Joe's Black T-Shirt (18 page)

That was until the big party seven weeks ago. Bobby was drunk, she was high, and, shit happens.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

Karen wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him three positive EPTs couldn’t be wrong. That she didn’t know what she was going to do, how she could ever tell her mom and dad, but all that came out was a squeak followed by her uncontrollable tears.

Bobby held her to his chest, her sobs muffled inside his black t-shirt. He understood what this meant and knew there was but one unattractive option. It wasn’t like he ever intended on marrying her or that he was in love with her, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to pay child support. A kid would fuck up all his plans.

At twenty years old, Bobby was the best drummer in St. Louis. In less than a month, his band would be going to L.A. This bullshit couldn’t have come at a worse time. He patted her back with a sure hand soothing Karen with false promises. “It’s going to be all right. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll fix everything.”

Karen stopped crying. At rest against her boyfriend’s chest she wasn’t sure what he had in mind. The comfort of his beating heart in her eardrum drowned out the world and all its problems. If he said it would be okay then she believed him. He had told her many times, late at night post-coitus that he was going to be a rock star. That he would have a mansion and cars and money. She believed every word, and even though he hadn’t said it outright, she was certain those plans included her.

It was the next day Bobby picked her up from school in his van. Karen wanted to know where they were going, but he refused to tell her.

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

She was letdown when they arrived in the unknown driveway. It was attached to a plain, simple house like the others in the subdivision bordering Grant’s Farm. She could see the multi-car trolley from the passenger seat slowly roll along, full of tourists and little kids among the wild buffalo.

“This is the surprise?” she asked. Bobby was by far the most exciting person she had ever known.

He introduced her to his friends. He gave her alcohol, weed, and had been her first lover. Bobby had indoctrinated her into the real world. Her life had become a sensational blur of new experiences with him she couldn’t have conceived three and a half months ago. Even in her worst times, puking her guts into a toilet, he was there holding back her hair. She trusted him more than any person in her life.

“The surprise is inside,” he said.

Bobby was smiling, but it was forced. Not the casual, devilish grin he usually wore. Still, this did not bother her. She believed whatever he had planned would be something to cherish for a lifetime.

Karen walked the short path to the front door holding Bobby’s hand. She could hear the bell ring inside and her mind hopefully wandered. Maybe this was his dad’s house. She knew Bobby’s mother had left when he was little, but he had spoke occasionally about his father. How he believed in him, bought him his first drum-kit at four, and paid for lessons until he was thirteen. That’s what this must be. They couldn’t get married. Hell, even she knew that, but they could share their secret with somebody who might understand. A man who would in theory adopt her, helping her with the trials that were ahead while waiting patiently for Bobby’s return.

The door opened and a man with thick glasses and a bushy gray mustache greeted them. He perfunctorily shook each of their hands, inviting them inside. Karen noticed how filthy his fingernails looked. She tried clumsily to wipe away his handshake by using the backside of her jeans. His appearance was in alignment to his hygiene. The pants he wore were stained, as was his Hawaiian shirt. There was a distinct odor in the home Karen could not place. It was something between falling face first into a pile of dirty laundry and a girl’s locker room.

They followed the man through the disheveled rooms, down a flight of creaky wooden stairs, to a dimly lit basement. It was an average suburban romper room full of abandoned, but still useful furniture.

The man and Bobby, as if in rehearsed collusion, cleared boxes and assorted bric-a-brac from a lopsided pool table. A single light hung above it, casting an intense glare over the green felt.

The man sat down in a wheeled office chair at the end where the balls were traditionally racked. Karen could hear the tink of metal against metal and see the occasional brilliant silver flash as the man organized his surgical instruments instead.

Bobby walked over to her and took her hand, leading Karen toward the game table. She followed with no more resistance than a lamb to be slaughtered.

The man instructed her to remove her pants and underwear. Uncertain and modest in the presence of the stranger, Bobby coaxed her. He told not to worry that this guy was a friend and that he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Are you sure about this, Bobby?” Karen asked.

Bobby hugged her reassuringly and kissed her gently upon her forehead.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” he said.

Nude from the waist down, Karen sat with her legs spread before the man with each heel secured inside a leather pocket. Bobby, per the man’s instructions, sat behind her, propping her up, but mainly to keep her from moving once the procedure began.

“This might pinch a bit,” the man said.

The pain was magnificent. Her groin felt as if had been intentionally set on fire and the man was thoughtlessly injecting her with gasoline.

Bobby was strong and until this moment she had loved that about him. He was relentless in his grip. She was no match for the power either man held over her body.

Twenty minutes later, the man and Bobby helped Karen onto a musty smelling couch allowing her to rest. The pain had nowhere near subsided, making her weak and helpless. The shame of lying on the couch was compounded as Bobby and the man laughed, talking like familiar old friends. The worst though was when she saw her beloved boyfriend paying the man and him counting the bills in his blood-stained hands.

This was nothing more than a business transaction between men and she the debasing reason that brought them together. Before blacking out, she realized she was not special to Bobby, that this wasn’t the first time he had participated in such a grotesque party with this man, and how stupid she was for ever thinking that he loved her.

Karen woke in the hospital screaming. The sterile white room was empty. When the nurse came in, she was disappointed that it was not Bobby. The pain was gone, but she felt very different down there.

The nurse was nice and held her hand. She explained how her parents had rushed her to the ER in the nick of time to save her life. She was lucky to be alive after this sort of thing.

“I do have some bad news though,” the nurse said. “I’m not really sure if it is my place to tell you or not, but I think if it was me, I would want to know.”

“What?”

“The doctors did everything they could dear, but there was so much damage.”

Karen knew what she was going to say. Bobby, in his selfishness, had taken from her the one, precious gift all women clung to for redemption.

“You’re condition was declared critical. The only way to save your life was a hysterectomy.” The nurse paused, then asked, “Do you know what that is, sweetie?”

Nodding her head yes, Karen knew. She had read about it in a book once. Afterwards, the main character lost her mind and killed herself. She had no desire to do likewise, yet the idea of castrating Bobby to level the scales felt well enough.

The nurse held Karen’s hand while she cried. Her emotions ran the gamut from loss, to rage, to grief, to humiliation all at once.

“There, there, dear,” the nurse said, “everything will be better in the morning.”

***

Karen had almost marked the e-mail spam. It had been weeks since her cathartic, honest answer to the question that seemed to control her life. It had felt good to put everything into writing, to re-live it via hindsight.

Hello and felicitations Karen,

You’re response has been thoroughly reviewed by the Elder tribunal. It is their unanimous decision that you’re heart is without the underlying motives of greed, jealousy, or contempt.

On behalf of the Council of New Souls, we invite you to come as our guest, to sit among us, judge us with the same scrutiny that has been applied to you. As it is written, ‘Many are called, few are chosen.’

There is a link attached to this communication. If you should decide to come, please respond to it likewise. If not, then we bid you peace and good will.

All that we ask before you answer is that you would find a quiet place, guaranteed to be free from interruption, and seek God’s will. This may be the end of the journey or its sanctified beginning. That alone you must decide.

Sincerely,

Disciple Danielle

Order of Messengers

[email protected]

She printed a copy, placed it in her purse, and took it with her to work.

Re-reading the e-mail several times, she evaluated it for the overall content, dissecting paragraphs and phrases. Karen made her best efforts to read between the lines, but couldn’t help feeling like she had won something expensive.

By lunch, she had accomplished little in the way of work. Her normal high volume would offset a non-productive morning such as this. Karen had already surpassed her monthly quota and was certain that after lunch she could get back into the flow of things.

At noon, she as well as her co-workers stopped their work in unison. No one was allowed to finish whatever precious document he or she found themselves assigned. Furthermore, no one could return to their station and begin working so much as one second before one o’clock. A computer program enforced the strictness. It locked out all users should some incompetent clerk try to sneak back in to meet their quotas. Karen felt sorry for anybody with such desperate thoughts.

Admittedly, times were hard and good jobs like these were difficult to find, but either you had it or you didn’t. Every month she would be introduced to a smiling, new face eager to confront the challenge she had found less than demanding for ten years. Karen was a natural born ringer for such mundane work. It suited her fine to sit and type whatever was put on her desk. She never questioned its purpose or principal and at the end of the day, couldn’t have told you what she had been privileged to if injected with sodium pentothal. That was usually what made somebody leave. Not the idea of quotas, although it was normally cited as the reason for termination.

Her department strictly transcribed documents from dictation. It was no longer a shock to see a new co-worker bolt upright alarmed. Management gave, at most, one free pass to new hires. Often, a senior manager would have a private meeting with the individual. Afterwards the employee would either leave or suck it up. Not many stayed longer than a year.

Karen was one of four who had been there the longest. The others rarely spoke to her as they had nothing outside of work in common. She didn’t mind though. If the roles were reversed, there was no doubt she would have done the same.

Karen left the building and walked to a dedicated greenspace three blocks away. It was generally a hangout for homeless men. At night it was dangerous, but during the Monday through Friday lunch hour it was relatively safe and the bums left her alone.

She ate her plain lunch of peanut butter and honey on toasted wheat bread, washing down the thick sustenance with bottled water. Karen ate slowly and thought about the electronic invitation. She would be forty this year. Outside an associates degree, owning a fuel-efficient foreign car, and her failed attempts at authorship, she had done nothing to prove her life. As she re-read the folded copy, Karen thought maybe these people could show her a way to fill the void.

By the time she walked back to the office she had made up her mind. The joy that came with such a confident, forthright decision reflected in her work. Without effort, Karen doubled her normal speed and by three o’clock had to ask her supervisor for a new work batch. Unimpressed, the office matron handed her a sealed manila envelope marked ‘CONFIDENTAL.’ Desperate not to arouse suspicion, Karen walked indifferently back to her desk although the excitement of her recent decision made her want to caper like a little girl.

***

Still in her coat and sensible shoes, she answered the e-mail forgetting her keys in the front door’s lock. She had explained in an overtly lengthy response that she felt led to visit. After forty-five minutes of writing, editing, and worrying, she clicked the send icon. Aloud, she told herself, “Here goes nothing.”

The computer binged before she could go to the door to retrieve her remembered keys. Disciple Danielle had responded informally with a time and address they could meet. The quick response surprised Karen and hoped that she had not wasted all that effort to explain her decision to an auto-mailer.

She disregarded the negative thought and used Map-Quest to get directions. The estimated drive time was twenty-seven minutes. If she left now, Karen could be at the Crestwood location with five minutes to spare. It was made clear to her this was a one-time opportunity, and despite the short notice, should she fail to come or be late, there would not be a second chance.

Certain there wasn’t another moment to lose, Karen printed the directions, and rushed to her car forgetting to lock the front door.

***

The address was a mid-sized warehouse located behind the mall. Its plain brown brick façade was interrupted by nothing but a pair of aluminum framed doors. The glass had been tinted black and was impossible to see through. Save for the appliquéd white numbers in stark contradiction to the doors, Karen would have had not believed this was the headquarters for God’s Chosen People.