CHAPTER 5
965 Words
CHAPTER 5
“HEY, MOUSE, YOU FEELING ok?”
Katrina shielded her eyes from the bedroom light. “What?” Her voice was groggy. She cleared her throat.
“I asked if you’re feeling ok. I’ve never seen you sleep in so late.”
She turned toward the clock but didn’t want to uncover her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Five to nine.”
She groaned. She had always been slow to wake up, which was even more annoying now that she was married. Half the time she couldn’t remember if she and Greg had gone to bed angry at each other or not. What was their most recent blowup? There had to be something, right?
Oh, yeah. Those stupid church lights.
Greg was frowning. “You sick?” He swept some hair out of her face, and she forced herself to smile.
“I’m all right. Just tired.” She made a show of sitting, but her lower abdomen tightened up as soon as she moved.
Great.
“Is something wrong?” he asked again.
She didn’t mention the cramps. She didn’t need him rolling his eyes at her women problems, and she certainly didn’t want him going through the day thinking she was making excuses to get out of her responsibilities. Why did these things always have to happen on Sundays?
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.” She flashed her biggest smile to compensate for her discomfort and imagined how blissful it would feel to be the kind of woman who could sleep in on a Sunday for as long as she wanted. No pews to straighten up. No sanctuary to vacuum. No nursery workers to call ...
Uh-oh.
“By the way, did you find another volunteer to go downstairs this week?” Greg asked.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She could handle this. In first grade, she had practiced her new violin so hard her fingers bled, but she hadn’t stopped. She had kept playing, all the way through elementary school, junior high, and high school. All the way through two semesters of community college where she made enough money playing with the Long Beach Symphony Orchestra and teaching private lessons that she could have rented a small apartment of her own if her mom hadn’t forbidden it. She had endured hours of rehearsals under ruthless conductors as arrogant as they were incompetent. She had fingered and bowed her way through orchestral politics and left the Long Beach Symphony without a single enemy to her name.
She had been so excited at the thought of leaving California. No more traffic jams. No more senseless violence. No more family drama. Moving to Orchard Grove with Greg had sounded like such an adventure, the first time she dared to embark on her own without her mom’s disapproving stare following her everywhere she went. Apple country. That’s how Greg had described the area, but now all she could see from the parsonage was the church, some worn-down apartments, and a dried-up riverbed.
Some view.
She hadn’t expected to miss the orchestra so much. Sure, there was a kind of comradery that you could never replicate outside the rehearsal room or performance hall. Friends two or three times her age who nevertheless considered her an equal. Most of them had never met Greg, so she didn’t have to worry about people referring to her as the pastor’s wife. She was Kat, the second violinist. Stand partners with Stan, the Vietnam vet. She didn’t remember when they started calling her Kat. She never invited them to, it just happened. Kat. Not Mouse or Katrina or the pastor’s wife.
Kat.
Everyone called her that. Even Lyn — the forty-year-old conductor whose athletic body had attracted more young women to the symphony than any previous Long Beach maestro. Kat, be careful. You’re rushing the fourth movement. Kat, you’re swaying so widely during the adagio section poor Stan has to dodge your bow.
“You didn’t forget, did you?”
Katrina stared at her husband dumbly.
“The nursery,” he prompted. “Did you find a substitute?”
Her cheeks burned hot. “No.” She was stammering as badly as a first-year violin student learning to play spiccato. “No, I mean, I didn’t forget, but I figured I could go down there this time. It’s almost my week anyway.”
Another frown. “You know it’s important for me to have you upstairs. For the church to see us together.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll try to trade with somebody next time. That way I won’t miss more than one this month.”
“You could call Mrs. Porter. She doesn’t seem to mind jumping in last minute.”
Mrs. Porter didn’t seem to mind jumping into anything at any time as long as it meant she got to boss people around or earned some recognition out of it when all was said and done. But Katrina kept the blasphemous thought to herself. “I don’t want to bother her. She’s probably in the middle of getting ready for church.”
Greg leaned into the doorframe. “What, you want me to call and ask?”
“No.” Katrina rolled her eyes, but thankfully her husband didn’t notice.
“You know, it would have been nice if you’d taken care of this last week when it first came up.”
“I already said I’d do nursery today.”
He turned his back to her. “Now I’ve got to call Mrs. Porter, and I’ll have to listen to her complain about those stupid lights you left on downstairs ...”
Katrina had mentally gone over the Women’s Missionary League decorating party a dozen times last night and knew with certainty that Mrs. Porter was the last woman to come upstairs after the boxes were put in storage, but she couldn’t say that. Greg would just think she was being petty, and nobody else would care except for Mrs. Porter herself, who of course would deny it. For all the trouble that single light caused, Katrina would have preferred having the church treasurer dock seventy-five cents off Greg’s next paycheck to cover the extra expense.
If it would even amount to that much.
- Writer
