by Joel Travis
“Early! It’s two in the morning. I’ve been sitting here patiently for hours waiting for you. Read to me for a few minutes so I can honestly report to the Reverend that you did something.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Our meeting with Reverend Means is tomorrow.”
“No. It can’t be. He said two weeks.”
“It’s been two weeks.”
The following morning we were back in the Reverend’s office.
“Nothing?” he said. “I was expecting two weeks of tapes.”
“Nothing,” Sheila said. “I told you that’s what we’d get out of him.”
They were talking about me like I wasn’t there.
“God helps those who help themselves,” the Reverend said, looking right at me. “But I never give up on a marriage. I’ve been praying to God for a solution.”
We leaned forward in our chairs, eager to hear what God had come up with.
“He’ll get back to me sooner or later,” he said. “He almost always does.”
We slumped back in our seats.
“In the meantime, I’m recommending individual counseling. Are you open to individual sessions?”
“I am,” Sheila said. “I’m available at any time.”
“Me too, then,” I said, matching my wife stride-for-stride in the race to kiss the Reverend’s rear.
“Good,” he said. “Let me check my calendar.”
This took longer than it should have, proving that in one respect the Reverend was no different from other folks. No one ever admits their schedule is clear.
“Sheila, could you come by Monday at noon?” he asked. “It shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes of your time.”
“Of course I will. Monday at noon it is.”
“And Brit. I wonder if you could drop by on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday from two until six.”
It didn’t escape me that there was some disparity in the length of my sessions when compared to my wife’s.
“You don’t mean every week day next week.”
“Who doesn’t?” he said. “Will you be there?”
“Of course I will,” I said, foolishly following my wife’s lead. I started to get up, but he wasn’t quite finished with me.
“And bring your Bible. We have some reading to catch up on.”
#
From my storage unit on Haskell Street, I dug up the Bible I knew I had. It took a while, sorting through the old memories. The Bible was near the bottom, squashed beneath my Hot Wheels and my G.I. Joe’s. There was something grotesque about the G.I. Joe dolls. Their elbows, wrists, knees, ankles, and necks were twisted into inhuman angles and their bulging eyeballs stared up at me from the darkness of the storage closet. They looked like fallen soldiers who had given their lives in one last horrible battle. Or contortionists from a freak show.
I pulled the dusty Bible out into the light of day. It was one of those pocket-sized, red Bibles they handed out in grade school before the Supreme Court outlawed the practice.
I headed directly to R.M.’s office. He greeted me warmly.
“Brit, my son. You made it! Make yourself comfortable.”
The only way to make myself comfortable was to leave. I knew that wasn’t what he meant, so I plopped down onto one of the stiff wooden chairs.
“Did you forget to bring your Bible?” he asked.
I pulled my miniature Bible from my shirt pocket. “It’s only the New Testament. I meant to bring a whole Bible.”
“Hold on. I’ll get you a Bible with bigger print.”
So I went to all that trouble for nothing. Yet in a sentimental way I was glad I had. My Bible and I went back some twenty-five years together, all the way back to the fifth grade. Although I hadn’t had time to read it, it was part of my childhood.
I flipped through its brittle, yellowed pages. The type was minuscule. While the Reverend was busy retrieving a spare Bible from his library, I pulled another childhood keepsake from my pants pocket. I opened my Swiss Army knife. Like everything I owned as a child, it was made in Taiwan. I searched in vain for the magnifying glass component.
I could never find the damn thing when I needed it. The only time I ever did find it was one night in a dark parking lot when I needed to defend myself. Alertly sensing danger, I drew my knife. Much to my surprise and horror, the magnifying glass popped out instead. While it might have been useful for making a positive ID on my assailant, as a weapon it proved to be less effective. I took a beating I’d never forget.
“Here you are, Brit,” the Reverend said, handing me a bigger Bible. “It’s yours to keep.”
I was touched by the Reverend’s generous gesture until I remembered how much of my hard-earned money Sheila had dropped onto his offering plates every Sunday. This Bible wasn’t even autographed. I felt ripped off.
“Where would you like to begin?” the Reverend asked.
I consulted the Bible’s index. I found what I was looking for under the heading “The Capable Wife.”
“I’ll begin today’s reading with a selection from the book of Proverbs,” I said. “Chapter thirty-one, verse ten.”
I began to read aloud, thoughtfully reflecting on the meaning of each verse as I went.
“Who can find a virtuous woman?” Don’t ask me. I only know who can’t find one. “For her price is far above rubies.” Even if you could find one, she’d be too expensive to support.
The next verse pertained to the husband’s commitment. According to the index, this section was supposed to be about the capable wife, so I don’t know how that verse got in there. I skipped over it, picking up on verse twelve.
“She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.” My eyeballs almost popped out of my head. Sheila was in clear violation of verse twelve!
“Do you have a pen handy, Reverend? I may need to make a note or two along the way.”
He handed me a pen and note pad. I jotted down the infraction before continuing.
“She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands.”
I wasn’t sure what flax was, but whatever it was, I knew I hadn’t seen a lot of it lying around the house. And so much for Sheila’s complaint that I made her do all the manual labor. The verse explicitly stated that she should work willingly with her hands. I made another notation, inciting a comment from the Reverend.
“Brit, I don’t know that you need to make notes on each and every verse. If you do, my advice would be to read the text again when you get home and make your notes at that time.”
That sounded like inefficient double work to me, but I let it slide. As I continued to read God’s Word, I discovered that Sheila was worse than I’d ever suspected, falling far short of what could be expected from the capable wife.
God was practically shouting at me to file for divorce!
Chapter 4
I gave Sheila ninety days to shape up. I tried to help her in every way I could, often shouting Bible verses about “The Capable Wife” from across the room as she walked off in mid-discussion. Toward the end of the ninety days, I became hoarse from trying to help her. To save my voice as well as my marriage, I resorted to drawing detailed cartoons to make my points. She wouldn’t even look at them.
One April afternoon, as fragrant flowers bloomed, delicate birds chirped, and cheerful children played outside our window, I told my stubborn spouse to get the hell out of my house. Her father’s attorney, a certain Blanford Wilkenson III of New Orleans, had other ideas. Upon hearing some of his outrageous ideas, I hired my own attorney, a Wally Poe of Mesquite. After Wally completed his negotiations with Mr. Wilkensen, Marty and Susan were kind enough to take me into their home, and Sheila was kind enough to forward all bills to my new residence. Following a six-month separation, I finally got what I wanted—an amicable divorce. In return, Sheila got everything else.
So my marriage was for naught. Although it always seemed like a bone headed oversight at the time, in
retrospect it was wise that I didn’t spend much money on anniversary gifts, birthday presents, trips, romantic evenings out, flowers and what have you, since the marriage didn’t last for whatever reason anyway.
Our house sold quickly. There was no real profit from the expedient sale of a heavily mortgaged home, which didn’t bother me since I wouldn’t have seen a cent of it at any rate. My ex returned to her parents’ estate in Louisiana. I leased a two-bedroom apartment near WhiteRockLake and began to rebuild my life from the shambles Sheila had made of it. I was well on my way to happiness when I literally crossed paths with an eighteen-wheeler. Considering my miraculous recovery from the accident, I would be happy enough even today, if only I hadn’t blurted out a premature deathbed confession in front of Detective Gardner and Julio Hernandez.
There’s no use crying over spilled milk. At the moment I’m more concerned about any potential spillage of blood. Which reminds me, I need to pack for my trip to Vegas. Shouldn’t take long. I can’t risk retrieving any belongings from the apartment, and I don’t have much with me here in the Pinto.
Living in a car for two weeks was not easy. Not since the womb have I spent so much time alone in such a confined space. Oh sure, the Pinto looked roomy enough at first, but it proved to be an optical illusion. There’s no practical way to take a bath in here.
You probably don’t care where I took my baths. I wish the manager of the Denny’s Restaurant shared your carefree attitude. Late last night he burst into the men’s room even though it was obviously occupied. He caught me all lathered up with soap and shampoo prior to the rinsing stage. Before I could wipe the suds from my eyes to see what he wanted, he demonstrated that he didn’t value me as a customer by whacking me in a sensitive spot with a splintered broomstick. It all happened so fast. One minute I was merrily singing a tune in my falsetto singing voice; later that same minute I was streaking across a brightly lit parking lot in my underwear.
#
I was on my way to pick up Lori when my brother called.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m fleeing my home town in a thirty-year-old borrowed car, if that tells you anything.”
“I wouldn’t leave town if I were you.”
“If you were me, I’d kill myself.”
“I’m serious, Brit. There’s been a new development.”
“Good. I was growing weary of the old developments. What’ve you got for me?”
“You’re not going to like it,” he said.
“It can’t be any worse than the last time you called with bad news.”
“Actually, it is.”
“It couldn’t be. Last time you told me that the musclemen at Joe’s Gym intended to beat the hell out of me. It couldn’t be worse than that.”
“Actually, it is,” he said again. “You’re wanted by the police. Forest confirmed it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, Marty. How long are the police going to cast their big net after a small fish like me? Time is on my side if I can stay out of sight for a while. I’ll be okay as long as I get out of Dallas.”
“This is much more serious than you think. You’re in big trouble.”
“Marty, there must be a thousand gambling rackets in Dallas. If you ask Detective Gardner point-blank, he’ll tell you I’m small potatoes when compared to other criminals.”
“I’ve already asked him. And you’re right. You’re a small potato as far as the betting business is concerned. But—”
“Nonetheless, as things stand now, Cesar will kill me for ratting him out. At least that’s the impression I got from the note he sent to my hospital room. I plan to be a moving target.”
“You still shouldn’t leave town,” he said. “If you’ll let me finish, I’ll tell you—”
I lost the connection, so I turned the phone off as I pulled into Lori’s apartment complex. I easily located apartment one-thirteen near the front entrance. I knocked on her door. She knocked back from the other side. We continued exchanging knocks until she comprehended from the increasing intensity of my knocks that her playful joke was getting on my nerves.
“Hi, Brit,” Lori said when she finally opened the door.
I entered her apartment and took in the view. She was dressed in a flowery kimono, her short blond hair still wet from a recent shower. Freshly painted red fingernail polish mingled with perfume to emit an arousing aroma. She extended her five-foot frame to give me an enthusiastic hug. She even whispered in my ear. “You brought my money, right?”
I dug into my wallet, counted out the prearranged payoff, and handed her the cash. “That’s twelve hundred and fifty dollars.”
“How many days in Vegas does that equal?”
“Five. Two hundred and fifty times five is twelve hundred and fifty.”
“I’ll take your word for it. If we stay longer, you’ll have to pay up front again. Like if you wanted me to stay in Vegas for another five days, you’d have to give me another twelve hundred and fifty. Or if you wanted me to stay for—”
“I think I get it.”
“Don’t be like that,” she said, reading the expression on my face. “I’m worth every penny.” She opened her kimono wide enough for me to determine that she was a bargain at any price. Then she pulled on a sash and the garment closed.
I surveyed her apartment. The new furniture was contemporary, featuring mostly blacks and whites. The paintings on the walls were in surprisingly good taste.
“You have a really nice place here,” I said.
“Of course I do. One of my regulars at the club is an interior decorator and another one is a wholesale furniture guy.”
She looked out the window. “I don’t see your car.”
“I parked right in front of your apartment.”
“The only car I see is a little red junker. Someone must have dumped it here instead of the junk yard. I swear, some people don’t have any class. Before we leave, remind me to call my apartment manager to have it towed away.”
“That’s my car,” I said.
Lori appeared to be horror-stricken.
“Actually, it’s my brother’s high school car which he held onto all these years for the memories. And because it has absolutely no resale value. He let me borrow it after my car was demolished in an accident.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I mean I’m sorry you have to be seen driving that pile. One time I saw a homeless man living in a car like that. It was so sad.”
My face turned as red as the Pinto.
“Maybe we should take a cab to the airport,” she said. “More dependable.”
“Whatever you want,” I said, eager to change the subject. “The important thing is to make our flight. Are you packed yet, Lori?”
“Nope.”
She went to her bedroom to pack and change clothes. Ten minutes later she reappeared in jeans and a white halter, toting two leather bags.
“I’m ready!” she said. “Go get your bags out of your car while I call a cab.”
“I don’t have any bags. I’ll buy what I need in Vegas. All I need to get out of the Pinto is my journal.”
“Your journal?”
“It’s a book where I write down what happens to me.”
“Like a diary?”
“More like an autobiographical novel.”
“So it’s a real book. Will I be in it?”
“You’re already in it,” I said without thinking.
“That’s so cool! Let me read what you wrote about me.”
I remembered what I’d written—an uneducated, drug-addicted, gold-digging nitwit, among other things.
“It’s not ready to be read,” I said. “I’m still polishing the prose.”
“I’ll bet you wrote about how you want to screw my brains out. That’s okay if you did. It’s a compliment.”
“I’ll let you read it when we get back from our trip,” I said. “That way you’ll get to read
about our time together in Vegas.”
“Are you planning to write about everything we do? Even the naughty parts?”
“Especially the naughty parts,” I said, going with the flow. “If you want me to, I could change your name to conceal your identity.”
“No, silly. How would anyone know it’s me?”
“Good point.”
“I’ve never been in a book before,” she said. “On my eighteenth birthday I did a layout for a men’s magazine. And I’m featured on tons of websites. I met a photographer at the club who has his own studio in his bedroom.”
“Wow.”
“I know, but I’ve never been in a real book!”
I had been worried that Lori was the type of stripper who would just tease me the entire trip. She was now perfectly primed to perform intimate acts to the best of her ability so that she could read flattering commentary on her performance from the pages of my journal.
If that doesn’t show the power of the written word, I don’t know what does.
#
During our flight, Lori entertained me with tales of her life as a nineteen-year-old stripper. Her last story was about a customer who had evolved into a stalker.
“One Friday night around midnight I was up on main stage and this really handsome guy gave me a huge tip—a hundred dollar bill. I gave him a long kiss right on the lips. I went on to the next stage and guess who’s waiting there with another C-note?”
I didn’t bother to guess. It was obviously the same spendthrift who’d overtipped her on main stage. “The guy must have been loaded,” I said. “In more ways than one.”
“What do you mean by that? You don’t think I’m worth two hundred dollars?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Lori. You already know that I think you’re worth twelve hundred and fifty dollars.”
“That’s better. Anyway, I had made two hundred dollars in five minutes, so I gave him another kiss and this time I used my tongue in case he had more Ben Franklins on him. There are eight stages at our club. By the time I got off the last stage, I was eight hundred dollars richer just because this one guy had come into the club! I went back into the dressing room and told the other girls. They couldn’t believe it.”