the Promised Land.

Straight ahead of him, the neon tangerine breast stood firm.

T minus 3, and counting.

Sweat was dripping in his eyes now, which were already starting to tear from an overdose of Sweet Ambrosia.

T minus 2.

The Promised Land was just ahead, mighty promising. Too promising, in fact. Things like this just didn’t happen. They couldn’t happen. Not to Tucker Tolliver.

T minus . . . Yeah, though I wander in the Valley of Cleavage, I shall fear no evil . . . .

She wasn’t budging.

But he was. Awkwardly, reluctantly, ashamedly, he stifled another sneeze and retreated.

Deidre D. Devonshire, bless her soul, didn’t. Retreat, that is. Rather, she held her ground. Erect. In fact, more than holding her ground, she arched her back, tossing her protruding breasts forward like two giant magnets of flesh shamelessly reaching out to retrieve his retreating hand. It worked, too. He stopped in his tracks.

A-A—A-A-A-C-H-O-O-O-O-O.

Time stood still as he waited for a response. He’d made his move. He had sneezed. Now it was her turn.

This time there was no God bless you. Rather, she merely stared into his soul with those piercing cat-like eyes, mesmerizing eyes. Ever so slowly, seductively, she extended her right index and middle fingers toward the box of tissues which was still in the grasp of his sweaty right palm out in the middle of No Man’s Land. Long, sinewy fingers, decorated with perfectly polished neon tangerine fingernails to match her neon tangerine tank-top and neon tangerine luscious lips, danced in mid-air above the tissues. Would they swoop down upon the unsuspecting tissue, or would they continue on to the other side of the desk and to greater glory? Seconds seemed like hours as he kept his eyes fixed on those dancing digits, not daring to stray from them, praying they’d go he knew not where.

Just as he was convinced they were coming on through to greater glory, they swooped downward, grabbed up an innocent puff, and backtracked to a teary eye. Thank you, Tucker, she said through perfect teeth.

Again with Tucker. Up until now, it had always been Reverend Tolliver. But today, for the first time, it was Tucker. Then again, today, for the first time, she’d placed her bobbing breasts in No-Man’s Land. It was time for him to say something. Mrs. Devonshire, he began, then paused, hoping she’d interrupt.

She did. Oh, please, call me Deidre, she said. She licked at her neon tangerine lips while at the same time retreating backward into her chair. She crossed her left leg over right, revealing a couple of more inches of succulent thigh and bringing back memories of Tina Carlyle in that steamy scene with Henry Winston, in Red in the Morn, Sailors Take Warn.

He hated to see her retreat. And at the same time, he was grateful. Grateful for tight skirts that automatically hike up a woman’s thigh when she crosses her legs. Grateful for perfect legs that go on forever. Grateful for perfect legs and tight skirts and neon tangerine mounds of flesh heaving and undulating before his very eyes. And yet, at the same time, every bit as grateful that the pressure was off—that she had temporarily backed off, that a cease fire had been called. As it is written in Ecclesiastes, there is a time for every purpose unto heaven—a time to be born, a time to die . . . a time to sow, a time to plant . . . a time to harvest . . . a time of war, a time of peace . . . . And a time for a cease-fire. Or maybe it was just the calm before the storm?

A time to keep silent, and a time to speak, too. And now was his time to speak. But he couldn’t. Triple D Devonshire, as she had been officially dubbed by Widowers’ Row, had him totally mesmerized. A deer in Triple D’s headlights. Uncontrollably, autonomically, a tear dribbled down his right cheek.

O, Tucker, you’re tearing up. How silly. How sweet. Why can’t more men be more like you? She leaned forward and dabbed gently at his cheek.

As she dabbed, he considered his options once more. The truth—that he didn’t care one wit, that it was his allergy to Sweet Ambrosia and nothing else—really wasn’t an option. For two reasons. One, it wasn’t the truth. He did care. In spite of himself, he cared. And two, he’d gone this far, what could possibly be the harm . . . ?

You know what bothers me more than anything else? she said, still leaning forward, lowering her voice as if she were about to share her most intimate secret. In leaning forward, her black leather skirt hiked higher. The air grew thicker with Sweet Ambrosia. Sweeter, in spite of himself.

Yes, he knew. Or at least he thought he knew. It was an ego thing. She had lost her man to someone else. Of all people and in the words of Deidre D. Devonshire, that lowly scumbag. But worse yet, a nobody. In the world of Deidre Devonshire, it was the ultimate shame to lose her man to a nobody. A somebody would be bad enough. But a nobody was simply unacceptable. In her circle, a nobody fell one rung above maggot on the societal ladder of success. Little, insignificant Miss No-name had stolen her prize right out from the grasp of Triple D, a woman of perfect teeth, perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect breasts, perfect thighs, perfect everything-money-could-buy.

It’s not losing Malcolm . . . it’s not losing the money . . . I’ll wind up with plenty of that—have no doubt.

He didn’t—have any doubt, that is.

It’s that mousey little skag, she chortled as she slithered upward out of her chair. Left hand on hip, right foot forward at right angles to her body, it was a mighty pose, a daring pose. Right down to the pouty lower lip, it was a proud pose, a $10,000-an-hour pose by one of those Charles Villieure models at the end of a Paris runway. Proud, yes, but at the same time, pregnant with vulnerability. One false move, and she would break.

Or, he would.

Look at this, she demanded, nodding downward at the magnificent contours of her body. Is this the body of a woman who loses out to a woman like that? Her hips gyrated to and fro as she slid her hands ever so slowly up to her breasts, squeezed them tenderly, then even more slowly lowered her hands to her firm, flat stomach. Well, she demanded, is it? Just as quickly as they had appeared, the tears were gone. Venom spewed forth from her tongue. Scorn oozed from every pore of her being. She’d moved from a woman scorned to a woman not to be denied. You’re a man, Tucker, tell me what you think.

That was the last thing he was about to do. Because, in spite of it all, or maybe because of it, Tucker couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman. How absurd, he thought to himself—the sexiest, most voluptuous, most beautiful woman he’d ever almost fondled, and here he was feeling sorry for her. He knew what he should do at the same time he knew what he couldn’t do. What he should do was obvious. He should climb out on a limb and extend an olive branch. In the finest Biblical tradition, he should reach across the desk, take her into his arms, throw her down onto the table top, strip her naked, and devour her. Become one with her. Biblically, of course. Sow his seed.

For her sake.

And for his.

But he couldn’t.

For her sake.

And for his.

Instead, he tried words, Mrs. Devonshire—Deidre, let me say this . . . This time it was his turn to pause, wanting to get it just right—to say just enough but not too much. I know I probably shouldn’t say this, and please don’t take it the wrong way, but you are a very beautiful woman, highly desirable to the male of the specie, I assure you. Any man who turns you away is crazy. Another time, under other circumstances, and I myself . . . he paused, then decided to let that thought finish itself. But under the circumstances, I could never—

The Charles Villieure wannabe model was on the move now, slinking her way down the runway, around his desk, coming to a halt directly above him. Through pouty lips she cut him off, Oh, Tucker Tolliver, shut up. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she literally raised him up out of his chair and into her arms. Hold me, she whispered into his ear. Hold me, and squeeze me, and hug me ’til it hurts.

So he did. Or, rather, she did. With bulbous breasts planted firmly into his chest, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and held on for dear life. This was no ordinary hug. In his business, the rules for pastoral hugging were clearly defined. The woman leans forward, tucking her breasts down low enough so that no direct contact would be made; then and only then does the pastor lean forward, insuring that contact, if at all, would be made at the clavicle. Clavicle-to-clavicle. Like what he and Phyllis Faraday, or Lillian Armstrong, or, for that matter, Joanna Johnson would exchange every Sunday. But not this time. This time the clavicle was nowhere to be seen. Nothing clavicle, nothing pastoral about it. This was raw flesh—nipple to nipple—a man and a woman in a purely pectoral embrace.

Time stood still, and so did they. He squeezed his eyes shut. By now both nostrils were fully clogged, but it didn’t seem to matter. Who needed air when you could drink in Sweet Ambrosia through the touch of her skin? Sweet, Sweet Ambrosia. There he stood, like Moses on Mount Pisgah. Near journey’s end, the Promised Land within reach. But Moses never made it, and neither would he. He pulled back. Or at least tried to pull back. With eyes still closed, he heard himself mumbling words he didn’t really mean, I’m sorry, but you must know that under the circumstances I could never . . . 

All of a sudden two luscious neon tangerine lips locked onto his. He tried not to respond. He tried everything, thinking first of Sarah, then Bishop George Berkeley, then Mrs. Dimblebee. He tried praying, Forgive me God. Forgive me, Sarah, I know not what I am doing. But he knew he wasn’t fooling anybody. He knew damn well exactly what he was doing.

Somewhere, far off, Mrs. Dimblebee was still rehearsing Marching to Zion. But for him, the march was over. He had already arrived in Zion, the beautiful city of God. Either that, or in Hell. Either way, the marching was over, and there was no turning back. His lips softened to hers. His knees began to tremble. His heart skipped a beat, then another one. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Proud. Erect.

It was his first kiss in longer than he wanted to admit. He’d forgotten how soft a woman’s lips could be. But these weren’t just the lips of any woman. These were the lips of the most beautiful woman in all creation. Who could blame him?

He could. They weren’t Sarah’s lips.

Through closed eyes he repeated himself, I’m sorry, but I could never . . . .

His eyes were still closed when Deidre D. Devonshire pulled away, still closed as she headed for the door, still closed when she called back to him in a throaty voice, Never say never, Tucker.

She delivered the final word, Tucker, like it was a curse word. And a prayer. Or a challenge. Like it was a dare, a demand, a lament. Tucker.

He opened his eyes just in time to see a stream of smoky eucalyptus invading the office through the crack of a closing door. Just in time to see the smoky form of Triple D. Devonshire slipping out and to hear the doxological refrain one last time, Never say never, Tucker.

A-A-A-A-A-C-H-O-O-O-O-O.

Chapter II

No Place to Hide

Sunday, July 16, 12:55 P.M.

Staring at the evil box of tissues on the desk, Tucker remained frozen in his seat long after she had left. The scent lingered on. Never again, never again, never again, he kept moaning to himself. If nothing else, he figured, repeating it over and over might actually convince him. He knew what he had to do, though. He had to take a shower. Quick. Wash away the sins of the world. It would put him behind schedule, but so what? She’d wait. She wasn’t going any place. Not now. Not ever.

He cracked the door to his office open just wide enough to make sure all was clear. The hallway was empty. No Triple D, no Jake Carlyle, no nobody. The shrill bemoaning of the organ told him Mrs. Dimblebee was safely tucked away in the sanctuary. Off he scampered. Down the hallway, out the front door, across the parking lot, winding his way over the skeletal remains of what, no doubt, was once a magnificent flagstone path. The good news: the parsonage was just a stone’s throw from the church. Convenient when you were in a hurry. The bad news: the parsonage was just a stone’s throw from the church. Inconvenient when you weren’t.

From the church to the parsonage, sixty-seven seconds. Thirty-seven to Mrs. Peabody’s petunia bed, then thirty more from there. Sixty-seven seconds to go from non-descript church architecture of the 1950’s back into the nineteenth century architecture of vintage Victorian dilapidation, a/k/a the parsonage. It never failed. Whenever he would come upon Mrs. Peabody’s beloved petunia bed, that’s when the clash between the two worlds would hit him. The parsonage’s day had long since come and gone. It should have been bulldozed decades ago. A mercy killing in the truest sense of the term. But no such luck. In its hey-day it must have been quite a place. Quaint, that’s how the trustees always described it. Quaint—he loved how people used that word. Quaint, a euphemism for old, outmoded, useless. Quaint. If the house were a blind date your best friend was trying to fix you up with, quaint would be translated, Don’t worry she has a great personality and can cook. Quaint. But still, it must have made quite a girlfriend at one time. People, places, things—they all have hey-days. Unfortunately, hey-days are over-rated, far too short, inevitably followed up by post-hey-days, a prolonged slippery slope of old, cranky, tired, worn, dilapidated, abandoned, and dead. Whether we are talking pastors, parsonages, pastor’s wives, Ecclesiastes was right—a time to live, and a time not to.

In spite of itself, this comatose vintage Victorian lived on. If you could call it that. On the outside, especially around those once magnificent turrets, its mushroom gray skin was flaking off, chipping away, not unlike the grout and the tile in the upstairs bathroom to which he was now headed. Sad eyes masquerading as windows drooped, their sills surrendering to time by quietly and inconspicuously rotting away. Like Sarah. The front porch sagged, and anyone who dared to place his body weight on the third step from the bottom of the stairs did so at his own risk. Everywhere you looked, the place reeked of death.

In the final analysis,