Joe's Black T-Shirt (11 page)

***

They arrived back at the office to the phones multiple lines ringing. Before taking off their coats, Debbie hugged John. Her head to his chest, her silky hair brushing against his exposed neck, she squeezed hard and flat against his body.

“Thank you, John,” Debbie said without letting go. “I had forgotten what having a meal that didn’t come with a toy was like.”

John tried to memorize the moment, to cauterize the feeling into his brain, then contrite, pushed her away. Her eyes were still droopy from the drinks.

“Maybe we can do it again,” he said.

“Soon, I hope,” Debbie said.

On her tiptoes, she grazed his cheek with a peck. Embarrassed by her own unexpected impetuousness, she spun away, trying to both answer the phone and take her coat off.

John walked slowly to his office and closed the door behind him. In his leather office chair, he was numb. Opening a locked desk drawer, supposedly for confidential church files, he removed a tie similar to the one he had thrown away. Another Nancy had given him that he cinched around his throat tightly as a noose. He pulled out a secret bottle of Bushmills he kept in the same drawer and took a long swallow before locking it inside.

***

The mail came through a slot in the front door and fell with a thump on to the floor. John jokingly thanked God that receiving the mail was still free. He bent over to retrieve the delivery and immediately his head felt like a snow globe held upside down. He brought himself back upright in a delicate, slow process that allowed the chemicals in his brain to gently resettle themselves.

It was eleven a.m. and he had already consumed a full liter of some bottom shelf Scotch called Dragon’s Eye. It’s fancy label decoration, reminiscent of a serviceman’s tattoo, sat boldly among the other generic vodka, gin, and tequila bottles. The label promised the product to be ninety proof alcohol. He bought a case.

A general mess of advertisements for pizza and carpet cleaning hid the single piece of real mail. A letter addressed specifically to him with the prefix of Mr. attached to his full legal name with no return address. If it was another letter from a parishioner forgiving him, he was liable to wipe his ass with it before mailing it back.

Carelessly dropping the mass mailings to the floor, he ripped open the envelope’s glued seam. A neat one-page letter was enclosed. The paper was a far better grade than the twenty-pound standard used in offices across America. It was an intentional thing. A subversive physiological mind game played by people who were professionals at the art of intimidation. Through blurred vision, he read:

Dear Mr. Tygett,

This letter is to inform you of recent incongruities discovered in regards to securities purchased by you as head of accounts receivable for our client ‘First St. Louis Church.’

Upon examination of internal bank records, it has become obvious you had immediate access to all FSLC’s holdings and did engage in unauthorized using of said funds for your own profit.

As you may or may not be aware, this is a direct violation as set forth by the rules of the Federal Trade Commission. As prescribed under the Federal Fiduciary And Trust Act of 1971, you can be held liable for all profits or losses made in commission to the said crime of felonious embezzlement.

You are hereby given notice: if said funds in the amount of $285,327.82 are not returned within the next thirty days by cashiers check to our offices, criminal charges will be filed against you in the Superior Court of Missouri and a warrant for your arrest will be issued.

Sincerely,

M.L. Cooper, Esq.

John re-folded the letter to its original tri-fold shape and placed it in his robe pocket. The idea of possibly going to prison for the next twenty years was almost amusing.

***

The next day he walked into the office eager to see Debbie. Yesterday’s lunch was probably the most fun he had had with a woman in years. He felt alive when he was with her and wondered if she made everyone feel like this or was this something special between them? Either way was fine by him.

Betty Sue, a greasy haired woman of simple intellect and enormous weight sat in Debbie’s chair. Hands folded together, her eyes like raisins pushed too far back into her skull, stared straight ahead. Jesus Christ, John silently cursed himself as he tried not to grimace at the sight of her.

He removed the rubber band from around the office mail. “Where’s Debbie?” he asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Any messages?”

“No messages.”

Her succinct answers, however direct, pissed him off. He left her unmoving heap without any further attempt toward conversation. Except for her short breaths, she was a stone not to be moved.

John lightly rapped on the half-open door to Pastor Maury’s office. “Got your mail, Bill,” John said.

Busy writing his sermon, with of all things a fountain pen, Pastor Maury normally stopped for nothing except the sound of his own voice. The pastor held his pen hand up and motioned for John to come in, his fingertips stained black with ink. John hoped he wouldn’t try to shake his hand.

“Listen to this,” he said. John knew better than to think he might have a choice in the matter. “Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, and perjury, then come stand before me in my house? I have been watching declares the Lord! My anger and wrath shall be poured upon place, on man and beast alike, a fire that will burn everlasting and not be quenched. The traitor betrays, the thief steals, but for the liar, the deceiver of my children I shall shew no mercy sayeth the Lord.”

The words frightened John. As cliché as it sounded, he felt like the pastor was speaking directly to him. Was this why Debbie had so suddenly and mysteriously gone? John could only confess his purest thoughts in regard to the pastor’s excerpt.

“It certainly cuts deep.”

“Yes it does, doesn’t it,” Pastor Maury said admiringly to himself. “This church is due a revival, a re-declaration of the faith. Are you aware tithes are down by thirty percent? Abominable! Did you know that during the Great Depression tithes never wavered by more than seven percent?”

“No,” John answered honestly surprised. How did you calculate such things as eggs and livestock given to the church in ways comparable with today’s economy? They were a business, like any other, at war with mass market for the consumer’s dollar. Unlike Wal-Mart or Sears, people left magnanimous gifts to them in perpetuity. The church had hundreds of thousands worth in premium Blue Chip stocks. It was simply a matter of time before they could be collected. Even the most devout parishioner did not live forever.

“It’s not finished of course, but just you wait until Sunday, brother.”

“Looking forward to it, Pastor,” John lied.

The pastor consumed with his work bowed his head back to the page, deep in thought.

***

In his office, John swished his computer’s mouse in tight, concentric circles. He had closed his door, as he presumed the pastor had, as not to have to stare out onto the sight that was Betty Sue.

The monitor flashed to life asking for his password. Entering JOHN316, an enigmatic play upon the famous scripture, it was merely his name plus his birthday. It still delighted him that he had been so clever.

Immediately opening his e-mail account, he reviewed the unopened items for spam. As he checked off the electronic solicitations for enlarging his penis, sexy cam talk with hot sluts, and the usual pleadings for assistance by the scam artists in Nigeria, one caught his attention.

He opened the message titled ‘Lunch…?’ from [email protected] as his right hand trembled with excitement.

John,

I had to rush my mother to the hospital late last night. She had a shooting pain in her side and insisted it was a heart attack. Four hours later, she was diagnosed with severe cramps due to constipation. After getting back home around three this morning, I called in sick.

However, after getting the kids off to school, I feel much better than expected. I would love to re-pay you for such a wonderful time yesterday. The forecast is for sunny skies and there is nothing better in the whole world to me than a picnic lunch at Laumier Sculpture Park. I understand if you’re too busy, but thought I might be able to tempt you with my world-famous tuna salad on whole wheat.

I’m going out to run a few errands but will check my messages when I come home. Let me know.

Debbie :)

***

John parked his car on the south lot. He walked through the thick, green grass, passing works of outdoor art without any regard for their creativity. The ground was moist. Spring had come early and the mild temperatures had yet to turn the ground hard.

Debbie had said in her last e-mail she would be waiting for him by the Liberman sculpture. A tremendous, five-story work of welded steel silos crisscrossed and painted a vibrant red. It was considered to be the artist’s masterpiece according to an on-line search he had made in between e-mails. Aside from its monumental size, John was not impressed.

Debbie wore blue jeans and a flannel blouse. She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail. It made her appear young as a college student. John suddenly felt overdressed in his suit and removed his tie. It was as casual as he could become without taking off his shoes. He had thought of going home to change his clothes, but that would have meant seeing Nancy. There would have been an inevitable interrogation as to why he needed such things, where was he going, blah, blah, blah. It wasn’t worth the hassle.

Debbie bound toward him in an exuberant skipping fashion and captured him by the hand. John was surprised he found it necessary to sprint to keep her pace. He was not completely out of shape, not yet anyway, but it reaffirmed his continuing resolution to start using his treadmill again.

The table looked as if Martha Stewart herself had set it. Covered in a red and white-checkered tablecloth, place settings for two had been set. Real china plates accented by gold plated silverware and crystal goblets had been set side-by-side. It exceeded any expectation he had.

“Wow,” John said.

“I know,” Debbie said jubilantly. “I’ve been dying to do something like this.”

Released from her hand, John sat down as Debbie proceeded to serve their meal. From a quaint wicker basket she placed fried chicken, potato salad, and a small green salad onto each plate. John busied himself by filling their glasses with an already open bottle of moderately expensive wine.

Finished with serving the food, she sat close to him. Debbie would never admit she had begun to prepare the moderate feast before John had accepted her invitation.

Debbie raised her glass. “To new friends.”

They taped the fine glasses together with a ring. The cool wine was sweeter than John expected. It was more like liquid candy than an adult beverage. It took will power not to drain it all in one greedy gulp.

The food was a delight. Debbie’s culinary skills were at par with her office talents. The rich and creamy potato salad mixed excellently with the spicy chicken. Not much of a greens enthusiast, he rather enjoyed the taste of the complimentary salad lightly coated in an balsamic vinegar dressing.

With the ingestion of each bite, he habitually complimented the meal as “Wonderful,” more times than he could count.

Embarrassed, but delighted, Debbie dismissed his compliments. “It’s nothing fancy, I swear.”

“I’m surprised David isn’t big as house. If my wife could cook like this, they would have to bury me in a piano box.”

Debbie wiped her hands and took a large drink of her wine. The glass empty, she liberally filled it again, and immediately drank half. “David isn’t home much. More often than not he’s too busy with work or church projects for something like this.”

“Nancy is a good mother, but a lazy wife.”

John couldn’t believe what he had said. He loved his wife. The second they knew she was pregnant was one of his happiest memories, overshadowed solely by the second time it happened.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

She placed her hand over his. The warmth of her soft flesh shot an electric bolt through his body. Debbie began to sob, burying her face into his shoulder. Automatically, he embraced her. As he did his best to comfort her, John nervously looked about the park for any looky-loos. The ever-watchful flock had taught John to be cautious in all things. Certain they had total privacy, he pulled her closer, petting her back.

He kissed her brow. In a tender whisper he pleaded with her not to cry. Then he kissed her again. Her muffled crying finished, she turned her face up to meet his. They passionately kissed, desperate to taste one another.

Debbie stood abruptly and began to clear the table.

John, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole, tried to apologize. “Debbie, I’m sorry. Seriously, as stupid as it might sound, it was an accident.”

Not saying a word, not looking toward him she continued with the removal of the last few accouterments.

“Please, Debbie,” John said, “say something.”

Debbie stared down at him with the wicker basket hung in the crook of her arm. Her face was an emotionless palate impossible to interpret. Her hand held out toward him, she pulled him to his feet.

Silently, he followed her back to her car, his hand never leaving her grasp.

***

John’s mind was Swiss cheese as he rummaged through dresser drawers and closet shelves. Holes where memories should have been made it impossible to remember.