Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  Joel felt his face flush. “Oh, I see.”

  “So which is it?”

  “I pled guilty to having sex with a girl.”

  “She past training wheels?” Howard asked. His tie was loose around his neck, and he wasn’t wearing a jacket.

  “She was almost eighteen.”

  “Hey, great. So she was seventeen, and you’re what? Forty-five?”

  “I’m forty-two. I’ll be forty-three in August.”

  Howard leaned forward but didn’t disturb his feet. “What day?”

  “The eighth. August eighth.”

  “Well now, you just sit tight.” He picked up his phone but didn’t dial any numbers. “Sue, listen, Mr. King the pedophile has a birthday in August. Can you get something organized for him, say, a cake and presents? And a piñata—they really make things festive. And wings and beer and party hats. Hell, just shoot the moon. Only the best.” He tossed the phone onto his desk, didn’t hang it up, and Joel soon heard an off-the-hook beeping start in the receiver. “I don’t give a rat’s ass when your birthday is, Mr. King.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m your PO, not your social planner.”

  “I understand.”

  The phone continued to make a racket. Howard left it alone, let it lie bleating on top of a file. He put his hands behind his head so his elbows stuck out from either side. “Hang it up,” he said forcefully.

  “Pardon?”

  “The phone.” Howard drilled the words. “Get off your ass and hang it up.”

  “Are you serious?” Joel asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Joel felt anger and indignation roiling in his abdomen. He felt certain his neck was still red, and his fingers had curled into slack fists. He stayed in his seat, didn’t budge, didn’t speak.

  Howard swung one of his feet onto the floor and unfolded his arms. “You have a hearing problem, Mr. King?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you snap to and put this buzzin’ motherfucker back where it belongs.” He lifted the other leg off his desk.

  Joel took a deep breath, thought about what he should do. “What if I decide I won’t, Mr. Howard, then what?”

  “Then I violate your probation.”

  Joel snorted. “Because I wouldn’t perform your phone chores?”

  “No. Because you had a dirty drug screen or missed an appointment or anything else I choose to put in my report.”

  “I don’t guess I have a choice then, do I?”

  “You can choose between workin’ with me or catchin’ more time.”

  Joel was seething. He wasn’t able to get enough air to his lungs, had to take in rapid slurps through his mouth. “So . . .”

  “So.” Howard gave him a satisfied look.

  Joel stood from his seat, adjusted his pants, went to the edge of Howard’s state-employee desk, picked up the receiver and placed it on the base. He glared at Howard, but the probation officer didn’t flinch, matched him dagger for dagger, scowl for scowl.

  “Nice work,” he said after Joel had returned to his screaming blue chair.

  Joel was silent, his fingers intertwined in his lap, his jaw clenched.

  “Now, just a few more questions.” Up went the feet again.

  “Don’t you have all this in a file or something? Didn’t Virginia send you my history?”

  “I suppose they did, but I’d have to pull the records and read thirty minutes of crap I’d rather just ask you about.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. See the wisdom of my technique?”

  Howard then launched into a tired monologue Joel had trouble following because his head and ears were clotted with temper. Occasionally Howard would ask a question, and Joel would give a terse answer or say “yes” or “no.” He had Joel sign several forms and reminded him the first payment on his fines and court costs was due in forty-five days. “Two hundred and thirty bucks. Don’t be late with it.”

  Joel glanced down the paperwork he’d been given. “Two thirty?” he asked.

  Howard smirked at him. “Two hundred and thirty dollars.”

  “The court in Roanoke said it was two hundred.” Joel held up a sheet of paper. “This schedule says two hundred. Where’d you get two thirty?”

  “That’s a special processing fee, payable to your local PO. Bring it in cash, every month.”

  “You’re just adding an extra thirty. I owe two hundred—that’s what I was ordered to pay, and that’s what everything says. Show me in writing where this additional amount is mentioned, and I’ll pay it.”

  “Unwritten rule.”

  Joel was coming unwound, goaded by frustration and uncut anger and a sense of helplessness. “I’m not going to pay it, and you can violate me or send me to jail or whatever. I don’t care. At least I can get fed there and have a place to sleep. And I’ll report you for extorting money.”

  “I’m sure your word will carry a lot of weight.”

  “Are we through?”

  “We are.”

  Joel jumped up from his chair and spun away from Howard, took a hasty, clumsy stride toward the door.

  “Whoa, Mr. King, one more thing. A story for you. Don’t go anywhere yet.”

  Joel kept his back to Howard, stood as tall as possible and listened to his own erratic breathing.

  “One day this old tomcat’s crossing the railroad tracks. He’s almost across, almost on the other side, when he hears the train coming. Choochoo, clickety-clack. Suddenly, the train’s right there, right on top of him, and the cat’s worried he might not be totally off the rails, so he stops and looks behind him. Guess what happens?” Howard hesitated, waiting for Joel to say something.

  Joel didn’t move and didn’t respond.

  “When he turns and looks around, the train hits him and cuts his head clean off.”

  “Wonderful story, Mr. Howard.”

  “The moral of the fable, my criminal friend, is that you don’t want to lose your head over a little piece of tail.” Howard howled and clapped his hands, and he threw his legs off the table and stomped the ground, went into an all-out display of amusement even though he’d no doubt done the bit thousands of times.

  Everything came to a boil on a Tuesday night, right before suppertime. Joel was now three weeks without a job, and he’d run out of places to apply. Employers from A to Z had a reason for putting him off—they had young girls working there or coming in as customers; they couldn’t allow a convict to handle money; he had no cooking skills; he had no training; he wasn’t a people person; he didn’t have his own tools; he wouldn’t look good wearing the company’s uniform (this from a chubby Pizza Hut assistant manager whose shirttail wouldn’t stay tucked inside his pants). He kept the house neat and the yard mowed, and that was the extent of what he was able to do. His first court installment was soon due, his mother’s prescription bill needed to be paid, Baker had hopes of attending soccer camp and lightning had run in on the microwave oven, completely ruining it. Sophie had a friend take the Peter Max painting to a Jackson Hole gallery, but she got virtually nothing for it, and prior to Joel’s arrival she’d already sold her engagement ring and two Persian rugs.

  Tuesday morning, Joel was washing breakfast dishes when Sa’ad called with unhappy news: Martha wanted a divorce and alimony, and wasn’t in a negotiating mood. On the heels of Sa’ad’s report, a lawyer from Roanoke phoned to discuss Christy’s case. The lawyer represented the church’s insurance company and said he was anxious to defend both Joel and Roanoke First Baptist, although he warned Joel to expect some “discomfort” as the suit progressed. He and Joel made plans to speak again, and Joel printed his new counsel’s name—Brian Roland—and direct-dial number on the cover of the Missoula directory. Then Alice from the temp agency finished the bloodletting, calling to inform Joel he wouldn’t need to show up at Wal-Mart since they’d hired a college kid for the third-shift stocking job. Three calls and nothing but bad news, nothing on the horizon except Kool-Ai
d and tuna fish at lunch. By eleven o’clock he’d fed the chickens, pulled weeds, organized another closet and washed Baker’s sheets. Sophie had taken to addressing him as “Mr. French” or “Alfred” or “Hop Sing,” often with a trace of irritation in the joke.

  Around six, he was resting on his antique bed in the basement when he heard Sophie’s station wagon rattle down the driveway and stop at the front of the house. The drive dissolved straight into the worn, trampled beginnings of the yard without any break or proper transition, brought the vehicle so close to their home that the underpinnings and block walls vibrated until Sophie killed the engine. The Taurus kicked and wheezed before quitting, and a few moments later a pair of rusty, cantankerous hinges screeched in unison as the screen door opened. The sounds were always the same, a pattern of noise and movement immediately above Joel’s head. He waited for the floor to give at the threshold, listened for the little sway his sister’s feet caused in the two-by-eight joists, but the usual step never came. Instead, he heard a shriek and a thud and cursing and another shriek.

  He rushed upstairs and found the living room and kitchen cloudy with smoke. Orange flame was rising in spiked, flickering tongues from a black skillet on the stove top and bouncing against the ceiling. Sophie was flailing at the blaze with a throw rug. Joel snatched a blanket off the couch and joined in with her, the two of them swinging and coughing, the smoke stinging their eyes as they got near the stove.

  They beat the flame down quickly, but the damage was done. The ceiling was charred, a small pan was flipped on its side on the floor, and the kitchen and living room had an acrid, metallic smell from the smoke that would dig into everything and plague the house for days to come.

  Sophie was holding the rug at her side. There was a grimy smudge on her forehead, and she was panting. “Where’s Baker?” she asked.

  “Baker?”

  “Baker. My son. Is he in his room?”

  “I thought he was with you,” Joel said. “Is he outside?” He was bewildered.

  “He’s not in the house?”

  “No.” The frying pan sizzled and popped, then was quiet again.

  “Didn’t you pick him up from the Grahams’?” she asked.

  “No. How would I do that? Or why? I don’t have a car.”

  “Damn, Joel. I left you a note this morning. Kathy was coming by around noon, and you were supposed to take her to work and use her car to pick up Baker. I wondered why the car wasn’t here. I mentioned all this a week ago.”

  “You said I might need to drive him somewhere, but there was never anything definite. That’s the last I heard about it. And I didn’t see a note.”

  “Are you blind?” she asked, pointing and shaking her finger. “It’s right there on the damn refrigerator.”

  “Oh. Well, I just missed it. I mean, yeah, I guess I see it now that I’m looking for it, but it’s stuck up there with a million other things. Plus, I’ve been staying out of the fridge lately. I feel guilty about the food situation, so I try to keep my visits to a minimum. Why didn’t you come downstairs and tell me or leave the note on the table? You know I would’ve been glad to help.”

  “Well, Joel, like always, I was rushed and under the gun and you were in bed sleeping, so I’m sorry I only spoke to you once and left an eye-level note in an obvious place. But how did you not see Kathy? What, did you sleep the entire day away?”

  “You know I stay busy around here. I was up and dressed by seven-thirty, thank you. I walked to the church after I fed the chickens and straightened the house; she probably came while I was gone.”

  “Great—you missed her because you were out for an afternoon stroll. And I was at a stupid seminar, no way for her to get anything but voice mail when she called the office. I promised the Grahams that Baker wouldn’t stay past four, so now they’re probably pissed at me, and I don’t guess Baker’s going to be ready for his friend’s birthday party that begins in fifteen minutes. Damn.” She stomped her foot. “Damn.”

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. Are you—”

  “Sorry,” she interrupted. “Sorry?” She swung the rug and struck him across the chest.

  He jerked back, startled. “Why are you so angry at me? Hitting me with a rug?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why?” he asked.

  “Because you’ve burned up my house, and you’re deadweight who hasn’t earned a penny in almost a month.” She drew back the rug again but didn’t follow through, just kept it cocked behind her.

  “I’m doing the best I can. I’m sorry about the note and Baker—I’ll take the blame for that. And I don’t know how a fire started. I was boiling potatoes and had hot dogs in the skillet on low. Check the dials. It’s not like I’m an idiot. I was trying to cook dinner for you and Baker.”

  “Look at this mess.”

  “Do you want me to go get Baker for you?” he offered. “It’s fortunate in one sense—at least he wasn’t here when the fire broke out. He could’ve been hurt.”

  She dropped the rug. “Shut up, Joel. Just shut up.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sick of you. I’m sick of everything.”

  “Sick of me? Because of an accident? Because of a fire?”

  “Why weren’t you watching the stove?”

  “I was. Well, I wasn’t watching it every second, but what are the chances of boiling potatoes catching fire, or hot dogs on the lowest heat setting?”

  “In this case,” she snapped, “I’d say about a hundred percent.”

  “Perhaps it was the stove, the wiring or something.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Not the mighty preacher’s error. No way. It was the wiring. Or it happened for a reason, right? Something we can’t understand. It happened because you let it happen, Joel.” She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. A tear was squeezing free from the corner of her eye, but there was no letting up in her tone.

  “Things do happen for reasons we can’t understand.” Joel raised his voice.

  “Bullshit. I’m smarter than that, Joel. Hey—I know where you could find a job. Have you checked the galleries and museums? Have you? You know why they’d hire you? Huh? Do you?”

  “No. In fact, I applied at—”

  “Because you guys live and breathe the same shitty ruse. Religion and high art pass off all grades of atrocities by convincing us we’re cretins and fools. We just aren’t smart enough to comprehend things. Well, I’m not buying into that.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “You’re so smug sometimes, Joel. So cocksure.” The anger had turned to disdain. She wasn’t as loud, the words weren’t as caustic. “And look where it’s gotten you.”

  “I made a bad choice.”

  “I’ll say. Just like my philandering husband made a bad choice. There’s no real difference is there? You crap all over your wife, and now you want to say you’re sorry and have everybody forget about it. At least Neal was screwing a girl who was old enough to vote.”

  “I’d say my circumstances are a little different, Sophie. In fact, if you weren’t being such a hard-nosed witch, I might tell you how I’m not that guilty.” Joel’s voice was sharp, a year’s worth of disappointment and spleen breaking its seal. “But let’s not dwell on it. I just wish I’d known how you felt before I got here.”

  “Let me tell you some more about how I feel. I think this Baptist minister thing is a big fat hypocritical scam. I’m surprised you even got a wrist slap for bedding the teenager, Joel. I really am. After all, the way I understand it, we’re pretty much here for your convenience and little else. I mean, women can cook casseroles and fry chicken and bust their asses on bake sales, but you good Baptists won’t let us stray too far. Only fine men like Joel King deserve the Lincoln and the parsonage, the expensive suits. Only fine men like yourself are privileged to stand in the pulpit and thunder about evil and injustice. We need to wear white gloves, spread our legs and keep our mouths shut. That pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?”
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br />   “No. And for your information, we drove a basic, economy-model van.”

  “You are worthless in so many ways.” She said it calmly and thoughtfully, the fury gone.

  He went to the stove and picked up the skillet. The handle was still hot, and it seared his skin when he grabbed it. He raised the skillet as high as he could, then slammed it against the counter, brought it down hard and fast, as if to obliterate the self-pity, the jail sentence, the loss of his wife, the unemployment, the disgrace and the months of indignity. The handle was punishing him, the heat and black cast iron burrowing toward his bones. He lifted the pan again and crashed it into the counter a second time, splintering the Formica and snapping the wood, then collapsed onto his knees and finally let go of the burning metal. There was a red gash running through the center of his palm, a painful streak he felt well into his arm, and he beat the kitchen floor with his fists, wailing and weeping.

  Sophie was frightened at first; she gasped and covered her mouth. She’d never seen Joel anything but steady and balanced, always holding everything in check, always poised.

  Joel stopped pounding the floor, and he and Sophie were quiet, a few feet apart in the aftermath of a kitchen fire. The counter was destroyed where he had struck it. There were potato pieces on the stove and the ground, and several shriveled, heat-split hot dogs were scattered near the sink. A refrigerator magnet had fallen off the door and landed facedown.

  “Joel?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Are you going to say anything?”

  “I’ll pay you for the damage,” he said, his voice dim and spent.

  “Okay.” She went to the sink and soaked a dishrag in cold water. “Here. Put this on your hand.”

  Joel stood up from the floor and looked at her, trying to gauge what she was thinking. He took the wet rag, had to reach out to his sister and pull it from between her thumb and forefinger. “I’ll pay you for it, and I’ll be gone from here soon.” His voice quavered on every word.

  She was about to say something when the phone rang, and she seemed grateful for the distraction. “That’s probably the Grahams. I’ll get it.” She bobbled the receiver before it reached her ear, and once she recognized the caller, her face twitched, a small jerk that showed primarily in her lips. “It’s your friend, the guy with the Cadillac.” She tossed the phone into the seat of a recliner, scooped her purse from the floor and left the blackened kitchen to find her boy and bring him home.