May We Be Forgiven Part 51

"Urgent," I text.

"Motel?" she texts back quickly.

"More like soup and sandwich," I type.

"I have errands," she answers slowly.

"I need help."

"What kind?"

"Kid stuff."

"Fine-meet me at the food court in the mall at one. I'll be near the frozen yogurt."

"Thx," I type. She's squeezing me in.

"You have to be really cool about it," Cheryl says, as she feeds me crunchy noodles and cold chicken from her Chinese chicken salad.

Today her hair is in a blond pageboy. "Is that a wig?"

"No," she says. "I got a haircut. Listen, if you freak Ashley out, she's going to clam up and you'll get nothing. It's not clear-cut abuse, but more of a Lolita kind of thing."

"Do I take it to the police? Does that make it worse?"

She shakes her head. "Keep it under the radar unless the kid wants the authorities involved. If she doesn't, and she's the only one talking, it could get ugly and be worse for your niece in the long run. You need to talk to her, let her know that you know, and make a safe place for her to share her feelings-or not.... And ask her how she feels about reporting it-some people feel like it's not taken seriously unless it's reported; others would rather die than have to keep talking about it."

"Maybe it's all a big false alarm," I suggest. "Maybe Ashley got a crush on the head of the school and it was more of a mother thing, a platonic emotional affair. I doubt much happened of a truly s.e.xual nature-I don't think Ashley even knows about that 'stuff.'"

"What planet are you on?" Cheryl asks. "These kids are sharp; they're not going to let on what they're up to. You can bet the teacher put it all in the guise of being parental or teacherly-giving her lessons. Ask if they used any fruit."

"Fruit?"

She looks at me like I'm an idiot. "My husband taught my son about condoms with a banana, and when my friend's daughter asked her mom what it felt like to have a p.e.n.i.s inside her, her mother directed her to the vegetable bin and said, 'Male genitalia are like vegetables, they come in all shapes and sizes, there are carrots and zucchini and hothouse cuc.u.mbers.' She was fond of telling her girls that in a pinch they could use the free hotel shower caps as a birth-control device. 'And whatever you do, you never want to get any of "it" in you or on you. Think of "it" like Krazy Glue, hard to get out of your clothes, of your hair-and disrespectful. Any man who respects you leaves his "discharge" in a receptacle other than you, and any man who doesn't should take his interest elsewhere.'"

"Do parents really talk with their children that explicitly?"

"Kids are curious, they find out-it's better they find out from you. Also, given that your niece is almost a teenager and she doesn't have a mother, you should find her a female doctor who practices adolescent medicine."

"I didn't know there was such a thing."

"It's better; she doesn't need to be talking to Dr. Faustus about her period."

"How did you know she goes to Faustus?"

She rolls her eyes. "Because that's where everyone goes," she says, and then asks me to go get her a nonfat frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles. "Bet you wonder why I can't get it for myself?"

I wasn't going to ask.

"The girl behind the register was my son Brad's first girlfriend. I made him dump her. I think she puts Visine in the yogurt when I order from her."

"Why Visine?'

"It gives you diarrhea-they say stewardesses put a few drops of it in the drinks of a.s.sholes on the airplane."

"That's a total urban legend."

"So you say," she says, urging me to get up and get her the yogurt.

"You probably get diarrhea because you're lactose-intolerant."

She pauses. "I hadn't thought of that. Will you please just go get it for me?"

"Of course."

I return with a heavily sprinkled yogurt and a spoon. "Aren't you having one?" she asks.

"I was going to, but the girl behind the counter was a total b.i.t.c.h."

"I told you-that's why I made Brad break up with her. Do you want some?" She offers me a spoonful of yogurt; I open my mouth and let her feed me.

"Don't you worry about someone seeing us?"

She shakes her head.

"Why not?"

"I'll just tell them you're a stroke patient and I'm doing volunteer work." She feeds me another spoonful of yogurt.

"So-about the missing girl," Cheryl says.

I wipe yogurt from my face-her aim sucks.

"I think they know who did it," Cheryl says.

"Could you be more specific?"

"They-i.e., the police-know more than they're telling the public-i.e., us."

"Is that based on fact or your own independent conclusion?"

"I'm just saying.... We all know how these things work. I watch a lot of TV, reality and otherwise, and I'm telling you-they're waiting for the guy to come to them, for him to make a little screw-up, to give himself away."

"So you're thinking they've already got him pegged and are watching him?"

"I'm sure of it. Nothing is as random as it seems."

"Except that which is totally random, such as this..." I say.

"What's this?"

"This-whatever this is between us," I say. I can't help but notice that I've become close to Cheryl, that I share things with her, that I'm starting to think of her as a friend, a confidante.

"Honey, if you were doing the math, it's not all that random-it's common as h.e.l.l," she says.

There's something brash about her voice that prompts me to ask, "Have you been drinking?"

"I had a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary this morning-kind of a little celee-bration."

"On a weekday?"

"Yes," she says. "They all got out early, and I spotted the tomato juice and some celery in the fridge and thought, Why the h.e.l.l not."

"You scare me," I say.

"No, I don't," she says.

"Yes, you do," I say.

I debate telling her about the A&P woman. I don't like feeling sneaky, but what is my obligation to this married woman? I can't exactly ask for help and then say, "Oh, by the way, I'm seeing someone...." All the same, it slips out: "I'm seeing someone."

"What's her name?"

"I don't know."

"You're seeing someone and you don't know her name?"

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"A few weeks."

"Where'd you meet her? Is she from online?"

"We met at the A&P."

"How often have you seen her?"

"I've seen her twice," I say, and she seems relieved.

"And what have you done on those occasions?" she asks, like she's trying to get to the bottom of it.

"I'm not sure it's fair for you to ask me to elaborate-it's kind of private."

"Since when is life fair, mister? If you're going to put your poker into someone else's pookie, I think I have a right to know-minimally, for security purposes, so I can make an informed decision."

"And vice versa?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you should know what I'm doing, should your husband know what you're doing?"

She looks down for a moment as if contemplating her next move-as if.

"I told him," she says.

"Really?" I ask, genuinely surprised.

"Really," she says.

"When?"

"After the night at Friendly's."

"Why?"

"I panicked."

"About what?"

"I thought maybe someone he knew was there and had seen me."

"Wouldn't they be outing themselves if they told your husband?"

She shrugs. "They might have a.s.sumed that he knew, and, more to the point, I felt the need. I'm not deceitful by nature."

"What did he say?"

She looks down again. "He said he was glad to have someone to share the burden with. And was I seeking a divorce or just entertainment?"

"And?"

"I said entertainment, and he said, 'Well, then, I won't worry unless you tell me there's something to worry about.'"

"It's nice he trusts you to use your own judgment about when he should be worried."

"I'm very trustable," she says, and then is quiet. "He asked if you pay me; he always wants to pay someone. And I asked if he'd ever 'strayed,' and he said no."

"Why not?"

"Scared," she says.

"Of what?" I ask She shrugs. "I told him that if he wanted to he should. He's got hooker fantasies. I said, 'Do it'; he said, 'I can't.' And then I asked him, 'Do you want me to do it with you?' 'Like, you would partic.i.p.ate?' he asked. 'No, like I would just go with you,' I said. 'That's very nice of you,' he said. 'Since when am I not nice?' I asked him."

"So?" I ask, surprised by all of it-wanting more.

"So I went with him."