Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (12 page)

+ Lacking self-confidence (???)

+ Unmotivated (How do you fix that?)

+ Sexually unfulfilled (!!!!)

+ Loner (Is that why I am supposed to be lonely?)

+ Greatest fear—loneliness (Come on now.)

+ Greatest desire—emotional and financial security (Financial yes, emotional?)

+ Greatest need—to love and be loved by someone (Have I ever been loved? Have I ever loved anyone? What is love?)

Under Goals, using the article's guidelines, she wrote:

+ Do things that give you a sense of pride.

+ Allow yourself to care about the needs of others.

+ Be aware of your opportunities.

That was it. Of course, the magazine goes into detail about how to accomplish these three goals, but it just doesn't make much sense to me, she thought. She spent the remainder of the morning trying to list things she had done, or might do, of which she was, or could be, proud. Was there anyone in her life about whom she cared? What opportunities had she overlooked and what are available to her now? She thought carefully about the bookstore job offer, but she wrote down simply, “Do something with books in addition to reading them."

She ate lunch in the coffee shop and became aware of a middle-aged man eyeing her. Salesman, she thought. She smiled at him. He smiled back. She unfastened the top three buttons of her blouse, dropped her napkin on the floor and leaned over to pick it up. She paused long enough for him to get a good look at her breasts. He immediately came and sat at her table without asking permission. “I've got all afternoon with nothing to do and a hundred dollar bill to do it with,” he said, smiling broadly.

She feigned indignation and asserted that she was not “that kind of woman.” He left quietly, like a chastised puppy with tail between its legs.

I've still got it, she thought, and grinned wickedly as she watched him walk away.

Almost had me one, thought Detective Thomas of the Charlotte Vice Squad as he paid the cashier for his meal.

She let her hand rest lightly on his scrotum as they lay naked, side by side, on their backs. They had done this every Saturday morning for many years. The sex was good. It always was. That, plus the fact he had no other opportunities, was why he was willing to pay for the privilege.

“Bobby Elliott,” she said softly. “When are you going to make an honest woman out of me?"

“I wish you meant that, Adele."

She sat up abruptly, turned towards him and lifted her breasts with the palms of her hands. “Look at these things,” she demanded. “They are beginning to sag. Look at the wrinkles in my face. Look at the fat accumulating on my belly and hips. I can't make a living as a hooker much longer."

He smiled as warmly as he knew how. “Look good Bobby."

“Cut out the Uncle Tom talk. You know I can't stand that. Bobby, I'm serious. It's time, and you are my first choice."

“Why?” he asked. “You know I can't support you in the style to which you have become accustomed."

“I have some money saved up. We can make out okay."

Bobby thought that it would have been nice if she had said she loved him, but he knew she wouldn't lie about that. He didn't love her either, but they liked each other a lot.

She went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Bobby followed. He looked forward to their weekly bathing ritual. He enjoyed running his hands over her soapy body. He liked the sensation of her soapy hands on his body.

“Mr. Dollar is staying in Dot it looks like,” he said as he pressed hard against her back and squeezed her large breasts. “He's paying me a decent salary. I won't have to steal from him like I did from Mr. Harlow. He wants me and my brother to fix the place up nice. Guess you should be in on that if you're going to be my wife. When you want to do it?"

“Halloween,” she said, turning to press her breasts against his large brown chest.

“Sounds right,” he replied. “I won't even have to buy a mask."

“Damn you, Bobby Elliott. I won't put up with anybody saying my husband is ugly and I won't put up with you saying it anymore either.” She pressed her mouth to his and thrust her tongue inside.

Bobby trembled with the new sensation. He often imagined what it would be like, but never thought he would experience it. As a professional, she insisted on one hard and fast rule—no kissing on the lips.

Bobby dressed, reluctantly kissed Adele goodbye, opened the motel room door, then shut it quickly and quietly.

“What the hell are you doing?” Adele asked, trying to see what he was looking at through the window curtain.

“Mrs. Dollar. She must be staying in the next room."

Adele could see a tall skinny white woman getting into a red car. “You ashamed of me?” she demanded.

“No,” he replied taking her into his arms. “She left her husband Thursday. I didn't want to embarrass her."

“After what I did for her?"

“I didn't know it at the time, but she had already left."

“Good riddance, anyway.” Seeing Bobby's puzzled look, she added, “The preacher I mean."

“Yeah,” Bobby agreed.

Tim lurched forward in the recliner. It was not unusual for a nightmare to awaken him but this nightmare was different. There was nobody in the bed this time, not his ex-wife and not Sandra. He was alone—alone again. He checked the circular driveway. Her car was not there. He looked in the bedroom. The bed was empty and her clothes were gone. Although he knew better he hoped to find her in the kitchen, but she was not there. He washed the previous night's dishes while the coffee perked, then went through his morning routine, skipping breakfast.

Not totally unsuccessfully, he had tried for three days to lose himself in paperwork, but the ghost of Sandra Dollar pushed itself, unbidden, into his consciousness far too often.

Sunday morning Tim woke up at four and tried for an hour to go back to sleep before giving up. After his morning ritual, he rode the golf cart to the highway to retrieve his copy of the
Charlotte Observer
. He tried to read it in his study, as had become his custom since Sandra had gotten the subscription started, but he could not concentrate. He planned to spend the day learning to surf the net, but he was too restless. He decided to drive into Dot to fill the Mustang with gas.

He was surprised to find the Dot Super Save closed. A sun-faded note on the door informed him that the station opened on Sundays at 1:00 p.m. Tim guessed that all businesses in Dot probably closed on Sunday mornings, either because of blue laws or just out of respect for the normal church hours. He thought of how long it had been since he attended a church service, and of the two prayers he had uttered for Sandra.

A pickup truck passed and the driver waved. That was Bobby, he thought. He must be going to church. I'm not dressed right, but what the hell, uh, heck.

Bobby was already inside when Tim arrived. The back rows were full. Bobby was sitting on the far left, as close to the back as he could get. Tim noted with relief that a few of the men present, unlike Bobby, were also dressed casually. He slipped into the pew beside the big man.

The choir, composed of eight women and four men dressed in black robes with gold stoles, made its entrance. Tim wished he had brought earplugs, remembering the beautiful sounds from his college choir and expecting the opposite from this group. The thought vanished when the small ensemble sang without accompaniment the call to worship,
Holy, Holy, Holy
. “They're pretty good,” Tim whispered to Bobby, who only nodded in reply.

Two men wearing dark suits and wine colored ties entered and sat stiffly in the pulpit chairs. One of them prayed after the choir sang the call to worship and then everybody sang a hymn with which Tim was not familiar.

Bobby identified the man serving as master-of-ceremonies as Deacon Jones who, with little explanation, read the letter of resignation from Pastor Baxter and urged everybody to pray for the mysteriously departed minister.

Tim thought he heard Bobby mutter, “Fat chance,” but wasn't sure. Scripture reading from an unfamiliar translation was followed by another hymn, announcements, the inevitable passing of the collection plate into which Tim deposited one dollar, and then a shock.

Deacon Jones, smiling broadly, said something about how happy he was to see a visitor in the congregation and asked Mr. Elliott to introduce his guest. Bobby stood and politely said, “My new boss, Mr. Tim Dollar."

Tim thought maybe he was supposed to stand up too, but, afraid that Deacon Jones would want him to say something, he remained seated. He was relieved when the Deacon started talking about having dinner on the grounds and what a wonderful spread the ladies always provided and please, everybody stay—there's plenty for everyone.

The choir sang an anthem. Tim was familiar with the rather difficult work,
Children of the Night
. They did a magnificent job. When the music dramatically stopped after a double forte passage, total silence prevailed. Chills ran up Tim's back as the music resumed with the warm pianissimo conclusion.

Deacon Jones again stood at the pulpit, but he did not speak for several seconds, wiping tears from his eyes. “I mean no disrespect, Rev. McGee,” Deacon Jones finally said, “but this is one of those Sundays when we don't need a sermon. Choir, that was wonderful."

Tim agreed, and smiled his approval.

“When I found out that Rev. Baxter would not be with us, I called the Department of Pastoral Care at the North Carolina Baptist Hospital,” Deacon Jones explained. “Rev. Mack McGee drove down from Winston to be with us today, and has agreed to preach for us a few weeks until we can decide what to do about a permanent pastor. Rev. McGee, we welcome you to Dot Baptist Church."

Tim hunkered down in the pew and wished he could slip out. The reason he quit going to church was that he had become ashamed to tell anyone he was a Southern Baptist. He was very disgusted with the political infighting within the convention between the fundamentalists and the liberals who didn't have the guts to call themselves what they were, preferring to use the lukewarm title of moderates. Now he was going to have to listen to a Southern Baptist preacher talk about biblical inerrancy and how the hand of God wrote every word of the Bible.

It didn't happen. Instead, the preacher told about how he became a Christian; how mean he was as a youth; how he became a pool shark and a hustler; how a police officer, taking him to jail on an assault charge, witnessed to him about the love of Jesus, the Christ.

The point of the sermon was to help people know how to hear the voice of God. Rev. McGee said he has never heard God's actual voice, and if he ever did, he would probably die of a heart attack. The congregation chuckled politely. He said different people hear the Lord in different ways, but sometimes misunderstand what God is saying. He told the old joke about the farm boy who thought God was calling him to “Go Preach” when one day while resting during the plowing of a field he saw fleecy white clouds form the letters “GP". After years of theological study and hardship, a deacon in his first church correctly interpreted the message for the young man. God was just telling him to “Go Plow."

Rev. McGee said that God seemed to communicate with him by opening some doors and closing others. The problem comes when either there seems to be no open doors, or there is more than one door open. “If all doors seem to be closed,” the preacher said, “keep looking. You've missed one. If more than one is open, investigate and choose the one that seems right."

At Bobby's insistence, Tim stayed for the picnic lunch of fried chicken, baked ham, deviled eggs, grape-leaf pickles and sweetened ice tea the ladies provided. He noticed that Bobby was talking in sentences—short sentences, but sentences nonetheless. Tim decided not to comment on it. He didn't like having to talk with these strangers, but he admitted they were very friendly. He made his escape as soon as he thought permissible. Bobby walked with him to his Mustang.

“Miss her?” Bobby asked.

“More than I can say,” Tim replied.

“Go get her."

“I don't know where she is."

“Please Stop Inn, room 13, just inside the city limits on the Old Charlotte Road."

Tim raced to his Mustang, but Bobby stopped him by banging on the fabric top. “Tell her about the new preacher."

“Why?"

“Just tell her."

Room 13, Tim thought as he raced the Mustang down the narrow highway. My lucky number.

“Please come home.” That wasn't what he planned to say when Sandra opened the door of her motel room. He intended to tell her how much he missed her. He meant to tell her how beautiful she is. He planned to tell her he needed her. He wanted to beg forgiveness for driving her off.

“How did you find me?” That wasn't what she wanted to say. She wanted to jump into his arms, cover him with kisses, take him to bed, tell him she missed him, beg him to let her share his life, plead with him to help her find a life.

“May I come in?"

She stepped aside, opening the door a little wider.

“Are you okay?” they asked simultaneously and broke out in nervous laughter.

“Sandy, please come home with me,” he repeated.

With tears swelling in her eyes, she replied, “I can't."

“Why?"

“I don't have a plan."

“Screw the plan,” he shouted, jumping up and kicking the corner of the bed. Turning to her he said, “Sandy, one of my many flaws is the tendency to impose my standards on other people. I need a plan, but that doesn't mean everybody else does."

“How did you find me?"

“Bobby told me."

“How did Bobby know?"

“I didn't ask. As soon as he told me I jumped in the Mustang and came here."

“I didn't expect you to come after me Tim. Why did you?"

“I don't know. Yes I do, damn it all. I missed you. The place was beginning to feel like home. I was getting together in my head a comfortable picture of the future. I didn't realize you were in that image so prominently."

“Are you trying to tell me you love me?"

Yes! Yes! Yes, his mind screamed, but his lips said, “I don't know. I just know I miss you. Sandy, I may never be able to love, really love, again. It just hurts too badly when love goes wrong. I do like you, Sandy. I do care about you. I care much more than I realized. Somehow, I need you to be a part of this chapter of my life. Please come home."