by Debra Kent
I yanked the door open, ready to accept my Friendship Loaf. It wasn’t Lynette, it was Diana, wearing a red leather cowboy hat, red leather miniskirt, and a fringed red leather halter top. The only misstep in her ensemble was a canvas tote bag, the kind you get for making a fifty-dollar donation to public radio. “Well, howdy!”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing up here like this,” I blurted out.
Diana’s eyes widened. “What? What did I do?”
“You know exactly what you did, Diana. Don’t you dare try to bullshit me.”
“Hey,” she said, raising her hands as if in surrender. “You’ve got the wrong guy. Whatever I did to you in the past, I’ve made my amends. I’m a good girl now. You know that.”
“Really? Then how did Roger get his hands on pictures of us in the Econolodge? Pictures he intends to use to win full custody of my son!”
Diana reeled back. “Valerie. Honest to God, I have no idea. Are you sure he has pictures? How do you know? Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I’m the one who’s naked in those pictures.”
“No kidding, Diana. And I was sitting next to you. On the bed. But what do you have at stake, really? You don’t have kids. You don’t have a husband. You’ve already wrecked your career.” Diana looked injured, and I knew then that she had nothing to do with the pictures. “Roger said they came in over the transom. Like a gift from God, he said.”
“We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” she said, marching into the house. “Let me call Omar. I’ll find out who’s behind this.”
“Omar doesn’t know,” I told her. “And Roger’s not telling.”
“But I bet Roger’s lawyer knows,” Diana said excitedly, tossing her hat and coat onto the sofa and laying her tote bag gingerly on the dining room table. “And I bet I can get him to tell me.”
“You know Richard Sloan?”
“I sure do.” Diana had pulled the phone book out of the kitchen drawer and was running her finger down a column of numbers. “I know Sloan very well. And, baby, he owes me. Big time. The least he can do is tell me where he got the pictures.” She punched in the number and looked at me, grinning.
“That can’t be ethical, can it?” I wondered what was in the bag. It didn’t smell like food. Not that I had an appetite.
“Ethical, shmethical.” Diana snorted. “He’ll tell me.” She stopped.
“Mr. Sloan, please.” Diana tapped her fingers restlessly on the kitchen counter. I tried to sneak a peek at her bag but she pulled it away before I could reach it.
“Richie? How are you, sweetheart?” she began, grinning at me. “Fine, wonderful. Loving life, living right, one day at a time.” She twisted her hair girlishly. “Listen, Richie, I’ve got a favor to ask. You know those pictures? Yes, those are the ones. Uh-uh. Thanks. Yeah, I’ve been working out. Look, darling, I’m not asking you to burn those pictures—though I’d be forever in your debt if you would. I’d just like to know where you got them…. Don’t make me beg, baby…. Uh-uh…. I see…. You’re a gem. Thanks, Richie. Love to Jazzie.” She hung up the phone and stared at me. “Oh. Val. You’re going to love this.”
“What, Diana? Just tell me. Where did Roger get those pictures?” My heart stopped. “Who sent them?”
“Your old spiritual advisor,” Diana said. “Reverend Lee.”
“Very funny,” I said, certain she was joking. “No, really. Who sent Roger the pictures?”
Diana plucked a red grape off the bunch on the counter and popped it in her mouth. “I told you. His Holiness. The good pastor. Reverend Lee.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Why would I make that up?” She popped another grape into her mouth. “So tell me. What’s a nice little pastor doing in an Econolodge, snapping pictures of you and me in bed?”
“We weren’t in bed, Diana.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Why would he follow you to the motel? Did he have the hots for you? Come on, Val, put on your little thinking cap and figure it out.”
So I thought about it. And I had to conclude that no, absolutely not, Reverend Lee had never been attracted to me. See, I pride myself on my finely tuned pheromone detector. I can usually tell when I’ve perked a chemical reaction, and Reverend Lee never tripped my radar, much as I might have wanted him to. I was grateful for any man’s attention, and when Reverend Lee took my hand in his to pray, the warmth was as seductive as a stare. But back then I was happy to have my dentist’s fat fingers in my mouth. As I said, I was grateful for any man’s attention.
“Not possible,” I said finally.
“Richie Sloan wouldn’t lie to me.” She handed me the phone. “Call the good Rev and find out what’s going on.”
I stared at the phone. I was paralyzed.
“Fine,” Diana said impatiently. “Then I’ll call.” She grabbed the phone book. “Which church?”
“First United Methodist. On East Lattimer.”
I watched Diana punch in the numbers. “It’s ringing,” she said. Then she handed me the phone. “You talk to him.”
I picked it up just as Lila the secretary answered. “First United,” she sang. “How can I help you?”
“Uh, er, is Reverend Lee there?” I stammered.
“May I tell him who’s calling?” the secretary chirped.
“It’s Valerie. Valerie Ryan.”
“Sure, Miss Ryan. Hold on just a moment.”
I watched Diana pop another grape into her wide mouth and I waited. How would I start? What would I say? What if Sloan was lying? I had to proceed with caution, couldn’t just accuse him outright, couldn’t assume anything.
“Valerie!” Reverend Lee’s voice was bright, unsuspecting. “Long time, no see! How are you?”
How was I? Happy to be divorced from Roger, petrified that I might lose my son, exhilarated by a new affair, miserable that Roger and his girlfriend remain fixtures in my life, sickened by the possibility that this new judge might reverse our divorce settlement. “I’m fine,” I told him.
“Wonderful!” he responded. “That’s wonderful.”
“No. That’s a lie. I’m not fine. I’m quite upset, to be honest. Upset and confused.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he said, in that soothing pastorial voice of his.
“Yes.”
“Shall we set up an appointment, then?” The man didn’t have a clue.
“Actually, I was hoping we could talk now.” I felt my adrenaline surge.
“I’ve got a few minutes. Shoot.”
I inhaled deeply. Diana squeezed my arm and mouthed, “You can do this.”
“Reverend Lee, you know that Roger and I are divorced, and I have primary custodial rights. Well, Roger is now contesting those rights. He wants full custody. And he’s doing everything in his power to get it. He’s claiming I’m gay. And he apparently has pictures of me in a hotel room, with someone who happens to be lesbian, and I’m afraid those pictures have put me in a compromising position, if you know what I mean.” I waited for a reaction.
“Oh, Valerie, I’m sorry.” That was empathy, not an apology. He really had no idea what I was about to say.
“I tried to find out where the pictures came from.”
“Yes … ?”
“And apparently they came from you?”
Silence. Then, finally, “Say that again?”
“I said, Reverend Lee, the pictures came from you. You sent those pictures to my ex-husband.”
“Valerie, I realize that you’ve been under enormous stress, what with the divorce and all. And sometimes when we’re under that kind of stress, we say things we can’t possibly mean. Things that don’t make sense.”
I didn’t think he was lying. I honestly believed he was as confounded as he appeared to be, as I was. I began to wonder if Richard Sloan had lied to Diana. I looked at her. Her eyes lit up. She frantically pulled a pad and pen out of my junk drawer and scribbled, Is Rev married?
I nodded.
“Reverend Lee, I believe you when you say you had nothing to do with those pictures, I really do. But I’ve got to ask this: Do you think your wife might have had anything to do with this?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. “Reverend?” I prodded.
“Maybe,” he said heavily. I flashed Diana a thumbsup.
“Do you mind if I talk with her?” I said.
“We’re separated. Again. I’m not sure I even know where she is.”
“Reverend Lee, can you tell me why your wife would have followed me to a motel room? Please?”
The reverend brought his mouth closer to the phone and whispered, “I can’t talk about this now. Not here. Can we meet somewhere?”
He told me he had to prepare for a board meeting tonight and wouldn’t be available until tomorrow. I arranged to meet him at Pony’s, 11 A.M.
When I got off the phone I was desperate to do something, anything, to feel like I was in control of my life. I wanted to go online, search for Michelle Lee. Maybe I could find an e-mail address, a phone number, a police record, who knows?
“Forget it,” Diana said. “Don’t waste your time. You’ll wind up with seventeen thousand sites about Knot’s Landing.” She reached for her tote bag. “Here. I brought something for us to do.”
I froze.
She saw the look on my face. “Don’t worry, silly billy. It’s nothing like that. Here. Come check this out.”
I watched as Diana pulled out the following objects from her bag: a large white pillar candle, a bunch of dried herbs tied with raffia, a box of red-tipped matches, and a heavy crucifix. “What’s all this?” I asked.
Diana smiled at me. “It’s everything you need for a home exorcism. Everything but the priest. But I’ve been assured that this do-it-yourself kit works just as well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about evil, baby. Malevolent forces. Dark spirits.” She struck a match against the sole of her boot and lit the white candle. “I’m talking about Roger.”
“You have to be kidding. Now you’re into wicca?”
Diana turned off the fluorescent kitchen light. “Not really. But I really do believe that old lovers and husbands leave behind bad mojo. You know, like an odor.” She opened a window in the dining room, letting in the balmy air. “So I went online, looked up purification rituals. This is sort of a mishmash of different rituals, but I think it should work.”
“Jeez.”
“Lighten up. It’ll be fun.” Diana tipped the edge of the herb bundle into the flame, let it burn a moment, then blew it out. It smoked like incense. “This is sage. Got it at the health food store. Now close your eyes.”
“No.”
“Come on, Val. Work with me here.”
I closed one eye and peeked with the other. Diana waved the sage over her head and began a slow spiral in the middle of the room. She chanted:
“Come ye spirits, come white raven,
Cleanse this home, this hearth, this haven—”
She looked at me. “Isn’t this great? I made it up myself.”
She continued,
“Evil spirits, now depart.
I call upon the clear white heart.
Darkness, blackness, gloom and doom
Take heed for now I cleanse this room.
The sun doth shine upon our star,
Yada, yada, yada … something, something, from afar.
In the name of the Goddess, I cast this spell
And send Roger Tisdale to the flames of hell!”
Diana ended her dance with a dramatic twirl. She leaned toward the candle and blew it out with a loud whoosh. She inhaled deeply and exhaled noisily. “I can feel it, can’t you?”
“Feel what?”
“The absence of Roger’s malevolent spirit. The air feels cleaner somehow, doesn’t it?”
I made a face and shrugged. The truth is, I think she’s right.
’Til next time,
V
August 18
2:10 A.M. I can’t sleep. So I put on CNN. But I didn’t want to wake Pete, so I switched on the closed captioning. I feel sorry for anyone who relies on closed captioning. Here’s a sample of the mumbo jumbo that scrolled across my TV set:
As Americans fear a recession, Plesdentn Tush has pront to speed yup his tax clot to help get the faltzeloing econom back o tyrack.
A convicted terrorist and former ally of Saudi xsmile Osamee benslattin will beeee the government’s first witness in trail ooops trial of the bombings of mbassy.
Tomorrow I meet Reverend Lee. And find out why his wife is involved in this mess.
’Til next time,
V
August 18, later
I’ve decided that the best way to start the day is with aerobic activity. Tae-Bo works well. Sex works better. Bill called at 8:35, a moment after Pete’s bus pulled away. By 8:39 I was riding his strong, sweaty body like a bronco. By 10:30 I was showered, moisturized, blow-dried, made up, fully dressed, and on my way to meet Reverend Lee.
As I drove downtown, as I popped a couple of quarters in the meter, as I strode up the block, a joyous voice in my head sang, “I’m having sex! Hallelujah! I’m having sex! Amen!” (to the tune of “It’s Raining Men”). I don’t want to know about Bill Stropp’s ex-wife and kids, I don’t want to know about his tire stores or his favorite foods or childhood traumas. We are two bodies, joined in a mutual quest for pleasure, release, satisfaction. Period.
When I arrived for my meeting with Reverend Lee, the restaurant was still empty. Busboys were setting up the tables for lunch as the manager adjusted the blinds, letting in bright shafts of sunlight. Reverend Lee was sitting in a booth in the far back, in the smoking section. I knew he didn’t smoke, so I assumed he chose that table for the privacy. He stood and waved. He smiled nervously. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” I told him. Reverend Lee signaled the waiter, a lanky college kid with a high forehead and dark blond ponytail. We both watched as he filled my cup, then topped off Reverend Lee’s.
“I’m definitely ready for colder weather,” he said. I must have heard that line fifty times in the last month. It’s all anyone says around here. It’s the standard conversation starter, a classic example of small-town talk. I always nod, agree, say something vacuous like, “No kidding.” But, in truth, I couldn’t wait for winter. I think I could handle twelve months of winter, twelve months of oversized sweaters and leggings with elastic waistbands, coats and jackets that camouflage my wide-load ass.
Enough weather talk. “Reverend Lee, what’s going on here?”
He stared into his coffee cup as if the answers might materialize in the clouds of half-and-half. “I can only speculate,” he began. He took a long breath, kept staring into his cup. “Michelle is a very jealous woman.” He took a sip and set the cup down again. “Nine years ago, when I was assistant pastor at Faith Methodist in Owensboro, there was … an indiscretion … with a congregant.” He looked at me. “So you see, Michelle comes by it honestly. Her jealousy, I mean.”
I thought about the times I’d called him at home, and how resentful Michelle had sounded when I asked to speak with her husband. “So you think she’s behind the pictures?”
“She is. She had you followed.”
“She hired a private investigator?”
He nodded. “She has pictures of us in my office, holding hands, praying together. And she has pictures of me in your house after Mary died.”
I shivered.
“But the only really, uh, scandalous pictures were the ones taken at the Econolodge, and those are the ones sh
e sent Roger.”
“But you weren’t in those pictures!”
Reverend Lee shrugged. “Michelle didn’t care. She’d convinced herself that we were involved. She hated you. She wanted to hurt you.” Reverend Lee reached for my hand. “I don’t know what to say, Valerie. I’m so terribly sorry.”
You damn well should be, I wanted to scream. You screw around and I wind up paying for it!
At this point I ask myself: Was I born under a freaking dark star? Have I been cursed by the gods? Am I trapped in some kind of ancient karmic purgatory of sin and retribution? Why me, oh Lord, why me? Why are all these people always apologizing to me for some form of deception and betrayal? Why can’t I live a normal, uneventful Midwest suburban life? Why can’t I simply wake up every morning next to my stable, balding husband, send Pete off to school, eat my bowl of Special K, vacuum my house, make a casserole for the church potluck, whip up a nutritionally complete dinner, have missionary sex with my stable, balding husband, and go to sleep? Not me. I wound up with the Philandering Shithead Formerly Known As My Husband. And everything else just flows like sludge from that singular mistake.
“Now what the hell am I going to do?” I said. I was too overwhelmed to cry. I wanted to go home and go to sleep.
“I don’t suppose you want to join me in prayer?”
I stared at Reverend Lee’s kind, bland face and repressed the urge to rip it off. “Maybe some other time.”
’Til next time,
V
August 19
I called Libby as soon as Pete left for camp. I had to know how it was logistically possible to get those pictures.
“Hmmmm,” she said, considering my question. “Even with the blinds or curtains closed, I can usually get a clear shot depending on the angle and if I’ve got the right lense,” she said. “All you really need is a little crack between the blinds.”
Shit.
Interestingly, it seems that my libido intensifies in direct proportion to the level of stress in my life. Bill called at noon and summoned me. We had sex in silence, hungrily, against the foyer wall. We kept our clothes on. As I left, he said, “Forget about the trees,” and I said, “Okay.” Those were the only words we exchanged.