Blabbermouth (A Brit Moran Mystery)

by Joel Travis

  Sheila had a nefarious motive for giving me the golf clubs. No sooner had she presented me with the silly sticks when she dragged a scrawny bag of ladies clubs out of our coat closet. Her father had bought her a set of clubs for Christmas. We could take up the game together! Wouldn’t it be fun to talk between shots and have a common hobby?

  Wouldn’t it be fun to burn in hell? But there was no way out. My gifts to my wife hadn’t had the pull I had hoped for, but maybe if we played a few rounds of golf until she lost interest, I could have sex again. We reserved a tee time for the following Saturday at 7:52 a.m.

  #

  On the first tee box at our local municipal course, my wife began to coach me in the intricacies of the most complicated game ever devised. According to the instructional golf books Sheila had been reading all week, if I kept my head down and I kept my head still and I kept my head in the game, I would come out ahead. Otherwise I would suck.

  Keeping that in mind, I was about to tee off when she added that my left arm should be straight at all times and I should be careful not to lift my hands on my backswing as that would prevent me from guiding the club head straight back along the ground, thus altering the natural arc of my swing. I should be wary of breaking my wrists at the apex of my swing, yet at the same time I needed to make a full swing so I could generate maximum club speed. My knees should be flexed and wasn’t there some way to flex my knees without sticking my rear end out like that?

  Was I attempting to use the interlocking or overlapping grip? Some beginners preferred the interlocking grip, while the pros opted for the overlapping grip. It really depended on the size of one’s hands. When she asked to have a look at my hands—which she had seen at least a million times—I exploded.

  “Damn, this is a frustrating game!” I said. “And I haven’t even hit my first fucking shot!” I don’t ever curse like that, but I swear to God that’s what golf does to you. I tried to calm down, remembering that my ultimate goal was sex with my golfing partner. “Why don’t you go first, dear?”

  “I can’t go first. I’m teeing off way up there. We’ll have to take the cart to get up to where I’m hitting from.”

  In compliance with the rules of golf, women get to hit their first shot on every hole from a distance much closer to the green than their male counterparts. I didn’t know a lot about golf—okay nothing—but it seemed to me like a sexist sport that favored women over men, which all progressive thinkers would agree is degrading to women. If I had written the rules of golf, I would have required the golfer who had read the most golf books to tee off from the back tees.

  “Brit, just hit your shot. Then we’ll take the cart in the woods and look for your ball.”

  Since neither of us had ever seen me play, I resented her assumption that my ball would end up in the woods, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if she wasn’t right. We never did find that ball, or the next few balls I hit which ricocheted off tree trunks.

  Between my sideways shots and Sheila’s short dribblers, we weren’t progressing at an acceptable pace if we expected to finish the round the same day we began it. I mention this only because the foursome behind us soon grew impatient with our slow play, standing back on the tee box with their hands on their hips, shaking their heads. I’m sure they wanted to play through, but if you let groups play through on the first hole, you lose the advantage of your early tee time. I figured if they wanted to play ahead of us they should have reserved an earlier slot and I gave no more thought to the matter until one of their tee shots struck Sheila in the back of the leg on the first bounce. That really hacked me off, almost as much as if I’d been hit myself. I decided to take action before I did get hit.

  I stopped our exciting round of golf, picked Sheila up, and drove the cart back to the tee box. I wanted to have a word with the gentleman who’d hit that last shot. He was one of those overweight, redneck golfers you would only encounter on a public course, wearing a tank top and cutoff jeans in midwinter. I could have sworn I’d seen a large sign posted in the clubhouse prohibiting such attire, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to tell him to go back home and change. The redneck probably just wanted to show off his tattoos. If you’d invested that much money in that many tattoos, you’d want the public to be able to view them. The intricate artwork of the scorpion tattoo on his right shoulder was impressive, yet the most striking tattoo was the one on his left bicep that captured the true spirit of Satan in a multitude of colors.

  As mad as I was about his shot striking Sheila, I knew golfers were supposed to be good sportsmen, so I politely told him to keep his balls away from my wife. He tore off his golf glove and approached me with the obvious intent of altering my face for the worse. All I can tell you about the ensuing skirmish is that a redneck’s fist is no match for a three-iron in the hands of a resourceful man.

  Before the redneck’s buddies had a chance to join the brawl, the club pro bolted out of the clubhouse. There was a discussion period which ended when the club pro ordered all of us to get off his course. It belongs to the City of Dallas, but I didn’t argue the point. I was more than happy to leave the premises.

  We were loading our clubs into the trunk of our car when the redneck decided he wanted to continue the fight in the parking lot. I guess he thought he could intimidate me (not possible) or else he thought he could kick my ass (could happen). Whatever he thought, I saw no advantage in spending any more time with him. We leaped in our car and peeled out of that parking lot in what I’m sure was record time for golfers heading home from the links.

  #

  Camels cannot swim. That’s good, because there’s nothing more ridiculous-looking than a camel trying to swim, no matter what stroke it chooses. As stupid as they are, camels know damn well they’re incapable of swimming, so you never witness them trying to pull it off.

  That’s where I differed from a camel. I should have known not to engage in marriage counseling. Yet I found myself sitting next to Sheila, across a desk from the venerable Reverend Means in his modest office.

  “Let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn,” the Reverend said.

  “What makes you think so?” I asked.

  “I was quoting from Corinthians 7:9. And so it is.”

  And so it was. For the duration of the session it was God’s Word, the Reverend Means’ words, and Sheila’s words against whatever words I could come up with. While I would have preferred a more evenly matched setup, I was confident I would prevail in the end.

  “I want to thank you both for coming to see me,” the Reverend said. “I may indeed be a balm for your wounds.”

  “What makes you think so?” I had to ask again.

  “Brit, my son, over the past fifty-eight years I have presided over hundreds of blessed unions. And perhaps a thousand unions that didn’t turn out so well. Whenever I have an opportunity to save a marriage, I am God’s humble servant.”

  He had danced around the question, but I didn’t want to quibble with God’s humble servant. I was due at the strip joint in forty-five minutes to collect some money from some losers.

  “All right, let us begin,” the Reverend said, staring at me so intently that he likewise held my gaze. He had a shock of white hair and a face that was whiter than his locks. To be honest, he didn’t have that healthy glow about him that you’d like to see in someone you have to look at for prolonged periods. He looked like Albert Einstein’s uglier older brother.

  Sheila said, “Reverend, it wasn’t easy to get my husband to come to marriage counseling. I hope you can show him how valuable it is.”

  “It is more valuable than a million gold coins, Brit,” the Reverend said with a straight face. “For it was God himself who created your marriage.”

  I didn’t think it was fair to blame God. On the contrary, I suspected the Devil may have had a hand in it. I kept my opinion to myself.

  “God created your marriage as surely as he created the highest mountain peak and the deepest pit; the eagle-
eyed hawk and the hawk-eyed eagle; the plump grapes and the shriveled raisins; the ball of your foot and the football; the mother’s child and the father’s child support check; the winning lottery ticket and …”

  It was beyond a layman’s understanding why the Reverend was reciting a list of everything God had created. I know neither Sheila nor I would have disputed that God had created a lot of varied and wondrous things. Once the Reverend got rolling, I couldn’t think of a tactful way to make him quit. I missed about fifty of God’s creations while I daydreamed about a stripper. Meanwhile, Means was still going strong with his list of creations.

  “… the chicken’s egg and the egg’s chicken; a knight’s armor and a night’s amour; daylight savings time and …”

  Sheila and I exchanged glances, which is all married couples need to do to reach an understanding. The man had to be stopped.

  “Reverend Means,” Sheila said, “you’re so right. Our marriage was created by God and he also made everything else in the world. Now that we understand that, Brit and I are eager to begin the actual counseling.”

  “All right, then,” the Reverend said once he had regained his breath. “I’ll start with you, Brit. What are three things that you absolutely love about your wife?”

  I don’t know where Reverend Means learned to counsel, or how long ago it must have been, but they should have taught him to save the hard questions for last. I was stumped.

  “Brit, just tell me three—”

  “I heard the question. How much time do I get?”

  “Take your time,” the Reverend said. I followed his recommendation. I had almost come up with the first item when Sheila broke my concentration, as she always did.

  “Brit, dear, you’re not trying. Tell Reverend Means three things you love about me.”

  “Hold on a minute. I know I’ll think of something.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “Now, now!” Reverend Means said. “Let’s give your husband some more time to formulate an answer. We’ll come back to him. How about you, Sheila? Can you tell me three—”

  “He makes me laugh; he’s affectionate late at night; and he needs me, and I love that.”

  “There you go!” the Reverend said. “You see, Brit. Your wife loves you!”

  “I know. That’s why we don’t need counseling.”

  Sheila sighed. “We need counseling. We have serious issues to resolve.”

  “Very well,” the Reverend said. “Right now we’re not addressing problems. We’re emphasizing the good parts. Are you ready to answer the question, Brit?”

  “Almost,” I said, though I was no closer to an answer. The grueling interrogation had worn me down, so I offered a suggestion. “How ’bout a short break to refresh ourselves?”

  #

  I hid out in the men’s room during the break. Alone in an environment where I could concentrate, I thought of a surefire response to the question about my spouse’s three lovable traits. Basically, what I had in mind was to rephrase Sheila’s successful answer to that same question, thereby turning the tables on her and guaranteeing a great response from Reverend Means like the one she got. When we reconvened, I could hardly wait to present my answer.

  “Are you ready, Brit?” the Reverend asked.

  “Quite ready.”

  “Good. What are three things that you absolutely love about your wife?”

  “She laughs at me; she’s affectionate during full moons; and she needs me to pay for everything, and I just love that.”

  It didn’t fly. After viewing the sour expressions on their faces, I tried again.

  “She’s a capable cook; she’s a gung-ho gardener; and she’s strong for her size.”

  Not bad for a backup answer.

  They still didn’t look pleased. In desperation, I gave it one last shot.

  “She’s from a wealthy family; she’s easily intoxicated; and she’s got a long tongue.”

  “Good Lord, Brit!” Sheila blurted out right in front of the holy man. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  The Reverend took a moment to compose himself. “All right, then,” he said. “Sheila, you can see that your husband loves … I mean, it’s obvious that he … well, anyway, now that we’ve covered some of the good parts of your marriage, we’ll move posthaste to the problematic portion you referred to before the break. You expressed the opinion that there are problems in your marriage. Could you elaborate?”

  “Well, just off the top of my head, on our first Christmas together he left me alone in a Las Vegas hotel room all day while he gambled with the other heathens in the casino. He returned to our room the next day, drunk, after he’d lost all our money playing blackjack. This past Christmas he gave me insurance for a gift, which was actually a slight improvement over what he gave me that first Christmas, which was nothing.

  “He treats me like a servant, requiring me to do all manual labor around the house. He’s trained me to be quiet as a mouse while I’m working so I don’t break his precious concentration. What he’s concentrating on is still a mystery to me. I’ll probably never know, since he adheres to a strict policy against communicating in any personal way with the domestic help.

  “As you know, he never attends church with me, which explains his moral decay. Once, on an illegal football bet, he lost a hundred thousand dollars! Needless to say, we didn’t have it to lose. To avoid paying his debt, he tried to make me abandon my country, my home, my family, my friends, and my church to live with him in a squalid Mexican village.

  “Another time I caught him hiding in the bathroom going through my handbag like a common thief. And he won’t get an honest job. He hangs around shady people in seedy places on a daily basis and he—”

  “Get to your point,” I said. “I’m sure the Reverend doesn’t have all day to listen to everything that’s ever ruffled your feathers.”

  “I don’t have any feathers left after two years with you.”

  I’m glad the Reverend was a tall man or his jaw might have hit the floor. He looked like someone had recently used a stun gun on him. I feared he might be suffering a long overdue stroke, but before I could summon an ambulance, he came back to life. He dabbed his damp, withered face with a handkerchief.

  “Let’s take another short break to refresh ourselves,” he said.

  Even after the break, the Reverend didn’t look well. Yet somehow, gathering an inner strength only the spiritually empowered can access, he continued.

  “We’ll pick up where we left off. Sheila has touched on several serious grievances, some of which are hard to believe. Let me ask you straight out, Brit. Did you do any of those things?”

  Any? Hell, I’d done them all and then some.

  “Yes,” I said. “I did do those things and I’m certainly not proud of it. I can only hope that we were created by a forgiving God and let it go at that.”

  “Our God forgives all who seek forgiveness.”

  “Count me in,” I said.

  “God bless you,” he said.

  “What is going on here?” Sheila said. “I’m glad my husband has squared things with you and God in all of ten seconds, but I was the one who had to endure him for two tortuous years. Shouldn’t he be telling me what steps he plans to take to become a decent husband?”

  “Don’t worry about that, dear,” I said. “With God’s vision before me and the Reverend watching my backside, I shall walk a straight path. However narrow it may be.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “Tell me specifically what you intend to do to become a worthwhile husband.”

  “I’ll read the Bible to you for two hours every night before we go to sleep. No matter how sleepy you are, I’ll keep reading.”

  Sheila sighed. “To the best of my knowledge, my husband doesn’t own a Bible. Furthermore, he’s not going to do any such thing.”

  “I am so. And I do own a Bible. It’s in storage somewhere, but I know I can find it.”

  “I’ll make a
deal with you,” Sheila said. “I’ll bring a tape recorder to bed every night. We’ll come back two weeks from today and let the Reverend hear whatever there is to hear.”

  “He doesn’t have time for that,” I said.

  “Brit, my son, I will listen with a joyful heart.”

  There didn’t seem to be any way out of what I’d gotten myself into. I desperately tried to harness the prevailing wind before it blew me away. “Some things have to be taken on faith alone, without recording devices. Isn’t that true, Reverend?”

  “Indeed. On faith alone. And I alone have faith that you’ll bring me the tapes of your readings. Let’s meet again, two weeks from today at noon. And may God bless the two of you.”

  #

  Sheila asked if we could finally start our Bible reading sessions.

  “I don’t see why not,” I said. “As soon as this program is over.”

  “What are you watching?” she asked, peering over my shoulder at the set. “Hey, that’s just an old I Love Lucy rerun. You don’t need to see that again.”

  Like hell I didn’t. It was the episode where Lucy tries to smuggle a giant chunk of cheese from Europe into the United States by wrapping it up like a baby because she believes that babies fly for free and cheese doesn’t. I wasn’t about to miss that one. I invited Sheila to watch with me. Twenty minutes later, the episode concluded. What I couldn’t have anticipated was that the cable station was running an I Love Lucy marathon. I couldn’t break away. They only run those marathons a few times a year. Three hours slipped by.

  “Brit, this is the seventh episode we’ve watched,” Sheila said. “Let’s record the rest of the marathon. You can watch it tomorrow.”

  There’s nothing like watching it live, even if the episodes were filmed half a century ago.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “This is the one where Lucy suspects that Ethel might be Madam X, a dangerous criminal.”

  “Oh, that’s believable. Ethel looks like a dangerous criminal,” said my sarcastic spouse. “Please, Brit. I’m sleepy.”

  Another excellent example of Sheila being her self-centered self. I was losing patience with the woman. “Why don’t you retire early?” I suggested.