She washed her face and back as best she could, but could not remove the urine from her hair. He watched her silently as she dressed.
“We're even,” she finally said.
“Honey, that was just the first installment. I'm gonna fuck you every day and you're going to make me a rich preacher man.” He was laughing at her. “Get that pretty little ass of yours out of here, but bring it back tomorrow at one o'clock. If you're not here, I'll go to the police."
She drove carefully, aware of the numbness of her reflexes. She stopped at the grocery store, bought a six-pack of beer, and consumed one bottle quickly. They had the magazine. She did not buy it. She drank a second beer as she slowly drove home.
* * * *
From his study window Tim saw her car approaching. It was after two o'clock. He met her as she crawled out of the Cavalier. The expression on her face was the one he feared. He folded her in his arms. He felt her warmth. He felt her tremble. He smelled the beer. He held her and stroked her hair. It was sticky and smelled of urine. He saw Bobby approaching and shook his head. Bobby retreated.
“I was so worried about you, Sandy. I won't turn my back on you now. We'll work this thing out together. Was it AIDS?"
She shook her head, still resting on his shoulder. “No. All the tests were negative. She wants me to keep taking the antibiotics for a few days, but other than a little infection I'm healthy."
“Then what's wrong, Sandy? You look so depressed. You've been crying—and drinking."
She pushed herself away and looked at him for a moment, searching his eyes. “I've made a decision, Tim. You're right about me. Your life is not exciting enough for me. All I actually want is your money. I do thank you for looking after me—for letting me hang with you for a few days. You said you'd give me the Cavalier, the clothes I wanted and $50,000. Could you give it to me in cash?"
This was definitely not what Tim wanted. He knew that now. “Sandy, I was off base last night. I'm sorry. Let's think about this. There's no hurry."
“I act on impulse, Tim. You know that. I've decided to leave first thing in the morning."
The more he pleaded, the more determined she seemed to become. Reluctantly he drove into Dot to cash a check. She took a shower and scrubbed her hair savagely, but did not feel clean when she finished. She went to the library. Tears welled up in her eyes. She picked up Middlemarch, the book she had decided to read next and held it lovingly to her chest. She thought of stealing it, but instead sighed and returned it to its proper place in her ... his ... library.
She went outside and wandered to the bank of the larger pond to the left of the house. Bobby had mowed earlier and the grass smelled wonderful. She sat on the bank and gazed at the gently rippling water. I meant to try fishing, she thought. The tears came.
Bobby approached silently and squatted down beside her. He did not speak for a long time. He wanted so much to hold her tenderly, as he had seen Tim hold her earlier. Somehow, he felt he was losing her. How can you lose something you never had? he asked himself.
“Talk help,” he finally grunted.
She looked at him through her tears. “Can I trust you, Bobby?” she asked, but she didn't wait for his answer. She knew she could trust him. “Bobby, I've lived a rough life. I'm not proud of many of the things I have done in the past. I am sure there are warrants for my arrest for robberies and other things. I thought I could put it behind me. Tim knows. I met the preacher today. He was one of the people we robbed years ago. He recognized me. He's blackmailing me. I'm leaving in the morning. I'm not going to mess up Tim's life. I will miss you. I will miss you both.” She gently touched his thigh.
“Bobby kill preacher.” He rose and started walking away.
“No!” she screamed after him, jumping to her feet.
“Kill many men Nam. One more won't matter."
“It matters to me, Bobby. It matters to me. Don't do it. Please. If you want to help me, don't do it."
“You sure?"
“I'm sure.” She hugged him.
The big man melted, but did not let her see his tears.
* * * *
Tim watched TV after dinner until he fell asleep about 3:00 a.m. Sandra packed and finished off the six-pack. When he awoke, at first light, she was gone.
* * * *
Beside the M-1, the closest thing to a friend Bobby had was a prostitute he visited every Saturday morning. He did not think the fact that she was black would matter. It didn't. Preacher Baxter quickly agreed to the woman's offer of exotic sex, and so it was that on Thursday morning, Bobby Elliott crashed through the door of the preacher's study and took six quick photographs of the surprised and naked preacher as he lay between the legs of the black woman. He snatched the preacher up and slammed his big right fist into Baxter's stomach, followed by repeated hard thrusts of his knee into the terrified man's groin. Baxter rolled on the floor clutching his testicles, but Bobby stopped him with a giant foot firmly placed on the holy man's neck. “You be gone Friday morning,” Bobby instructed.
As they walked to Bobby's truck, the woman rejected the money he offered. “Honey, I wuz doin’ God's work this mornin'."
* * * *
People in Dot didn't know what to make of the short letter Deacon Beverage found slipped under his door Thursday night.
“My Dear Friends,” the letter began. “God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. I thank you for your welcome, but I fear I made a grave mistake in coming to the Dot Baptist Church. I wish you well.” It was signed, “Rev. John Baxter."
Chapter Seven
Sandra had not slept. Having made the decision, she could think only of leaving and without any good-byes to Tim. Three times she checked on him in the den. Finally, on the third try, he seemed at last to be asleep.
She arrived in Charlotte long before the sun came up and realized she had no destination in mind. She parked in the Wal-Mart lot under a lamp post, made sure all doors were locked, left the motor running for she needed the heat on this October morning, reclined the Cavalier seat and tried to think. She awoke when the sun's rays, combined with the car's heater, made the Cavalier uncomfortably warm. The clock on the dashboard indicated the time was 9:45 a.m.
I have no idea where I want to go, she thought. Why not just stay in Charlotte for a while? She remembered seeing a small motel a few miles back towards Dot and made that her destination.
The large matronly clerk eyed her suspiciously. She required Sandra to go to the car and copy down the license tag number for the registration form. Sandra asked for weekly rates, explaining that she would be in Charlotte on business for an as yet undetermined number of days. She moved all of her luggage into the assigned corner room and left most of the money Tim had given her where she had previously hidden it under the dashboard of the Cavalier. She ate breakfast at the motel coffee shop and returned to her room for a long nap. That afternoon, and all day Friday, she drove around the city, looking for she knew not what, occasionally pulling into a parking lot and browsing through various retail businesses for no conscious reason.
Late on Friday afternoon, she found herself in a Barnes and Noble bookstore. The number of books filling the multitude of shelves amazed her. She spent little time with the paperback editions, but read the titles of scores of hardcover books, holding them in her hands with reverence. She came across a copy of Middlemarch and carried it with her for nearly an hour before changing her mind and replacing it carefully in the exact spot where she had found it.
She began to feel a bit hungry and glanced at the front plate glass window. It was dark outside already. She moved towards the exit door, but noticed a magazine section previously overlooked. She thought she would come back tomorrow, but the title, Living Life, caught her attention. She picked it up and went directly to the checkout counter.
“You're a book-lover, aren't you?” the bony young clerk said as he rang up the sale. “I've been watching you."
“I guess I am,” she replied, handing
him a twenty.
“We have a job opening if you are interested."
“No thank you,” she replied and then caught herself. She didn't need money, but she did need some way to occupy her time. Would she like selling books? “Out of curiosity, what is the position that is open?"
“You're hired,” he joked as he counted out her change and inserted the magazine into an imprinted plastic bag.
“What? I didn't..."
“Just kidding,” he said. “The first question most people ask is ‘how much does the job pay?’ We need some help in our check-in area. You would be receiving books from the main warehouse, checking them off the requisition form, updating the database and shelving them appropriately. Of course, you would also be responsible for the inevitable returns that have to be made on a timely basis."
“Maybe I'll think about it."
“Would you like to fill out an application while you're here?"
“I don't think so, but I will give it some thought."
She began reading the article from the beginning while eating dinner at the motel coffee shop. She continued when back in her room. She read slowly. She always read slowly but not of necessity. She found that reading fiction rapidly robbed her of the story's color, and reading non-fiction quickly caused her to miss key points.
She read the article again Saturday morning. It was full of self-tests and exercises. She tried to answer the questions and do the exercises in her head, but when the article referred back to the tests or exercises, she couldn't remember her answers. That afternoon and evening she went back over the article, writing down the answers on motel stationery. She analyzed the results, refined her work, and analyzed again. She tried to make sense of the results but finally gave up, disappointed. Either the article is useless, my test answers and exercises are faulty, or I am just too dense to understand, she concluded.
Sunday morning she took the test again, worked through the exercises and carefully analyzed the results. She wrote on a separate sheet of paper what the article said was her lifetime profile and what her lifetime goals should be. Under profile she listed:
+ Intelligent (yeah sure)
+ Well educated (no way)
+ Industrious (maybe)
+ Not goal oriented (on the money)
+ Lonely (Oh?)
+ Lacking self-confidence (???)
+ Unmotivated (How do you fix that?)
+ Sexually unfulfilled (!!!!)
+ Loner (Is that why I am supposed to be lonely?)
+ Greatest fear—loneliness (Come on now.)
+ Greatest desire—emotional and financial security (Financial yes, emotional?)
+ Greatest need—to love and be loved by someone (Have I ever been loved? Have I ever loved anyone? What is love?)
Under Goals, using the article's guidelines, she wrote:
+ Do things that give you a sense of pride.
+ Allow yourself to care about the needs of others.
+ Be aware of your opportunities.
That was it. Of course, the magazine goes into detail about how to accomplish these three goals, but it just doesn't make much sense to me, she thought. She spent the remainder of the morning trying to list things she had done, or might do, of which she was, or could be, proud. Was there anyone in her life about whom she cared? What opportunities had she overlooked and what are available to her now? She thought carefully about the bookstore job offer, but she wrote down simply, “Do something with books in addition to reading them."
She ate lunch in the coffee shop and became aware of a middle-aged man eyeing her. Salesman, she thought. She smiled at him. He smiled back. She unfastened the top three buttons of her blouse, dropped her napkin on the floor and leaned over to pick it up. She paused long enough for him to get a good look at her breasts. He immediately came and sat at her table without asking permission. “I've got all afternoon with nothing to do and a hundred dollar bill to do it with,” he said, smiling broadly.
She feigned indignation and asserted that she was not “that kind of woman.” He left quietly, like a chastised puppy with tail between its legs.
I've still got it, she thought, and grinned wickedly as she watched him walk away.
Almost had me one, thought Detective Thomas of the Charlotte Vice Squad as he paid the cashier for his meal.
* * * *
She let her hand rest lightly on his scrotum as they lay naked, side by side, on their backs. They had done this every Saturday morning for many years. The sex was good. It always was. That, plus the fact he had no other opportunities, was why he was willing to pay for the privilege.
“Bobby Elliott,” she said softly. “When are you going to make an honest woman out of me?"
“I wish you meant that, Adele."
She sat up abruptly, turned towards him and lifted her breasts with the palms of her hands. “Look at these things,” she demanded. “They are beginning to sag. Look at the wrinkles in my face. Look at the fat accumulating on my belly and hips. I can't make a living as a hooker much longer."
He smiled as warmly as he knew how. “Look good Bobby."
“Cut out the Uncle Tom talk. You know I can't stand that. Bobby, I'm serious. It's time, and you are my first choice."
“Why?” he asked. “You know I can't support you in the style to which you have become accustomed."
“I have some money saved up. We can make out okay."
Bobby thought that it would have been nice if she had said she loved him, but he knew she wouldn't lie about that. He didn't love her either, but they liked each other a lot.
She went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Bobby followed. He looked forward to their weekly bathing ritual. He enjoyed running his hands over her soapy body. He liked the sensation of her soapy hands on his body.
“Mr. Dollar is staying in Dot it looks like,” he said as he pressed hard against her back and squeezed her large breasts. “He's paying me a decent salary. I won't have to steal from him like I did from Mr. Harlow. He wants me and my brother to fix the place up nice. Guess you should be in on that if you're going to be my wife. When you want to do it?"
“Halloween,” she said, turning to press her breasts against his large brown chest.
“Sounds right,” he replied. “I won't even have to buy a mask."
“Damn you, Bobby Elliott. I won't put up with anybody saying my husband is ugly and I won't put up with you saying it anymore either.” She pressed her mouth to his and thrust her tongue inside.
Bobby trembled with the new sensation. He often imagined what it would be like, but never thought he would experience it. As a professional, she insisted on one hard and fast rule—no kissing on the lips.
Bobby dressed, reluctantly kissed Adele goodbye, opened the motel room door, then shut it quickly and quietly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Adele asked, trying to see what he was looking at through the window curtain.
“Mrs. Dollar. She must be staying in the next room."
Adele could see a tall skinny white woman getting into a red car. “You ashamed of me?” she demanded.
“No,” he replied taking her into his arms. “She left her husband Thursday. I didn't want to embarrass her."
“After what I did for her?"
“I didn't know it at the time, but she had already left."
“Good riddance, anyway.” Seeing Bobby's puzzled look, she added, “The preacher I mean."
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed.
* * * *
Tim lurched forward in the recliner. It was not unusual for a nightmare to awaken him but this nightmare was different. There was nobody in the bed this time, not his ex-wife and not Sandra. He was alone—alone again. He checked the circular driveway. Her car was not there. He looked in the bedroom. The bed was empty and her clothes were gone. Although he knew better he hoped to find her in the kitchen, but she was not there. He washed the previous night's dishes while the coffee perked, then went through his morning routine, s
kipping breakfast.
Not totally unsuccessfully, he had tried for three days to lose himself in paperwork, but the ghost of Sandra Dollar pushed itself, unbidden, into his consciousness far too often.
Sunday morning Tim woke up at four and tried for an hour to go back to sleep before giving up. After his morning ritual, he rode the golf cart to the highway to retrieve his copy of the Charlotte Observer. He tried to read it in his study, as had become his custom since Sandra had gotten the subscription started, but he could not concentrate. He planned to spend the day learning to surf the net, but he was too restless. He decided to drive into Dot to fill the Mustang with gas.
He was surprised to find the Dot Super Save closed. A sun-faded note on the door informed him that the station opened on Sundays at 1:00 p.m. Tim guessed that all businesses in Dot probably closed on Sunday mornings, either because of blue laws or just out of respect for the normal church hours. He thought of how long it had been since he attended a church service, and of the two prayers he had uttered for Sandra.
A pickup truck passed and the driver waved. That was Bobby, he thought. He must be going to church. I'm not dressed right, but what the hell, uh, heck.
Bobby was already inside when Tim arrived. The back rows were full. Bobby was sitting on the far left, as close to the back as he could get. Tim noted with relief that a few of the men present, unlike Bobby, were also dressed casually. He slipped into the pew beside the big man.
The choir, composed of eight women and four men dressed in black robes with gold stoles, made its entrance. Tim wished he had brought earplugs, remembering the beautiful sounds from his college choir and expecting the opposite from this group. The thought vanished when the small ensemble sang without accompaniment the call to worship, Holy, Holy, Holy. “They're pretty good,” Tim whispered to Bobby, who only nodded in reply.
Two men wearing dark suits and wine colored ties entered and sat stiffly in the pulpit chairs. One of them prayed after the choir sang the call to worship and then everybody sang a hymn with which Tim was not familiar.
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 9
