by G. H. Holmes
“Say, would you want to come visit one of our—what’d you call them…? Feasts?”
Müller’s eyes became alert. “So you admit that you do them?”
Tom made a face. “Do what?”
“Love feasts, with women.”
Stark was groping for a reply—when Romy’s voice called from the hallway.
“Tom?”
Both men froze.
“Tom? Where are you?”
Müller’s pistol hand wobbled.
The door opened and Romy stood in the frame. She wore baggy shorts and her skin gleamed in the dusky room. Her cupped hands covered her chest. She wore no T-shirt.
Müller gasped, his bulging eyes captivated by her.
A second later he seemed to fly, lying flat in space. Then he hit the floor, face first. The gun slid across the room. Müller screamed, reaching for his knee. The barbell rolled away.
“Don’t kill him!” she shouted, clutching the jamb.
Stark kicked the writhing figure once more—on the inside of his thigh, sending the intruder into a spasm before he passed out.
Romy rushed forward. “Don’t!”
Tom stared at his wife.
“Don’t.” She began to sob.
“You distracted him,” he said. He pulled close and kissed her hair. “You know, you actually saved me.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No, I shocked his femoral artery to make him pass out, you know, shocked his circulation. He’ll come to in a minute—and what do we have here?” He took a knife with an oversized handle out of her hands and giggled. “Ben’s dagger. You can’t harm a louse in poor health with that thing.”
“It was lying on the steps.”
“Ben needs to clean up better.” He let go of her and crouched to reach for the gun under the desk.
“Don’t be mad,” she said, covering herself by crossing her arms.
The firearm was a Hämmerli 230, a .22-cal sporting pistol, Swiss made.
“I’m not mad,” he said tenderly, releasing the pistol’s magazine. “You just took me by surprise.” He pulled the slide back and the bullet jumped from the chamber. “You distracted him. Not in my dreams could I have imagined that you’d be inventive like this…”
“Betty said, men go for the visual,” she said, pulling on her T-shirt. Her red face took on a triumphant sheen. “It worked, even though he didn’t see anything.”
“You found out just in time.”
“What are you going to do with the gun?” she said.
“Keep it.” He opened a drawer and put the pistol in. “Might come in handy during counseling.”
“Goof.” Then she remembered. “I dropped the phone, and now the battery doesn’t work. We can’t even call the police.”
“Too risky anyway. I broke his kneecap and they might take me in because of it; you know, for trampling on his human rights. Plus, he got high on meth or some other kind of speed before he came here. Made sure he’d get a reduced sentence. Smart guy. But now we’ll settle out of court.”
“Oh, Tom. You’ll let him go?” Her eyes welled up.
“Want me to hand him a six-pack?”
She got irritated. “He doesn’t need alcohol. And we—”
“That’s not what I mean. A six-pack is when you shoot somebody in the heels, knees, and elbows—”
“Ow. Gross.”
“He brought his gun.”
“Quit it.”
“Hey, he planned to give me an OBE.”
“Do I want to know what that is?”
“British. Means One Behind the Ears. A bullet. It’s really an IRA handout. Kit knew all about it,” his friend in Hereford.
“You’re silly.” Then her fears returned. “What if he comes back?”
“Don’t worry. Kneecap’s a tricky twister; he’ll be out of commission for a very long time.” He kissed her forehead. “But I’ve got to get going.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“To the Leo.”
“What are you going to say?”
“That he fell down. He did, didn’t he? If he’s smart, he won’t contradict me.”
Her lips became drawn-out lines.
He calmed her. “Don’t worry, my little saviourette. God is good. Now go, open the car before he wakes up.”
She scoffed. “I can’t go out in just a T-shirt.”
“You’re packaged plenty.”
“No,” she said with child-like resoluteness.
He groaned. “It’s three meters from the door to the car and it’s getting dark. And if he comes to before we’re on the road, he’ll notify the whole village.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “How?”
“He’ll scream, silly. That knee hurts. And then they will come and notice you.”
Müller stirred, trying to lift his head.
“Now get,” Tom said with gentle force.
As soon as she was gone, Stark drew back his flat hand and hit Müller again, this time on the side of the neck. It was a rough kind of anesthetic and Tom was sorry having to use it, but it worked. Müller relaxed with a groan.
Tom hoisted his erstwhile attacker onto his shoulder. Good thing the Beamer was already in position.
And it was clean.
He’d be making good impression at the hospital.
27
Sunday, 27 July 2003, Noon, 34°C
Wednesday night, Gina sent him an excited e-mail. “Tom! I can’t reach Bertram. His phone’s dead, he doesn’t reply to my text messages and voice-mail, and I get no answer to my e-mails either. Now don’t be mad. It’s not what you think; I just want to make sure he’s all right.”
“You’re not his mother.”
“But his friend—his Christian friend.”
He didn’t answer that.
Then on Thursday: “Guess what! I found Bert’s car here in Elmendorf. That’s right! Bert’s Audi is right here! In our village! It’s the black A4 on Wilmersdorfer Straße, in front of Georg and Erika’s house. I saw it and walked right by as if I weren’t interested, but I noticed the number. It’s his car. Tom, where could he be?”
Stark hadn’t let on that he knew. “Maybe he’s taking a hike.”
“I don’t believe that. He doesn’t know anybody here but me and he needs his car. I can’t imagine he’s walking around somewhere. He’s not the type. This doesn’t make sense!”
On Friday she was frantic. “The car’s still there! Did you see it? He hasn’t moved it all night. Tom, where is he? Maybe he did it! Maybe he really killed himself and now he lies dead in the forest and the boars eat him. Oh, Tom. Can’t you go look for him? You worked for the CIA (or whatever) and you know how it’s done. If I call the police and Ralph finds out, he’ll think— And he said he’ll come to church with me on Sunday. Please, Tom. Don’t you think it’s God’s will that you start looking for Bert? I’d do it myself, but…”
On Saturday she found out. Bert finally sent a text message from the hospital. Stark got no mail from her that day.
On Sunday, when Tom took the service after praise and worship and looked out over the congregation, he spied Gina standing next to Ralph and Ginny in the back section’s first row, right on the aisle. He was delighted and had the people clap for new visitors. But all during the message, Gina’s face was remote and unmoving like that of a marble Dike, goddess of revenge. She never once looked at him and didn’t laugh during jokes.
Ralph was different. Initially, he didn’t know what to do with all his hands, and Ginny wavered between excitement—she later said she liked the music—and teenage coolness. But afterwards the carpenter was large-hearted and full of questions, and during Bistro he struck up easy conversations with other visitors. He even ran into a man he already knew. Jovial Heinz Gutmann ran an electrical company with which he did business. Tom noticed that Ralph began to feel at home already.
Not so his wife. Like always, Gina was the recipient of many smiles—and secret glances—but today
she responded to none of them. She just stood beside her chatty husband, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, while her face told the weaseling peons around her that she was ready to hit the road.
28
Friday, 1 August 2003, Afternoon, 34°C
At five thirty, Stark sat comfortably out back, sweating and shaking the breeze out of the FAZ his wife had bought him in town yesterday, when the phone under his lawn chair began to chirp.
It was Ralph, speaking from his van. “Sorry to pester you—”
Tom grunted affably.
“—but it’s about Gina. There’s a reason why she hasn’t been with me last Wednesday.”
Stark adjusted his Indians ball cap and sat up.
“This Müller-guy’s still heavy on her mind,” Ralph said. “They talk on the phone and I guess she’s mothering him because of his accident; he can’t walk.” He paused. “And in case you’re wondering: it was me who drove the Audi back to his house on Monday. Guess that was okay. But now she wants me to drive food over to him and to run errands. What—?”
“Don’t do it!” Stark sighed with indignation.
Only the driving noises were transmitted for a while. “Gina says, the Christian way to treat him—”
“Don’t do it, Ralph,” Stark interrupted him again. “For crying out loud, what are you?”
“Uh—”
“You crazy?”
He heard him swallow. “Mmh. Not more than others. I guess.”
“Ralph! This guy’s helped himself to your wife!” Noticing the volume of his voice, Stark scanned the hedge and toned it down, beginning to whisper. “He did things with her that are off limits, and you’re telling me you’re driving his car back? Did you wash it too? Maybe vac it? Buff it? I don’t believe this. Ralph, what are you? His slave? Your wife’s peon?”
There was silence on the other end, and the sound of the road.
“I’m all for helping this man, too. But you and Gina—even I—we’re the wrong people to do that. None of us is emotionally neutral toward him. Gina ruins him—and herself—with her involvement. You may not help him because he has betrayed you; and he doesn’t want my help.
“Ralph, if we help him, what’s the man’s wife to do? He won’t need her and they’ll never get back together. Do you want that? Is that your goal? Five children with no father?”
The carpenter mumbled, then said, “Never seen it this way.”
“And that’s why you called me, to set you straight. That’s my job. So I’m telling you: cut this man out of your life. You only poison him with what you call help, not to mention your wife. And you doom that man and his family.” Stark inhaled deeply.
Tom could picture Ralph gripping the wheel and staring at the road ahead, his face happy, somber, and naïve, all at the same time. He was such a child—
“What do you suggest?” Ralph asked.
“You’re both new Christians,” he said. “And the first priority for any Christian is to get to know God, see how he really is. Focus on God and on his word and on coming to church. Don’t pamper the man who was your wife’s lover until just a few days ago.”
“She says it’s been over for a while.”
“And the moon is made of cheese.”
“We don’t know that, Tom.”
Stark scowled. “I don’t mean to malign your wife, Ralph. But I think she’s proving that her feelings are still pretty strong.”
“She says it’s the love of Christ.”
“She owes that guy nothing. He destroyed his own family and yours almost too. He may be salvageable, but not by your means.” He ran his hand through his fresh-cropped bristles. “Müller needs to suffer.”
After a moment’s pause Ralph said, “Aren’t you kind of harsh?”
“Nonsense. He has to hurt as bad possible. Gina needs to cut all contact with him—and so do you. He has to be thrown back on himself entirely. Got to get to his wits’ end. Then he’ll return to his wife—”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Tom wanted to reply, What’s it to you?, but felt his tone was already too militant. So he said, “No choice; he needs her to feed him and to wash his clothes if nothing else. That broken kneecap will—”
“She tell you it’s his kneecap?”
His question took Tom by surprise. “Uh… Did she?”
“Told me nothing. Never mind; she probably did you. She respects you greatly.”
Stark was glad.
“And I’m impressed with how you’re reading people.”
“It’s nothing.” Stark didn’t believe for a second that Delors was buttering him up. The man was naïvely sincere. “Look. If Gina cooks and washes for him, before long she’ll help him in other ways too—now don’t get mad. But if you allow this, she’s effectively married to both of you.” His tongue ran over his lips. “And if you play along and be her courier, then you’re an idiot.”
The silence on the other end became palpable, prompting him to say, “Listen, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no,” Ralph said. “I understand.”
“Look…” Tom pinched his lips. “I know how expensive it is to call from the car. I’ll let you go. Tell me how it’s going, okay? Keep me posted.”
It took the carpenter a second to catch on. Then he said, “See you Sunday.”
The phone clicked off and Stark exhaled. Ralph now probably thought him a miser. Then again, he might not. Maybe he deemed Tom frugal and decided they had at least one thing in common.
Delors also never got around to telling him why Gina skipped church last week, but that didn’t matter. Stark had a pretty good idea.
“Tom,” she wrote later that night, “since you preached on ‘Family’ he’s constantly coming on to me. Maybe he misunderstood some of that ‘Your body is my body’ stuff you were mentioning. I think it was Paul you quoted. Tom, in the middle of the afternoon, as soon as the kids are out of the house—on the way to yours—he comes, expecting me to drop everything I’m doing! Tom, we’re not newly-weds anymore and, truth be told, my emotions are not all that strong—yet. I’m changing, but it’s still true that we—at least I—married for reasons of the head and not of the heart. Tom! You should see him; every day of the last week he comes home for lunch and sits around until two in the afternoon, waiting for me to entertain him. This is going on my nerves. Please talk to him.”
His fingers hit the keys. “Gina Gina Gina Gina. Your man loves you. Acting like this is his way of ascertaining that you’re back, loving him too. By the way, you remember correctly. In 1 Corinthians, Paul does write that we’re not to withhold ourselves from our marriage partner and that we’re not our own. But Paul has the happiness of both in mind, of course.” He clicked on the send button.
Five minutes later the answer arrived. “So, what do you suggest?”
“Tell you what,” he wrote. “Why don’t you make it clear—gently—when you’re not in the mood. Tell him you don’t want to waste an entire thirty minutes on something as trivial and preposterous as love-making. Do I mean he should back off and scurry away?
“Not necessarily.
“See—and I tell you that as a private friend and not as your pastor—when a man is, let’s say, ‘enthused,’ he finds release very quickly. After a minute—give or take a few seconds—he’s done, and you can get back to doing fun things, like dusting your porcelain. He’ll be happy and proud of his self-effacing wife, and I guarantee you, he’ll be paying you back in some delightful way. Ralph is just that kind of guy. Smart, good-looking, frugal, a caring man…”
“Oh! Give it a rest already. Tom! True, in the past I only gave in when I really wanted it too, and, well, that wasn’t often enough, says my husband. I understand that today. I thought I’d be a hypocrite to go along when my heart wasn’t in it. But don’t think Ralph has to work for love with me. I was never that way, you know, doling out favors for good behavior. Please don’t think I’m that mean.”
“I won’t then.”
“Good. And by the way, I don’t dust my china, I use it.”
“No issue. You still with Bert?” Stark wanted to hear it from her.
He could sense her reluctance in the answer. “I can assure you that we now have a purely platonic relationship—”
“Gina! Cut him off. Cut him out of your life. He’s radioactive.”
“You misunderstand the bond we have now. It’s purely friendship. Even Ralph doesn’t mind.”
“You’re juggling nitro.” And Ralph’s a nincompoop.
“Tom, he’s in need. He and his wife are estranged; she doesn’t care. He needs somebody to make sure he knows he’s valuable. I’m sure Jesus would have done the same thing. The Lord didn’t hold things against people. He once even blessed an adulteress. Don’t you think it’s only right for me to forgive him when God has forgiven me?”
“You’re mixing things up. First of all, Jesus didn’t bless that adulteress. You’re referring to John 8. Read verse 11. He told her to go and not sin anymore. He didn’t tell her to carry on with the relationship, to become the surrogate wife of the moron she slept with.”
“Tom, may I remind you that it was you who hurt him? All he tried to do was talk to you, and you broke his kneecap! And just because he got loud!”
Very loud, Tom thought. The gun lay in the attic now, wrapped in plastic and hidden under boards in the floor. He didn’t intend to ever lay eyes on it again.
“Now, I don’t mean to give you a bad conscience; I remember the deranged look in his eyes in the days leading up to his ‘accident.’ (Yes, I’ve seen him the week before.) I’m sure you did what was right. Perhaps you even saved him from himself by making sure he had to go to the hospital. So, I don’t pass judgment on you. But please do not condemn me for doing what I think is right either. Bert needs Christian friends. He’s not far from God, I know he’s not. And Ralph is so helpful and so understanding. Why, he even did Bert’s laundry the other day.”
Incredulous, Tom queried her, “He drove to Bert’s to wash for him?”
“No. He brought Bert’s stuff—he doesn’t own much—and washed it here when I didn’t have time because I had to take Ginny to… But what’s it to you?”
