I keep telling him that I’m going to make things up to him now that I’m a partner. She frowned to herself. Great start, Patricia. You’re a selfish bitch.
She gave herself a final checkover in the mirror, happy that faded jeans, sneakers, and an old blouse wouldn’t be overdoing it for returning home. True, her bralessness left little to the imagination, but she hardly cared. Maybe I skipped the bra on purpose and just didn’t realize it? she wondered. Her breasts stretching the blouse and her nipples ghosting through it would leave her husband with a final sexy image of her when she left.
Ready. she thought. She took a breath and turned out the light. Then she went back outside, kissed her loving husband good-bye, and embarked on the three-hour drive that would take her back into the heart of her childhood memories—
—and the unbidden recollection of the awful thing that had happened to her so long ago.
(II)
Sometimes you just can’t win. The thought occurred to him when he opened his wallet and saw but four single dollar bills in there just after he’d walked in to the Donut King at the edge of town. A dozen doughnuts, by the way, cost $4.69, and he didn’t dare ask Trey for the extra.
That would be humiliating. After all, Sutter was the chief.
So he bought one doughnut and a cup of coffee and walked out.
“Cuttin’ back?” Trey asked. “Usually ya git yourself a dozen.”
“Yeah,” he lied. “Doc said to lose weight if I wanna live to collect my Social fuckin’ Security. I’ve been payin’ into the bitch for damn near fifty years, so I ain’t gonna let myself get ripped off.”
It would be just his luck, wouldn’t it?
Chief Sutter wasn’t generally prone to cynicism, an attitude he was inclined to regard as unhealthy. He was a levelheaded man, a fair one and probably more goodhearted than most police chiefs nearing retirement. Father Darren at church reminded them every Sunday that taking for granted what one had was a sin, sort of a slap to the face of God, Who’d made this world and everything in it as a gift to mankind. Every day above ground was a good day, a blessing and another opportunity to celebrate the joy of life, and most would probably agree.
Fuck me and the horse I rode in on, came the sour thought.
Even good men had bad days, and that was what Chief Sutter woke up to this morning, his three hundred-pound frame smothered in a swelter, and his wife, who weighed not much less, snoring like a mountain gorilla. The air conditioner had crapped out overnight—what a splendid thing to happen in the South, during summer’s tightest squeeze.
It would probably cost him two grand to replace, and with the two mortgages, property taxes going up, and a wife who’d maxed out the credit cards, Chief Sutter didn’t know what he was going to do.
Just ain’t right, he thought later, on his way to the station. I’ve worked my ass off my whole damn life helping other people, and what have I got to show for it?
Not much, right now. Just a lot of debt, and damn little satisfaction.
“Still bothered about your money problems?” Trey asked from the passenger seat. Sgt. William Trey was Sutter’s second in charge and officially the department’s deputy chief. Second in charge didn’t mean a whole lot on a two-man police department, but Sutter figured he deserved the acknowledgment. Trey was fifty now but tended to still act like the brazen, feisty cockhound he’d been when Sutter’d hired him almost three decades ago. A local boy with good intentions, and who respected his home. He sort of looked like Tom Cruise, if Tom Cruise had never made it. But he was still agile and fairly fit, which—considering his weight—Sutter sadly was not. When he needed someone to jump over a fence to run down some punks, Sutter was glad for such a deputy. And he had a way of painting a bad situation with a happier color. “Look at it this way, Chief. All married men got money problems. Take us, for example. We both got wives the size of a coupla full-grown Berkshire hogs, and the only difference is they eat more than a coupla full-grown Berkshire hogs. That costs money, Chief, and it’s the husband’s job to provide it. A fat wife is a sign that a man is providin’ for her, which is what God wants.”
Chief Sutter appreciated the spin but wasn’t sure if it was working.
“We‘se both married in the eyes of the Lord; that’s how it’s supposed to be,” Trey went on. “You’re not seein’ my point now, are ya?”
“Well . . .”
“Here’s what Father Darren would say. Why is it you think you ain’t got enough money?”
“Well, ’cos—”
“’Cos yer wife spends half the money you work your ass off for on food, and you spend the other half on keepin’ a roof over her head and her big ass in a car, right?”
Sutter gave him an alarmed glance. “Yeah, and it’s a right pain in the ass and it’s pissin’ me off.”
Trey nodded knowingly. “And here’s what Father Darren would say. He’d say that a wife who’s fat ‘n’ happy is the wife of a God-lovin′ man, a man who’s doin’ his best to live by His laws.”
Sutter blinked. “That what he’d say?”
“You can roger that, Chief, and here’s why. ‘Cos if yer fine wife, June, was bone-skinny and didn’t have no cable TV, or no car a’ her own, and had ta live in a shit little house, then that′d mean that you weren’t livin’ by His laws.”
Sutter sighed. “I hope you’re right, Trey, but what ya don’t understand is I’m chokin’ on a right shitload of debt, and now I somehow gotta find me two grand for a new air conditioner. I’m real happy that I’m livin’ by God’s laws, but I sure don’t see God buyin′ me a new air conditioner.”
Trey pointed. “But don’t ya see? He will. All you gotta do is ask Him. God provides to those who rightly deserve His provisions. Do it right now, in yer head. Ask God ta forgive ya for not managin’ your finances proper, and ask Him to help ya out. Go on. Do it. Remember what Father Darren says: A man should never be embarrassed to talk to God.”
Sutter slumped behind the wheel of the cruiser. Can’t hurt, I guess. He closed his eyes and prayed: God, what I’m askin′ ya to do is to forgive me for bein′ selfish ′n′ ungrateful ’n’ for takin′ your gifts for granted. Forgive me for not lookin’ hard enough to see how you want things to be, and forgive me for not managin′ my finances proper and for lettin′ things get outta hand. I need your help, God, and I mean I really, really need the scratch for a new air conditioner, ’cos if I can’t dig it up, June’ll be whinin’ worse than a truckload of weasels. . . .