A second Tuesday with Phoebe

Catching sight of the living room clock in its carved walnut case, Phoebe sent up a silent petition. 4:30. Rachel’s test was long past, she knew, but she prayed anyway. “You’re beyond time, Father,” she said silently, “so please help Rachel. Give her good recall and confidence to do her best work.”

In the kitchen, she washed her hands and peered into the cookie jar. Surely one—or two—wouldn’t spoil Rafael’s supper. They were small. She poured them each a glass of milk and placed two cookies each on pansy-embossed saucers. Oatmeal-raisin. Store-bought but still pretty good, she thought.

Phoebe seldom baked. She was a good cook, of course; years of helping her mother and Dorcas feed their farming family had left her more than competent, and cooking for Thomas and Ruth Miller in this very house when she was a Schleitheim College and seminary student had broadened her culinary repertoire. Now, though, preparing meals for one bored her. She’d finally given up gardening, too, except for flowers and a few tomato plants each summer, and mostly resisted feeling guilty about it. She hadn’t canned in years. Her recent practice was to cycle with her mesh bags to the Saturday farmers’ market for whatever was in season and a bottle of raw milk, labeled “for cats” in acknowledgment of local health regulations. A final stop at a caterer-friend’s stall would supply her with a container or two of stew and freshly baked bread for the meals she wouldn’t be taking the following week at the SSLC cafe. On her occasional grocery store runs for cat food or oatmeal or toothpaste, she picked up cookies for Rafael and Irene.

The boy wandered into the kitchen toward his usual spot at the round table, looking pleased to see the snack. Before he could sit down, though, Phoebe sent him to wash his hands. When he returned from the bathroom, she advised, “These cookies are pretty soft, but you can dunk them if it hurts to bite.”

They bowed their heads briefly and took their first bites just as Rafael’s mom, carrying three-year-old Irene, rapped on the kitchen door window and then rushed into the room.

“Ahí estas!” she said. Plopping Irene onto Phoebe’s lap, Beatriz sank to her knees by Rafael’s chair. She tipped his head back, directing, “¡Abra su boca!” He obeyed while she murmured in concern. Then she gathered him into her arms, kissing the top of his head.

“The dentist says he’ll be fine,” Phoebe assured her. “I have her number so you can call. She’d like to see him again when the adult tooth comes in.” Squeezing Irene, she offered the child the second, untouched cookie from her plate. Irene snatched it, grinned, then took a large bite.

Beatriz glanced up at Phoebe, looking relieved. “Thank you so much, Phoebe. The after-school teacher told me you had come for him,” she said. Then she raised an eyebrow. “Cookies before supper?”

“They’re small, and he’s a growing boy,” Phoebe said, trying not to sound defensive.

Beatriz smiled, reminding Phoebe yet again of the literary character who shared her name. Her teeth flashed as white as the streak in her dark hair—a startling, misleading sign of age in one whose olive skin was so unlined. “Okay,” she conceded, “but you must have supper with us. I know you. After a snack, you will forget to eat.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Phoebe demurred. “I’m going to visit Dorcas this evening—to help her eat.”

“Then you must eat with her,” Beatriz instructed.

Phoebe laughed. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “I’ll have something; don’t worry.”

“I won’t worry,” Beatriz said, “but I will leave a plate for when you get home.” Turning to Rafael, she said, “Vamonos.” She picked up Irene once again, and Rafael slid from his chair. He carried his empty plate and glass to the counter beside the sink before following his mother and sister through the door leading from the kitchen to the basement stairs.

“Bye, Phoebe,” he said before pushing the door closed behind him.

“Bye, Rafael,” she called. She rose to set her own plate and glass in the sink and then opened a can for Eutychus. Much as Rafael had minutes earlier, the cat sauntered into the kitchen, probably summoned by the smell of fish. He waved his tail at her on his way to his feeding mat by the back door. She emptied and refilled his water bowl, glancing as she did so at the oven clock. She would have to hurry to get to Dorcas’s in time for supper.

*******

The following day dawned clear, but Phoebe’s mood was brooding. She hadn’t bothered to phone Ron when she returned to SSLC the previous evening, assuming he would have already left for the day. She knew she’d have to find him this morning.

Phoebe had never liked the SSLC’s performance evaluations, even before her previous boss, more easy-going than Ron, had retired. Praise made her uncomfortable; years of being warned against Hochmut, excessive pride, had shaped her consciousness. Since Ron had joined the staff, though, Phoebe had learned she wasn’t very good at receiving criticism, either. Not that Ron had offered any substantive criticism, but even his “suggestions for improvement” stung more than she cared to admit. Could she see more residents in a day?, he had asked. Why not keep track of interactions on the computer rather than in an old-fashioned logbook? When was she going to start using email? During their evaluation conference six months ago, Ron had told her he wanted her to start using text-messaging. Phoebe thought she had already made significant—and sufficient—technological progress by opening an email account.

Ron’s expectation this time, however, shocked her. By the time she met Andrew for lunch in the café, she was fuming.

“C’mon, Phoebe,” Andrew said, peering at her across his Cobb salad once they were settled at a corner table. “Even coming from Ron, your eval couldn’t have been too bad. The residents love you. Tell me the good stuff first. ”

Phoebe shifted on her chair, swallowing a bite of spinach quiche and sipping her tea before replying. “Yes,” she said, brushing the air as if to bat away his question, “my punctuality, responsiveness, and thoroughness are all fine.” She hesitated before sharing the next piece of information. (Hochmut?) “In fact,” she proceeded, “he divulged that I had several nominations again this year for the customer-service award.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair, crowing as he so often did in conversations with Phoebe. “But you can’t win it two years in a row, right? Still–-attagirl, Phoebs! You’re a perennial favorite.” He beamed, waiting for her to speak again.

“But,” she said, leaning across the table, and then she stopped. “I—I can’t tell you.” She sat back up, pressing her lips tightly together.

“What?” he demanded. “Not tell me? You obviously need to process this with someone. Who better than me?”

She shrugged, then said, “My spiritual director.”

“Oh, c’mon, Phoebe!” he said, frustration in his voice. “Please. I want to know.”

She shook her head. “I just can’t, Andrew.”

“You don’t trust me?” he asked. Even with all I’ve entrusted to you? The second question lay unspoken between them.

Phoebe sounded miserable. “Maybe later. I’m sorry.” She could tell he was hurt, but he just rolled his eyes at her.

“Tell me something else, then,” he said begrudgingly.

Again, she hesitated. She did want to talk with someone about her conversation with Ron, and Andrew was a great listener. And the issue felt huge—huge enough to crowd out other subjects.

Mercifully, Andrew gave her an escape. “What are the kids up to this week?” he asked as he tore open another packet of Italian dressing.

Phoebe’s mood brightened. She loved talking about Rafael and Irene, and Andrew obviously enjoyed interacting with them when he came over. So she reported on the call from school and the trip to the dentist, and he listened to every detail as if they were his family, too. By the time she had recounted Rafael’s recent—and futile—attempt to imprison Eutychus in an overturned laundry basket, both he and Phoebe were chuckling. But she felt off-balance, knowing that she had disappointed him.

“Well, I’d better get back,” he said. “Linda is probably getting desperate for back-up.”

Phoebe looked at her watch. “Me, too,” she said. “Rachel’s coming in ten minutes for her pastoral care practicum.”

“Ask her if she has a friend who needs a cosmetology practicum,” he said, wadding up his napkin and tossing it onto his tray. “We could use a shampoo girl.”

“Or guy?” Phoebe asked.

“Oh, sure,” Andrew agreed. “And more and more residents are asking for manis and pedis, but who has time to give those?”

Phoebe couldn’t imagine finding time to get a manicure or a pedicure, much less to give one, and she knew that Andrew’s and Linda’s services were more in demand than her own. But the demand for chaplaincy care was hardly declining, she assured herself, no matter what Ron had hinted.

She and Andrew made their way back toward their work stations, an unlikely pair—at least to visitors and new residents who hadn’t yet grown used to seeing them together. Today, his pants were a sedate sienna, but his coordinating geometrically patterned shirt appeared to have come from a different decade from the ivory polyester blouse tucked into Phoebe’s calf-length, moss-colored skirt. Indeed; it probably had—maybe even a different millennium. Moreover, Andrew had picked up his calfskin loafers just last week on Rodeo Drive, while Phoebe’s white tennis shoes had come much earlier from the thrift store within walking distance of the SSLC. Regular bleaching kept them bright.

Phoebe’s ensemble served her pretty much as a uniform. Rather than waste time each morning deliberating on what to wear, she simply grabbed one of her three earth-tone skirts and one of five permanent-press blouses. The resulting combinations looked more professional than the floral print dresses she wore off duty and were, Phoebe thought, unlikely to present distractions during conversations with residents. Coordinating cardigans or her gray tweed jacket, which Phoebe found pleasingly professorial, added warmth in winter. She hoped that a friendly smile (which she endeavored to maintain except during the most serious of pastoral interactions) added sufficient cheer year-round.

Still, she looked forward each work day to seeing what Andrew’s closet had yielded.

When she returned to her office, she found Rachel waiting. A young woman Phoebe hadn’t yet met was with her.