Ticket To Heaven

Every Sunday morning, Edith Malone dressed in her finest outfit, a navy blue dress she bought three years ago when she buried her late husband, Marvin, a pair of black, sensible shoes, and tucked a shiny black patent-leather pocketbook in the crook of her arm, then walked three blocks to church. She always arrived exactly ten minutes before the service started and slipped into the last pew on the left side. Her right eye was better than her left, even with the bifocals she got from that new optometrist who opened a practice in the space where Marvin’s accounting firm had been. After a few, “which is better, one, or two,” Edith could see clearly again, and boy, did it open her eyes.

This Sunday, she went through her usual morning routines: shower, teasing out her tightly-permed white hair, applying a touch of powder and a little rouge to give her cheeks some color, followed by a spritz of Estée Lauder, then eating a piece of dry toast with a cup of English Breakfast tea before changing into her ‘church clothes.’ She opened the back door and filled a small bowl with dry kibble for the stray cat that hung around her house. When Marvin was alive, they had many cats over the years. The last one, Fred, died earlier this year and Edith never got another one, just fed the stray she called Stinky. She missed having a cat, but now that she understood her purpose, she knew she would never own another cat, or have any other companion for that matter. She missed Marvin terribly.

Edith stood on the front porch and locked the door, taking a glance at the Cartier watch Marvin gave her for their tenth anniversary so long ago. It still kept perfect time. She watched the second hand hit the twelve at exactly twenty minutes until ten, then took a deep breath, patted the side of her pocketbook, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She took one last glance over her shoulder, her right one with her good eye, taking what would be her last look at the house where she had lived for fifty-seven years, since she first said, “I do,” to Marvin.

It was late October and all the trees were bare, leaving a carpet of crunchy brown leaves lining the path to the church. A slight chill tinted the air, but Edith didn’t notice, focused as she was on what lay ahead.

The church sat at the end of a tree-lined lane, where it had greeted worshipers since its founding in 1897. Every Sunday morning, parishioners lined up to listen to scripture, and as the congregation grew, an additional service was added on Sunday afternoon. Fernview was a small, working-class town, with mostly blue-collar workers striving to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. When Edith and Marvin married in the church, Sunday messages focused on faith, salvation, and hope. Various pastors over the years still preached on those themes, but two years ago, everything changed when Pastor Reynolds passed away suddenly.

Calls went out and after looking at several candidates, the elders selected Pastor Davidson. Fresh from seminary, the elders felt his youth and charisma would bring more people, particularly young ones, into the flock. Since many of the congregants were moving up in years, the church rolls were dwindling. And when the rolls dwindled, so did the offerings.

Edith knew the church finances. When Marvin was alive, as part of his serving the church, he did the accounting. Edith helped out, and after he died, she took over. She used an old green ledger book, just like Marvin had, writing each Sunday’s offering totals in the credits column and expenses in the debit. Before Pastor Davidson took over, the credits always outnumbered the debits. Since then, the reverse was true.

Pastor Davidson’s sermons were different, too. His messages weren’t about love and forgiveness, but hell and eternal damnation. He preached that to get into heaven, the congregants needed to up their giving. God came to him in a vision and told him everyone in the church would be saved if they raised enough money for him to buy a big mansion up on a hill. That God’s love came at a price and if they would open their wallets and their hearts, God would grant them salvation.

While there were some younger families that had come into the fold, most of the parishioners were older, like Edith, living on their pensions, and getting closer and closer to judgment day. Afraid of not making it to the pearly gates, they dug a little deeper, like Pastor Davidson said. Mr. and Mrs. Bentley quit eating breakfast every morning so they could add a few extra dollars. Mr. Gibson needed new dentures, but at ninety-one, how many more meals did he need to eat? He’d get by on a can of soup a day.

Edith sat in her pew at the back on the left side and watched as Pastor Davidson strode up to the altar, dressed in a shiny new custom-made suit. The Italian leather loafers he wore cost more than some of the congregants made in a month. Edith knew where the money came from to pay for all of Pastor Davidson’s extravagances.

Pastor Davidson began his sermon. He talked about how in Matthew 5:5, Jesus said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” His captivating style had everyone on the edge of their pew.

“But, my friends, what I’m here to tell you today is Jesus doesn’t want you on the earth. No! He wants you up in heaven with him. Yes! And friends, he came to me in a vision this morning and told me the kingdom of heaven is open to you and you and you! To all of you here today, and friends, you just have to fill the offering plate when it comes around. Can I get an amen?”

Amens and praise the lords rang out from the pews. Edith stood up calmly and stepped out into the aisle, her pocketbook hanging from her left arm and her right hand reaching inside.

Pastor Davidson held out his arm, reaching toward Edith. “Brothers and sisters, look at Sister Edith. She’s opening up her purse and digging deep inside because she knows, she knows how to get to heaven, isn’t that right, Sister Edith?”

Edith stopped next to the pew up front where the elders sat. She pulled a small tape recorder from her pocketbook, held it up and pressed play. Pastor Davidson’s voice boomed from the device, his side of a phone call.

“These old fuckers will give me anything I want, all I’ve got to do is play the Jesus card. Tell them I had a vision and God told me they needed to give more and he’d let them into heaven, you believe that?”

There was a pause, then Pastor Davidson laughed.

“You mean Edith Malone? That old bat? Ha, she’s got no idea how much I’ve taken. I go back and change the books. This is the easiest scam I’ve ever pulled. That fake Master of Divinity certificate was the best twenty bucks I’ve ever spent. Pretend I’ve got an in with the big man upstairs and these gray-hairs will hand over their life savings to get to judgment day with a ticket to heaven.”

Edith turned off the recorder and dropped it back in her pocketbook. “Pastor Davidson, I may have gray hair, but I’m pretty sure I know a fraud when I see one. Jesus came to me last night in a vision and told me that I would get my ticket to heaven when I punched yours.”

Edith pulled the pearl-handled revolver from her purse.

“Let’s go meet Jesus.” She fired two shots.

BIO: Award winning author* Tammy Blakley lives in the Pacific Northwest. She completed her first manuscript with no formal training and a total lack of adult supervision. She has previously published stories in Punk Noir Magazine, Urban Pigs Magazine, Pistol Jim Press and Stone's Throw. Find her on Twitter @tammy_blakley and Bluesky @tammywritesbooks.bsky.social

* She won Most Improved Bowler on her office bowling team and in 6th grade she won the 4-H Biscuit Baking Competition and a 5 pound bag of flour. She still has the bowling patch but unfortunately the flour was lost in the Great Weevil Invasion of '74.