Pay Day

Two Wednesdays in a row Vandalia tore holes in Mark’s butt via the telephone when he insisted he had no paychecks for her.

            “Come to the warehouse in two weeks, Van,” he said. His hand visored his forehead as he focused on the calendar desk blotter in front of him. “Charlie promised he’d stop by and see us that Wednesday ‘round about quitting time. You can duke it out with him then.”

            Van took Mark up on his offer. Showed up  at five that day with the two kids incarcerated in their car seats from what we could tell when we peeked outside.

            Mom O. tiptoed over to the window and hipped Jason out of the way. Pincer-gripped the curtain and tugged it to the left an inch.

            “What on earth did that girl do to her hair?” she said over her shoulder. “It’s the color of blacktop now. And since when was it that long? How could she possibly think that looks natural?”

             When Charlie finally showed up, Van followed him into the office. It seemed as if Charlie, like Mom O., didn’t know quite what to make of Van’s hair. After she gave him a half-hearted squeeze, he walked around behind her. Grabbed a hank of hair near her part and followed it down to the bottom. Then he just stood there, futzing with the ends. We weren’t sure if the glint in his eye was because he found it attractive or because he thought it silly.

            Van wriggled free then reached into her voluminous handbag and produced a sheaf of papers. She held them out to Charlie.

            “Here,” she said. “I got you some more job applications. ‘Cept these ones are for around here.” She sidled back up to Charlie. Rubbed against his side like a cat. “I want you to quit that fracking job out west. I don’t like you being that far away.”

            Charlie smirked. “Why, Van,” he said, “don’t tell me you actually missed me.”

            Her face didn’t change as she plotted her words. “Of course I did, silly. It’s hard doing everything alone. Plus without you, the kids won’t go to sleep at night for nothing.”

            Charlie’s grin increased. “And then there's the fact the kitchen doesn’t get cleaned, the toys picked up. The laundry doesn’t get folded and put away. The—”

            Van gripped Charlie’s arm so that her violet fingernails disappeared. Her eyes flitted around the room, attempting to gauge our opinions.

            “Charlie, stop that,” she said. “You’ll give folks the wrong idea. Fact is, I do miss you. A lot. And besides . . .” Her voice trailed off as she splayed her fingers on either side of the zipper on her snug-fitting, low rider jeans. She made sure her eyelashes were fanned out just so on her creamy cheeks before she spoke again.

            “There’s more,” she said. “I had hoped to tell you this when we were alone but you’re forcing my hand here.” She raised her gaze. Pursed her lips to redistribute their ruby shine. “I’m . . . We’re . . . gonna have another baby.”

            As one, our jaws dropped. In the next instant, we found ourselves puzzled by Charlie’s lack of reaction. Without so much as a glimpse at her, he dug deep into the cargo pocket down by his knee and withdrew a granola bar. Didn’t speak until he had the package open.

            “Funny you should mention that,” he said. “There’s something I had hoped to discuss with you in private as well. Seeing as how you’re laying things out in the open, I may as well do the same.”

            Charlie lowered himself onto the folding chair beside Jason. Took a bite of his bar. Chewed thoroughly. Swallowed.

            “You know how Davey and Kendra have been trying for years to have a baby?”

            Van leaned on the door jamb, taking care to arrange her straightened black hair behind her shoulders first. She nodded.

            Charlie licked his pinky and used it to get the last bits of granola out of the bottom of the wrapper.

            “Seems their lack of babies is Davey’s fault,” Charlie said. “They told me that the first night I was out in Colorado, at supper.”

            Van’s face remained blank. Like she could care less about Davey and Kendra’s quandary.

            “So they asked if I’d—”

            Van straightened. The sudden intake of her breath made a scraping sound in the hollow quiet of the room. In the next moment, her face reconfigured. Into someone, something, decidedly less attractive.

             “Please tell me they don’t want you—”

            Charlie rolled his trash into a ball, squinted, and arc'd it at the garbage can.

            “He shoots. He scores,” Adam said without enthusiasm.

            Charlie produced a beef jerky stick from his back pocket. Met Van’s gaze as he stripped off the plastic.

            “Actually they do. They wanted me to help them have a baby.”

            It sounded weird.  Charlie using the past tense.

            Vandalia rooted in her purse and produced her pink satin makeup bag. Unzipped it and proceeded to attend to her lip ritual. She lined, primed, painted, blotted, and glossed. When she was finished, Charlie spoke.

            “I told ’em yes. But then in the screening process, Davey and I discovered yet another thing we have in common besides our passion for American Idol.”

            Everyone but Van figured out what was coming next.

            “I’m sterile, Van,” Charlie said. “Just like Davey. Something about us both having mumps real bad when we were little.” Charlie pointed to Vandalia’s stomach. “That baby in your belly? And Jeremiah and Hannah? They’re not mine either. You got any idea whose they might be?”

            Vandalia’s grape-colored fingernails scraped the doorframe as she clutched it with both hands. To keep from collapsing.

            She swallowed before she spoke. “You’re wrong, Charlie,” she said in words that seemed mustard colored. “Of course they're yours. They’re—”

            Charlie studied his hands as he meticulously dissected the jerky wrapper into thin strands. We sat in silence as we waited for him to say something else. Finally he glanced up.

            “They tested me more than once, Van. Turns out, you’re the one who’s wrong.”

            The air in the office felt instantly thick. With a buzzy quality to it. An odd odor, not unlike that of a threatened rabbit, seemed to suddenly take precedence over Vandalia’s Estee Lauder perfume.

            Charlie stood then. Fished in his jacket pocket for keys.

            “I showed the doctor, the fertility specialist, the pictures of Jeremiah and Hannah I keep in my wallet,” he told Vandalia. “He laughed, the son of a bitch, when I swore up and down they were my babies. Advised me to schedule a paternity test. Before he left the exam room, he said the strangest thing.”

            “What?” Jason said. His eyes were wide and eager to know. “What did he say?”

            Charlie singled out his ignition key. “He said, ‘You’re from a small town, Charlie. Pay attention. You see a guy with wavy red hair and blue eyes, that’s your woman’s baby daddy.'”

             Sweat slicked my palms and armpits as the temperature in the room seemed to soar all of a sudden. My face felt like it might combust or even explode. The minute they all turned and stared. At me.

(This is the final installment of a short story. If you'd like to read the whole piece, go to June posts and start with "Vandalia and Charlie.")

No Ordinary Joe

She is dead to me. I tried to speak the words. Instead I swallowed them, bitter as bile, moments after Mother delivered the news.

            “Sit,” she said when I entered the room for the midday meal. She pushed a cup across the table. More wine than water. “Drink.”

            Parched from the morning’s work and wood dust, I gulped the contents. Mother used her hip to nudge me over on the bench. Covered my hands with hers.

            “It is thickening, Joseph,” she said.

            My eyes narrowed. “What is?”

            Mother brushed my knuckles with her thumb. “Her waist,” she said. “Your Mary’s.”

            My Mary? At first I didn’t understand. Her waist? What? Then I knew. I coughed. Couldn’t stop. I clutched at my chest. Hacked. Tried to stand but the room seemed to tilt and take flight. My knees felt watery. My cup struck the floor with a clank. Rolled.

            Mother pounded my back several times. My eyes teared. She’d spoken so casually. How could she be calm? Who? Who had told her this thing?

            “I didn’t believe my sisters, so I searched for her, your Mary, in the market. When she embraced me, Joseph, I discovered . . . They were right.”

            I attempted speech. Failed. I summoned spit to wet my throat. Rasped out words.

            “Perhaps her cousin Elizabeth is gifted with food,” I said. “Mary was there for three months, you know. In the hill country.” She was there for three months. A young woman. Lovely. Alone.

            Mother circled my waist with her arms. Laid her cheek against my shoulder. Sighed.     

            “Her girth is firm, my son. Not soft. It is as they say.” Her tongue made a clicking sound. “I’m sorry.”

I stumbled out to Father’s shop. Had to find my way by memory since tears had stolen my vision. I swallowed air in great gulps. Over and over. Prayed my father would be there working. Hoped he wouldn’t be. Inside I collapsed in a corner. Rocked and keened, no care for who might hear. Thoughts churned. Visions tormented. Finally through the window I observed the moon as it settled into position for the night.

           "My Mary," I whispered to the stars. My very own angel. I’d thought. We’d said our vows. She was mine except for the wedding night and the subsequent feast. I’d planned it out. Every last detail. I would leave my father and mother. Go to claim her. The wedding party would see my torch and proclaim my approach. My Mary would drop everything and don her wedding dress. I knew she would be radiant. Shining with purity and anticipation. 

            After the ceremony I would lead her to the home my father and I had prepared for her. There, in a bed made by my own hands, we would become one flesh. Blood pounded in my ears at the thought.

            On our marriage bed I would arrange myself behind her. Remove her headcovering and see her hair, her crowning glory, at last. I imagined she braided and pinned it into a thick coil every morning before she concealed it. I’d release its constraints, watch the tresses tumble free in the lamp light. I would call her my dove in the cleft of the rocks. She would liken me to a gazelle or a young stag. In the moonlight I would fit my front to her back. Our bodies would line up perfectly—curve to curve, swell to swell. My breath would extinguish the lamp and in the night my innocence would find hers and—

            “Another has it!” My words ricocheted around the room gone cold. “Her purity is lost. To him. To a man in the hill country of Judea.”

            I gathered fistfuls of dust and ground them into my hair. Slapped more into my beard. Moaned from a place beneath my stomach. My eyes searched the ceiling. What kind of man must he be? To tempt Mary to sacrifice everything? My Mary. Mary who blushed whenever my sandal touched hers. Mary whose tunics were both worn at the knees due to her copious prayers. In the end I could only fathom that he must be wonderful. Much more so than I. Perfect even.

I awoke when the door to the workshop opened. Father’s form filled the doorway. I rubbed my face. Picked at the dried mud.

            “So Mother told you.”

            I began to sob again, my cries raw and hollow in the workroom. 
            “What now, Abba?” I said. “What now?”

            Father joined me on the floor. Drew me so close I could barely breathe but I didn’t want him to stop. I felt the warmth of him—his compassion, his sorrow on my account, enter through my skin. At last he released me. He reached up and patted his workbench. Brought down a knife and stub of wood. He carved as he spoke, sending tiny curls of wood to their doom in the dirt.

            “In times of trouble, son, I search the scriptures.”

            I dabbed at my nose with my sleeve. “As do I.”

            He smiled at the shape in his hands. “I know you do, son,” he said. “You’re a good man.”

            He used the edge of his garment to remove dust from his work. “It has always been my hope that I, and you, would inherit the wisdom of our forefather—”

            “Solomon?” I said.

            He nodded. “Yes, and today a scripture came to me. For such a time as this.”

            I turned my face to his. Held my breath.

            “Two are better than one, Joseph. If either falls down, the one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”

            I cleared my throat. It burned still. “Actually, I have decided to divorce her, Father. Quietly, of course.”

            I watched Father’s chin push forward, his mouth drop open. “Oh, Joseph,” he said. “Surely not. You cannot leave her alone in her circumstance. The law—”

            I held up my hand. “Hear me out,” I said. “I have to free her from our betrothal so that when he comes for her she will not be bound to me. And he will return for her, Father. How can he not? There is none more beautiful—”

            Father shook his head. “I disagree. If that was the case, would he have let her leave Judea in the first place?”

            He stood. Extended his hand to help me up. He embraced me again and I inhaled his woody fragrance, always a part of him.

            “Perhaps he needs to save money,"  I said to the air behind him as we made our way back to the house. "For the bride price, before he can send for her. Maybe there is more to this than we know.”

            Outside the door my father turned to face me. Took my hands in his.
            “Do not be hasty, my son,” he said. “Promise me you’ll sleep on this. Pray about it. Perhaps we should fast. For wisdom.”

            I squeezed his hands and nodded. “I promise, Abba. I will sleep on it.”

“Awake! Awake, o sleepers!” Two nights later I practically sang the words to my parents as I shook them from their slumber. “The Lord, our God, the Mighty One, has done a great thing! He sent an angel. In a dream.”

            Mother and Father stumbled into the common room huddled under a single blanket.

            I stood before them, wildly gesturing. “’I will die this night.’ That was my first thought when I opened my eyes. I was sure the light of him, this being as massive as Goliath, would consume me.”

            At the table my father rubbed his eyes as my mother brought out bread and water. Their brows were furrowed. With lack of understanding? Or disbelief?

            “He said I am not to be afraid to bring Mary here as my wife. That the babe in her womb is from the Holy Spirit, the Most High God himself! Truly He has changed my mourning into dancing!”

            I scooped my mother up into my arms. Spun her around the room. Clapped and grinned like a fool. I ran to the window and shouted to all of Nazareth.

            “Mary, my Mary, is a virtuous girl. Call me a prophet for I say one day you will all call her blessed.”

            I spun to face my parents. “I am to give him the name of Jesus,” I said. “That’s what the man from heaven told me, commanded me. Because he will save his people from their sins.”

            Mother fell to her knees. Lifted her hands to heaven. “Thanks be to God for he has taken your shame, my son, and refashioned it into joy.” Tears streamed down her face.     
            Father clasped his hands together. Raised his gaze to the ceiling. 
            “This is indeed good tidings. Our Lord is both gracious and compassionate.” He stood and beckoned toward the door. “We will need to finish the addition, Joseph. Quickly.”

            Mother gasped and clutched at her chest. “A feast. I must prepare a feast,” she said. “A week from today?” She extended a hand toward Father. “Can you have their quarters completed in seven days? You and Joseph?”

            My father and I were of one mind. We spoke in unison. “Surely, nothing is impossible with the Lord.”