The Sisterhood of the Queen Mamas by Annie Jones

to act like a big nut in front of everyone—because she shoved me to the front of the group and said, “Go up there, Odessa, and ring the bell. See if he’ll talk to you.”
    “Me? Why me?” Even though the Belmonts had been members of our church, or, to put it more humbly, David had been pastor of their church, for many years, I honestly could not see why I should be the one to confront Morty Belmont in his own home. And in his pajama top, no less.
    Despite the size of my personality and sometimes myhair—which can both be a bit too big, even by Texas standards—in certain situations I become downright Charlie Brownish. You know, like I think I have the plainest, roundest face in the crowd and absolutely nobody will have any idea who I am.
    This happens, for example, when I meet somebody who knows me from church, on their turf instead of mine. I’m just sure they won’t know me. Even though if they were to see me in my proper place, standing next to David, flashing a humongous smile, shaking hands and asking about their mama, their business or their vacation plans, my name would spring instantly to their lips. They’d even be able to dredge up a few small-talk comments about my two sons and what they are up to away at college. But me turning up in a man’s own driveway with this crowd in tow?
    It’s an entirely out-of-context experience.
    “Go.” Maxine prodded. I mean, literally prodded.
    “I will thank you not to jab me in the ribs again with your bony old fingers,” I snapped.
    You should be thankful that I don’t have an umbrella, Sister Pepperdine, or you’d know what jabbing feels like,” she warned, not the least bit serious about the threat to poke me into action with the business tip of an umbrella. “Now, poor Jan is sitting up on her roof and her husband is…Well, look at the man, girl. He’s standing at the window, but the man is clearly ‘not home.’” She made quotation marks in the air. “Someone has got to intervene here.”
    Someone, I thought, my stomach knotting up like silk fringe sent through the spin cycle. But why me?
    “Maybe we should call David.” That was my instinctstalking. I learned early on in my career as a minister’s wife not to overstep my bounds, or I would hear about it.
    Hearing about things. Now that was its own peculiar problem, too. What if I went up there and the man babbled out something I couldn’t understand? Or, worse, something I didn’t want to hear? What if he started to cry? He looked like a man who cried often and without much provocation.
    Or what if he refused to come to the door at all and just kept standing there staring?
    What if he came to the door, spoke clearly and innocently enough, didn’t shed a tear…but he stank?
    My nose twitched. I started mentally thumbing through Bible verses about dealing with lepers and the lame and even demons, but I couldn’t find a single one about how to go about showing Christian love to stinky people. Should we hold our breath? Offer them soap? Always carry a spray can of air freshener?
    Of course, I didn’t really need a verse to guide me about how to love the person while hating his odor. This was just the kind of nonsense that was going through my mind as I tried to get up the courage to do what Jesus would have done…or find a plausible excuse to get out of it.
    “Maybe we should just go around to the back of the house,” Bernadette suggested.
    “And do what?” Maxine laid her hand gently on Bernadette’s shoulder. When she spoke, her question sounded as soft as her touch looked. “Shall we shout at Mrs. Belmont? Shall we make a scene and have everyone look from their windows to find her out there and us trying to coax her to come down like some wayward kitten?”
    “I don’t think anyone thinks of Mrs. Belmont as a kitten,” Chloe muttered.
    Maxine poked me in the back a second time and said, “Go up and ring that bell, Odessa. Ask the man to let us go upstairs and see if we can talk