to hell. Even if there’s a wait line into hell, I can assure you I will be shuttled to a place quite near the front. Do you have a religion problem in anger management class?”
I could feel her animosity surging over the wire. “I had a man who proclaimed himself to be a religious person in my last session. I let him preach to everyone in the room about God and forgiveness and hell for exactly forty-seven seconds and then I informed the others that he was here because he had beat up his three previous wives and all three had restraining orders against him. That shut him up damn quick. There’s nowhere in the Bible, I reminded the sanctimonious prick, that says you can beat the shit out of your wife-so cut it with the religion.”
Her voice rose and fell like a drill sergeant preacher.
“He muttered something about only the Lord being able to change him. I told him the Lord helps those who help themselves, and that currently the Lord was undoubtedly wondering exactly which fiery compartment in hell he should be assigned to for beating to shreds three of God’s children. I asked him if he thought the Lord approved of the way his fist managed to bust open his third wife’s jaw?”
“Ahh. A real charmer.”
“He said he didn’t think that God was happy about that, but that we all sinned and that Jesus died on the cross for our sins, so his sins are covered and he’s forgiven. I told him that his sins are covered in the blood of his ex-wives and that he was going to go straight back to jail and to hell which is where God puts all wife-beaters, if he couldn’t get a grip on his God-given fists.”
“What did he do?”
“What they all do,” she said. “I stared at him until he squirmed like a worm. The other people in the class tore into him like you might tear into a lobster tail and he cried until he slobbered. I told him to shape up, quit being such a religious hypocrite, admit that he was a wife-beater, and fix himself. I tell people how it is, Ms. Stewart. They don’t like it, they shouldn’t have been shits and landed in my class. After that I told him to sing.”
“Did he sing?”
“It took some prompting, but yes, he did. It was awful. Sounded like a dying rat. So, Jeanne, I have your record. Lemme take a look at it, though. Haven’t read it. Hang on a sec.”
I waited. I knew what was coming.
There it was.
A chuckle.
A snort.
A giggle.
A quickly inhaled breath.
The phone became muffled and I knew Emmaline Hallwyler had put her hand over it so I couldn’t hear her, but I knew what she was doing.
Laughing. She was laughing.
Emmaline Hallwyler eventually got back on the line with a little hiccup. “Seems like you had a little incident with an ex-boyfriend.” I heard that muffled sound again. She sounded like a hyperventilating chicken. She coughed. “Also looks like this is your first offense. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is my first recorded offense, although if I had the opportunity I might try to commit another offense against Slick Dick.”
I heard her snort. “Ran out of time?”
“Yes. The police arrived at my door. The police kept laughing as they read me my rights.”
There was the hyperventilating chicken again. “Those damn police.” The chicken harnessed her laughter with a cough. “Now, back to the requirements-don’t be a second late and don’t be pathetic and we’ll get along fine.”
“Right. I will endeavor not to be pathetic.” I wondered if I could bring my knitting? Rosvita had decided that I needed something to do with my hands that was germ-free so she was teaching me how to knit each evening. But perhaps knitting would make me look pathetic?
“So, your screening interview will be this Friday at noon. Do not be late.”
“My screening interview?” What, she had to evaluate me to see if I’m angry enough to be included in the class? Perhaps I should bring something to throw while I was there to display my anger? Like Slick Dick’s head?
“Yes. Your screening interview. You and I can get to know each other and I can decide whether or not I like you.”
Whether or not she liked me? Now that’s a tricky one. Most people do like me, I think, if they weren’t scared of me. I do think that. Except for my twenty-three-year-old ladder-climbing assistant who wanted my job, but that was nothing personal and I can’t blame her for it. “Why would you care if you liked me or not? I’m a client. I’m not coming to be your best friend.”
“Well, hell’s bells,” she snapped. “Can you hear me crying onto my files? Sniffling into my hankie? For God’s sake, I don’t need a best friend. I have one already, the same one I’ve had since fifth grade. Her name’s Sheri and she’s got big teeth and laughs all the time. No, I need to know if I like you enough to fix your problems for you.”
“Gee whiz. Lemme see,” I said. “I have a true abundance of problems: I have no job. I’m so skinny my bones rattle. I have assault charges filed against me. Slick Dick has also filed a civil suit against me for a horrendous sum of money. He will probably win, leaving me bankrupt. I’m currently, even at this very moment, having a nervous breakdown. With a criminal record, it will be difficult for me to become employed again. Would you like me to repeat what I told eight-hundred-thirty-four people in a meeting in the near past about vaginal cream and sugary cereals? That’s going to be a real problem in terms of being employed in advertising again. And, dear me, I don’t want to forget to mention that my mother also died recently. I miss her more than I would miss my own heart. Did I mention Slick Dick took my mountain bike? If you could solve even one of my problems, that would be super. I had no idea psychologists could do so much for people these days. None.”
There was a silence. “I thought I told you not to be pathetic,” she said.
“I’m not pathetic.” Yes I was, I told myself. Pathetic and mean and extremely stupid.
“You are. PA.THET.IC. Be here Friday at noon. We’ll test your likability factor.”
She hung up without saying good-bye. I stared at the phone awhile then told her that she was a supercilious, superior slug who was probably super-fat, much like a hippo pregnant with triplets, and hung up.
CHAPTER 4
Several days later, on my daily multihour crying/drinking walk, I decided to go to see what Rosvita kept referring to at our knitting sessions as the Hell of All Germs of Hell. In other words, the migrant camp. I crossed back toward town, then took a gravel road, which gave way to a dirt road, planted fields.
Miles and miles of planted fields.
My eyes were caught by a row of sheds starting at about ten feet from the road. They looked like they were slouching. I mean it. They were slouching sheds. Each building sagged like it couldn’t possibly stand up straight. The roofs were made of metal. There were two windows in the front of each shed, but they were lopsided, one or two were broken. The doors barely hung on a hinge.
I stared at those doors, all hanging on one hinge. They were like my mind, I thought, my mind was currently unhinged. Still there, still clinging, but with a big gust of wind…well, whoosh, anything could happen.
As I got closer the smell of raw sewage settled over me like a giant rotting toilet. I yanked my t-shirt up over my mouth and nose. Yuck. I assumed that the farmer had used an extrapotent fertilizer on his property.
That’s when I saw the dot.
A tiny little jumping dot. The dot was red.
As I got closer and closer to the red dot, a blue dot with black hair joined it. They ran about in circles, tackling each other.
Children.
In front of the slouching sheds