Magdalene (47 page)

She vanished. I turned the lights down and
went into the bathroom to check in with Mitch, give him a chuckle
at what had happened at the bowling alley. The suite was cast into
darkness by the time I climbed into bed. My little girl turned into
me, and I played with her hair while she cried herself to
sleep.

* * * * *

Feel the Fear in My
Enemy’s Eyes

April 5, 2011

It was Tuesday night and, as usual, the
building echoed with laughter and chatter. Mitch liked hearing it.
It meant people were happy, happy to get together and have a good
time.

“Oh, good. You’re here.”

Mitch looked up from the weekly stats the
ward clerk had given him to see the stake president in his office
doorway. “Hey, what’s up? C’mon in.”

President Petersen did just that, closed the
door, sat, made himself comfortable with one ankle over the
opposite knee. “How’s Cassie?”

“Great,” Mitch said with a little smile,
thinking about her. He felt about fifteen with his first crush, and
he liked it. Liked that he could go home tonight and park his car
in the garage right next to hers, see the evidence of her presence
around him, her toiletries in his bathroom and her clothes in his
drawers and closets. She would have dinner ready for him, would
wait until he got home from church to eat with him.

“Is she here?”

“She’s at home.”

Petersen looked confused. “I thought she was
traveling this week.”

Mitch paused. “Um...no,” he said slowly,
wondering where he’d gotten that idea and why he was keeping tabs
on Cassandra.

But Petersen shook it off and asked, “So
when’s the baptism?”

“What baptism?”

“Cassie’s. That’s who we’re talking
about.”

“There...isn’t one,” Mitch answered
carefully. “At least, not that I know of.”

“Well, you are working on her, right?”

Mitch dropped his pen and sat back in his
chair. “No, Dave. I’m not
working
on her. She is who she is,
and she has no interest in the Church at all. That’s who I fell in
love with and that’s who I want to stay married to. If she changes
this direction, it’ll have to be because she wants to, not because
I’m pushing her.” He paused. “Is there some rule I’m supposed to
know about a bishop being married to a nonmember?”

Petersen hemmed and hawed. “It’s just...
It’s...strange.”

“Being a
widowed
bishop is worse, yet
you didn’t seem to mind that. But hey, I have another wife now, so
the universe is back in balance.”

His mouth tightened and Mitch tensed as he
waited for Petersen to say whatever he had on his mind.

“I’ve been...hearing some things,” he said
low, picking at imaginary lint on his dress socks, not looking at
Mitch.

“About...?”

“Cassie’s...ah...past.”

Really, Mitch had expected it before he and
Cassandra tied the knot. He knew Greg would be feeding bits of
information to Petersen on the golf course, over business lunches,
and Sunday dinners at Greg’s home.

“What about it,” Mitch said flatly.

Petersen sighed. “I’m not sure how to tell
you this— I don’t want to shock you or anything...”

“Yes, Dave, she was a prostitute. I’ve known
all along, and it’s no secret on Wall Street.”

He started. “You do? It’s not?”

Mitch shook his head. “Now, I didn’t know
when I first asked her out, but she told me right up front.”

“And you continued to go out with her
anyway.”

Mitch bristled at the flat tone, the
condemnation in his voice. “Don’t make me break out the scriptures.
I shouldn’t have to. Not to you.”

“Is she still doing it?”

Mitch snorted. “No.”

“Is she repentant?”

“I’m not her confessor,” Mitch murmured,
feeling the knife edge creep in his voice.

So did Petersen. “Oh. Okay. Ah, hmm.” He
paused. “So did you— While you were dating, before you got married,
did you— Ah, you know...”

Mitch thought he might be losing his mind.
Surely this conversation wasn’t happening.

“Because I’ve been hearing things that make
me think— And I wanted to ask you directly and— And, so, did you
and, and Cassie—?”

Mitch stared at him stonily.

“Oh, c’mon, Mitch,” he said, exasperated.
“Humor me. Yes or no. Either you did or you didn’t. Easy.”

Mitch struggled to keep hold of his temper,
the one he only showed on the highway and the soccer field—

—and to Cassandra, who could take it and
twist it until they were both wrapped up in it, in each other, when
she would wave her magic wand and make it go away.

“I thought you knew me better than that,”
Mitch said slowly.

Petersen laughed without humor and shook his
head. “Mitch, right now, I don’t feel like I know you at all. I’m
hearing things all over the stake and then I find this out about
Cassie, and you tell me you knew— I’m looking at you and wondering
who you really are.”

Mitch sat in stunned silence the way he had
when he was twenty and unable to believe the insults coming out of
his mission president’s mouth.

Mere insults, though. Not accusations of
fornication.

“Okay, fine. You don’t want to talk about
that. Whatever. But there’s still Sally.”

Mitch picked up a pen and wrote “call Dan”
on his scratch pad. “We already covered that ground,” Mitch
muttered, his pen poised. “Nothing’s changed.”

“But you didn’t answer me straight then, and
now I’m hearing more things.”

“What...kinds of more things? Exactly?”
Mitch asked, each word difficult to find and produce.

“I’m saying... Well, I’m asking you if you
have been, maybe, implying things, making promises, kind of, well,
leading a few of the sisters on. Maybe...pressing a couple of the
married ones for...you know,
things
.”

Mitch had no way to respond to that. He
could only stare at Petersen while he tried to think of
something—anything—to say that wouldn’t make him look stupid or
guilty or both.

“Who am I supposed to have been leading on,
President?” he asked wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Other than Sally.”

Petersen named women Mitch didn’t even know,
and Mitch could only shake his head in weary disgust. Petersen
concluded with, “I’ll admit that’s hard to believe, but... What
else am I supposed to think? It’s not a stretch when you went and
married a hooker,
knowing
she was a hooker.”

“Correction: I married a brilliant and
accomplished woman who restructures companies.”

Petersen’s jaw clenched. “Okay, then. What
about Hayleigh Sitkaris?”

His nostrils flared. “David,” Mitch
growled.

“No, I don’t mean sexually. I mean—
Hayleigh’s run away a couple of times and...Greg has reason to
believe you’ve encouraged that.” Mitch made another note:
HS—deal with this ASAP.
He was still writing when Petersen
burst out, “Okay, look, Mitch. I’m just having a really hard time
right now, between what I’m hearing and you getting your back up.
Just tell me all of this is garbage and I’ll be on my way.”

“Would you believe me if I did say it?”

Pause. “Of course.”

It was a dumb question. The die was cast and
prolonging the conversation would only make the dull pain behind
Mitch’s sternum increase.

“Release me,” Mitch said abruptly, throwing
his pen down and letting his hands drop heavily to his desk. “I’m
tired. Thirteen years of service and all I get is...” He waved a
hand. “This—indignity. Not even worthy of being backed up by my
superior.”

“Mitch—”

Mitch stared at Petersen and growled, “If
you believe I have done whatever it is I’m being accused of doing,
then you can’t let me stay in this position. If you don’t believe
it, then why are you here asking me about it? Maybe you should take
a good look at the people who are pointing fingers at me.”

President Petersen blinked. Pressed his fist
to his mouth. Looked down at the floor.

“I—” He stopped. “I don’t know,” he said,
with a trace of wonder in his voice. He looked back up at Mitch.
“Something’s wrong here, and I can’t figure it out.”

“Then go home and pray about it until you
do.”

* * * * *

Rich Man’s
Frug

I lay in bed listening to my husband
decompress about his shitty day, watching him undress. Suit coat.
Tie. Shirt. Pants.

Garments.

What looked like a plain white tee shirt and
shorts that looked like an unsexy version of knee-length
boxers.

Two and a half weeks and I hadn’t gotten
used to seeing those yet, although he normally took great pains to
keep me from seeing them at all. He’d drawn a parallel to the
religious garments other faiths wore, but wouldn’t go into detail
as to what they symbolized. I wanted more information.

I asked. He stonewalled.

I asked Prissy. Who stonewalled.

I asked Morgan. Who stonewalled.

So I went googling.

Ah, so the rest of the world found them as
ridiculous as I did, to the point of dubbing them “magic
underwear.” Unlike the rest of the world, however, I was married to
a man I respected above all others—and
he
wore them. If he
didn’t want to speak of it further, I would respect that the way I
respected him.

And that man paced in and out of the bedroom
to the bathroom and back again, frustrated but running out of
steam. His gripes were minor things, things any CEO had to deal
with on a daily basis, things that kept him from his lab, things
he’d probably handled a million times before and would have
forgotten by morning otherwise.

“I could find you a COO for the Steelworks,
too,” I offered. “That’d give you time in the lab.”

And off he went again, veering into Bishop
Hollander frustrations. He didn’t name names, and I didn’t know
enough people in the ward to make connections anyway (nor did I
care), but other than that, those frustrations sounded suspiciously
similar to the CEO ones.

Humans. What do you do.

He was nude, though he had apparently
forgotten that fact as he grew more agitated with every word. I
watched him run his hands through his hair and pace. Watched the
way his strong back rippled, the way his tight ass and muscular
legs ate up the square footage, the way his cock hung tantalizingly
from the nest of sandy hair that trailed up his vaguely cut stomach
and spread out over his muscular chest.

We hadn’t gone dancing since our wedding
day, but then, I saw no need to dress up and go to Manhattan to
have pseudosex on a dance floor when I could have the real thing
right here at home.

He’d stopped speaking, but his gait was
jerky, tense. He snatched his dirty clothes off the chair, wadded
them up, and pitched them at the hamper. I’d never seen him do that
before; he treated all of his possessions with respect, but most
particularly his garments.

My online searches had turned up very few
faithful Mormons who were willing to talk about their garments
publicly. And I was pretty sure that whatever any sympathetic
person could have told me about the funny underwear would have been
more informative and less insulting than the ex- and anti-Mormons
who were more than willing to talk about them. Bitterly.

I simply didn’t know enough to know who had
an agenda, who didn’t, what agenda it might be, how much to believe
in either camp, and how any of it applied to my questions.

I hadn’t dared ask Sebastian, as I didn’t
think he’d be any less insulting than the rest of the world, but
I’d run out of people to ask.

Almost.

Mitch dropped on the bed and lay there
staring up at the ceiling, his hands linked behind his head. He was
grinding his teeth so hard I could hear the molars scraping
together.

“Wanna talk about it?” I said mildly.

“Can’t.”

“Ah. Wanna fuck?”

“Yes.”

I blinked. Stared at him. That question
usually earned a blush and a wry smile. Whatever had him all
knotted up would probably not be conducive to good lovemaking.

“Roll over,” I said when he made no move
toward me. He slid me a look, but did as I said and rested his head
on his folded arms. I got out of bed to fetch one of the bottles of
massage lotion we’d bought on our adventure to the adult toy store,
then came back and settled myself over him.

“I’m going into the office Thursday,” I said
conversationally as I rubbed the orange blossom-scented cream into
his back. The man was built like a god, really, though it usually
took me a while to notice. He was both more and less than the sum
of his parts. Understated. Droll. Oblivious to his beauty. Every
day some small part of him—a gesture, an angle of his profile, a
figure of speech—sneaked up on me and made me look again to see the
whole man in a new way. “I have a meeting.”

He grunted.

I worked my way down his knotted-up back to
his waist, felt him slowly relaxing. I got to his ass and swept my
hand over one of the tight muscles with admiration for the sculptor
who had carved out the work of art that was my husband.

“Spending the night?” he rumbled.

“Oh, no,” I murmured as I slid my hand down
between his legs. He relaxed with a sigh and shifted to give me
easier access. “And miss this? Never.”

* * * * *

Remedial
Mormonism

April 7, 2011

“To what do I owe the honor of having
received a summons from Midas the Second?”

I almost laughed at the woman’s annoyance.
Though I could see peripherally that she was leaning against the
jamb of my office door, I didn’t look up. “Would it help your mood
if I said, ‘You were right’?”

“Exponentially.”

She walked in and plopped her little ass on
a corner of my desk and said, “I still don’t like you.”