Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “Let’s go somewhere else. This place is so lame. It’s not even the good mall.”

  “It’s good enough. May I get something for you?”

  “Let’s go to Fiji Island, how about that? They have the best shrimp and lobster sauce and a cool bar with these kick-ass drinks in hurricane glasses.”

  “We need to stay right here. Do you want something or not?”

  “A diet Coke. If that’s not available, bottled water, but only if the label is predominately blue.”

  “Okay.” Joel went to the cashier and ordered a combination plate with an egg roll and two diet Cokes. While the lady behind the counter was piling food onto a stiff, white disposable plate, a girl stopped to visit with Christy. Before she left, she and Christy both looked in Joel’s direction, and he turned and pretended to be studying the packets of sauce and plastic forks next to the cash register.

  “Who was she?” Joel asked when he returned to the table. He sat down opposite Christy.

  “Why don’t you sit over here?” she asked.

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Do you think I’m gross or something?”

  “No, I don’t. Who was your friend?”

  “Jan. We were in high school together. We’re really not friends. I just know her.”

  “Oh.” Joel sipped his drink and spun lo mein noodles onto his fork.

  “I guess you’re, like, really pissed at me, huh?”

  He rested his fork on the side of his plate, left the noodles wound around the prongs. “I’m a little confused. And upset—that would be fair to say.”

  “I don’t really want to talk about where we’ve been, you know? Can’t we just disappear for a while, maybe get a cold case and some quality pot and go to the coast, stay high and mellow. I mean, I know you’re not into partying, and you don’t have to stay fucked up and all. I just want to hang out. I really like you, Joel. And I know it’s probably infatuation and you’re too old and you’ll be limp-dicked and liver-spotted when I’m in my thirties, but why not catch the moment?”

  “There’s no good in it, Christy. None at all. Simple as that.”

  “Shit.” She opened her drink, and the metallic click and carbonated hissing seemed loud, magnified.

  “So why this lawsuit and the exaggerations, the falsehoods? Why are you doing this?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’ll certainly admit my wrongs. And I apologize. Again. I’m truly sorry. I’ve been punished, and I deserve what I got. I’ve lost my job and my wife—my fault. But you’re suing the church for five million bucks. Their insurance won’t cover the whole claim, Christy. They’re a million dollars short, and I’m on the hook for the same million. As I understand it, you could ruin our church, take its assets, property, building funds, everything. I’m not saying you don’t deserve something, not saying that at all. Millions of dollars, though, for what we did?”

  “I have a friend from AA who has this hooked-up house at the lake. She said we could hang there tonight if we wanted to. Let’s just banish the mall and spend time together. We can do whatever you want.”

  “We’re doing it,” Joel replied.

  “If I talk about the legal shit, will you go to the lake with me? To my friend’s house?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No. You’ve got to swear.”

  “I can’t make any promises,” he said.

  “What do you want to know?” She sunk into her chair, deflated herself and pitched her head forward so her hair curtained off most of her face. “I can’t believe you’re, like, forcing me to do this. It’s extremely daunting and thoughtless.”

  “No it’s not. Quit being a brat, Christy.”

  “You realize I really have a thing for you, right? I think you’re so superb.” She poured most of the Coke into a waxy paper cup.

  “I appreciate your telling me. I’m flattered.” Joel had calmed down and recaptured his senses. “But what’s the story, Christy? I’d love to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Why did you do this to me?”

  “Why do you think?” Her features were almost completely obscured by her hair and the tilt of her head.

  “I have no idea. I truly don’t. I’ve assumed for a long while you did it because you were angry with me, because I stopped what we were doing and you felt hurt, or rejected.”

  Christy took hold of the Coke can but left it on the orange Formica. She scrubbed the can back and forth in no particular pattern, the aluminum bottom and tabletop scraping out obnoxious, random noise. She didn’t seem inclined to answer, kept moving the Coke and stayed withdrawn into her chair.

  “Or I thought it was possible you told a friend who told a friend and word got round to your parents, and they were behind the suit. No offense, but you don’t seem like someone who would dig in and pursue a court case and demand that I go to jail. I would’ve thought you’d just shrug and laugh and trot off to the next party.”

  Christy stuck her hair behind her ears, cleared her face. She was still slouched in her chair, but she’d stopped scratching the can all over the table. “Well, I wish it hadn’t gotten so complicated. I was mad when you were mean to me and led me on and then dumped me, but I didn’t see any of this coming. I feel so bad. I want you to know none of this is what I expected.”

  “How could that possibly be true? What did you think was going to happen? At one point, my lawyer’s telling me you said I raped you. Did you say that?”

  “Only for an hour or two.”

  “Only for an hour or two?” The anger caused Joel’s voice to boil. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have.”

  “You know I never did anything close to that. Never. What were you thinking, Christy?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you report me? Did someone find out? I mean, how did this even get started?” Joel had completely neglected his food. The fork was still balanced on the edge of his plate, cocooned in a swirl of noodles.

  “Here’s all I’m gonna say. And after this I’m not sayin’ another word. Right now everybody’s leaning on me, and I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m going to explode and die at any second. When I first got the idea, I never knew how shitty this would be for you, how everything would crash on your head. It was explained to me I could collect some major dollars, and I figured I’d finally be out from under my heinous parents’ reign of terror. I could have my own money without any strings and not have to beg cash from Mom and Dad. That’s why I did it, Joel, okay? The dollars. Are you happy now?”

  “Explained? By whom? The lawyers? What do you mean?”

  Christy inserted an imaginary key into her lips, twisted it and chucked it over her shoulder.

  “But you’ll admit we never had intercourse, right? We never had sex. I just want to hear you say it, say you fabricated almost everything. I would appreciate that small courtesy.” He was trying to sound natural, trying to keep his voice consistent and his eyes from derailing. He inched closer to the table, closer to Christy, and he moved his arms to the side so they wouldn’t block the tape recorder. “You know we never actually had intercourse.” He was pressing some, estimated he had about fifteen minutes remaining on the cassette. He was postured like a proud bird, his arms pulled back and his chest shoved forward, the recorder aimed straight at her.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Would you simply admit it? Tell the truth? Give me a whiff of decency?”

  “I’m through talkin’ about it.”

  “Just tell me,” he pleaded. “Why can’t you give me some tiny satisfaction after everything you’ve done?” His voice was stressed, corroded at the end of every word.

  “Let’s go to the lake. You promised.”

  “Not until you admit to me how you’ve lied about our having sex.”

  The recognition first appeared as a small jolt in her mouth, then swamped her face and limbs. She pushed off the armrests with both h
ands and sprang out of her seat, flew completely across the table. She slapped Joel’s food onto the floor, backhanded the plate before he knew what was happening. “You motherfucker. You motherfucker. You’re trying to get over on me. You’ve got a wire, don’t you? Don’t you, asshole?”

  Joel recoiled when she hurtled across the table, and his hands were raised stick-up style, as if someone were pointing a gun in his direction. “Let me explain.” His Chinese food was strewn along the floor, a trail of noodles, rice, green peas, sauce, chicken and broccoli. A boy in a McDonald’s uniform stopped what he was doing, froze with a scoop of fries in one hand and an empty bag in the other. Every diner, every passerby, every worker, every teenager and every shopkeeper rubbernecked to get a view of the girl climbing over a table, her pants revealing too much flesh when she erupted, her mouth spouting profanity.

  Instead of retreating, Christy crowded Joel more. Her knees were in her chair, and she was balancing herself on one arm. “Where is it, you piece of shit?” She searched his shirt pocket, then grabbed it and ripped one side from the rest of the fabric.

  Joel knew he had to leave. He flashed on his cell, imagined himself returning to jail for another six months because he’d violated his probation. He bounced his chair back and bolted, didn’t say another word. She crawled over the table and followed after him. He kept a lookout for mall security and familiar faces, fell into a hasty walk that quickly became a jog, hurried down a flight of stairs to the ground level, then past a shoe store and a tuxedoed mannequin in the window of a haberdashery. He rounded a corner, Christy right behind him, shouting his name, calling him an asshole. Two old ladies in walking shoes and wind suits interrupted their loop around the mall and watched the commotion, the taller of the two yelling “What’s going on?” when Joel sprinted by them.

  He made it outside and changed speeds, slowed. From behind, Christy took a wild, running swing at him, missed, then seized his shirt collar and yanked.

  “Stop it, Christy. Just stop it.” His voice was raspy, his air blocked by the cloth pulled tight against his windpipe.

  “Give it to me.”

  “Okay. Let me go.”

  “You are such a bastard.” She had moved partially to his side but still had his collar. Her face was an angry, contorted knot.

  “Let me go, please. Let’s keep walking and not make this any worse than it already is.” He took a step and heard the stitches in his shirt stretch and tear.

  “Give it to me right now.”

  He tried to walk but couldn’t shake loose from Christy’s grip without catching her arm. He was afraid to touch her, didn’t want to get into a full-blown fight. “Take your hands off me and I will. Please.”

  Three teenagers passed them, then a young husband and wife, and the man stopped and asked if everything was all right. His wife stood at his side, her arm around his waist, her expression anxious and wide-eyed.

  “Go the fuck on,” Christy snapped. “Keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

  “So you’re okay?” he asked.

  “Super.” She loosened her stranglehold and gave Joel slack.

  “Okay, then.” They glanced back several times as they scurried to their car, and the man took out a cell phone as soon as he got inside.

  “I’m sorry,” Joel said. “Would you let me explain?”

  She released his collar. “Give me the fucking tape. I know you’re trying to trap me. You don’t give it to me right now, I’ll rip your fuckin’ clothes off and raise so much hell every cop in Roanoke will be here. I don’t think you want to get sent to jail again for not stayin’ away from me.”

  Joel unbuttoned his shirt. He’d bought a small recorder and a roll of duct tape at the Wal-Mart in Missoula. The recorder was fastened over his sternum, held in place by two silver bands of tape ringing his trunk. “There you go. Could we keep moving? The gentleman who just tried to help is calling the police.” Joel pointed at the man and his wife. He could see the man through the car window, holding the phone in one hand and waving the other while he reported what he’d witnessed.

  The machine was still running, two plastic wheels rolling the last moments of tape from one spindle to another, the play and record buttons engaged, pressed even with the side of the recorder. Christy grabbed it and ripped it from the silver strips. “I can’t believe you’d do such an evil thing.”

  “I don’t feel bad about it. I was trying to protect myself and the church from what you’ve done. And I don’t know why you’re having such a fit— there’s nothing damaging to you on the tape.”

  “You were trying to trick me,” she said.

  “You’re right, I was. But you’ve been tricking a few people yourself, Christy.”

  “No I haven’t.” Once the device was in her hand, her wrath seemed to turn to disappointment. Her shoulders sagged, and she hesitated when Joel began a purposeful walk to his car. “Joel?” She took a step toward the parking lot but didn’t go after him. “Joel? Shit. Are you just going to, like, abandon me here after treating me so rudely?”

  He was standing at the edge of the curb, where the cement turned to asphalt, waiting for a line of cars to pass. He noticed a cigarette butt and a wad of pink gum in the gutter, and he started speaking before he turned around to face Christy. “I’m sorry to have upset you. I hope you’ll give some thought to what you’re about to do. Lying is wrong. Destroying a church is wrong. Hurting innocent people for a few dollars is downright shameful. Try to be fair tomorrow.”

  She took a few halting steps closer, seemed uncertain, stranded between ire and sorrow. “Are you really leaving? All you wanted was to talk about the stupid church and court junk? Why can’t you spend time with me?”

  The traffic had passed and the route was clear. Joel hitched his trousers and headed for the Neon. He considered saying goodbye but decided against it.

  “Joel, come back. Joel . . .”

  He could tell she was moving by the sound of her voice, getting nearer, but he didn’t speak, had nothing else to say. His shirt was unbuttoned, the dead summer air hot against his belly. The two silver bands of tape were still stuck to him, torn in the middle where Christy had wrenched out the tape recorder. He felt oddly composed, his mind settled, his thoughts honed, floating through the kind of stale tranquillity that comes on the coattails of a pure debacle, fortified by the feeling that nothing worse could happen, like a farmer looking at a crop decimated by freakish hail, or a family standing in their yard, watching the last wisps of smoke as the firemen reel in their hoses and depart what was once a priceless home.

  “Please don’t leave.”

  He arrived at his car, unlocked the door and started the engine. Christy was three spaces away, stationary for the moment, her expression a jumble of emotions, the black recorder still in her hand. Joel rolled down the window. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to think about the horrible damage you can do. There’s a lot more to this than simply collecting a check and getting your own apartment.”

  She stayed where she was, and the two of them considered each other. A woman and her daughter strolled by, the girl carrying a shopping bag and discussing shoes and skirts with her mother. Joel was sweating, had grown damp around his hairline and sideburns and in the center of his back. He finally blinked several times and looked away, put his foot on the brake and shifted the car into reverse.

  “Don’t you ever call me again, Joel. You prick. Next time you want something from me, you can call my fuckin’ lawyer.”

  He eased the Neon out of the parking space and cut the wheel.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. Nothing. Talk to my fucking lawyer. From now on, that’s the magic phrase where you’re concerned—you can talk to my fucking lawyer. And I’m going to report you to the police, tell them you’re stalking me and how you’ve violated the court stuff about keepin’ away from me.”

  “Do whatever you have to do, Christy. I just hope you can live with yourself. I hope—” He slammed the brake p
edal, stopped the car abruptly. He felt as if his bowels and kidneys and ribs had been pulverized, and nausea blitzed through his stomach and stopped at the top of his throat. He tasted an acidic, fetid gush on the back of his tongue and swallowed several times to keep the puke from spreading any farther. The sweating worsened, causing his hair to stick to his forehead and his underarms to leak. “What did you say?” The vomit was churning, barely in check. His throat burned, his guts ached, his head was spinning.

  “I said I’m going to call the cops and have you sent to jail.”

  “Before that. What did you say before that?” Everything above his chest was now—suddenly—out the window, hanging over the door, but he rolled his eyes so he could see her. The phrase was whipping around his skull: my fucking lawyer . . . my fucking lawyer . . . my fucking lawyer . . . my fucking lawyer. Right behind it came the other wicked cue: “. . . it was explained to me I could collect some major dollars . . . explained to me . . . explained to me . . .” The fragments did Roller Derby circuits that followed the banked contours of his head, faster and faster, louder and louder, until he was positive the whole orbiting train of words was going to bust out of him.

  “Before . . . what?” She moved closer. “You okay, Joel? You look ill or something.”

  “What did you say about a lawyer?” Jeez, he was dizzy.

  “I said you could talk to my lawyer instead of me.” She was cooling again, winding down, her moods quicksilver crazy. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

  “You said ‘talk to my effing lawyer,’ didn’t you?” A wave hit his middle, a ferocious push, and the explosion ran into his esophagus, flushing everything ahead of it. The vomit broke its bonds, overwhelmed him, and liquid stench flooded his mouth and trickled from his nose. Some of the awful heave splattered the parking lot, and some dripped down the bright green side of the car.

  “Oh my God, what happened? I didn’t mean to make you barf.” Christy started creeping closer but changed her mind, walked on the balls of her feet and pinched her nose shut before coming to a halt a few yards away from the Neon. “It’s not, like, spreading or something? I can’t catch some disease from you, can I?”