Dear Wife(75)

And then I see the rest of the room and I freeze.

“What’s wrong?” she says, taking in my expression. “What happened?”

I don’t answer because I can’t. I am rigid with shock, my entire body frozen at the spectacle that is Miss Sally’s room. It looks like something out of a movie set. Dark and blood red, with sculpted molding and carved furniture, Victorian behemoths with stubby clawed feet. There’s velvet everywhere, rich maroon and burgundy lined in fringe and hung with tassels. Even the walls are papered in it, lit up with an occasional filigreed brass lamp.

And on every horizontal surface, on the tables and cabinets and elaborately carved stands, are sculptures of very large, very erect penises. It’s like Moulin Rouge meets gay porn, an orgy of Belle Epoque with homosexual brothel.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. “What is this place? Where am I?”

“You like it, huh?” Miss Sally sinks onto an overstuffed love seat, patting the cushion beside her. “Now come on. You sit down and tell Miss Sally what happened. What’s got you all in a tizzy?”

I tear my gaze off a ruby dildo lamp, telling her the two-second version: “I kneed the pastor’s son in the balls, and now I have to leave.”

Disappointment flashes across her face. “Wait a minute. You don’t just knee some poor sucker in the balls, not without a reason. There’s got to be more to the story than that. Miss Sally wants to know what it is.”

“As much as I’d love to tell you everything, I don’t have time. I used this address on my job application.”

“So, you’re leaving.” Miss Sally is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.

I nod, acknowledging an unexpected pang. I didn’t realize until now how much I’ll miss Morgan House, how much I’ve come to think of it as home, even if only a temporary one. I sink onto the couch next to her, brushing away the sadness. The police will be here any minute. It’s past time to go.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Well, it’s past noon,” she says, crossing her long legs. Under her white eyelet skirt, they’re lotioned into a high shine, reflecting in the room’s dim light like glass. “I’ll have to charge you through tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. How much?”

I expect her to check a list, to pull up some file on her computer or at the very least, reach for a calculator, but she rattles off a number without the slightest hesitation, like Rain Man. “One hundred and twenty dollars.”

I peel off the bills and hand them to her. “Can I borrow a piece of paper and a pen?”

She stands, fetching some from a sideboard on the opposite wall. Perfumed stationery and a fountain pen, of course. I kneel, scribbling my message on a glass-topped side table. When I’m done, I fold it twice, write Martina’s name on the outside and hand it to Miss Sally.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she says, pocketing the note.

“I will when I get there.”

Miss Sally gives me a sad smile. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

“You bet. And thanks for everything. I’m really going to miss this place.”

She grabs me by a shoulder and yanks me in for a hug. I wasn’t expecting it, and for the first few seconds, stand stiff as a board in her arms, but she smells so good and her breasts are like two giant, soft pillows against my cheek, so I relax and give in to the embrace even though the clock is ticking. She pats me on the back with a giant paw, murmurs into my hair, “Poor, sweet girl. It gets easier, you know.”

“What does?”

She cranes back her head to look down, arching her back, and something unexpected presses into my leg. “Running. Starting over. But you’re smart, and you’re stronger than you know. You’ll find your place.”

It’s all I can do to nod.

She releases me, waving a rose-scented hand through the air. “Now get out of here. I’ve got shit to do.”

A few seconds later, I’m racing down the backstreets to where I parked my car, a couple blocks away, thinking that’s one mystery solved, at least. Miss Sally’s boobs might be bigger than mine, but she definitely wasn’t born female.

Dear Martina,
Sorry I ditched you today, and sorrier still that I lied. As usual, you were right. I’m the one who took the money from Charlene’s desk. I know, I know—stealing from a church is pretty much a one-way ticket to hell, but I had my reasons. Valid ones, I promise. Tell the Reverend it was me, will you? Make him point the police away from you and the cleaning crew. And tell everybody, too, that I’m really, truly sorry.
Thanks for everything—for Jorge, for the job, for your friendship. Especially the last one. One day, when all of this is behind me, I hope I can come back to thank you in person.
Be safe.
XO,
Beth
  When it comes to finding a new place to stay, the two thousand dollars from Charlene’s top desk drawer and the Georgia ID in my pocket have certainly broadened my search parameters. I don’t dare to turn on my phone, which I powered down as I was running out the church door, so I drive to a new part of town and putter up and down random streets until I spot a motel advertising rooms for the bargain-basement price of twenty-two dollars a night. It’s an ancient three-story building wedged into the downtown connector, one wing literally hanging over the overpass, which probably explains the price. One semi too many rumbling by its shabby walls, and they’ll come crumbling down.