The Black Chapel
Page 2
But right as I’m about to finish, I see him over by the stage entrance door talking with Laila. My heart misses a beat, or two, and somehow, I manage to nearly fall flat on my face. I think quickly and decide to make the fall a part of my choreography and lie down on my stomach, my head propped on my hands and my ankles crossed behind me. The audience cheers, and I hurry and stand up and run backstage. I feel clumsy.
“Are you all right?” Anne whispers, waiting in the wings. “It looked like you took a tumble there.”
“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m not fine. I’m mortified, and I think I twisted my ankle, because it hurts. I limp back to the dressing room, passing all the girls heading for the stage for the finale, and decide to ditch it. No one will miss me anyway as it’s a very loosely choreographed group dance, not a solo. I sit down in my booth, roll my ankle a few times and am relieved to find that it doesn’t really hurt as bad as I had initially feared.
That was the most embarrassing moment of my six-month strip dance career. I bury my head in my arms on the counter and sigh. The finale music starts playing in the background.
Laila clears her throat behind me and I look up. Oh no, she’s probably here to tell me I messed up and that I should be on stage with the other girls.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up.
“Quiet.” Laila has a way of talking that makes me feel like I’m a five-year-old again and in big trouble. My face draws a blank. I don’t think I made another mistake tonight, did I? Maybe she had a complaint about me from Mr. Manning? Was I too forward? My throat feels suddenly very dry, and I try to paste on a smile.
“I don’t know what happened out there. I think I twisted my ankle,” I say unconvincingly.
Laila’s eyes intensify, but now she seems slightly amused, which I think is a very odd reaction to me mentioning that I might have hurt myself.
“I’m here about something else.” Laila sits in Anne’s chair. The woman has never approached me like this before, and I get the distinct feeling that she wants something from me. She’s smiling, and I think, holy shit, this woman actually smiles?
Then she says, “Mr. Manning came to me and said he would like your personal information so he may contact you outside of work.”
My eyes pop wide open. ”But the rule is that we never engage with our patrons outside of the club,” I say, quoting what she says every single stinking day before the show starts.
“I think we can make an exception for Mr. Manning, don’t you?” She smiles again, looking excited.
I’ve never seen her look excited either, so this must be big. I hesitate. “I don’t really want to be in a relationship right now,” I say feebly, remembering the last loser I had dated. “I just don’t want to deal with all the drama and all the pain.”
“This wouldn’t require a relationship. It only requires you making Mr. Manning happy. Stoke his ego a bit. Give him something to smile about.” Laila scoots closer to me, and I can tell she really wants this. It would probably mean big bucks for her and her club.
I don’t dare say anything, because I’m afraid that if I refuse, I’ll lose my job.
“Listen.” Laila’s eyes go soft. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. It just means a lot of money to the club and to you. Think about it for a few days, and get back to me. And please, keep this confidential, Hun, will ya?”
I nod, but still get the distinct feeling that if I don’t comply with Laila’s terms, I’ll be out of a job.
Laila stands up and as she exits I see Anne standing by the door. Then the rest of the girls rush in from the finale.
“What was that all about?” Anne asks, as she sits down in her chair, removing her very large cubic zirconia diamond earrings.
“Laila was just worried about my ankle. I thought I twisted it pretty bad, but it’s fine now,” I say. Anne nods, but I can see that she isn’t buying my story – at all. I’ve never been a really good liar, and Anne can smell my phony words a mile away. But Anne doesn’t push it. Being my best friend, she knows I’ll break down and tell her sooner or later.
After I’ve showered and gotten dressed into my regular clothes, I count out my money and split it in two. Half goes to Laila, half to me. 569 dollars to each. I smile. This is the most I’ve ever made in one evening. I place Laila’s share in an envelope and hand it to Sue as she makes her rounds. I pocket my portion of the money and pull my ivory Calvin Klein Cashmere wool blend coat on.
“Don’t forget your scarf,” Anne says, handing it to me.
“Thanks.” I wrap my red scarf around my neck, expecting it to be quite cold this December evening in Portland. Anne and I walk out together to our cars and say our good byes.
What a night. I wonder what will come of Mr. Manning. Maybe he’ll be offended that I rejected him, so I’ll probably never see him again. It’s for the best, I figure, because I have so many more important things to focus on than finding another boyfriend that will soon be on the list of guys I’ve dated.
On my way home, I stop by The Mirabella Assisted Living Facility. The place is small, but they seem to do a good job taking care of their elderly and ill residents. The glum-looking nurse behind the white counter sees me and buzzes me in.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
The nurse shakes her head. “Your father really needs cancer treatment, or I’m afraid he’ll keep getting worse.”
I feel guilty and like a complete failure. I can’t afford my dad’s treatments, and that fact is killing me. “I know. I’m working on it. Thanks,” I say, heading for his room. Once at his room, I open the door and tip-toe to his bed. He’s sleeping so peacefully. He’s lost a lot of weight, and it breaks my heart that he’s suffering so.
When my dad lost his job ten years ago, he was never able to find work again. That’s when my mom and dad were forced to take out a huge line-of-credit on their mortgage so they could survive until times got better. Unfortunately, times never got better, only worse, and their debt only grew with each passing year. Now I owe more on the mortgage than the house is worth. It’s insane.
When my dad was diagnosed with liver cancer, the hospital refused to start treatment because he didn’t have health insurance. And after my mom died in a car accident last year, he took a turn for the worse. I couldn’t take care of him anymore, because I had to work overtime just so I could keep up with the mortgage payments and other debts. And to make matters worse, last week I lost my other job as a waitress, so now I’m trying to play catch up at the Black Chapel.
My dad moans in his sleep. I sit down next to him on the bed, stroking his full, more salt than pepper hair. He’s in pain, and there’s nothing I can do to help him. He’s always been such a great dad, and I feel I owe him so much. I feel the tears pressing behind my eyes as I see that the future holds nothing better for him or me, and probably only holds much more sorrow and heartache than I am prepared to endure.
2
In the back of my dream, I hear the doorbell ringing. I don’t want to wake up. Then it rings again and I’m thrust into wakefulness. I stumble out of bed and throw my black silk robe on. Who on earth could be bothering me at this early hour on a Sunday morning? I frown as I hop down stairs. Then I see Anne through the window, standing there all too chipper in her Sunday dress.
Upset at her already, I open the door. “Why are you here so early?” I say, seeing that it’s hardly even light out. It has gotten real cold over the past few days, too, and I shiver.
Her big blue baby doll eyes are desperate. “I really want you to come to church with me today. Please?”
“No, I don’t go to church, remember?” I say, yawning and upset that she’d wake me up just for this.
She huffs. “I’m singing in the choir, and I really wanted someone to come hear me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?” I sulk.
“I didn’t find out about it until this morning.” Anne says as she scoots by me, making her way inside from the cold.
“Fine,” I say, knowing I’ll regret it when I’m stuck in a pew next to a snoring grandpa, or some kid who’s pulling my hair. But I’ll do almost anything for Anne. “How long do I have to get ready?”
Her eyes light up and she jumps up and down. “Oh, thank you, thank you! Twenty minutes. Is there anything I can do to help you get ready faster?”
I shake my head, but then I say. “Yes, make me some breakfast. And lots of coffee.”
She nods and we separate to do our own things. After my super fast shower, I pull on the only dress I have, a black snug one (hardly fitting for a pre-Christmas church performance, I know), and brush my hair. There will be no time to pretty it up, but who cares. And the make-up, I can just put it on in the car. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. I’m going to support my friend at church.
Anne has put on a pot of coffee and made scrambled eggs and toast. I grab a huge cup, fill it to the brim with coffee, cream and sugar and shovel the food down fast. Then we head out to Anne’s car, a white Toyota Corolla. As we drive off, I look at my parents’ sizeable beige and blue Victorian house. In reality, it’s way too spacious for me to live in alone, but I just don’t have the heart to sell it. My dad built it with his own hands. The house is looking a little worn down, I notice, and I haven’t even had time to put any Christmas lights up. I’m such a slacker.
But I’m so grateful I have something to live in, even though most of the time I have to forego heating the house properly or getting luxury items like butter for my bread, just so I can keep up with the high payments. I should play the lottery, I tell myself. Winning it would solve all my problems. Feeling suddenly depressed thinking about all my debt, the tears press behind my eyes. I redirect myself quickly, by applying my make-up.
About twenty minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of the Portland Episcopal Church. I don’t really know what Episcopal means, but I’m not really there for the religion anyway. I grumble to myself, thinking that this will be a very boring Sunday morning, but at least I can say that I supported my best friend when she needed me. She’s been there for me through my roughest time, and I’m eternally grateful to have had her love and support after my mom’s sudden death.
Anne parks the car in the small gravel parking lot and we head inside the towering amber brick church. The interior walls are all amber, too, and there are two rows of dark wooden pews on either side of the wide walkway. There are about a dozen and a half people here so far, and they smile as we walk toward them at the front.
“Sit over here, Scarlett,” Anne says, gesturing to the front pew. “I’ll join you after I’m done singing.” She looks lovely in her innocent blue floral dress and her conservative white pumps. Not at all the same girl I was working with last night.
I take a seat on the hard, cold pew, very aware that I don’t fit in here. If any of the people present knew what kind of work I did, I’d die of shame. And I’m scared to death of what I might hear here today. I don’t need a lecture from a pastor or priest or whatever kind of spiritual leader they have here, because I already feel really guilty about my evening job.
A gentleman walks up to me and I look up at him. To my astonishment, I see that it’s Michael Manning from last night. I almost gasp, but I swallow it down and smile instead. Did Anne set this up? I’m furious with her. I look over at her, but she’s busy practicing her song with the choir.
“Is this seat taken?” Mr. Manning asks.
His blue eyes are dark, and I find it difficult to not get lost in them. I desperately hope he doesn’t recognize me from last night, but I doubt he would since I always wear a mask on stage. Plus I wear tons of make-up, so it would be nearly impossible to really make out my true features.
“Kind of,” I manage to say with a half-smile.
He looks amused and his perfectly arched lips lift upward. “How do you mean?” His voice is so deep and sexy.
“Well, my friend over there—” I point to Anne, “—is singing in the choir and she’ll be sitting up on the stage until she’s done, and then she’ll join me after,” I say. My throat is dry and I notice that my hands are sweating.
“Oh,” Michael says. He sits down a couple of feet away from me on the pew. “Well, do you mind if I sit here?” He smiles playfully.
I chuckle. “No, of course not.” Oh my God, he is so sexy. Wait, am I allowed to think that in a church? I feel guilty right away and then I blush.
Michael reaches out his arm and says, “I’m Michael Manning. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I take his hand and we shake. I feel a surge as if from electricity when his bare skin touches my skin. “And I’m Scarlett.” I smile. I have to remind myself not to stare.
Michael retracts his arm and sits back like he owns the church, which he quite possibly might. “Scarlett. Nice name. Do you have a last name?” He cocks his head to the side.
“Hansen,” I say. Wow, he is just so handsome. He’s wearing a navy pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a red tie. His eyes are determined, yet kind, and his dimples are to die for. “Do you come here often?”
“Yes, but not every Sunday. Mostly I come around the Holidays. And usually I come with my mother, but she is not feeling well. You?” Michael says.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on anything else but his kissable lips. “Sometimes,” I fib. Why the hell am I fibbing? I’m going to go to hell for sure for lying in church. “I’m here with my friend today,”
His eyebrows rise. “Yes, you told me.” He sounds like he’s flirting with me.
I smile. “I don’t always have the patience to sit for hours listening to a preacher.” But for you, I’d come every week, I hear my subconscious say. I’m shocked. Really?
Michael laughs and leans in closer. “That’s why I don’t usually come every Sunday either.”
I grin again, and I feel my cheeks cramp up. I must be smiling too much. “So I hope your mother is okay?”
Michael’s face drops ever so slightly, even though he keeps smiling. “She’s actually suffering from terminal cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear.” I didn’t actually expect he’d be so open and now I feel really sorry for him. I follow his lead. “My father is also suffering from cancer,” I say, trying not to get emotional, which is still very hard.
“I’m sorry to hear. It’s an ugly disease.” His eyes gaze off into the distance.
“Yes,” I say, and our conversation has moved into a depressing genre. I shouldn’t have asked him about his mother.
“So what do you do for a living?” he asks.
Nice transition Mr. Manning. “I—” What do I tell him? I can’t tell him the truth, especially not here in the church. The members would bind me and gag me and throw me out in a heartbeat.
He waits patiently.
“I’m in the business of paying off my mountains of student loans, and my parents’ mortgage, and my maxed out credit cards,” I say and grimace. That was way too much information, I tell myself. So not sexy.
“You finished college?” Michael asks.
I’m relieved he asked that question, and not about my debts. “Yes. I majored in Humanities. I hear it’s a useless degree these days. It’s been impossible to find a respectable job anywhere since I graduated.” I laugh at my all too pitiful reality.
“Well, I beg to differ,”” Michael says. “I love the arts and humanities. In fact, I’m a huge supporter of the Portland Museum and I own a small collection of paintings myself.”
I’m amazed. He’s an art collector? Hello Mr. Perfect. “That’s great,” I say.
Many more people have entered the church now and the choir starts singing Silent Night. The organ notes fill the chapel, and
I sit back and enjoy it. More and more people sit down in our pew and Michael inches closer and closer to me. Soon we’re so close that his leg touches mine, and I feel a charge between us again. He doesn’t seem to notice at all.
After the choir is done singing, Anne comes down the stairs and stands in front of me. Michael doesn’t miss a beat and stands up and offers her his seat. I don’t like that he’s leaving. He disappears to the back and Anne sits down next to me.
“Great job singing, Anne.” I smile at her, but the gnawing question in the back of my mind has to be asked. “Did you know Michael was going to be here today?” I whisper to Anne, highly suspicious that she’s set this up, but not nearly as annoyed as I was just a minute ago.
“No, I swear to God, I didn’t know,” she whispers.
I believe her and sit back and try to enjoy the whole hour of the reverend Joy Summerlin preaching damnation to my soul. I truly wish I had made better choices in life. My life hasn’t turned out to be even a tenth of what I had hoped. I feel the guilt creeping back in; I’ve just screwed up my life. Just when I think I can’t take any more preaching, the service ends.
Anne and I get up and make our way to the exit with the slow-moving church-goers. Michael is there speaking with some other people, and I pass him. I don’t think he sees me, and I feel disappointed because I kind of, okay, really wanted to continue our conversation. Oh well, such is my life.
We get outside and it has started snowing. I wrap my all too thin jacket closer to my body and shiver. Almost to the car, I hear “Scarlett!” And I see Michael jogging toward me. My heart starts pounding and I pause as I smile and wait for him to catch up.
“Sorry,” Michael says as he approaches. “I, uh—” he almost sounds nervous. “I wanted to see if you might come with me to a Ballet Gala tomorrow night. My mother usually goes with me, but she, well, she’s bedridden at the moment, as you know.”