The explosion had been huge. Billie Jean confronted Jonathan about the affair, and even started throwing things.
Persephone knew this only because Jonathan had left a quick message during the worst part of their domestic storm. But beyond this rather meager effort, he had not called or texted in an entire month. Persie assumed that meant it was over… and felt an indescribable relief, major tension dissolving. She had started to relax—maybe I can get back to my normal life, whatever that is. She felt calm, centered and okay with herself for the first time since she’d met the good Reverend Haywood.
… and then, she received an unexpected birthday card. She recognized the handwriting immediately.
Oh no, she thought.
And then, the familiar, sudden excitement bubbled up. Should she open it? Return to sender? She thought about sending it back unopened, with “FUCK YOU” written across the front in bright orange magic-marker. That would get his attention!
But there was no return address… so I can’t, she told herself. Although she already knew his address, she knew the lack of one written on the envelope meant that she should not do that.
She opened it.
He had scribbled NEW TRACFONE (with an accompanying phone number) inside the card, along with LOVE, JH.
She hadn’t called yet. She didn’t know if she would.
What to do? Who to ask? She needed advice, but where/who from?
She took out her old ratty tarot deck and started to shuffle. She didn’t know what else to do.
****
Billie Jean usually piloted her powder-blue Lincoln Continental effortlessly; in fact, it was so elegant it often seemed to silently drive itself. But tonight it was difficult, driving through such heavy rain that she couldn’t see anything. Should she stop? The windshield wipers were making no impact, utterly worthless. It was like buckets, torrents, entire clouds were being dumped on her at once. So she pulled over into what appeared to be a strip mall and parked.
She sat in her car, listening to the hard-rain falling. She had just been to a rehearsal of Justification Church’s upcoming Christmas play, which was one of the worst things she’d ever seen. Nonetheless, she had clapped loud and long, finally pushing what Jonathan always called her “pastor’s wife button”: Y’all are just so great! she had enthused.
It wasn’t great, it was awful, and at least a few of the participants seemed aware of it, rolling their eyes at her effusive praise. The play’s director was a terrible, cranky, ill-natured woman named Joyce D., who nodded proudly at her compliments. Billie Jean could never remember what the D stood for. Davis? Dawson? Something. They called her Joyce D. to differentiate her from Joyce A., who was sweet, always polite and very kind. There was no possible way anyone could mix them up.
She once told Jonathan they should be called Evil Joyce and Nice Joyce.
Ahhh, Jonathan. She felt heartsick whenever she thought of him… of them. It was a full-fledged disaster: they had fought for a solid week, then stopped talking. For three weeks, they had not spoken except to ask where the salt was and did you buy cat litter? That was all.
Their marriage had been reduced to salt and cat litter.
She wondered, should she fight for her man, like in the country-and-western songs?
And how tacky is that, she thought. She imagined redneck women in dingy backlit night-time parking lots throughout the Southern USA, pulling out another woman’s hair by the dyed-roots, screaming bitch at each other. NO she would not descend to that level, although she certainly understood it.
The facts: She wanted to get even with Jonathan, not the hapless old blond. She wanted to be angry with her, she intended to be angry with her… but she simply could not fully muster up the sentiment. Somehow she knew, this is all Jonathan’s fault, Jonathan’s decision. Women her age do not waltz up to successful, rich TV preachers and proposition them. NO the old hippie blond had been ASKED BY JONATHAN and there was no way it could be otherwise. THIS WAS HIS IDEA, HIS SUGGESTIONS OF MOTELS, TIMES AND PLACES.
She knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt.
She also knew this would go on, if Jonathan wanted it. His way or the highway. It had been ever thus.
The rain was slowly subsiding. She heard a siren somewhere. She sighed at her own ambivalence. She could not divorce him because it would hurt the ministry…. and that was HER money too!
She turned on the radio. It was Garth Brooks:
Blame it all on my roots
I showed up in boots
And ruined your black tie affair
The last one to know
The last one to show
I was the last one
You thought you'd see there
And I saw the surprise
And the fear in his eyes
When I took his glass of champagne
And I toasted you
Said, honey, we may be through
But you'll never hear me complain
So is that the answer?—she thought, pulling out from the strip mall parking lot. Maybe I need my own friends in low places. Maybe I need whiskey to drown and beer to chase my blues away.
The more she thought about it, the better the idea sounded.
A sign for an offbeat, large shaded lounge called The White Glove appeared, as if on cue. The sign was in the shape of a hugely-bright, lit-up, long white formal glove; advertising a little class in the midst of upstate, workingman’s beer joints. Looked like a nice bar too, not a place where women fought over men after closing time.
Billie Jean impulsively pulled into the White Glove parking lot. She did not know much about drinking—she usually got whatever people ordered for her and wanted her to try. She didn’t like the taste of either hard liquor or wine. But maybe she should try beer, which has a better taste? You can’t get into trouble drinking just beer, everyone said so.
She got out of her car gingerly, trying not to step in all the new puddles, and made her way into the bar. Billie Jean was surprised (and then comforted) by the dark. She wondered: are most bars dark?
It was too dark inside for anyone to recognize her!— she realized, elated. I can sit here in peace!
And so, for the first time in her life, Billie Jean began to drink in earnest. The clock ticked, but she forgot all about it. She seemed to recall she had somewhere she should be, but it all seemed unimportant now.
She just felt so much better.
****
Persephone was greatly exasperated by her tarot deck, which did not yield any satisfying answers.
The Magician reversed: chicanery, counterfeits, fakes, imposters. People with great gifts who misuse them, who use them for personal and cynical gain.
She knew who it was.
Should she see him again? The deck was leaving it up to her and would take no responsibility. She could only blame herself for her own decisions.
She decided to flip a coin. HEADS YES, she whispered to herself.
It was tails.
She picked up her phone anyway.