Jane Doe

by Victoria Helen Stone

  She must dress for church like she’s putting on armor, because she looks softer tonight. And younger. She really is just a few years older than Steven, and it makes sense that he stiffens when I call her his stepmother.

  The jewel-green wrap dress she’s wearing shows off her tight figure, and her makeup is more natural, though her mouth gleams with bright-red lipstick. There’s no stiffness to her smile tonight, and I suspect the drink she holds isn’t her first.

  I wait until the gray-haired woman Rhonda is talking to drifts away, and then I approach. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Hepsworth.” She turns to me with a blank smile. “I’m Jane,” I remind her. “Steven’s friend.”

  “Oh, of course. Jane. Thank you.”

  “This is such a beautiful house. Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored.”

  She lifts a shoulder, because she wasn’t the one who invited me, after all. “Glad you could make it. Let me get you a drink.” She raises a hand to one of the circulating caterers and snags a glass of red for me.

  “I’m not sure I should, Mrs. Hepsworth.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, call me Rhonda. We’re the youngest women here.”

  I nod and take the wine. She’s right, of course. It’s her birthday, but these are all Robert Hepsworth’s contemporaries, aside from the few children I’ve seen. Has she been isolated out here by her husband, a beautiful bird in a beautiful cage? It would make sense after the way his first marriage ended. He’s not going to trust his tight young wife to wander the world free and easy.

  “So you’re dating Steven?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I sip my wine carefully, as if I’m not used to drinking.

  She studies me for a moment, offering no praise for her stepson.

  “It’s so hard to find a good, upstanding man these days,” I prompt her.

  “Oh, indeed,” she says, her smile spreading. “So very hard.” She knocks back the rest of her wine and reaches toward another tray passing by. The caterer slows so she can exchange the empty glass for a full one; then Rhonda raises it in a tiny toast. “To the Hepsworth men,” she drawls. “So upstanding.”

  She’s definitely drunk, and apparently not one hundred percent happy with her husband. I use her offer of a toast to gulp half my wine. She does the same.

  “Steven hasn’t brought a girl around in quite a while. You must be pretty special.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure, but . . . but I like to think he—”

  “You’re vulnerable,” she says. “A little lost.”

  “What?”

  She laughs and waves her glass. “Nothing.”

  Well, she’s got Steven’s type pegged. Now I know why he doesn’t seem to like her much. “Mrs. Hepsworth—”

  “Rhonda,” she snaps.

  “Rhonda. Yes, I—”

  “Jane.” Steven says my name from behind me like a command. I’m supposed to snap to attention, and I do.

  Despite the beer in his hand, he glares at the wineglass in mine. “I was just toasting Rhonda’s birthday,” I say quickly.

  His angry gaze bounces between the two of us. “Happy birthday, Rhonda,” he grinds out.

  “Aw, thanks, Steven. So thoughtful.” She tosses back the rest of her wine and hands him the empty glass. “I’d better go check on my husband.”

  “She’s really nice,” I say as soon as she’s gone.

  Steven sets Rhonda’s glass on a table and rounds on me. “I asked you not to drink here.”

  “Rhonda handed me a glass and asked me to drink with her, and I didn’t want to be rude.”

  “You didn’t want to be rude to her, but you’ll be rude to me by drinking?”

  “I hardly had any. See?” I jerk the glass up too quickly and a little red wine sloshes over to land on the front of my white sweater. “Oh no. My sweater!”

  “Now you’re a sloppy drunk. At my dad’s house. Great. Take that off before someone sees you.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I assure him. “I only had a few sips.” I struggle to undo the buttons of the sweater, nervous in the face of his angry disappointment. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to be rude on her birthday, that’s all.”

  Once I have the sweater off, his eyes rake down my dress. “Great. You look like a fat slut, and I can’t even take you home because we just got here.”

  Oh, Jesus, I’m a size ten. This guy really needs to get a grip. “Please don’t say that,” I whisper.

  “I asked you to wear your sweater and not drink. That’s it. Two simple things.”

  “Maybe Rhonda has a sweater I could borrow.”

  “As if you’d fit into hers.”

  “Steven, please don’t be mean.”

  His eyes snap to mine as if he’s heard that before. Meg probably said it a thousand times. “You’re being mean to me,” he growls.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m pleading now, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry. The wine was just an accident. Please don’t be mad. It’s a nice party, and your dad is so sweet, and it’s such a good night.”

  His shoulders soften a little. I’m saying all the right things, begging for forgiveness, complimenting his father, accepting responsibility.

  “It’s November,” he mutters. “Why are you even wearing that dress?”

  “I wore it for you. I thought it was pretty. That’s all.”

  He nods and seems to simmer down. “At least it’s not showing half your ass.”

  I slide a little closer. “We were toasting to you, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Me and Rhonda.” That startles him. He frowns in the direction she went. “We were toasting the Hepsworth men.”

  He presses his lips together in a tight line and glares out at the room. Not what I expected.

  “Was she part of the church? Is that how they met?”

  “Yeah. She started working in the church office when she graduated from community college.” Aw. A traditional May-December boss-and-secretary romance. How sweet and old-fashioned. Steven raises his bottle to his lips, but it’s empty.

  “Let me get you another beer, sweetie,” I murmur. I take his empty and trot off to the kitchen to get my man a beverage. The birthday cake is sitting on the island. I count thirty-five candles. Steven is thirty-two. That means his father married a twenty-three-year-old when Steven was twenty, and she took a position of authority in the house. Steven obviously thinks she’s some sort of grasping bitch, and she thinks he’s an asshole. No reason they can’t both be right.

  I was going to spend the night at Steven’s tonight, but I’ve screwed that up. Damn it. I want to move this relationship along, but he’s already gotten the pleasure of degrading me about my looks and behavior. I can’t be too easy a target or I’ll be boring. It’s a tightrope of misogyny.

  Sex and humiliation are motivators for him, but his father’s approval is the biggest one, and I can use that too. I find the pastor near a huge fireplace, and the fire is roaring. It’s a cool night, but there are too many people packed in here, and he’s sweating.

  “Pastor Hepsworth, I was just getting Steven a beer. Would you like something to drink?”

  His eyes slide over my shoulders, noting the change in wardrobe, but he doesn’t leer. In fact, he offers a kind smile as he swipes a hand over his brow. “What a lovely offer, my dear. I’d love a whiskey soda.”

  “I’ll be right back!”

  I veer in Steven’s direction to deliver the beer and a beaming smile. “I promised your dad a drink, so give me one second, baby.”

  He blinks. “My dad?”

  Hurrying away, I find the makeshift bar at the corner of the dining room and ask for a whiskey soda, heavy on the whiskey. While I wait, I spy Steven making his way over to his father, though he has to stop every few feet to greet various guests.

  He’s all charm again, playing the very important deacon of United in Christ Church. I make it back to the pastor before Steven arrives.

  “I mixed it for you myself,” I say with
a wink.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He sips and his eyebrows rise, but he drinks it quickly, still sweating from the fire.

  “Can I ask you something about your work?” I ask with wide eyes.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you work on your sermons all week? Or do you wait for them to come to you?”

  He puffs up his chest a little and launches into a miniature sermon about being a vessel for the Lord’s word. I hang on every word, letting him know how important he is. I nod and blink up at him with big eyes. He concentrates on each phrase. The words mean something to him. He’s not a fraud—not in that way, anyway.

  “My gosh, it’s all just so intimidating,” I breathe.

  “Nonsense.”

  “You’re so important. The work you do.”

  “If you open your heart to God, he flows through you. I am only a vessel, my dear. Are you coming to tomorrow’s service?”

  “I’ll have to try to find a ride.” I bite my lip and clasp my hands together. The motion pushes my breasts up, and his eyes stray there and he smiles a little before he looks away. “But I love the way you speak, so I’ll try my best to come.”

  He pats my arm. “I’m sure Steven will bring you again.”

  “I hope so, sir. Another drink?” I wrap my hands around the glass and his fingers and ease the tumbler free.

  “You don’t have to . . . ,” he starts, but he lets me take the drink away. I order the same again, and by the time I’ve returned, Steven is waiting with his father.

  The pastor lights up when he spies me walking toward them. “Steven, I hope you’re planning on bringing Miss Jane to church tomorrow.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if—”

  “You can’t deny the word to one so eager to hear it.”

  “Very true,” Steven agrees.

  I smile shyly as I hand over the drink. “Pastor, you’re so kind to me. But I’m not sure if Steven has time to—”

  “Of course I do.” Steven slides his arm around me and tucks me against his side. “Of course I do.”

  His father winks and takes another drink. I snuggle closer to his son. “Now I feel like I have two guardian angels watching over me.”

  “You’ve got a nice girl here, Steven.”

  “She’s a sweetheart,” he says, his voice gruff with pride at the praise.

  I keep my fat slut mouth shut and smile up at him as if all is forgiven. This is his weakness, this love for his father, and I will find a way to crack it wide-open.

  CHAPTER 29

  Steven expected me to spend the night, I’m sure, but it was easy enough to get out of it. I told him I had my period. The end.

  I woke up bright and early today and wore my most flowery dress to church. I’m not a VIP, so I don’t get to sit with Steven in the front row, but I sit closer to the front this time, and I gaze up at Pastor Hepsworth throughout the service. Today he’s speaking about generosity and charity . . . with a little homophobia thrown in, of course. Be kind and generous, but first to United in Christ Church and never to liberal organizations who don’t discriminate against gays.

  Another prejudice I’ll never understand. Sex is apparently for procreation and not pleasure, and that’s why gay sex is wrong, yet none of the men I’ve slept with have ever been in it for the babies. Strange.

  Of course Steven nods along with the lecture, even though oral sodomy is clearly a favorite sport of his. I’m going to have to assume his dad likes it too, based on my own long-term studies of the general population.

  I wonder if Meg started to believe this stuff. I can’t imagine it. Meg had been a bit of a hippie, with love for everyone and anyone. Actually, she was a bit like Jesus Christ that way, accepting of all. I snicker and beam up at Pastor Hepsworth.

  He hasn’t been obviously lecherous with me, but there’s no reason not to cover all my bases. Right now he’s a father figure, and that fills him with a very satisfying pride. His leadership role in my life will make it easy for me to go to him for help. Advice and counseling—that kind of thing. I’ll confess my transgressions to him and see what he has to say.

  Even if he has good intentions, this man is excited by sin. And by younger women. He married a woman less than half his age, after all. Now she’s just a wife, and being a husband at home isn’t nearly as exciting as being a father figure in the office.

  I have no idea if Pastor Hepsworth was kind to Meg or cruel. I don’t care. He tells the members of his flock that women are devilish Jezebels tempting men into sin. He taught his son that. He made Steven into a monster, and despite his son’s cruelty, Pastor Hepsworth is still proud of him.

  Even if I had sympathy, he would deserve none of it. A man who stands up every Sunday to name other people as sinners shouldn’t be susceptible to temptation at all. Live by the sword, die by the sword, my dear.

  As Pastor Hepsworth’s condemnation of godless liberals and socialists gets louder, I breathe faster and lick my lips, letting my mouth part slightly as I pant with excitement at his rousing speech. His eyes lock on me for a moment. I gaze in wonder. That’s all the good pastor wants. A little worship from a young woman.

  When he’s done, I jump to my feet, clapping. I sing along to the final hymns, then hug the women seated on either side of me. It was a beautiful service. Everyone is glowing.

  Instead of hanging back from the front of the crowd, this time I rush over to Rhonda. She’s speaking to a brunette with two small children in tow.

  I crouch down. “Hello! Didn’t I see you at the birthday party last night?” They both nod a little shyly and stay close to their mother’s legs. “I’m Jane.”

  Their mom nudges both of them. “Nice to meet you, Jane,” they say in unison.

  “Did you have fun at the party?”

  The girl smiles and the boy nods. “We got cake,” he says.

  “Oh gosh, birthday cake is the best cake! The pink filling inside was my favorite part.” Now they’re grinning, and the girl excitedly tells the story of how she helped pick out a cake for her mommy’s birthday. I listen, wide-eyed, and nod at every detail.

  What can I say? Kids love me when I’m not being myself. I behave the way they imagine grown-ups should with children because I’m pretending to be an adult who likes kids. I give them what they think they want, same as I do with their parents.

  “They are just adorable,” I say to the mother before she bundles them up to take them outside.

  Once she’s gone, I lower my voice. “Rhonda, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you know Steven’s ex-girlfriend?”

  Her brows rise, eyes brightening at the question. “Well. I . . .”

  “He told me about her,” I offer as assurance. “I know she . . . I mean, I know what happened.”

  “Tragic,” Rhonda murmurs.

  “I’m just worried, you know? I feel like he must still love her. They obviously had very intense feelings for each other.”

  Rhonda laughs. She actually laughs. “Intense is a good way to describe it.”

  “Do you think he still loves her?”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” One corner of her mouth tips up in a tiny smirk, as if this is all very amusing to her. “Poor girl,” she murmurs. I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or Meg.

  “Did you know her well?” I press.

  One of her shoulders lifts. “Not well. My husband counseled her about their arguments, but she and I didn’t spend much time together.”

  Oh, Meg. Going to your boyfriend’s dad for advice about his abuse? What did the good pastor tell her?

  Steven walks toward us, and Rhonda excuses herself. They really don’t like to be in the same room together. He must have gotten drunk and called her a money-grubbing whore at some point. I can’t wait to hear the story.

  I gush to Steven about the church and his father, and once the place starts clearing out a little, I ask if they run the whole thing here in this building
.

  “We do. Dad’s offices are in the back. And, of course, there’s accounting and the communications office, along with the volunteer coordinators.”

  “Can I see it?” I’m practically clapping my hands with excitement.

  “I’m not sure if—”

  But his father is walking over now, eyebrows high in question.

  “Jane wants to know if she can see the offices, but I don’t know if—”

  “Absolutely!” he booms. “Give her the grand tour.”

  “Oh, thank you, Pastor Hepsworth. You’re such an inspiration.” I dart close and give him a quick hug, then immediately pull back and apologize. “I’m so sorry.”

  He’s chuckling, his cheeks still red from the rousing sermon. “Nonsense, my dear. Go enjoy the tour.”

  As we cross the grand hall of the church, I look back to see him smiling proudly at us. I give him a little wave and he waves back.

  “I just can’t believe you grew up like this,” I whisper as we step through double doors into a wide hallway. “You must have felt so safe.”

  “My dad is the best. I really had a perfect childhood.” His soft smile abruptly freezes. “Well, until my mom . . .”

  “But it was good until then?”

  “Yes. It was perfect.” His voice roughens a little with grief.

  Steven has no resiliency, I guess. He didn’t learn about pain and disappointment until he was fifteen. Now every little letdown is a threat to him. Every weakness a sign of looming betrayal. I got a cat, so I need to be slapped down. Another man talked to Meg, so she had to be ground to smithereens. The smallest infraction might mean he’s about to be humiliated and abandoned again.

  Such a delicate flower, our Steven.

  I know he didn’t kill Meg. I know she killed herself. So is it fair that I blame him so thoroughly?

  Well, first of all, life isn’t fair, and Steven has had a hell of a lot more good fortune than Meg or I ever had. He’s mad that his mom stepped off the path of righteousness after fifteen-plus years. My parents never once set foot on it or even tried. And Meg’s father had been an example of moral frailty from the time she was born until the day he walked out on her forever when she was three. Just old enough to feel the loss.