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“Yeah, well, no shit,” he snaps back. “To what do I owe the honor?”
I take a deep breath. He's probably still mad about that time twenty years ago that I wiped his own bar with his the left side of his face. Back when I did things like that.
“Owen says you guys had a conversation. I wanted to follow up.”
“Oh,” he says, the smirk clear in his voice. “You mean the piece of ass? Yeah, he told me all about her. You thinking to offload her?”
“More or less.”
“Well is it more? Or is it less?” he answers back. Clearly he's enjoying this conversation little bit more than I want him to. “I just want to be completely clear with you, preacher. So we’re totally on the record here. Are you calling to offer me a piece of juicy, untouched ass?”
I have to take several deep breaths to keep from hanging up on him.
“I'm calling to see if we could start a negotiation, yes,” I finally manage to say.
“Man, I love it when you holy types stoop to our level, you know that?” he sneers, and I hear him sucking his teeth. “Isn't hypocrisy supposed to be a sin or something?”
“Everyone has a purpose,” I answer, more for myself than for him. I remind myself that this may indeed be her purpose. She may indeed be what we need to continue. What's one life, if her service improves the lives of dozens of others? Isn’t that noble?
“Yeah, that's a funny word for it. Purpose. So what's this piece of church purpose going to cost me?”
“Six thousand,” I venture.
He sucks his teeth
again. The line nearly goes dead, and I suppose he's pressing the phone against his shirt so he can talk to someone else.
“No, eight thousand,” I correct myself.
“Eight thousand?” he practically coughs. “It must be the tightest fucking pussy that ever was! You’ll never see eight thousand. I don’t care if she keeps house like Mrs. Brady and fucks like Jenna Jameson in a nun outfit. None of these bitches —”
“She's worth it,” I cut him off.
The phone goes dead again. My heart is throbbing like it's going to burst.
“Bring her here. I need to see this miraculous virgin pussy for myself,” he snarls, and then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for just a second, then hang it back in the cradle.
I guess I just made a deal.
Angel
In the morning, I hear boots on the front porch. I creep to the door of my room and press my ear against it, eager to find out what's going on.
I hear Brother Owen's voice. What must he think of me? I just couldn't even tell them that I couldn’t see them. They probably thought I did it on purpose. They must be so angry.
Then I remember, I can open the door. I can. I don’t have to cower in here. I just need to do it.
My mother spins around, her mouth falling open she hears my door opening. I'm not supposed to do this, in her mind. Just taking a step into the living room is an act of audacity that is sure to enrage her.
But she has to be pleasant and controlled in front of Brother Owen. There's nothing she can do, and she knows it.
I watch her hands balling into fists next to her sides. Brother Owen takes a half step toward me.
“Are you feeling well? Mary suggested you were ill after work yesterday,” he says, but I know he doesn't believe any of this.
Still, I see the glint in his eye, the coldness. He's already decided that I don't have an excuse good enough for what I've done. It won't even make a difference that it wasn’t my fault.
