“I should go,” I murmur.
I hear the bed shift, the sheets rustling. “I’ll drive you.”
“No, I’ll grab a car.”
“I can drop you at the pet store,” he offers.
I shake my head and turn to watch him pull on his jeans. “Better not. It’s complicated.”
“Ah. Right.”
“Can I get your number, though?”
“Yes. Can I get yours?”
Better if he doesn’t have it, but I’m riding a mellow wave of satisfaction, and I know I’ll want to do this again. “Okay, but text instead of call. I’m in meetings a lot.”
That’s bullshit and he knows it, but he doesn’t protest. Of course he doesn’t. He’ll screw me at least a few more times before he decides to press the issue. Why look a gift whore in the mouth?
I order my car, then dress slowly, letting him watch. I’m glad I’m not wearing one of those stupid flowery dresses today. The lavender bra looks nice, though. I’ll wear it again on Monday so Steven can leer at it while I remember another man stripping it off me with rough lust.
“That’s a naughty smile,” Luke says.
“Yes,” I answer.
My car arrives in no time, and Luke kisses my mouth and reminds me to call him. I’m sure I will. I want what I want when I want it. I carry my naughty smile with me all the way across the river. Maybe I’ll call him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have sex with Luke while Steven is at church pretending to be a good man.
A new lover and a cat. This was quite a worthwhile Saturday.
I’m just leaving the pet store with two giant bags of goodies when I get a text. I’m half hoping it’s Luke asking if he can see me again tonight, so I set my purchases down on the street and dig out my phone.
No luck. It’s Steven, stepping in to ruin my lovely day. I sigh at the sight of his name, but it’s honestly a good thing it’s not Luke. I know myself, and if he’s too eager, I won’t want him anymore. Still, I’m a little disappointed. I’m even more disappointed when I open the actual text.
Are you up for church tomorrow?
The least arousing words I’ve ever read. Thank God he’s not here to see my expression.
At your church? I respond. I don’t have a car.
I’ll pick you up. 8 AM.
This is exactly what I need to happen, but I’m highly irritated that he’s interfering with what I want. If not another round with Luke, I could at least pick up my cat. But the shelter doesn’t open until noon, and going to church with Steven is a huge step in the right direction.
I didn’t put out, so I might be worthy of more. Going to church will bring us closer together, and I need him close.
I roll my eyes as I text back a bright-eyed smiley face. That would be great! I can’t wait!
And I can’t. Now that I’ve set my more immediate impulses aside, I’m excited.
I can’t wait to meet his family. His friends. To bathe myself in his most sacred beliefs. Tomorrow he’ll be in his element, and I’ll find out firsthand what Steven Hepsworth holds dear.
Then I’ll figure out how to take it all away from him.
CHAPTER 13
I didn’t pay much attention to her new boyfriend at first. Meg was always gaga over new boyfriends. I just asked how they were in bed and I moved on.
She would eventually get married, but it didn’t matter to me which man became her husband as long as he helped complete the fantasy I had for Meg’s future family. The sooner Meg got married and had kids, the sooner I could pretend I belonged too.
She dated the new guy for three months. It was a whirlwind romance, they were already talking marriage, and then they broke up. I barely registered it. He told her she was immature and unstable. I told her he was shitty and mean. He was.
When they got back together a week later, I said, As long as he’s good in bed. She laughed it off. She was so happy.
A month later she called me, sobbing. Her boyfriend had told her he’d never have kids with her because she would be a terrible, worthless mother. I honestly didn’t understand her tears, because this was a ridiculous insult. Meg wasn’t terrible or worthless.
She might be a little flighty and she was definitely too trusting, but Meg was amazing with kids. Caring, kind, supportive. But she somehow bought into his bullshit, because, despite her degree in English, she was still working as a waitress and she occasionally drank too much at clubs.
“He’s an asshole,” I said. “Be relieved that you’re seeing this now and walk away.” It seemed simple enough to me.
He asked her to move in a month later. She did.
This was a secret, of course. He wanted her there and available twenty-four hours a day, but he didn’t want his family or church to know that he was a sinner. I mean, that was Meg’s fault anyway for putting out, wasn’t it?
I told her she was being stupid. I actually told her that. “Don’t be stupid, Meg. This guy is a dick.” She told me he was a great guy and I should be happy for her; then she made an excuse to get off the phone.
We didn’t speak for three weeks. I was secretly relieved when she called, sobbing again, to tell me he’d kicked her out. She was homeless and heartbroken and all I could think was Thank God that’s over.
It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Steven Hepsworth had found a hot girl who’d put up with his abuse, and he was just getting started.
CHAPTER 14
Today my flowery dress is buttoned up and my bosom is further shielded by a cardigan. Today is not a day for seducing Steven; it’s a day to observe and learn.
He arrives at eight, and even though I’m ready, I ask if he can wait in the hallway for one minute; then I close the door and move frantically around my apartment, as if I’m running behind. Three minutes later I rush through the door and apologize several times for my tardiness. “I’m sorry. I hit my snooze button too many times!”
“Never use a snooze button,” he instructs. “It signals your brain that an alarm is just an excuse to sleep more. That’s why you couldn’t wake up.”
“That’s smart.”
“Let’s go. We’re going to be late now.”
“I’m so sorry!” I chirp as I follow him down the stairs. It’s 8:05 now and Jesus waits for no man, I guess.
We talk about the weather and the city as we drive to church. Steven doesn’t like my urban neighborhood, of course. He assures me I can do better once I apply myself. “You’re going to have to find better work than data entry, though. What did you do before?”
“Various things. My last job was working as a secretary at an accounting firm, but my . . . my ex was an accountant there.”
“So you couldn’t stay?”
I shrug and shrink a little in my seat. “He had a jealous streak. He was always accusing me of flirting with other men in the office.”
“Were you?”
“No!”
“Hey, I was just asking. Sometimes women can be flirtatious without even realizing it.”
Instead of explaining that jealousy is rooted in deep feelings of inadequacy, I pout. “I’m friendly with everyone, whatever gender they are. That was my whole job.”
He pats my hand. “I know, but sometimes men just don’t get it. You have to be careful.”
“I know. I am.” After all, everyone knows that women are responsible for how men behave. If we’re not careful, they might decide to take what they want. They can’t help it. But somehow I’m the one with the psychological impairment.
We get to the church by 8:35, so I guess my irresponsible use of the snooze button didn’t ruin everything. The service isn’t until 9, but, as a deacon, Steven has responsibilities. “I’ll introduce you to my dad after the service. He’ll be putting the finishing touches on his sermon right now. Are you okay on your own?”
I haven’t burst into flames yet, so I assure him I’m fine, and he leaves me to wander the giant church hall. There are plenty of people already in the pews, mostly older couples who don�
��t have to worry about entertaining small children through the service.
The lines of the church are modern and sleek, but the décor adds more than a hint of ostentation. The lectern is carved wood painted gold, and behind it a giant stained-glass window rises up to heaven. The window is a beautiful scene of worshippers in brightly colored robes gathered around a hill to hear the Savior speak. Jesus looms over all of us, arms spread in what might have been a gesture of welcome but looks more like an open-armed invitation for adoration.
In case it’s unclear, I’m not a believer.
Where I grew up, everyone believed in God. Everyone worshipped Jesus. And they were all poor and miserable and suffering. They lost jobs and children and dignity, but that only made them pray harder. I recognize a con when I see one.
But the people here have more to be thankful for. I spot a very expensive Louis Vuitton bag sitting next to a woman perched at the end of a pew. She got here early, but instead of moving to a seat in the center she’ll make everyone step over her and her expensive purse on their way in. She wants them to see it and be envious or at least recognize that she is better than they are.
If I weren’t here to be placid and innocent, I’d sit behind her and wait for her to be distracted. When she stood to catch up with an old friend, I’d slide her purse from the seat and sneak it up the aisle. I’d put it in the bathroom. Set it on the floor of a stall, as if she’d retreated to the restroom and left it there herself.
Within a few minutes she’d be frantically looking for her very important purse. She’d be furious. She’d interrupt the service. She’d cry. Then she’d accuse her godly neighbors of stealing her precious bag. Someone would eventually find the missing purse in the bathroom, the contents still intact and unmolested. The purse would be returned, but no one would ever forget her nasty carrying-on. What kind of woman would forget her bag in the bathroom and then accuse others of stealing it?
I grin with delight at the damage I could do to this woman. But, alas, I’m not here to take risks. Not today.
A few people notice my delighted smile and greet me warmly. I am obviously filled up with the Spirit.
More people are flowing in, so I find a seat in the tenth row and settle in for the show. Steven’s duties seem to be complete, and he emerges from a side door and takes a seat in the front pew with several other men wearing suits. I see him glance down the pew to the other end, where a woman sits stiffly in a bright-raspberry suit. Icy blond curls tumble down her back.
She doesn’t return Steven’s glance but stares straight ahead. The women nearby watch her. Occasionally one approaches to greet her and shake her hand. I’m almost certain she is the pastor’s wife.
A great wave of red enters the room. Men and women in satiny scarlet robes flow in until they fill the entire floor behind the lectern. Everyone rises.
I expect a band to lead us off with a bass line and some drums, but this isn’t a Southern church. Instead, everyone opens their hymnals and the choir starts with a staid hymn about God’s love. I try not to let my lip curl. Not only is the music terrible, but it promises no spectacle for me to watch. At Southern Baptist churches, people dance and carry on. Sometimes they fall into the aisle and twitch. It was my reward for the times we got up early for church on Sunday morning.
But at least there’s no danger of my grandmother jabbing her elbow into my ribs and snarling at me to stop grinning like some whore devil. That was when I was nine. A precocious whore devil, apparently. By twelve I told my mother I’d poison her Dr Pepper with Visine if she made me go to one more service. Since she’d had diarrhea the Sunday before, she believed me. That wasn’t me, though. That was a result of bad handwashing habits. The Lord works in mysterious ways.
The terrible song ends, and they start another. I watch the people singing around me. Steven raises his face and sings loudly, of course. The woman I assume is his stepmother smiles as she sings, but it looks weird and fake to me, and I’m good at recognizing weird and fake.
Finally the pastor climbs the stairs at the side of the stage. He doesn’t look much like Steven. He’s gray and balding and a little pudgy, and his face is much softer than his son’s, but when he smiles condescendingly at all of us, I immediately see the resemblance.
“Friends!” He lets the word boom out over the congregation, and it hangs there amid the greetings the parishioners call back. “Friends,” he repeats once everyone has quieted down, “welcome to our church on this blessed day!”
A smattering of amens drift to him. In Oklahoma, half the people would’ve already been on their feet, but things are different in Minnesota.
“And this is a blessed day in a blessed place.”
“Yes, sir! Yes!”
“But not every place is blessed, is it? Not in this country. Not in this age. And we need to talk about the less fortunate.”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised that this man in this church is going to speak about the poor. I have to admit it’s not what I expected from Steven’s father. Maybe Steven is more nuanced than I thought he was. Maybe my view of the story from Meg’s side was skewed and twisted.
But the faces around me look self-righteous instead of sympathetic, and Pastor Hepsworth’s next words prove why. “Not everyone is blessed, because not everyone is fortunate enough to have found the Lord the way we have, friends. Not everyone understands the right way to live.”
Oh, here we go.
“The right way to live,” he repeats, the words deeper and louder and now whetted with hate. People around me begin to stir with excitement. “Because there is a right way, isn’t there, folks? Despite what you see on TV and in the movies and all over the internet, there is a right way to live, and people who don’t live it pay a price.”
Amens ring out. Everyone likes to be told they are right, because that means someone else is deliciously, fantastically wrong, and that is a joy that never gets old. I like it too.
“Times change,” he says. “Laws change. Cultures change. But God’s law . . . God’s law never changes, does it?”
“No!”
“God’s law is right there for us to follow, and if you follow it in heart and in deed, you will be rewarded.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You’ll be rewarded with work, with dignity, with food, with money, with love, and with the knowledge that you are living in the right.”
Steven holds up a hand of praise and shouts, “Yes!”
“Now, that doesn’t mean there won’t be trials and tribulations. We all have them. God tests us. He tests us with job layoffs. He tests us with gay, promiscuous children. He tests us with temptation.”
And slutty, cheating wives, I add silently.
“It’s up to you to pass those tests, my friends.”
“Amen!” someone calls from behind me.
I’ve heard this all before, but I’m still a little dumbfounded by what people will accept. When other people are suffering, it’s because they’re not righteous. But when our people suffer, it’s only a test of faith.
It’s all so blatant and misguided, but it works out great for me. These human foibles make it easy for me to navigate the world. Say the right thing, push the right button, and I get what I want every time.
He launches into the meat of the sermon, and—lucky me—today he’s focusing on promiscuity with a dash of homophobia. I have a feeling the homophobia sneaks in every week no matter the topic.
I listen, because this is important for me to know, but I also look around at the faces of the people taking this in. They seem to love the idea that women and children are abused and hungry because women can’t keep their legs closed. They nod along when he explains that poor women choose fornication over hard work. They shake their heads at the idea that upstanding, God-fearing people like them have to pay taxes to support these lifestyles.
“When children are taught that there is always a free lunch, how will they ever learn the dignity and blessings of hard work? A free lunch,” he
sputters. “Free lunch and free love and free health care? I say we have free will! Free will to live the way our Lord intended. To marry and work and live in God’s grace! To keep your legs closed and your hearts open to the Lord!”
Several people are shouting approval now.
“Women used to have shame! They weren’t rewarded for promiscuity! They weren’t given food stamps and free abortions and an apartment with cable!”
The crowd is bright-eyed now. They are tired of paying taxes so little bastards can have a decent meal and a place to sleep.
Of course, I don’t have sympathy either. My sociopathy separates me from others and muffles me from their suffering. But it doesn’t make me blind.
I may not feel bad for women who work full-time and still can’t afford to feed their kids, but I can see what’s being done to them. I can see that the sociopaths heading up huge corporations take as much money as they can, and our tax money pays for their employees’ food stamps. We subsidize the corporate profits. It’s genius, really. A fabulous con. And all of these smug parishioners think they’re the smart ones. I’d fleece them too given the chance.
The lecture goes on and on, and I’m thoroughly bored by the end of it and mystified by the women nodding along to all the scolding.
In my experience, men try to talk women into opening their legs from the moment girls can walk on them. Men stand in for the Lord in this scenario. Always testing us to see if we choose right or wrong. But it’s a trick. There is no right. You’re a tease or a whore. A heartless denier or a Jezebel. Their penises are God’s divining rods, searching out evil.
I smile at this, and the pastor’s eyes light on me. I have no idea what he’s said that he thinks I’m responding to, but I’m definitely not supposed to be smiling. I press my lips tight together and bite them to stop my giggles. He watches me for a moment, trying to suss me out.
He’s intrigued.
I’m intrigued as well. Pastor Hepsworth has some intense thoughts about fornication. He thinks about it a lot. He likely has a secret I could use against him.
Jane Doe Page 6