Joe's Black T-Shirt Page 8

  The pastor nodded and pretended to agree, almost caring. He was concerned with an economy going to hell in a handbasket. Marva was pleasant and whatnot, but he did not miss her.

  “How long had she been here?” John asked

  “Forty-one years,” Pastor Maury said. He knew this information because none of the members would be quiet about it once her retirement was announced. It wasn’t until he had made a statement from the Wednesday night pulpit, revealing the church would continue to provide full medical benefits along with Marva’s meager pension that the congregation accepted the change. Besides, Pastor Maury furtively thought, she couldn’t last much longer anyhow. How much could it cost? He would have to ask John if the church’s liability in the matter could be absorbed through a tax shelter.

  “That’s an amazing duration for any one person, especially a secretary.”

  “Yes, quite,” the Pastor said. “I was wondering about---”

  John would not give in. For a change they would talk about what was on his mind. “How long will Debbie be with us?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Pastor Maury asked.

  “I don’t mean to complain, but how soon will it be before the board hires someone permanently? With her family and David’s commitments to both work and the church, she is certainly needed at home and, quite frankly, we can’t afford to be without a competent secretary to keep a sense of normalcy around the office.”

  “I sent you an e-mail,” the pastor said, “but of course, I should have formally told you the good news.”

  John thought back to the abundance of spam and nuisance correspondence in his Yahoo account he had deleted. Six hundred messages whittled down to a respectable seventy-five, but he had checked ignore in regard to any church bulletins.

  “Debbie is the new secretary. Marva formally recommended her to the board by letter and, in your absence, we unanimously agreed.” Worried, Pastor Maury asked, “Is there a problem?”

  John’s sour mood was instantly resolved. “No,” he said. “I feel stupid for bringing it up.”

  Over the next two hours, John randomly made up answers to the pastor’s random questions, happy to play court jester to the fool king. It was the least he could do after he had given him so much.

  ***

  Debbie was a wonderful secretary. Before she had dedicated herself to bearing David’s children, she had graduated second in her class from Patricia Stevens College. Nothing had been lost in the interim.

  The office, barely functional under Marva’s wheezing guidance, was now a well-oiled machine. Debbie had purged the bloated cabinets and re-organized the files. Due to her intimate knowledge of church policy she could screen phone calls from solicitors and parishioners alike. The flood of nonsensical crap the office had grown accustomed to was no longer an issue. She came in early and could usually stay late. Debbie was a dream come true.

  John couldn’t wait to leave home in the morning to see her, to intentionally engage her in long-winded, phony conversations. He delighted overtly in every word. Respectfully she waited on him as he lasciviously undressed her in his mind. John perversely imagined her obeying his every whim in nothing but her high heels and thigh-high stockings. It was far better than his evenings at home with Nancy. His plain, stay-at-home wife found him boring, his work even more boring, and sex a rudimentary chore to be performed. He envied David. If Debbie was as good in bed as she was in this office, no wonder the guy hadn’t a complaint in the world.

  On the day of her six-month review, Pastor Maury had been invited to speak at the annual non-denominational convention of ministers. The evaluation he would have normally doled out with all the passion of a DMV clerk fell to John.

  John called Debbie into his office and asked her to close the door. She sat down across from him with her steno pad in her lap prepared to take dictation. The sound as she crossed her legs of her nylons rubbing between her thighs gave him a powerful erection. Never in his life had he been so glad to have a desk covering his lap.

  “Debbie,” John said, “I normally wouldn’t do this, but in the absence of the pastor certain things need to be addressed.” Pastor Maury had given him a handwritten set of notes to go over with her. His chief complaint was that of her attire.

  He was concerned because some of the elders had complained that she should choose clothing more demure. Also, that she should quit wearing her hair long and loose, that it should be bound neatly, such as a the tight fitting bun that was Marva’s hairstyle. The absurd list concluded with a ridiculous caveat that Debbie should wait to make personal calls until her breaks or lunch hour. In parenthesis he had added (ask if she has a cell phone).

  This came from the man who’s car was leased by the church, his home mortgage was paid by the church, who used a church credit card to buy tailor made clothes and who had three different country club memberships all paid for by the church. What a prick, John thought.

  There wasn’t a single positive comment on the Pastor’s list. John tore the note into little pieces and tossed them into the trashcan behind his chair. Without a prepared statement, he could feel his pulse begin to accelerate. He wanted to tell her what a wonderful job he thought she was doing, how the pastor could go soak his head if he thought any different, but was afraid he would blurt out something imprudent about her hair or her clothes or her wonderful tits.

  “John,” Debbie asked, “are you all right?”

  “Huh?” he answered. John was so consumed by the moment he didn’t quite register what she was talking about.

  “You’re sweating,” she said. Debbie set her pen and pad down hastily and snatched a handful of tissues kept on John’s desk. One after another, with the flair a magician would pull colorful scarves from his sleeve Debbie gathered tissues. John never imagined there were so many.

  Positioned behind him, she nestled him atop her breasts as she mopped his brow. He felt wonderfully helpless.

  Debbie asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You might have the flu. Maybe you should go home and rest.”

  At the mention of home, he sat up, and pulled away from her body. The mere thought brought an immediate vision of Nancy to mind.

  “No, I don’t think it’s that serious,” he said.

  She hadn’t moved, still holding the damp tissues, her mid-section next to his ear. It was madness for him having her so close, to treat him with such intimacy. He had heard stories of how junkies got hooked the first time they experimented with drugs. This was how he felt. Addicted to this enchanting, tender creature without the means to satisfy his ravenous appetite.

  Unsure of herself, Debbie deposited the used tissues into the wastebasket, among the bits and pieces of the pastor’s note, and returned to her seat. The deep consideration for her boss hadn’t left her face. John could have asked anything of her from rubbing his shoulders to sitting in his lap stroking his hair and she would have done it. It was her nature.

  “Debbie,” he said pointing to the blank six-month review except for her name and the date, “this will have to wait. I’m too hungry to focus.”

  She nodded, collected her few items, and went to the door. As she put her hand on the knob to leave, John asked, “Can I buy you lunch?”

  A rush of fresh air infiltrated the closed quarters as she opened the door. No wonder he had been sweating. Debbie flipped her hair over her shoulder and out of her eyes. The smile on her face never faded as she answered. “That would be wonderful. I’ll get my purse.”

  John watched her walk to gather her things and began sweating worse than before. He grabbed a thick wad of tissues from the thin cardboard box to dab away the fresh perspiration across his brow. He felt nervous, as if he were about to vomit. Maybe he really was sick? He stood but had to steady himself against his desk as he put on his suit coat. His asking her out to lunch was spontaneous, accidental even, yet entirely irrevocable.

  Debbie fluffed her hair over her collar and shouldered her purse be
fore she walked over to John. The hook of her arm inside his felt natural. His sweat had ceased and the ill feeling instantly passed. He was lighter than air and could barely remember all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this as he escorted her to his Escalade.

  ***

  He had chosen an Irish pub in Westport Plaza recommended by The Riverfront Times. John remembered three distinct things from that article: it was located forty minutes away from work, the food was considered authentic, and the atmosphere was private.

  They sat in a crescent booth, cozy next to one another. John had ordered a Guinness, explaining away the refreshment to Debbie as ‘when in Rome.’ In the spirit of friendship, she said she should have one herself. After one taste, she gagged on the dark beer’s heavy malt and bitter taste. Embarrassed she explained that she usually never drank much more than a flute of Champagne at New Year’s Eve. Unconcerned, John ordered her a Long Island Iced Tea and kept her beer for himself. She found this drink much more to her liking. By the time the food arrived, both drinks were history.

  The large servings of wedge cut fries, Ruben sandwiches piled high with corned beef and sauerkraut were effective in distilling the effects from alcohol. The salty food was best chased with ice water to cleanse their pallets.

  They ate without much comment or small talk. John barely tasted his food as he watched the humped flesh of Debbie’s breast through an opening in her yellow blouse. It was the kind of thing a high-school boy would find exhilarating, and though he did feel some regret, hopeful to see a hint of areola, he did not stop.

  He wasn’t half done with his meal by the time Debbie mopped the juices and catsup skid marks from her plate. John watched her suckle her bare finger, moaning with pleasure. He thought he might faint.

  “John,” Debbie said admonishing him.

  A cold wave doused his every lecherous thought. How could he begin to apologize? He wasn’t sorry for what he was thinking, only for getting caught. He tried to formulate and excuse, but the master of bullshit found himself speechless.

  “You’ve made a mess.”

  Debbie dabbed a linen napkin in her water glass and began to wipe sandwich dressing from his tie. She leaned her head beneath his chin without a thought. Her amazing scent rushed his senses. The desire to push her head down into his lap, to engulf him wholly into her mouth as she had her finger made him shudder.

  John pulled away abruptly as Debbie still held his tie.

  “I’m afraid it’s ruined,” she said annoyed.

  Urgent to use the restroom, he excused himself, and scooted out from the booth.

  He splashed the cold tap water on his face and stared at his flush reflection. His cheeks were crimson red. The idea of locking himself away in the handicapped stall to masturbate occurred to him.

  John shook the notion off, un-knotted his tie, and inspected the stain for himself. The tie was a gift from Nancy. He never liked it and threw it away with pleasure. He unbuttoned his collar, then the button below it. He liked what he saw. Without that restrictive yoke, a small tuft of gray and black chest hair poked out from beneath his white undershirt. He had other ties, a drawer full back at the office he could easily replace it with. He would be surprised if Nancy noticed when he came home.

  Debbie waited at the table for John to return. He had planned not to even sit with her again. He would explain they needed to get back to the office. That he had to prepare some suddenly remembered urgent report and he would never, ever do this again.

  Before he could say a word, he noticed Debbie had ordered a thick slice of chocolate cake with two forks.

  She giggled as he sat next to her again. Debbie spread open his collar for him so that the lapels rested outside of his jacket. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a tie,” she said. “You look ten years younger.”

  She handed him a fork and together they shared the indulgent dessert. The sweet taste melted in their mouths, hardly necessary to chew before swallowing.

  John ordered two more drinks while asking the waitress for the check. This lunch could not have been more satisfying than if he had found a million dollars in cash. He signed the receipt and generously added a forty-percent tip, more out of appreciation for the company than the service.

  ***

  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.
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  ***

  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.”