Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (11 page)

He moved closer. “While a student at the seminary, I worked nights at a fast food store on the outskirts of Raleigh. I'll never forget you. After your friends beat me half to death I remember you laughing at me while pissing on my face.” He grabbed the back of her neck with his left hand and clutched her crotch with the right.

She couldn't move. “What do you want?” she hissed through clinched teeth.

“We're going to talk about that, but for starters I want a big sloppy kiss.” He pressed his open mouth to her lips and pushed his tongue inside while moving his right hand to her left breast. “You can do better than that—will do better than that,” be sneered. He twisted her arm painfully behind her and pushed her down the aisle through double doors to the left of the pulpit area and into a room that served as his study.

“This isn't going to happen,” she said without conviction as he locked the door. “I've changed. I'm not that girl anymore."

“Wouldn't your husband—Tim isn't it? Wouldn't he love to know what you really are?"

“He knows,” she replied.

He hesitated. “Wouldn't the folks in Dot love to know who the rich Mrs. Dollar actually is? Wouldn't the police like to know? And that newspaper lady would pee in her pants for this story.” He leaned against the desk and measured her facial expression. “Take your shoes and socks off."

Her brain refused to function. Trembling, she followed his instructions.

“Now the slacks."

She complied.

“Red panties, and not much covered. I like that.” He clutched the bulge in his pants. “Get the blouse off."

She dropped it on the floor.

“No bra. I like that too. Too bad you don't have any tits. Show me your pussy, bitch."

The tears came as she stepped out of the panties. How good she felt when putting them on this morning. How miserable she was now.

“All right,” he grinned. “Plucked pussy with nice big lips. Come here, slut.” He threw her arms over his shoulders. “I want your tongue dancing inside my mouth,” he demanded.

She refused. Without warning, he buried his fist in her stomach, grabbed her by the hair as she bent double, forced her to the wall and repeatedly banged the back of her head against it.

Dazed, she heard him say, “Let's try the dancing tongue again, bitch."

It danced while his hands explored her body, fingers penetrating body cavities and pinching nipples.

She thought it would never end. He twisted an arm behind her and jammed two fingers inside her vagina. His mouth sucked brutally on her left breast and he bit her nipple savagely.

“On your knees, bitch.” He pushed down his pants and boxer shorts in one movement. “Suck it,” he demanded.

It's big, she thought, bigger than Hank's. Think brain. This must not happen.

She grasped the huge, blue-veined organ with her right hand and began pumping furiously. She tickled the flesh just above his pubic hairline with her tongue. Her left hand went behind him, the middle finger finding and gently massaging his anus.

“No, damn it. Suck it,” he protested, but he was too late. The orgasm hit. His semen ejaculated over her shoulder, splattering on her back.

“Think you're smart, don't ya, bitch,” he sneered as he stung her left cheek with his open palm. He pulled up his pants, twisted her hair with his right hand and forced her to crawl on hands and knees into a little room that contained only a sink and commode. Still twisting her hair in his hand, he forced her to sit on the floor, her back to the open toilet. He pushed her head into the porcelain bowl, unzipped his pants, extracted his now flaccid penis and aimed the urine stream at her eyes. “You still think its funny, bitch?"

She washed her face and back as best she could, but could not remove the urine from her hair. He watched her silently as she dressed.

“We're even,” she finally said.

“Honey, that was just the first installment. I'm gonna fuck you every day and you're going to make me a rich preacher man.” He was laughing at her. “Get that pretty little ass of yours out of here, but bring it back tomorrow at one o'clock. If you're not here, I'll go to the police."

She drove carefully, aware of the numbness of her reflexes. She stopped at the grocery store, bought a six-pack of beer, and consumed one bottle quickly. They had the magazine. She did not buy it. She drank a second beer as she slowly drove home.

From his study window Tim saw her car approaching. It was after two o'clock. He met her as she crawled out of the Cavalier. The expression on her face was the one he feared. He folded her in his arms. He felt her warmth. He felt her tremble. He smelled the beer. He held her and stroked her hair. It was sticky and smelled of urine. He saw Bobby approaching and shook his head. Bobby retreated.

“I was so worried about you, Sandy. I won't turn my back on you now. We'll work this thing out together. Was it AIDS?"

She shook her head, still resting on his shoulder. “No. All the tests were negative. She wants me to keep taking the antibiotics for a few days, but other than a little infection I'm healthy."

“Then what's wrong, Sandy? You look so depressed. You've been crying—and drinking."

She pushed herself away and looked at him for a moment, searching his eyes. “I've made a decision, Tim. You're right about me. Your life is not exciting enough for me. All I actually want is your money. I do thank you for looking after me—for letting me hang with you for a few days. You said you'd give me the Cavalier, the clothes I wanted and $50,000. Could you give it to me in cash?"

This was definitely not what Tim wanted. He knew that now. “Sandy, I was off base last night. I'm sorry. Let's think about this. There's no hurry."

“I act on impulse, Tim. You know that. I've decided to leave first thing in the morning."

The more he pleaded, the more determined she seemed to become. Reluctantly he drove into Dot to cash a check. She took a shower and scrubbed her hair savagely, but did not feel clean when she finished. She went to the library. Tears welled up in her eyes. She picked up
Middlemarch
, the book she had decided to read next and held it lovingly to her chest. She thought of stealing it, but instead sighed and returned it to its proper place in her ... his ... library.

She went outside and wandered to the bank of the larger pond to the left of the house. Bobby had mowed earlier and the grass smelled wonderful. She sat on the bank and gazed at the gently rippling water. I meant to try fishing, she thought. The tears came.

Bobby approached silently and squatted down beside her. He did not speak for a long time. He wanted so much to hold her tenderly, as he had seen Tim hold her earlier. Somehow, he felt he was losing her. How can you lose something you never had? he asked himself.

“Talk help,” he finally grunted.

She looked at him through her tears. “Can I trust you, Bobby?” she asked, but she didn't wait for his answer. She knew she could trust him. “Bobby, I've lived a rough life. I'm not proud of many of the things I have done in the past. I am sure there are warrants for my arrest for robberies and other things. I thought I could put it behind me. Tim knows. I met the preacher today. He was one of the people we robbed years ago. He recognized me. He's blackmailing me. I'm leaving in the morning. I'm not going to mess up Tim's life. I will miss you. I will miss you both.” She gently touched his thigh.

“Bobby kill preacher.” He rose and started walking away.

“No!” she screamed after him, jumping to her feet.

“Kill many men Nam. One more won't matter."

“It matters to me, Bobby. It matters to me. Don't do it. Please. If you want to help me, don't do it."

“You sure?"

“I'm sure.” She hugged him.

The big man melted, but did not let her see his tears.

Tim watched TV after dinner until he fell asleep about 3:00 a.m. Sandra packed and finished off the six-pack. When he awoke, at first light, she was gone.

Beside the M-1, the closest thing to a friend Bobby had was a prostitute he visited every Saturday morning. He did not think the fact that she was black would matter. It didn't. Preacher Baxter quickly agreed to the woman's offer of exotic sex, and so it was that on Thursday morning, Bobby Elliott crashed through the door of the preacher's study and took six quick photographs of the surprised and naked preacher as he lay between the legs of the black woman. He snatched the preacher up and slammed his big right fist into Baxter's stomach, followed by repeated hard thrusts of his knee into the terrified man's groin. Baxter rolled on the floor clutching his testicles, but Bobby stopped him with a giant foot firmly placed on the holy man's neck. “You be gone Friday morning,” Bobby instructed.

As they walked to Bobby's truck, the woman rejected the money he offered. “Honey, I wuz doin’ God's work this mornin'."

People in Dot didn't know what to make of the short letter Deacon Beverage found slipped under his door Thursday night.

“My Dear Friends,” the letter began. “God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. I thank you for your welcome, but I fear I made a grave mistake in coming to the Dot Baptist Church. I wish you well.” It was signed, “Rev. John Baxter."

Sandra had not slept. Having made the decision, she could think only of leaving and without any good-byes to Tim. Three times she checked on him in the den. Finally, on the third try, he seemed at last to be asleep.

She arrived in Charlotte long before the sun came up and realized she had no destination in mind. She parked in the Wal-Mart lot under a lamp post, made sure all doors were locked, left the motor running for she needed the heat on this October morning, reclined the Cavalier seat and tried to think. She awoke when the sun's rays, combined with the car's heater, made the Cavalier uncomfortably warm. The clock on the dashboard indicated the time was 9:45 a.m.

I have no idea where I want to go, she thought. Why not just stay in Charlotte for a while? She remembered seeing a small motel a few miles back towards Dot and made that her destination.

The large matronly clerk eyed her suspiciously. She required Sandra to go to the car and copy down the license tag number for the registration form. Sandra asked for weekly rates, explaining that she would be in Charlotte on business for an as yet undetermined number of days. She moved all of her luggage into the assigned corner room and left most of the money Tim had given her where she had previously hidden it under the dashboard of the Cavalier. She ate breakfast at the motel coffee shop and returned to her room for a long nap. That afternoon, and all day Friday, she drove around the city, looking for she knew not what, occasionally pulling into a parking lot and browsing through various retail businesses for no conscious reason.

Late on Friday afternoon, she found herself in a Barnes and Noble bookstore. The number of books filling the multitude of shelves amazed her. She spent little time with the paperback editions, but read the titles of scores of hardcover books, holding them in her hands with reverence. She came across a copy of
Middlemarch
and carried it with her for nearly an hour before changing her mind and replacing it carefully in the exact spot where she had found it.

She began to feel a bit hungry and glanced at the front plate glass window. It was dark outside already. She moved towards the exit door, but noticed a magazine section previously overlooked. She thought she would come back tomorrow, but the title,
Living Life,
caught her attention. She picked it up and went directly to the checkout counter.

“You're a book-lover, aren't you?” the bony young clerk said as he rang up the sale. “I've been watching you."

“I guess I am,” she replied, handing him a twenty.

“We have a job opening if you are interested."

“No thank you,” she replied and then caught herself. She didn't need money, but she did need some way to occupy her time. Would she like selling books? “Out of curiosity, what is the position that is open?"

“You're hired,” he joked as he counted out her change and inserted the magazine into an imprinted plastic bag.

“What? I didn't..."

“Just kidding,” he said. “The first question most people ask is ‘how much does the job pay?’ We need some help in our check-in area. You would be receiving books from the main warehouse, checking them off the requisition form, updating the database and shelving them appropriately. Of course, you would also be responsible for the inevitable returns that have to be made on a timely basis."

“Maybe I'll think about it."

“Would you like to fill out an application while you're here?"

“I don't think so, but I will give it some thought."

She began reading the article from the beginning while eating dinner at the motel coffee shop. She continued when back in her room. She read slowly. She always read slowly but not of necessity. She found that reading fiction rapidly robbed her of the story's color, and reading non-fiction quickly caused her to miss key points.

She read the article again Saturday morning. It was full of self-tests and exercises. She tried to answer the questions and do the exercises in her head, but when the article referred back to the tests or exercises, she couldn't remember her answers. That afternoon and evening she went back over the article, writing down the answers on motel stationery. She analyzed the results, refined her work, and analyzed again. She tried to make sense of the results but finally gave up, disappointed. Either the article is useless, my test answers and exercises are faulty, or I am just too dense to understand, she concluded.

Sunday morning she took the test again, worked through the exercises and carefully analyzed the results. She wrote on a separate sheet of paper what the article said was her lifetime profile and what her lifetime goals should be. Under profile she listed:

+ Intelligent (yeah sure)

+ Well educated (no way)

+ Industrious (maybe)

+ Not goal oriented (on the money)

+ Lonely (Oh?)