Bikini Carwash (That Business Between Us)

by Pamela Morsi

  “Thanks,” she answered. It was a stupid thing to say, but her brain wasn’t functioning well.

  “I said I was just going to look but...”

  She raked her fingers into his hair and pulled him toward her. It was the only encouragement he needed. His mouth was on her breasts and shards of sexual arousal splintered through her body. She forgot his admonition not to wiggle and she moved atop him in an instinctual rhythm.

  Andi couldn’t tell where his moaning stopped and hers began. A minute later he grasped her around the waist and laid her back on the porch.

  “If we don’t stop, we’re going to do this right here on this porch,” he told her, stating the obvious.

  “Yes, we’ve got to stop,” she agreed, but then added a trailing off, “I guess.”

  “Let’s go to my house,” Pete said. “I’ve got a nice, comfortable bed at my house. Maybe we’ll come to our senses before we get there.”

  Andi nodded eagerly. “Let’s go to your house.”

  13

  SUNDAY MORNING WALT sat in his regular church pew, with Jelly beside him. Andi had been so sound asleep that he hadn’t had the heart to wake her. Now he was very glad he hadn’t.

  “It is your responsibility as head of your family to control your daughter,” Emmet Kurkamer told him emphatically. “This is a shame and an embarrassment for the whole community.”

  “No one needs to be ashamed or embarrassed,” Walt answered him. “My daughter is running a car wash, nothing more.”

  “It seems to me that it is a great deal more,” Emmet insisted.

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No, I haven’t and I won’t,” Emmet told him. “My wife passed by coming from the grocery store and she is beside herself with shock that you’ve allowed this. She’s phoned every woman in the parish and she’s talked incessantly of nothing else since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well,” Walt said to him. “I’d say that as head of your family it’s your responsibility to tell your wife to shut the hell up.”

  The man’s jaw dropped in shock before he stormed away.

  “Pop, I don’t think you’re supposed to say ‘hell’ in church,” Jelly whispered to him.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” he told her. “Church is the one place where mentioning hell is almost a requirement.”

  He shouldn’t have lost his temper with Emmet. Walt knew that. But he was not the first person who’d spoken about the car wash, he was about the tenth. From the moment he and Jelly had parked the truck, he’d been besieged with complaints. He’d tried to answer the first few seriously, but he’d figured out quickly that no one seemed to want answers, they wanted to state their opinion.

  And added to that, an altar boy had handed him a note from the priest, requesting Walt make an appointment to speak with him on a matter of urgency. Walt had no question about the topic to be discussed.

  He sat through the service, trying to force his attention on the liturgy and the sermon. That was why he’d come. To worship God as he always had in the same church where his parents had, the building erected when the town was new by immigrant grandparents like his own. It was a solemn, sacred thing to do. But today, he couldn’t seem to do it. The current brouhaha brought forth unhappy memories from the past, memories steeped in anger and disappointment. As he sat there he recalled it all. Everything that had been said. Everything that had been done. His parts of it and those that had been out of his control. Walt sat as the music played, as the choir sang. Walt sat and he just got mad.

  When the final benediction was said and the procession filed out, Walt stood, ready to do battle. His face must have revealed some of what he felt as several people approached him, but as they neared, they’d turn away, not willing to speak.

  He walked Jelly outside to a bench beneath the shade of the large sycamore in the churchyard.

  “I need you to wait here for me for a few minutes,” he told his daughter. “I’ll try not to be long, but even if I am, you have to wait.”

  “Okay, Pop,” Jelly answered.

  “What are the rules?” he asked her.

  “I don’t talk to strangers and I don’t leave with anybody, not even people that are friends, not anybody. You are coming back for me, so I got to stay put.”

  “Perfect,” he told her, giving her a thumbs-up.

  Walt went back into the church, making his way to the door of the vestry just as the priest, dressed in street clothes, was coming out.

  Father Henryk Blognick was a man of significant age. He had grown up at St. Hyacinth’s and returned as a priest over forty years earlier. With his rotund body and just a fringe of hair along the edges of his bald head he appeared like a fat and jolly Friar Tuck, until looking into his eyes. His sense of moral rightness and his own confidence in his ability to discern that, made him less empathetic and more judgmental. And since the parishioners of St. Hyacinth’s were, by and large, trying mightily to stay on the straight and narrow, the priest’s personal prejudices were rarely brought to light.

  He seemed surprised to see Walt, surprised and annoyed.

  “Wolkowicz,” he said. “I meant for you to call for an appointment. I am due in the rectory almost immediately.”

  Walt was sure he was due there, due to eat lunch.

  “I’m a busy man, Father,” Walt said. “With all the work I do here in the parish, you should know that. Whatever you have to say to me, I’d suggest that you say it now and say it quick.”

  Someone passed unobtrusively through the corridor behind them. The priest lowered his chin and spoke in more whispered tones. “I had hoped to speak to you in a more private setting.”

  “Why?” Walt asked. “Do you think that everybody in this church doesn’t already know my business? Aren’t they the very ones who’ve asked you to stick your nose in it?”

  “I wanted to speak to you about your daughter,” Father Blognick said.

  “My daughter? Which one, Andrea or Angela?”

  “It’s Andrea, of course, who has prompted my concern,” he said.

  “Funny, you’ve never expressed a great deal of concern about my girls before,” Walt said.

  “All the young women of the parish remain in my prayers,” he assured Walt. “And if I see any one of them making a misstep, it is my duty to say so.”

  “And you believe my Andrea is making a misstep?”

  Blognick nodded gravely. “I have reports about this business that she’s opened. It’s very unseemly.”

  Walt widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a car wash,” he stated without equivocation.

  Father Henryk shook his head and made a tutting sound. “Perhaps that’s what she told you,” he suggested.

  “Are you saying my daughter is lying to me?”

  “I don’t think Andi is truly a bad girl,” Father Blognick assured him. “But these young women learn bad ways when they go off to the city.”

  “Oh, I see,” Walt said. “I guess what you’re saying is that I should have kept her home like her sister. Forget how smart and talented and ambitious she is and keep her here in Plainview under my thumb.”

  “Under your thumb is a bit harsh,” the priest said. “I’m aware that she is a grown woman with a mind of her own. But as long as she’s living under your roof...”

  “As long as she’s living under my roof, she’s my business and not anybody else’s, including yours, Father.”

  “I’m your priest. I would be remiss if I didn’t speak up about this...this...”

  “Car wash,” Walt filled in the blank. “It’s a car wash.”

  “Walter, I don’t believe the men of this community are lining up on the street in the simple hope of getting their cars washed.”

  “You think they have other reasons?” Walt asked.

  “I am certain of it.”

  “Well, whatever reason the men might have for lining up,” Walt said. “My daughter’s reason for opening the business was to make a living
washing cars.”

  Blognick’s brow furrowed. “You can’t have seen what is going on down there.”

  “Have you seen it?” Walt asked.

  “No, no, of course not,” the priest answered. “But I have heard. My phone was ringing and ringing yesterday. The community is shocked, truly shocked.”

  “I bet they are,” Walt said. “All those school-yard tattletales are now grown into busybody gossips. And you do nothing but encourage them.”

  “Surely if you saw what they saw...”

  “I was there myself,” Walt said. “Jelly and I were both helping out. And I’ll tell you what I saw. I saw a nice long string of clean cars pulling out of that lot.”

  “But washing cars in such an immodest fashion,” Father Blognick said. “It’s titillating. It appeals to man’s basest nature.”

  “Man’s basest nature doesn’t need much to titillate it. If I’m any judge, the fellows around here stay titillated pretty much all the time.”

  “That may be true,” Father Blognick admitted. “But it’s no excuse for your daughter’s behavior.”

  “I don’t believe a word has been said about my daughter’s behavior at all. It doesn’t seem like it’s her behavior that anyone finds objectionable. It’s how good she looks in a swimsuit.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting that Andrea is doing...anything unmentionable,” Blognick said. “But this is a conservative congregation in a conservative town. So I must caution you to keep an eye on her.”

  “That seems to be the problem,” Walt said. “The whole town can’t seem to take their eyes off of her.”

  “You are taking this far too lightly, Walter,” the priest said. “Your daughter is exposing her body in public for money. She is provoking lust and that is one of the deadly sins.”

  “So is gluttony,” Walt pointed out. “But that hasn’t seemed to keep you from the table.”

  That shot clearly landed. The old priest’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Walter, is there some problem, some issue here, that I don’t know about?”

  “No. Absolutely not,” he answered. “You know every issue in my life and have had more than a bit part in most of my problems.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Rachel.”

  “Rachel?” The priest first appeared puzzled and then incredulous. “Gracious heavens! That was nearly forty years ago. Surely you’re not still harboring a grudge over being denied a youthful fancy?”

  Walt’s jaw tightened, his words were sharp. “She was not a ‘youthful fancy’. She is the love of my life. I have missed her beside me for forty years.”

  Father Blognick gave a dismissive huff. “You were much better off with Ella,” he said. “You two had an exceptional life together.”

  “Ella and I made the best of what we had,” he answered. “A friendship and a mutual respect. That’s not the same as a real marriage, but we took out of it what we could, some comfort and companionship and a couple of kids.”

  “Shame on you for even saying such a thing,” the priest said. “And your wife barely cold in the grave. You should be on your knees every day giving thanks for the wonderful partner you were given, instead of pining over that spark of teenage rebellion that could only have distanced you from God and your church.”

  “I clearly see now that what I would have lost would only have been your narrow-minded opinion and the silence of a few wagging tongues. I’m sure I could have learned to live happily-ever-after without either.”

  Walt turned and strode out of the doorway and down the hall to the vestibule and out the front door. He was still angry, but he also felt amazingly free. He’d broken the bonds that had held him captive too long and he felt suddenly as if the weight of the world had lightened considerably.

  Jelly was still seated under the tree looking at her picture books. He waved her over and she rushed to his side, gushing about a police car that had passed by on the street and speculating, in Law & Order lingo, about the nature of their Sunday morning patrol. Walt was hardly listening.

  As soon as Jelly got into the truck he dragged his cell phone out of his pocket and made a call.

  “Rachel,” he said, as soon as she picked up. “I think it’s time.”

  Pete Guthrie awakened on Sunday morning with a smile on his face. His whole body was relaxed, refreshed and languorously limp. Well, not completely limp. Some of him was not limp at all and he rolled over to point that out to the woman beside him.

  The other half of the bed was merely a tangle of bed sheets. He felt a strange clutch of disappointment in his gut.

  She was gone.

  A flash of something red caught his eye and he got out of bed to retrieve the tiny piece of thong bikini bottom that had somehow made it to the ledge of the windowsill. He picked it up with one finger and eyed it for a long, pleasurable moment as that not so limp area tightened in anticipation.

  She’s got to be in the house, Peterson, he assured himself. Not even Wolkowicz would walk across town wearing nothing but a shirt.

  “Andi!” he called out.

  He walked to the bathroom and tapped on the door. “Andi, are you in there?”

  She wasn’t. And she wasn’t in the hallway or downstairs in the kitchen or even on the patio or the front porch. She was completely gone. He felt a tremendous sense of disappointment. It was strange. The house seemed empty without her. And yet, the house was always empty and she’d only been with him a few hours.

  He began to rationalize her absence. She still lived at home. If her father woke up and she’d never made it home from the job, he’d for sure be worried. And the way gossip flew through this town, she probably couldn’t dare be spotted leaving his house. Still, he wished she’d awakened him. He would have been happy to drive her home. Of course, maybe she knew that if she woke him up they would have just done it again.

  Pete smiled at that thought. Wow was the only descriptive word he could think of.

  Then another word came to mind: hungry. Pete headed into the kitchen, eschewing his usual milk and Mallomars breakfast he decided to make pancakes. He found an aging packet of mix in the cabinet and had almost enough milk, stretching it with a little water. He stirred it all together.

  On the best mornings of his childhood, his mother had always made pancakes. Saturdays or Sundays, just the two of them laughing and joking in the kitchen, was a special time. It was only as a teenager that he realized what these unexplained absences of his father meant. His mother had kept her smile firmly in place and her focus totally on her son. Willing away the question of “why didn’t Daddy come home last night?”

  He poured round circles of batter on the hot griddle and watched the bubbles slowly appear on the top of each pancake.

  He was humming to himself as he thought about Andi. She was smart and funny and beautiful. Uninhibited and enthusiastic in the sack. They fit together so well. How come he hadn’t noticed that in high school?

  “If you had, Peterson, you would have saved yourself a world of grief.”

  Minx had been so...it was not fair to compare, Pete knew that. Everybody had their strengths and weaknesses. Minx had certainly dressed for success, she’d always looked good on his arm. She was sophisticated and witty and charmed everyone she met. But she’d been no great shakes in the sex department. It had all been a negotiation for Minx. Whether it was a smile or a blow job, everything in their relationship had some kind of price.

  He flipped the pancakes.

  There was no sense with Andi that she had been granting him favors. She’d been intent on her own satisfaction. And achieving that involved mutual pleasure. That was what he’d thought that sex was supposed to be. Pete was very glad that he hadn’t been wrong about that.

  Once the pancakes were on a plate and swimming in maple syrup, he carried his breakfast outside on the patio. The sun was already high enough in the sky to wipe out most of the shady spots, but he sat near the edge of the
house, where a nice breeze made for a very pleasant morning.

  Pete had only had two, very good-tasting bites, when he heard his cell phone. He was up like a shot and racing into the house. His expectation was high. It had to be Andi.

  When he grabbed the device off the counter his smile faded. The caller ID indicated Phoebe Johannson, one of his cashier supervisors.

  He snapped it open and held it up to his ear. “Guthrie,” he said.

  The crisis was mild. Phoebe had car trouble, her husband was already on the way to pick her up, but Pete needed to cover for her until she could get to the store.

  Assuring her that it wouldn’t be a problem, Pete knew he needed to get there as quickly as possible. He grabbed his plate of uneaten pancakes from the patio and put it in the sink. He raced upstairs for a quick shower and got dressed.

  At the last minute, just as he was retrieving his keys and his wallet, he spotted the red swimsuit bottom.

  Hey, Peterson, when you find something that somebody lost, it’s a priority to return it to the owner.

  With that thought in mind, he stuffed the small red thong in his pocket. The prospect of returning it to Andi had him whistling as he headed down the front porch steps.

  “Morning, Mrs. Joffee,” he called out to his neighbor.

  The woman was using a garden hose to water her flowers, her face completely obscured by an oversize floppy hat.

  As he drove to the store, his brain kept concocting reasons to detour down Jubal Street. He imagined catching sight of her getting her morning exercise, sweaty from exertion, her running shorts damply clinging to the generous curve of her backside. Or maybe she was just waking. Yesterday had been physically demanding. Maybe she was just getting up, drinking a cup of coffee. He imagined her standing barefoot on her front porch, wearing one of those flimsy, girly nightgowns with that well-satisfied look glowing from her complexion.

  A car horn interrupted his reverie and he realized he was driving too fast. He braked just as he passed St. Hyacinth’s. Perhaps that was where she was, spending the morning at church. Pleading forgiveness for everything wonderful that happened last night.