by Diane Kelly
He raised his palms out to the side. “How do you like me now?” he shouted.
The boys exchanged glances, then jogged his way.
Uh-oh.
“He’s dead,” I said.
“He’ll be fine.” Brendan’s arm tightened around my shoulders. “Don’t you worry your pretty red head about him.”
At the last second, the boys raised their hands and exchanged high-fives with Riley.
I shook my head as I watched. “I will never, ever understand the male psyche.”
“Of course not. We’re complicated, mysterious creatures.”
I looked up at Brendan. “Really?”
“Neh.” He slid me a grin. “We’re all soft in head with no idea what we’re doing.”
I laughed softly. “We women aren’t any better. We sometimes have no idea what we’re doing, either.” But watching my son on the basketball court, my mothering instincts on high alert, I was now absolutely sure of one thing I needed to do. “Would you mind giving Riley a ride home?”
Brendan shot me a quizzical look. “Decided to stay behind and dance some more, have you?”
I nodded.
“Save your feet,” Brendan pleaded, removing his arm from my shoulder, taking my hand in his, and turning to me. “Take my money.”
Brendan knew I used dancing as a way to work off stress. He also knew I was under extra stress with Blarney’s life hanging in the balance. What he didn’t know, however, was that this time dancing would relieve my stress in a different way entirely—by earning me the money to pay for Blarney’s surgery.
“Come on, Erin. Please.” Brendan’s eyes had that desperate, frustrated look again. But I had no right to take his savings. Who knew when I’d be able to pay him back?
Riley trotted out of the gym and Brendan dropped both my hand and the subject. Fortunately, Riley hadn’t caught our exchange. For all he knew, the world was still a wonderful, happy place where cute teenage girls wore short skirts and Irish Setters lived forever.
***
Once Riley and Brendan had gone, I returned to the room, closing the door behind me and lowering the blinds over the glass panels for privacy. The last thing I wanted was for someone to see what I’d be doing.
I sat down on the floor and stretched for a minute, then slid out of my sneakers, pulling the red sparkly shoes out of my duffle bag. I’d felt like Cinderella when I’d put them on earlier, but Cinderella’s shoes had been made of glass. These red pumps were really more like those worn by Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
If only I could click my heels and magically make $5,000 appear.
That might be how things worked over the rainbow but here, under the rainbow, there was no magic.
Only hard work.
Heartache.
Heartbreak.
My son’s dog might die, I was in love with a man I could never have, and a little green freak was stalking me. My life pretty much sucked at the moment.
Perhaps I deserved all of this. After all, I wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue. I’d slept with a man to whom I wasn’t married, I used curse words on occasion, and I was hopelessly head over heels in love with a priest. But despite these sins, I wasn’t a bad person, was I? I prayed regularly, believed in God, chaperoned school field trips, attended PTA meetings. I’d even worked at a soup kitchen last Thanksgiving, serving dinner to the homeless. Of course I’d said “yes” the minute Brendan had asked me to work a shift with him. Admittedly, part of my motivation was selfish. But on Thursday evenings in summertime, I volunteered with Riley walking dogs at the local animal shelter. I also used a portion of my meager earnings to sponsor a child in Bangladesh. How in the world could they feed a kid for twenty-seven cents a day?
I sighed to myself. No sense dwelling on my situation. God helps those who help themselves, right? Time to put on my big girl panties—metaphorically speaking—and get to work.
I stood and made circles with my arms, shoulders, and ankles, loosening them up again. Once I was physically loosened up, it was time to mentally loosen up. But how did you stretch your conscience into thinking something totally against your principles was the right thing to do?
Time to think like a slut. I closed my eyes and tried to think of the sexiest dance moves I could muster. Slow fan kicks, definitely, since they basically gave the audience a crotch shot. Undulations. Those hip-hop chest heaves could be sexy in the right context. Maybe facing backwards and shaking my butt? Crouching down, crawling toward the audience, that would be sexy in a primal, animalistic way. Running my hands down my sides in sort of a mock-masturbation.
Ugh.
Could I really pull this off? I didn’t have much of a figure. I was only an A cup, my hips barely perceptible. At fourteen, Britney already had more curves than I’d ever have. Surely I’d look like a fool if I entered that wet T-shirt contest. The audience would probably laugh me off the stage.
But I had to try, didn’t I? For Blarney? For Riley?
I took a deep breath to steel myself and watched my reflection as I tried out the moves. Affecting a seductive, droopy-lidded expression, I performed a slow bump and grind.
Whoa. I was pulling this off, wasn’t I? That sexy, slutty whore in the mirror was me, wasn’t it? The good Catholic girl who said her rosary every Sunday night? Taught CCD? Had only had sex once in her life? Hell, maybe I’d missed my calling. Maybe I should’ve been an exotic dancer.
I should probably be ashamed of myself, but part of me was a little proud. I’d had no idea I could play the role of seductress so effectively. Maybe I’d underestimated myself, hadn’t given myself credit for how attractive I could be.
Still, another part of me felt sick. Ashamed. Humiliated. Did I really want men looking at me as nothing more than a sex object? Seeing me only as a piece of ass?
There was so much more to me than that.
Brendan wasn’t the only one who was feeling torn. I wanted to save my dog, sure, but I still wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do. Right or wrong, though, unless a better option arose in the next four weeks, I’d be dancing in that contest. And, God willing, winning it.
I ran my hands up my sides and over my breasts as I lowered myself slowly into a straddle split. Yep. These moves should definitely work. The next question was music.
According to Tammy, each contestant would have one minute to dance to the song of her choice in the first round of the contest. What song should I pick? What songs did men find sexy, provocative? Something fast and loud with a pounding beat? Or something soft and slow and sultry?
Who would know? The DJ’s at strip clubs, that’s who. I had no idea what kind of music they played at those sleazy places.
But there was one way to find out.
***
On my way home from the rec center, I detoured by the Cowtown Cabaret, a topless bar on Fort Worth’s south side. A pink neon sign on the front of the building flashed “$2.99 All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet.”
I drove into the dimly lit parking lot, circling around, looking for an available spot.
A group of college-aged boys spotted me driving slowly and looking among the cars. “Someone’s gonna be in trouble if she finds his car here,” one of them said. The rest hooted with drunken laughter. They must’ve started their party early.
Every space was filled. On a weeknight, no less. As I came down the front row for the fourth time, white reverse lights lit up on a Jeep parked near the entry door. I pulled into the spot as soon as the Jeep vacated it and cut my engine. I slouched in my seat, trying to be inconspicuous as the waves of neon light washed over my car.
Two women, one a dishwater blonde and another a tall brunette, walked toward the door. Both wore skin-tight jeans, four-inch heels, and inch-thick makeup on their faces. Dancers, no doubt. They carried only their purses. Guess when your costume consists of just two inches of G-string you don’t need a garment bag.
How could those women do what they did? How could they get up on a stage and shake their
bare breasts for leering, cheering men? How could they let strange men talk dirty to them, tuck money into their G-strings, touch them? How depraved, how spiritually bankrupt did a woman have to be to participate in something like this?
Then again, dancing in a wet T-shirt was only a step away from dancing topless. Who was I to pass judgment on these girls when I was no better? My stomach clenched at my hypocrisy and I felt a vague urge to throw up that tiny bit of boxty I’d managed to force down at dinner.
I rolled my window down, partly to let in fresh air to combat my nausea, partly to hear the music. At first all I could hear was a throbbing bass line, my car vibrating with the loud music. I closed my eyes to concentrate.
Seconds later, a stench of beer breath blew into my face and I opened my eyes to find a balding, beer-bellied man bent over beside my car, his face only inches from mine.
“The fun’s inside.” He reached out his hand and touched my shoulder. “Come on in. Don’t be shy.”
I covered my mouth as I involuntarily retched. Grabbing the window lever with my free hand, I furiously cranked the old-fashioned handle.
The man yanked his arm out of my window just before I crushed it. He took a step backward, stumbling over his feet and chuckling. “Come on, babe. Satisfy that curiosity.”
Both me and my tires squealed as I raced out of the parking lot.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WENDESDAY, FEBRUARY 16TH
MY BODYGUARD
When the next morning dawned and five grand hadn’t magically appeared in my bank account, I felt much less judgmental. Shameful as it was, those girls dancing at the topless bar last night were probably just doing what they had to do to make ends meet. And shameful as it would be, barring a miracle, I’d be dancing in a wet T-shirt one month from now for precisely the same reason.
I better win that damn contest. The only thing more humiliating than dancing in a wet T-shirt contest would be dancing in a wet T-shirt contest and losing. Per the information on the flyer, only the first place winner would be awarded money. Second place would earn a gift card to a local spa, good for one free massage and a mani/pedi. Third place would receive a honey-baked ham. I’d never had a massage before, and I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable being touched in an intimate way by a total stranger. Given that I worked with tools and solvents, a manicure wouldn’t me last a day. What’s more, I didn’t like ham, hadn’t been able to eat it since watching Charlotte’s Web as a kid. Poor Wilbur.
The sun had just peeked over the horizon when I arrived at my shop, dressed today in my “good” tracksuit, if there was such a thing. The roomy fit did nothing for my figure, but at least the forest green color brought out my eyes. Brendan was already there waiting for me, his dark blue pickup truck parked at the curb. When I pulled in next to him, he climbed out of his truck and came over to open my door. Such a gentleman.
With the rules somewhat relaxed in the church these days, Brendan generally wore civvies, but today he was dressed in his clerical garb—black pants, black shirt, white collar—for his meeting at the archdiocese later. Somehow, he managed to look attractive even in this most conservative attire. Of course I’d think he looked good in a muumuu or a garbage bag.
“I’ve already checked things out in back,” Brendan said. “Walked two blocks in each direction, too. No sign of any green dwarves.”
Green dwarves. It sounded so ridiculous. I felt like a fool. But I knew what I’d seen, too. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
Brendan shook his head. “Back in Ireland people were always claiming to see little green men. ‘Course it was usually after a half dozen pints of Guinness.”
“Hey!”
He flashed that mischievous, boyish smile I found so endearing, letting me know he’d only been teasing.
I sighed. “Maybe if I drank a half dozen pints of Guinness the green man would disappear.”
Brendan cocked his head. “If you drank that much beer, Erin, you’d be on the floor.”
He was right. I was a lightweight.
I climbed out of my car and flipped the driver’s seat forward so Blarney could jump out of the back.
Brendan bent down and gave the dog a nice scratch behind the ears. “Lookin’ good, boy.”
Arruff! Blarney replied.
“He ate a whole bowl of wet food this morning,” I told Brendan.
“Good to hear.”
Brendan took my keys from me, opening my shop, flipping on the light switch. The fluorescents flickered for a few seconds, as if trying to wake up, before coming on.
“Wait here.” Brendan handed the keys back to me as we stepped into the shop. I stood at the counter while he went into the storeroom and poked around. A few seconds later he returned. “All clear,” he said. “Now show me the gun.”
I showed Brendan Tammy’s shotgun, demonstrated I knew how to use it, assured him I wouldn’t take any chances.
“Good,” he said, eyeing me intensely. “Because if anything happened to you . . .” His words trailed off.
What? I wanted to ask. What if something happened to me? What would that mean to you, Brendan? What do I mean to you?
Of course I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure what his answers would be, wasn’t sure I wanted to know. And, truly, it didn’t even matter how he felt about me, did it? Brendan could be as in love with me as I was with him and where would it get us?
Nowhere.
Loving a man I could never have was pure hell.
I turned away. “Hungry?” I asked.
“Always.”
By way of thanks for his free security services, I treated Brendan to an order of breakfast tacos from El Toro, extra-spicy salsa on his, just the way he liked them. Hot, hot, hot. I don’t know how he could stand it. I’d tried the Toro’s extra-spicy salsa once and feared I’d self combust.
While I went about my business, Brendan sat in plain view in a chair next to the front door, looking like a pious Pinkerton in his black clothing and white collar. He stared out the window, keeping an eagle eye on the comings and goings of the people and cars outside, occasionally leaning left or right to get a better view.
Over the next half hour, winter clouds moved in again, stealing the sunlight, darkening the sky, bringing with it a bleak, ominous mood. Ugh. I was so ready for spring. Of course spring in north Texas lasted only a week or two, then we were launched into six months of ninety and hundred-degree weather.
I sat at my stool, applying polish to a pair of tan loafers. Glancing over at Brendan, I noticed deep worry lines on his forehead. “You okay?”
“No.” He turned and gave me a pointed look. “Not really.”
“Is it about your visit to juvie yesterday? You said it was a tough day.”
“That’s part of it, I guess.” He paused a moment, as if trying to figure out how much he could tell me without breaking the therapist-patient confidentiality. “I will never understand how parents can treat their children so badly, neglect them like they do. I can’t even imagine. If I had a child of my own—”
He stopped himself, as if realizing how absurd his thoughts had become. As a priest, he’d never father a child. Such a shame, too. Brendan was great with Riley. Heck, Brendan was closer to Riley than Matthew was. With his patience, easy-going style, and energy, Brendan would make a fantastic father. And with his good looks, it was too bad his genes wouldn’t be passed on to another generation.
I pointed the loafer at him. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Riley could have turned out very differently if you hadn’t been so involved with him. You would have made a great dad.”
My words were intended to console him, but they seemed to have the opposite effect. Brendan put his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor as if defeated.
I set the loafer down, walked over to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re upset, Brendan. What’s going on?”
He looked up at me, a deep sorrow evident in his eyes. “I don’t know, Erin. I . . . I just don’t know
anymore.”
I knelt down on the floor next to him and took his hands in mine. “Talk to me, Bren. Please. You’ve helped me through so many things through the years. Let me return the favor.”
He was quiet for several moments, staring at me. Finally he said, “You can’t help me, Erin.”
That hurt. I’d spilled my heart out to him on many occasions throughout the years. He knew everything there was to know about me, all of my hopes, fears, and worries. Well, all the ones that didn’t involved me being hopelessly, helplessly, haplessly in love with him. He’d always been there for me, helped me through the hard times. Was I really so useless to him?
I dropped his hands and stood, turning my back on him as I made my way to my stool. “Sorry, Brendan. Sorry I’m so inept and inadequate and worthless as a friend.”
Okay, that may have been an overreaction. But a lot of emotions were bubbling to the surface and I was having trouble controlling them. I wanted to be there for him. To support him, to comfort him. I wanted our relationship to mean as much to him as it did to me, dammit.
I found myself sobbing into my hands again. What an emotional wuss I’d become over the last few days.
Brendan came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, enveloping me in his warm, strong embrace. “I wish I could talk to you, Erin. But you are the one person in the world I can’t talk to. Not about this.”
I whirled in his arms, face to face with him now. “What is that supposed to mean, Brendan? How do you think that makes me feel that you can’t talk to me? After all these years, after everything we’ve been through together, after all the times I’ve spilled my guts to you, and you don’t feel like you can confide in me?”
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t release me either. Instead, he pulled me even closer, embracing me so tight I could hardly breathe. He ran a hand down my hair. “I can’t tell you everything, Erin. But I can tell you this. I have a very important decision to make. And I have to make it alone. It’s between me and God.”