“How can he sit by and watch me suffer like this?” she asked.
“Who?”
“God.”
“Is that what you feel like is happening?” I asked. She nodded her weak and weary head. “Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know you are, and I appreciate it, but I’d really like to know what you think.”
“Honestly, I don’t think that’s what’s happening.
I know there are no easy answers, but . . . The best is freedom, but even it falls short. Whatever the reason, I do believe––not just believe, I’ve experienced––God suffers with us. For us. Doesn’t just watch us.”
The pain and conflict I felt incarnated into knots in my stomach. I realized how hollow my words sounded, how inadequate they were. She was hurting so badly she wanted to die, and I had nothing much to offer her.
“I haven’t experienced that,” she said. I nodded.
“Maybe I still will.”
“I really think you will.”
Tears formed in her eyes and she blinked several times. With an unsteady hand, she reached up and pushed her dry, brittle, early gray hair away from her pale face.
“How much pain are you in?” I asked. “We can—” She shook her head, wiped at her tears. “It’s not that.
I’m okay. Physically.”
She looked out the window a moment, but didn’t seem to see anything.
Turning back to me, she said, “Most people don’t see their death coming, but I get to lie here and watch its approach like I’m tied to a railroad track.”
I nodded.
“That’s what I want to end.”
“I . . .”
“What?”
“It’s just . . . if that’s your reason . . . I think you’d miss out on so much.”
“What?” she said, anger accenting the edges of her frail voice. “Pain? Suffering? Depression? Despair?”
“In part, yeah. For what’s in and beyond them.”
“You might feel different if you were in my place,”
she said.
I nodded. “You’re probably right. But the truth is I am. We all are.”
Her lips twisted up into a frown and she seemed to think about it.
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” I said, “it’s not. But think about the experience of God suffering with you, for you, you said you had yet to experience. I don’t want you to miss out on that. And cutting your life short just might.”
She nodded ever so slightly, more with her narrowing eyes than her head.
I glanced at the small table on the other side of her bed and saw amid the dirty dishes, TV remote, used tissues, and tiny brown prescription bottles, a copy of Final Exit: The Practicalities of Self-Deliverance and Assisted Suicide for the Dying by Derek Humphry.
“How much thought have you given this?” I asked, nodding toward the book.
She shrugged. “Some.”
“Will you really think about what we’ve talked about?” I said. “Can we talk about it some more soon? Can we do that? Will you wait? Not do anything until we’ve talked it through some more? It’s your decision, and I won’t . . . I won’t try to stop you once you’ve made it, but I don’t want you making it alone or being alone or with a stranger if you decide to do it.”
Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she nodded. “Promise.”
She smiled, her moist cheeks gleaming in the midday light coming in the window beside her bed.
We had such a complicated relationship. She had never done a lot of parenting. Self-centeredness, vanity, addiction weren’t qualities that lent themselves to motherhood. As an adult, I had been more of a parent to her than she had been to me, but she was the only mother I would ever have and I didn’t want her to die, didn’t want to lose her one second before I had to. But far more than that, I didn’t want her to miss out on the truly transformative experiences being offered to her. Not now. Not when she had so little time left.
13
I ran into Melanie Sagal at the Dollar Store on my way home from work.
Anna had asked me to stop by and pick up a few things and I was glad she did.
A dark-complected girl in her late teens with dark, straight, stringy hair, a trim but curvy body, and extremely straight, extremely white teeth, Melanie—one of the girls at Potter Farm last night—was striking from a few feet away. Up close, a certain hardness, twitchiness, and insecurity undermined her attractiveness.
“I just want you to know I ain’t no hooker,” she said. “I got two kids and not a lot of options, you know? But I ain’t for sale. I’m raising both of ’em on my own without a lick of child support from either of their sorry ass daddies and I do what I have to to take care of ’em. What mom worth anything wouldn’t, right? But God knows my heart and knows I ain’t no hooker.”
I nodded.
She was wearing very short cutoffs that showed off her long, smooth, shapely legs, sandals that showed off sexy but uncared for feet, and a tight white spaghetti strap tank top camisole with no bra beneath that showed off both the curve of her breasts and her dark nipples.
Though it was September she was dressed for full-on July. In her defense, there’s not as much difference between July and September in Florida as other places.
“I know you’re not,” I said. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not just sayin’ that?”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
From where we stood at the front edge of the building, I could see the steady flow of people entering and exiting. Small-town folk, like me, who didn’t have a lot of shopping options. Poor people, like me, with little or no discretionary income. Here to buy the basics and not much besides.
The Panhandle was largely an impoverished place. Particularly the small towns like Pottersville. There were the working poor like me. People who didn’t subsist in poverty but did live from paycheck to paycheck with debt and virtually no disposable income. Then there were the extreme poor who wouldn’t be able to eat were it not for food stamps, would be unable to survive were it not for assistance, people who had no discretionary anything, only desperation.
The immorality of income inequality in our country was as devastating as it was dangerous. The vanishing middle class meant there were mostly extremes now—high-end department stores for the wealthy and Dollar Stores for the rest of us. Both were booming while most everything in between was struggling. There were no exclusive or expensive shops or boutiques in Pottersville, but that didn’t mean we lacked variety. There were three different Dollar Stores.
Of all my friends, family, and neighbors, none were struggling to survive because of laziness or lack of effort. The seemingly random and capricious nature of their struggle was due to lack of opportunity––that, and the greed of those pulling the levers of the great machine, who decided to keep such an obscene amount for themselves.
“So tell me about last night,” I said.
“Creepy ol’ Ronald Potter hired me and Carla Jean to come out and help host his party. Well, the party after the main party. Girls aren’t allowed at that.”
“Never have understood that,” I said.
“Me either. Anyway, I’ve done this before . . . and it was good money and there’s not much to it. Just sort of hang out and entertain the troops, so to speak. But here’s the thing, and this is what it all comes down to for me and why I even considered doing it—we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.”
I nodded. “Such as?”
“The way he puts it is he pays us to be there. That’s all. What we do while we’re there is up to us. Now, don’t get me wrong, we want everyone to have a good time so we’ll get tipped and be invited back to the next one.”
“So what kind of stuff do you do?”
“Bring ’em drinks. Dance with ’em. Show ’em our tits. Fool around if we want to––but only if we want to. And remember thes
e are mostly old geezers. Doesn’t take much. Oh, they talk big, but most of ’em can’t do much of nothin’. Plus which they’re all drinkin’ so much.”
I thought carefully how to word my next question. “What sorts of things do they ask for?” I said. “In the back rooms?”
“Anything their wives won’t do,” she said. “Or don’t do a lot. I’m not sayin’ we do them. You asked what they ask for.”
I nodded.
Because of how quickly I had to get ready this morning, I was dressed more casually than usual, and I wasn’t wearing a clerical collar, for which I was grateful.
“Felix’s wife won’t go down on him and he loves gettin’ head,” she said.
She seemed to be warming to our conversation—something I wanted to encourage.
“What guy doesn’t?” I said.
“I know, right? Some guys are happy to get anything.
I feel funny talkin’ to you about this.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “I’m a man. I get it. And I’m not a cop.”
“Cops are the worst,” she said. “They expect you to do what they say and they’re not nice about it. And they’re usually rough.”
“Jake?” I asked.
“He’s not bad. Really. That other one was. Andrew Sullivan. Guy’s a prick. Put his hands around my mouth and neck and tried to make me swallow. I pretended like I did then spit it in his face. I woulda caught a bad beating for that but Jake stepped in and saved me.”
“He been violent with you before?” I asked. “When he drinks.”
“He was drinkin’ last night?” She nodded. “Big time.”
I knew he was on duty because he was at the prison crime scene. I guess I never got close enough to smell it on him.
Across Main Street, at the drive-thru liquor store, an elderly man on a rusting, once green riding lawn mower pulled up to the window, cut the motor, and placed his order.
“Your dad, Judge Cox, and Mr. Hugh Glenn are always perfect gentlemen,” she said. “Your dad has never asked for anything. Judge either, except for one time when he had too much to drink and he begged me for anal before he puked and past out. Mr. Hugh . . .”
“What?”
“I can’t say it.”
“Sure you can. You can say anything. It’s all important and it helps me.”
“I can’t see how this will help . . . but he just likes to sniff me while he . . . you know . . . touches himself.
They’re all good men. I’m glad they’re our leaders. I think your dad’s a good sheriff, but I think Mr. Hugh would make a good one too.”
I nodded.
Balancing the suitcase of beer on the hood of his mower with one hand while steering the small back wheel with his other, the elderly man drove away, turning right on Second Street and disappearing behind the empty building that had once been a NAPA Auto Parts store.
“Ralph Long talks a lot, flirts, but never does anything. I think he’s gay.”
“Pretty sure he is,” I said.
She looked around us then leaned in and lowered her voice. “The worst son of a bitch I’ve ever run across is Don Stockton.”
I nodded.
“And it was just you and Carla Jean? I asked. “Yep.”
“Not the third woman, the blonde, that––”
“Have no idea who she was. Wasn’t with us.”
“Did you talk to her?”
She shook her head. “I think Carla Jean did. Hell, sounded like she let her in the house, but I never laid eyes on her. I’d talk to Ronald Potter. If he didn’t hire her she may’ve just been crashin’. Whatever she was doing . . . it got her killed, didn’t it?”
“It did.”
“So scary.” I nodded.
“That could’ve been me.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t.”
Her face softened and she smiled and turned her head. “Thank you. That’s a sweet thing to say.”
We were quiet a moment, then I said, “Did anyone leave for a while and come back? Did anything out of the ordinary happen? Anything suspicious or strange?”
“Seemed like everybody was comin’ and goin’ but I can’t be too sure. I don’t remember a lot. I think somebody drugged me.”
14
You didn’t tell me Chris was such an ass to you last night,” Anna said.
“Told you I saw him.”
She smiled. “Good point.”
“Assumed you’d guess the rest,” I said.
“I should have. How could I have been married to him?”
We were sitting on the small back porch of my—now our trailer—watching the river swirl its way toward the bay, the soft glow of the setting sun gently tinging everything gold, purple, and pumpkin.
Evening was palpably present in everything, the air, the quiet, the cool and calm.
“Tell me about your day,” I said.
“Very, very ordinary. Missing you was the best and worst of it. Tell me about yours.”
I did.
“So you’re working on a murder where the victim is unknown and the body is stolen, an attempted suicide that might actually be attempted murder, a mother contemplating cutting short the little time she has left, and a warden who’s gonna fire you for being with me?”
“You left out the only thing that matters.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“I get to come home to you.”
“You do, you dear, sweet man, but are you sure you want me? I––”
“Never more certain of anything in my life.”
“Even with a baby on board, a psycho ex in tow, and the sin factor that could cost you your job?”
“I’ve waited my whole life for you.”
“But––”
“And it was worth the wait.”
“Just so we’re clear there, Mr. Jordan, you know I love you the same way, right? Just because I didn’t get to declare it to the warden or choose you over my job . . . I love you with every single cell of me.”
I breathed that in, then kissed her.
We kissed for a while. The desultory noises of the river slowly floating by were the only ones I could hear beside the sweet, heavy sound of blood passion in my ears.
And the wide world with all its constant cares and troubles waned away.
“He does know it’s me, doesn’t he?” she said eventually.
“Who? Knows what’s you?”
“The warden. He knows it’s me, right? Why isn’t my job in jeopardy?”
I smiled. “Double standard, isn’t it? I’m expected to have his religious and moral sensibilities whereas you are not.”
“I worked so hard to save my marriage,” she said, her gaze drifting, her voice growing wistful.
“We both did,” I said.
Her attention returned to me, her eyes finding mine.
“We really did.”
We did, didn’t we? It was easy to say––and it was what we both want to believe, but . . . I had no doubt she had done all she could, but had I? I would always wonder. It reminded me again I needed to call Susan.
“Let’s get back to the warden’s expectations . . .” she said. “I’m . . .”
“A whore, basically.”
She liked that, her face lighting up, her big brown eyes shimmering with delight.
“His word?” she said, taking me in her hand. “I wouldn’t want to fail to live up to expectations.”
We began fumbling with each other’s clothes, unable to wait until they were all the way off for the devouring to begin.
“I’m your whore,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice delicious with desire. “I’ve always been. Do whatever you want to me.”
I did.
Later that night, after Anna went to bed, I walked out under the night sky and began to pray.
The heavens above me were brilliant with a billion stars, the earth below me, dark and damp, and I could feel the beloved moving through me in the cool breeze.
I was grateful
and so very glad to be alive, and I began there.
Thank you.
Thank you for letting me be here. Thank you for letting me be a part of all this. Thank you for Anna, for love, for what we have in each other, for the life we share.
It came to my mind to pray for Chris, but I wasn’t ready to do that just yet. So I saved it, planning on coming back to him when I was a little further in and the better angels of my nature had had a chance to have more influence.
I then lifted up for several inmates I was counseling, sending health and healing and forgiveness and peace in their direction.
Next, I prayed for guidance and wisdom, for insight and patience, for help as a man, a chaplain, and an investigator.
I really had no idea what the hell I was doing and I needed help with everything every single step of the way.
For the next several minutes I practiced some mindful meditation and was just about to pray for Chris when Jake walked up.
“Hey,” he yelled as he lunged out of the darkness at me.
I jumped and he got a good laugh out of it.
“You out here listening to the colors of the wind or some shit like that?” he said.
I laughed.
“I came to make sure you weren’t drinkin’ again,” he said. “We got serious shit goin’ down and we need you sober.”
“If anything could drive me to drink, it’s you,” I said, “but so far so good.”
We were quiet a moment and his demeanor changed. “I wish to God I hadn’t stayed,” he said. “I do.
And I probably shouldn’t’ve fucked Melanie, but she’s not underage. I don’t care what you say, and that’s all I did. I didn’t have anything to do with anything else. I never even saw the girl that got killed. Never took anything or did anything illegal.”
“I talked to Melanie about you this afternoon,” I said.
“What’d she say?”
“That you have a little dick but you’re a decent enough guy.”
“What’d she really say?” I told him.
“I been thinkin’,” he said. “Well, first . . . do you suspect me?”
“Of some sort of mental deficiency? Yes.”
“Seriously,” he said. “Do you?” I shook my head.
“True story?” he asked. “True story.”
Innocent Blood; Blood Money; Blood Moon Page 26
