APPEARANCES:
Detective Wanda Bright
PROCEEDINGS
DET. BRIGHT: So it was sudden? One day friends just started biting; is that right, George?
GEORGE HALL: Yeah. But Zeke said sorry and it’s not nice to stay mad at people, Miss Ollie says.
DET. BRIGHT: I agree. Do you have any idea why they were biting?
GEORGE HALL: Over the bus usually. Sometimes the big elephant because there is only one big elephant. Their tusks are actually teeth and they can use their trunks to snorkel.
DET. BRIGHT: Right, yes, the elephant. But did anything happen? Did anything change that gave kids the idea to start biting?
GEORGE HALL: I don’t know. Mommy says you’ve got to bite when it’s stranger danger.
DET. BRIGHT: That’s true.
GEORGE HALL: If you see a stranger you can kick and punch and bite and pull down their underwear and you won’t get in trouble at all, it’s allowed.
DET. BRIGHT: Sure. But the first time—
GEORGE HALL: Mommy told me even my old man neighbor can be a stranger and that he might try to take me.
DET. BRIGHT: George, did you see a stranger?
FIVE
“Pastor Ben?” Mary Beth blurts his name without thinking when she passes him in the preschool hall. It’s a Tuesday morning and she’s just dropped off Noelle. The blip of recognition electrifies her, as though she’s spotted a minor celebrity somewhere unexpected, like in her local Starbucks.
He has the dark waves of a nineties heartthrob and a V of back muscles to fill out his white T-shirt to go with it. He probably does CrossFit or some newer, cooler workout Mary Beth hasn’t even heard of yet.
He stops mid-stride, confused. Sheepishly, she waves. “Sorry, that was me.”
“Hi.”
She’s surprised to learn that he also has eyes the color of a Christmas tree, and that when he turns to look at her, the lights twinkle on. A mischievous sort of grin plays at the corners of his mouth as though he’s listening to a good joke.
That’s her cue. Say something. She’s usually so good at this.
“Hi, no, sorry, you don’t know me. I just—I wanted to tell you that I loved your last sermon.” You can never go wrong with a compliment, that’s Mary Beth’s motto.
Once a week, Mary Beth attends RiverRock for church service. Partly for the forty-five minutes of quiet time, but she also considers it an act of spiritual exercise, a time to reflect on “her why,” an expression amongst her Bible study group best defined as the reason she does all the back bending and self-sacrifice her daily life requires. A mother’s why should always be her kids. Always.
That’s why she’s an involved mother. On Mondays, she volunteers at the library. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she shows up as a lunch aide at Angeline’s elementary school. She chairs the silent auction committee for the school’s annual Spring Fling and the Fall Gala at Little Academy and she never misses a chance to sign up as one of the “read-aloud” parents in her children’s classes.
The Bible is filled with really good mothers. There was Rebecca and Leah and Jochebed, not to mention the Virgin Mary, all women who did far more than Mary Beth and without the benefit of arch support. Sometimes she asks Noelle what mommies she learned about in school, but it’s always Jonah and his whale and David and the lions that stick in children’s minds. God should have given biblical women more stories involving animals.
“So glad you liked the sermon.” Pastor Ben has a slow southern lilt that makes Mary Beth imagine him standing whenever a lady gets up from the table. “Now, do you mind going back and telling that to my public speaking professor at divinity school? I got a D in that class.” He puts a finger to his lips; their little secret.
“Stop, you’re very inspiring.” She touches him, actually touches his forearm where a diamond-shaped freckle dots the outside of his elbow, touches him like her own hand isn’t part of her body. She slides it away, but she can still feel it like an indelible mark between them. “My husband and I—” She invokes Doug for obvious reasons. “—we’re actually doing your challenge, the having sex one. Some nights have been harder than others, but we’re keeping at it.” Oh dear. Did she really just say that?
“Tell your husband I accept thank-yous in the form of chocolate and Chick-fil-A.” He scratches the scruff on his cheek; he must only shave on Sundays.
She notices they have naturally begun talking in hushed voices. It feels sort of weirdly intimate, but also, if she’s being honest, not weird at all. The school hallways are remarkably quiet at this time of morning as classes begin emptying out onto the playground for the first recess of the day. There’s no one volunteering in the little square room a couple doors down that passes for a school library, with its Adirondack rocking chair and assortment of puppets that can be checked out to children’s homes right along with the tattered old books.
“It’s more me, actually.” She laughs. Lord Jesus. “I mean—”
“I didn’t catch your name,” he says.
“Mary Beth Brandt.” She extends her hand to shake, touches him for the second time. His hand is warm in hers and he gives it a knowing squeeze. Oh. Ohhhh. And just like that, her buzzing, busy-lady thoughts are replaced by a new awareness of a gentle sensation that’s taking root between her legs, a familiar but long-lost tingle, like an old friend she hasn’t seen in ages, though now that they’re together, it seems they’ve still got plenty to talk about. She clears her throat, self-consciously. “Ah. Well. What brings you to this side of campus?” she asks.
“I’m reviewing plans for the new youth center I’ve been spearheading. Exciting developments. Doing the Lord’s work.”
“I had no idea.” Though she’s not surprised. In general, the church does beautiful ministry. Teen mission trips to Yucatán, backpack drives, and the important work of preventing human trafficking. “I have a daughter who still attends here.”
“You know, I had a hunch,” he teases.
“Right. Duh.” She palms her forehead. “She’s in the fours. I’m on the parents’ committee actually and chaired the gala last year, so if I can ever be a resource, please don’t hesitate to—”
“You know.” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe you’re the person we should be roping in to help fundraise.”
“I mean,” she stumbles, “I guess I could.”
Ben crosses his arms, biceps forming small hilltops. She can’t tell what the tattoo is that peeks from his T-shirt, some kind of forked tail, maybe a sparrow or perhaps a mermaid.
She loves her husband and not in, like, a familial, we’ve-been-married-so-long type way. Doug’s cute. He has a baby face that’s hardly aged a day since they met; he looks the same, other than the few new pounds around his neck and jowls. She likes to back her body into the curve of his chest and stomach in bed. She enjoys the touch of his nose in the crook of her neck. All this to say there’s no harm in a crush. She’s not worried when that feeling in her vagina unexpectedly drops in for a visit and unpacks its bags and decides to stay awhile longer.
“Think of the children.” He winks.