Lovesick (20 page)

She finally settled on sandwiches. She could make herself a sandwich and there was nothing left over. Nothing wasted. Nothing in excess. It was a perfect meal made for one—a widow's meal. She ate them for nearly every meal except breakfast, when she would have toast instead.

The yard began to grow up around the house. The vegetables they had planted in the garden, she left rotting on the vines. Weeds choked the flowers in their beds. She could not sleep, and spent days in her nightdress, wandering through the house or sitting vacant in front of the TV, flipping the channels between the Home Shopping Network or infomercials for exercise equipment or get-rich-quick real-estate schemes. One afternoon, Sandra took the duct tape from Carson's workbench and sealed off the spare rooms in the house—rooms she did not use regularly, rooms she felt she no longer needed. She removed all reminders of her past life, souvenirs and photos from the mantel and hallway—framed snaps of her and Carson when they had vacationed in Flat Rock or Cypress Gardens—and placed them in the rooms like artifacts into a crypt. When she was done and nearly all the duct tape used up, only the kitchen and the den and her bedroom remained opened. She had considered shutting off the bedroom as well since she no longer slept in her bed, but the bathroom was in there, as were her clothes.

She did not answer the calls left for her on the answering machine by the church ladies. Finally, she turned off the machine and just let the phone ring itself to exhaustion. One day she heard a car in the driveway. She peeked through the curtains. It was the young, pimply-faced minister who had been assigned to their congregation. He had preached Carson's funeral and she hated him for it. She did not answer the door. He stood for a long time in the doorway, first ringing the door bell, then knocking, then ringing again. Finally, Sandra decided he wasn't going to leave, and opened the door.

He seemed startled by her. “We haven't seen you at services for a long while and we—I was wondering—hoping you are all right.”

“You've seen me,” said Sandra. “Now go away.” She closed the door in his face.

She wrote a letter to the church and told them to cancel her membership. It was as easy as stopping a magazine subscription. She started driving into Myrtle Beach for her groceries. It took longer, but she did not have to encounter anyone she knew. Friends from the past whose lives had continued on their merry ways. The TV became her only friend, her companion. She had it on continuously—it did not matter what was on, as long as there was sound, voices.

She learned by heart the names of the soap characters and the intricacies of their dilemmas as if they were her own blood kin: would Brooke sleep with Tad, would Natalie's evil twin leave Ashley imprisoned in the basement, would Summer tell Adam the baby was not his but his brother Jason's. She became an expert on retail prices for major brand-name items, and would curse and yell at the contestants on
The Price Is Right
when their stupidity cost them the grand prize. “Everyone knows the large-size Armor All is more expensive than a single-serve can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. You stupid bastard. I could leave here right now and go out and buy two cans of Dinty Moore
and
a loaf of bread for what you say it costs. You didn't deserve the maple bedroom suite. I'm glad you lost everything. That should teach you, you sorry asshole.”

As the late summer turned to fall and fall fell into winter, her life with Carson became a vague memory—like the photographs she had stuck away in the drawers of the bureau in the sealed-off room, left to yellow, turn brittle, decay. She wondered if it would have been better if she had died as well.

Then, on the second Sunday in January, a cold, steel-gray day, the strangest thing occurred. Sundays were always hard for Sandra because there weren't any soaps or game shows. TV was filled during the day with public service programs, news commentaries, sports events, and religious services. Sundays interrupted her routine, made her uneasy, agitated. On that Sunday she was standing in the kitchen making herself a bacon and egg salad sandwich, using the remote to scan the airwaves for company. She had breezed past two old coots talking about politics, a black-and-white western movie, and a children's show with a talking hippo, when she suddenly heard Carson's voice. She halted dead in her tracks. “And I tell you, brethren, the du-hay of the La-hord shall ca-hum!” She stopped chopping the sweet pickle for the egg salad, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and went to see what Carson was doing on TV. Sandra squinted her eyes. It wasn't Carson, not really, she knew, but it could have been him when he was younger or perhaps his brother if he had had one.

There on the picture tube stood a handsome, clean-shaven man in his early thirties wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, his striped tie loosened and collar button undone so his chest hair popped out of the top of his shirt. He waved a floppy leather-bound Bible in one hand and pointed his other hand directly at her. Sandra was mesmerized as he disclosed the untold glories of heaven and the ferocious perils of hell. The way he described them sounded like he had visited both firsthand. Heaven was endless green pastures and golden streets. Hell was fiery lakes and mountains of molten lava. If he had been selling tickets to either place, Sandra would have bought one just to see for herself.

This wasn't some scrawny pale preacher. This was a man—a real man, strong and self-assured—a farmer or laborer who had taken up the call. As he preached, striding around the platform, pounding the podium for emphasis, his dark, wavy hair, which he had slicked back, became disheveled and fell across his forehead almost covering his left eye. He smoothed it back without notice.

That gesture. That confidence. Sandra stood transfixed.

She felt hot and dreamy as his words poured out of the television over her. It was then she realized she was touching herself—down there. She was shocked to become conscious of it—she had always left those matters to Carson. But she didn't stop. Instead, she pulled her nightdress up and waved her privates at the preacher. He waved his finger back at her. She spread her legs wide so he could see. The camera zoomed in on the preacher for a close-up shot. She pulled her fingers from inside and brought them to her mouth to taste the delicate saltiness of herself. The preacher closed his eyes, tilting his head back toward heaven. His smile was ecstatic. He began to pray softly, earnestly.

Sandra stuck her fingers back in deeper, harder.

“Come to Jesus today,” he crooned.

“Yes,” said Sandra. “To Jesus. Come to Jesus.”

Her knees gave way beneath her and she slumped down onto the braided rug in front of the TV. She held herself—her body felt electrified, on fire. In the background, she heard an announcer invite her to join Reverend Shep Waters next Sunday morning, same time, same station. Sandra looked up from the floor, hoping to catch another glimpse of the preacher, but it was too late. Shep was already gone and she was alone again. The emptiness roared within her.

 

It took a long while before Sandra got up from the floor. She felt as if she were waking from a fever dream or some sort of drugged sleep. She threw the sandwich she had made into trash. She felt queasy, as if she was going to vomit. She showered—turning the water on as hot as she could stand, using the cloth to scrub her skin till it was red, nearly raw. She toweled off with her back to the mirror. She did not think she could stand to face herself.

How could she have done such a thing? She was nearly sixty years old and she had never ever done anything like that in her life. Even when she was a girl, she never dreamed that it was something a woman could do—would do—to herself. Yet, coupled with the shame was another sensation—deeper, and more troubling to her, the almost delicious feeling that she had been outrageous, that she had crossed a boundary of some sort. If her women's circle at church knew what she had done, they would have been shocked by her behavior, mortified.

She resolved that it was an aberration, something brought on by the shock of Carson's death. It would never happen again. She would not allow it. To ensure this, she decided that the next Sunday, when she knew Shep Waters would be preaching, she would take a long walk around the house and the property. But when she woke on Sunday, it was storming fiercely outside and a walk was out of the question. Another of God's cruel jokes on her, she thought. Then, without realizing it, she found herself bathed, perfumed, her hair combed, makeup applied, dressed in a pale blue satin peignoir, one she kept tucked in the rose-scented drawer of her dresser that held her special lingerie.

As the hour approached for Shep's arrival, she fluffed the pillows on the couch and made sure there were no sandwich crumbs on the rug. Instinctively, she knew everything needed to be just right.

And then he was on the air. She watched intently as the announcer introduced the
Hour of Praise and Worship
brought to her by the Shep Waters International Evangelical Ministries. There was singing and Bible reading, and during much of the first part of the hour, Shep was merely a peripheral figure, though there were video clips of him at various rallies and crusades. He was always dressed the same: dark slacks, white shirt and tie, and the effect was unfailing—he always looked rugged and intensely masculine, as if he had just come from closing up a hardware store or checking to see if there was enough feed for the livestock or doing some other sort of men's business.

Sitting in the maple rocker Carson had bought for her at Christmas three years ago, she tried to resist the urges she felt, wanting to merely listen as Shep preached. There was no harm in that, she told herself. She had not gone to church in over ten months; maybe there was something she could gain from the sermon. But before she knew it, her nightgown was hiked up around her waist so that she could finger herself as he talked. Her touch was light at first, like a feather duster, but as the sermon progressed it became more intense—searching deeper, probing.

The address lasted nearly twenty minutes and even though it was freezing cold outside, Sandra was perspiring heavily as he reached the end, when he gave the altar call. She wept as those on TV crowded around Shep to have him touch them, pray for them. She could almost feel his gentle caress as he laid his hands on them. She untied the top of her gown so Shep could see her breasts. He opened his arms to her and she got down on her knees in front of the TV to kiss his image on the screen. “You must pray every day,” he implored. “You must pray every day and you must read the Word every day so that God will stamp it in your heart.”

“Yes, I will,” she said. “Every day. I promise.” The static from the TV tickled her bare skin and her climax was even more ferocious than the week prior. She let herself lie back in the golden glow of the moment. She felt alive. She felt loved.

And then he was gone again. Sandra thought she would die knowing it would be another week before she could see him again. Even worse was the understanding that what had happened was no accident, no aberration. That what had occurred last week and then again today would take place next Sunday as well. And she felt helpless to control what was happening. It was as if a force greater than herself compelled her.

It was then that Sandra got the strangest idea. Perhaps Carson's death was not an accident after all. Perhaps it had been Divine Intervention. Carson's death. Then the appearance of Shep Waters like Moses and the burning bush. What else could it be? Moses had been tending sheep when God called him to lead the people of Israel out of Egypt. When Moses had doubted his ability, Jehovah had replied: “I AM WHAT I AM.” Yes, God was God, and He had somehow decided He needed Sandra for something—something so important that she needed to be free to follow His instructions. Ruth and Naomi had been widows. Yes. And God had used them to do great things. All that had come before had been a part of God's plan for her. The hurricane. Carson's accident. It was all necessary, like the flood that cleansed the world for Noah. Now she was free—no more women's circle at church, no more potluck suppers. She had been chosen. Like Mary, she could feel the Spirit of God move up inside her like a warm hand. Why else had she been free to touch herself, to open herself up like never before. There could be no other explanation for it. She just had not been able to see it before.

Sandra lifted herself from the floor, ignoring her peignoir that hung carelessly about her waist, and raced to the front bedroom. She ripped the duct tape off the door frame with the zeal of an archeologist unearthing an ancient tomb, looking for hidden treasure. Once inside, she pillaged through the piles of things she had crammed into the space. Finally, she retrieved the heavy, gilt-edged Bible that her mother had given to her and Carson as a wedding gift.

Sandra didn't even bother to reseal the room—what was the point now? She couldn't be bothered shutting out the past anymore. The past had no bearing on her now. Now she had purpose. She was reborn. Her destiny lay with Shep Waters. She wasn't sure how or why just yet, but she knew.

She managed to read from Genesis through to Numbers the first night, and by the time Shep arrived the next Sunday, she was almost to the New Testament. She would read and reread passages, making soft, cooing sounds to herself, as she sought to understand the great mysteries held within the words. “Oooh, yes! Ah! I see. Ummm. So there you have it.” When Shep preached the next Sunday, Sandra didn't even bother to dress. She stood naked in the den in front of the TV, singing with the congregation, shouting “Hallelujah” or “Amen” when he said something that was particularly exciting—one hand holding the Bible, the other free to do its business.

Though she had no clothes on, it had still taken her the longest time to make herself ready. The preparations had started on Thursday, when she had gone shopping for food. Sandra scoured the cosmetics counter at the Eckerd's drugstore, searching for just the right shades of blush, powder, eye shadow, and lipstick. She was enthralled by the names on the tiny tubes: Scarlet Interlude, Passion's Kiss, Flaming Desire. On Saturday night before rolling her hair, she washed it and gave it a cream rinse, then used Lady Clairol to brighten the dusty gray-blond bits. The next morning, Sunday, or Shep-day as she had begun to think of it, she tweezed her eyebrows and used pencil to give them a dramatic arch, then took nearly an hour with her eyeliner and shadow. Sandra had never worn much makeup—Carson didn't care for it, but she knew Shep would want her to look like his goddess. When she was done, her face was a dramatic palate of lavender around her eyes, pink across the tops of her cheeks, and blood crimson on her mouth.