Behind every joke a preacher tells is a story he’s trying to forget. This is that story.
“So you’re not going to tell her?” Bentley asked.
Vernon studied himself in the mirror, tilting his head from side to side. “Bentley,” he said. “I’m tired of talking. I mean to do it this time.” He looked away from the mirror and into the eyes of his co-conspirator. A thick index finger emphasized his point. “And she can’t stop me.”
Bentley sighed. “Okay. When?”
“First thing Friday morning, when she leaves for her sister’s house. My appointment is at ten.”
“How long will she be gone?”
“Till sometime on Tuesday, plenty of time.”
“And you’re sure you want to go through with this?” Bentley asked, not for the first time. “Is it really necessary?”
Without answering, Reverend Vernon Vanderwalker returned his attention to the mirror. Not bad for fifty-four. Sure, he was a little beefy around the edges. But that wasn’t what bothered him. His biggest problem, the proverbial thorn in his side, was the desolate plain where his hair once dwelled. Maybe it was from age or stress. Maybe it was a tragic case of heredity. Regardless, Vernon’s head was both naked and ashamed. He thought of the Old Testament and how the sins of the fathers visited themselves upon the future generations and wondered. What kind of mess did my Daddy get himself into?
“It’s necessary,” he said.