by Robyn Carr
“Hi, baby. Happy New Year.”
“Who is this?”
“Bob. Bob Stanly.”
“Oh.” Swell. Good old sex maniac Bob. He was a little drunk too. “Happy New Year, Bob. What are you doing in Columbus?”
“I'm here 'cause I know this great chick in Murphy. I wanna make up, sweetheart. I'm sorry, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So can I come over for a drink?”
“Sounds like you've had enough to drink.”
“Still the same old ice-cold bitch huh, Beverly?”
“Good-bye, Bob.”
Nice guy. Picking on lonely widows on New Year's Eve. What a creep. And besides being a creep and a widow molester, he was going to drive her crazy all night by calling.
“Hello.”
“I'm coming out, Beverly. I'm gonna teach you a lesson; warm you up a little.”
“I'll call the police.”
“Good. Maybe me and the cops will all have a turn on you. See ya, baby.”
Now what? So call the police.
Nothing could wake Beverly up like an obscene phone call. She dialed the number of the police and talked to the desk sergeant for a little while. The police were not very upset about her little phone call. The guy was obviously drunk and wanted to stir up trouble. They would send a patrol car by when they could, but she shouldn't worry. It was a busy night. Lots of calls. She said, “Swell, but hurry anyway.” The “merry widow” was spooked.
The minute she put the receiver down the phone was ringing again. Don't answer it, Bev. It's not midnight yet, so it's just that Bob Stanly creep. Let it ring. It's only twenty minutes to twelve.
That pervert was going to call all night, every three minutes, until she answered the phone. Nope, he was giving up. Which meant he wasn't calling; he was driving. Well, it would take him at least a half hour to drive to Murphy. If he were really coming.
Beverly couldn't believe that all over the United States people just like her were sitting home watching a ball go down a pole. So Happy New Year already. No cops yet. Busy night, y'know. As soon as they could, they would.
It was at times like these that Beverly was unable to conquer complete independence. She wanted to have a man sleep on the couch from about midnight until six a.m. just to keep the ax murderers away. She was afraid of people like Bob Stanly; men who came on like adjusted, healthy specimens with even a dash of sensitivity to add to it all. Was it the decent man next door, the cub scout leader, or church deacon who suddenly snapped and went crazy? What would have happened if she'd obliged him that night? Was this anger and frustration, or would he have found a way to frighten and abuse her even if she had complied?
She planned the escape routes, thought of possible weapons, and turned off all but one light. The neighborhood was quiet. The other half of her duplex had been empty for months. People didn't move at Christmastime. She peeked out the window and this time her heart nearly stopped. There was a car out there. A car she didn't know. She shook all over. She would be murdered if she didn't die of fright first. She would call the police again if she could only stop shaking.
“They're not there yet? I'll radio them again.”
“Now, look, the guy is sitting in the car in front of my house, Sergeant. You're going to have to hurry. He's some kind of pervert. Come on, I'm scared.”
“Lock the doors, Mrs. Simpson. Lock the doors and don't panic.”
“The goddamn doors are locked, you simpleton. You think I was waiting for this cretin with them standing wide open? Now, get off your ass and get a cop out here before he chops me up in little pieces and flushes me down the toilet. And hurry!”
Oh, God, he was pounding at the door. It was definitely that Bob Stanly creep, calling her name, slurry drunken speech and all. “Come on, baby. Let me in. I ain't got all night, sweetheart. Let's have a little toss and then I can get back to the party.”
Beverly crept closer to the door. She wanted the police to drag this maniac away. She was altogether too scared to look out the window. What if he had a gun? What if he shot the cops and then broke in? Should she wake up the kids or hope they would sleep through it? Wake them up so they wouldn't find her body in the morning. Let them sleep so that the pervert couldn't even know they were there. She'd have to be very quiet while he was killing her so she didn't wake up the—
“Come on, buddy, let's go.”
Cops.
“Who're you? Get out of here, pal. I got some business with the lady.”
Not cops.
“Get away from that door, friend, and I don't want any trouble.”
Joe. Joe?
“Get lost, fella, and I mean it.”
“I said, get away from that door. And I mean it.”
“Oh, you mean it, do you? Well, we'll see.”
Beverly shot to the door and looked out. Bob Stanly was even more drunk than she imagined. How he got to Murphy in one piece was the first miracle, and how he was still standing was the second. He wound up and took a big swing at Joe. The preacher stepped aside and Bob Stanly fell flat on his face in the snow. Beverly could have done that much. He couldn't have raped her with the help of five assistants. She opened the door.
“You okay, Bev?”
“Okay,” she cried. “I'm okay, Joe.”
Then the cops came. It figures. They took away the pitiful drunk and Joe got to overhear the little story about Bob Stanly. The police would call her in the morning about pressing charges and when they left she fell into the assistant minister's arms. Joe was really good at that sort of thing. He was ad-libbing along with the brow-stroking and forehead-kissing.
“Why did you come?”
“You didn't answer the phone.”
“You weren't going to call until midnight.”
“I wasn't going to call until after midnight. We were going into the chapel for worship and I decided to give you a call first. No answer.”
“As simple as that,” she murmured. A Divine power? Could no answer be an answer? “No answer.” The story of my life.
“Well, I had a funny feeling. I just don't like you living alone. I think we ought to get married, Bev.”
“I don't want to get married.”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“I didn't think you were ready for that. But I don't like you out here alone. And I love you, remember?”
“I know. I'm afraid I just can't figure out why.”
“Get serious.”
“I mean it. I can think of about a hundred good reasons why you shouldn't.”
“Like what? Never mind—there's maybe one.”
“One? Which one?”
“You tend to be a lot of trouble. You get a little... you know, bossy.”
“Oh, swell.”
“But I guess I like that too.”
“You must have a screw loose. Are you some kind of masochist? Why put yourself through this anyway? I really can't figure you out.”
“Don't you know why I love you? Really? Come on, your ego is pretty damn healthy. Well, it's like this. The obvious, first. You have this terrific figure, which sort of got my attention. Then, there's this kind of smell—wrong word; there's something in your skin that appeals to me.”
She was looking at him with a slight frown.
“Okay, that's the physical,” he said, putting an arm around her. “There seems to be a lot to you, you know? It's like this—no matter what you feel inside, you feel it all over your whole body. When you cry, you cry from your toes. When you laugh, you laugh like a shooting star; there are these sparks and glitters everywhere. When you decide to tease, you're a riot. And when you get mad, you don't sulk or pout or snivel; you get really mad. A little too mad, maybe, but I like it.”
“You're nuts. Whoever heard of someone falling in love because they like to be with a bossy person or liking the way someone gets mad. Jeez.”
“A guy just can't be ordinary with you, Beverly. You challenge damn near every feel
ing that ever existed and a guy is forced to be everything he can be, or he just can't be with you. It's really neat. Besides, you make me laugh.”
“Great. I'm a wit.”
He laughed. “Yeah, and you might think that's no big deal, but it's a basic requirement. I happen to like to laugh. Keeps me, you know, happy.” He kissed her cheek. “I really do love you, Beverly. I've been out with a lot of really nice women, but you're more. I've never felt it before. I never know if we're going to argue, make out, giggle, or have a good cry; you're unpredictable. At least there's something to you. Have you ever been out with a guy that, you know, has a lot going for him—good-looking, amusing from time to time—but you just can't get too excited?” She grinned at him. “See?” he shouted. He pointed a finger right at her face, smiling. “See? That's it—there's no slack. I like that. Come here.”
“Wait a minute. Want some coffee?”
“No.”
“You aren't planning to leave, are you?”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Would you? Just tonight? I'm still a little shaky.”
“Sure. Got a pillow and blanket?”
“Sure. Are you tired?”
“Nope. Are you?”
“Nope,” she said, imitating him.
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want to talk.”
“About what?”
“Your God trip.”
“No kidding? I don't believe it.”
“Don't get excited. I just want to talk, not get baptized.”
First she wanted to know how Joe got so interested in God. Why, really why?
“It's not very exciting, actually. I was raised with the faith. Back when kids went to confirmation classes because their parents made them, I really got excited about it all. I kept it up through high school, when I was really square, and just like everyone expected, I went into the seminary as soon as I could.”
“Just like that? No doubts?”
“Boy, did I doubt. But later, I had a battle with the Lord to end all battles. I accused Him, cursed Him, and then I ignored Him.”
What brought all that on, it seems, was a little sister who had also found the Lord, or a reasonable facsimile. It made Joe question Him. May was a cute kid, a lovely child. She joined a cult of some kind and left home when Joe was in the seminary. She wouldn't correspond with her parents or Joe.
“We listed her as missing, but she was a runaway and we knew it. We knew about the crowd she was running with. My parents forbade her to see them and so she ran off with them. She was only sixteen.
“I found out just how many different cults there are; it's amazing. May's crowd was collecting money from Scripture readings and using some pretty heavy drugs to get spiritually closer. They set up and robbed a lot of people. They may have even murdered for all I know.
“I left the seminary to find her. It took me a year and I held her captive in a little apartment in L.A., trying to get her off drugs and deprogram her. But I failed. Flopped. I was no match for the drugs and delusions. She hit me over the head and ran off with the freaks. They took her out of the city, out of my reach. When I found her again, she was in a San Diego hospital, in a coma.”
“Poor Joe.”
“Poor May. She didn't make it. I don't think she suffered. How do you know if someone is suffering in a coma? I suffered. My parents suffered. I prayed and prayed, offered to trade every mortal gift I had for her life. For another chance. My answer came from a young intern who said, 'It's over, Joe. She's brain dead.' And we unplugged her and let her go.”
“It wasn't easy on you, was it, Joe? Even with God?”
“How could He do that to me? I asked over and over. After I had given Him my life, He had taken hers. I begged Him to release her from death, to give us all another chance. I challenged Him with the grandest of miracles, and when He didn't perform, I called Him a liar; a welcher. I still can't believe that was me. I finally decided I wanted nothing to do with Him. Everyone else seemed to know May couldn't come back and that God wouldn't deliver on ultimatums. But I was going to really make Him prove Himself. I told Him I'd go to hell before I'd put up with any more bad deals. But I just went into the army.”
“Was it pretty close to hell?”
“For me it was. I worked in a hospital. I saw a lot more sin and pain, even a little more dying. I had my own little fling with sin, and most of the time it didn't feel too bad.”
“So, when did you go back to God?”
“I'm not exactly sure. I suffered more while I was fighting with Him than I ever had before, so I finally threw up my hands and said You win. I give up.”
“And that was that?”
“That was definitely not that. Then I had to go through this incredible, laughable journey. I decided it wasn't enough to practice my faith in middle-class communities full of hypocritical Christians. It wasn't enough to teach Sunday school to spoiled little rich kids, play basketball, or read Scripture to a bunch of fat, lazy people who nodded off. They all just went home and sinned like crazy anyway. So I went May's route. I went into the inner city to drag doped-up kids to the Lord like human sacrifices. I had to save the lost causes, deprogram the confused youth, cure every drunk, restore hymens in the prostitutes. I worked in halfway houses, Salvation Army centers, and other less plush but necessary places. I was singing praises so loudly that I couldn't even hear God. My parents thought they had lost another child.”
“So what was He saying while you were singing?”
Joe smiled. Beverly was listening so closely, like a kid hearing a bedtime story. She would never admit that she really wanted to know, that she herself was searching. She was afraid of the answer, afraid she might have to change. So relax, Bev. It's all right. It doesn't hurt. It feels good.
“He was trying to tell me that He needs people everywhere; that some are supposed to do the rough work with the lost souls in the slums and some are supposed to go to the suburbs and play basketball with the kids. A problem is a problem is a problem. A sin is a sin. They are not ranked in the order of their importance. Everyone needs love, attention, and guidance. Someone stands on a street corner, someone else in a pulpit. He said, 'Slow down, Joe. I didn't create you to save the world. Just the ones I send you. Go back to school. I'll let you know. I have other plans... for Christ's sake.'“
How could he say something like that, Bev wondered; something that could have sounded like some really good swearing and have it end up a prayer? Uncanny. Well, it was a very touching story. He should write a book or something. So how did the voice of God sound, exactly? Deep and gruff? Nice and calm? Joe was living in some kind of spiritual fantasyland, adding up coincidence and conscience to sound like the voice of God. Certainly unrealistic. Maybe even a little crazy.
“It's all very dramatic, but after all, it's just the story of one man's life. Lots of people are survivors. So you hurdled the bumps and claim your hero to be God. What do you expect me to get out of that?”
“Beverly, you asked. Didn't you really want to know?”
“Sure, and I appreciate the honesty. Now, what do you expect me to get out of that? Do you think that your experiences will convince me? Tell the truth now. Do you?”
Joe was sitting beside her on the couch, one arm resting around her and a foot up on the coffee table. He kissed her mouth, a warm and sensual kiss. “Scotch.”
“I didn't think I would see you,” she murmured apologetically.
“That's okay. Come here.”
“Joe,” she said, stopping him. “Did you ask God if it was all right to love me?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I didn't have time.”
“Well, maybe you should ask Him now. He might say no.”
“Too late. Come here.”
“I wanna talk.”
“Okay, okay, now what?”
“Sex.”
“Oh, Beverly, you wear me out. What about it?”
“Are we going to try it?”
“I hope so. I really hope so.”
“After marriage?”
“I hope so. God, I hope so.”
“Quit praying. Have you ever made love to a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Beverly, ease up. It doesn't really matter who, now, does it?”
“Okay, were you in love with her?”
“Them.”
“What?”
“The question should be 'them' not 'her.' And once I thought I was in love. Really had it bad. I didn't make love to her. I made love to other women that I didn't care anything about. And it felt pretty good.”
“On your sin trip?”
“Yep.”
“Were you ashamed and sorry?”
“Yes. Later though. Much later.”
“What happened to the girl you loved?”
“She's married and happy. I don't love her anymore, Beverly. I love you.”
“Did it just evaporate, that love?”
“No, honey. I threw it away. The sin trip, remember?”
“Joe, what am I supposed to do now? I know you really believe hard. You're so sure and unthreatened. I don't know what to do. I don't want you to save my soul. I want to be left alone. I don't want trials or commitments or any of that crap. I just want a scotch on the rocks, a nice man like you to love me, and a regular life. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“So, what do I do now?”
“Why don't you just relax and enjoy it. Sounds like a good life.”
“And what about God?”
“Well, you could ask Him, and I think he would say you're more acceptable to Him than He is to you. But if you really want to check all this out, you can pray, you can read the Bible, you can ask questions. You can talk to me. I won't hurt you. I love you.”
“I know, you said that already. You want to trap me, rush me. God wants to trap me; that's why He keeps putting you on my doorstep.”
“You talk as though He really exists, Bev. You're going to have to watch that sort of thing.”
Joe was laughing at her. He thought the almighty confusion she suffered was real damn funny. But he stopped laughing and started kissing again. He was getting pretty good at it too. He was starting to touch again. Beverly was hoping he wouldn't stop touching. Oh, she needed him so badly. Maybe she ought to go ahead and have that IUD reinserted. Or fill those prescriptions. What about right now? It sure wouldn't hurt. It was so late at night and the boys were asleep and Joe was having that little problem again. She let him push her down and clung to him feverishly. She moved her hips under him. She loved it. He loved it. They both needed it.