Michael Lister: Blood of the Lamb

Wincing slightly, she asked, “Would you?”

“Well,” I said, finding it more difficult to say than I thought it would be, “there’s manual, oral, and anal.”

She nodded, a look of relief filling her face. “The third one,” she said. “They already do the first two. They think if they do it-the other thing-their boyfriends will be satisfied and they’ll still be virgins.”

I shook my head. “They might be virgins-depending on how you define it, I guess-but their boyfriends will never be satisfied. At least not for more than a few minutes at a time. And if the, ah, standard way becomes the thing they can’t do, it will become the thing they most want to.”

She nodded. “I told them that,” she said. “Well, something kind of like that.”

“Are we really talking about friends of yours?” I asked.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, I’ve thought about it some, too, but I don’t even have a very serious boyfriend.”

“Just be very, very careful,” I said. “You’re all making decisions that can affect the rest of your lives.”

“It really is about two of my friends,” she said. “I thought if I told them you said it, they’d listen.”

I laughed.

“You’re very influential,” she said with a wry, self-satisfied smile. She patted my hand and stood up.

“I’ll leave you alone now,” she said. “Thanks.”

When she had climbed back onto the bar chair and laid her head down on the counter next to her school books, I said, “Go get in bed. At least get a couple of good hours.”

She glanced toward the back and the small living quarters she refused to call home, then back at me. “I’d rather just stay here.”

I nodded and smiled at her.

Before I finished my first cup and just about the time Carla dozed off, the cowbell above the door clanged and Anna walked in.

It was the only time in my life I could recall not being happy to see her.

She spoke to Carla, then walked over and slid into the booth across from me.

We sat in silence for a long moment, staring at each other. Her huge brown eyes took me in, and though there was only acceptance and compassion in them, I didn’t like the reflection I saw.

My embarrassment at her seeing my weakness was compounded by how much I needed her, but the self-loathing I felt couldn’t compare to the pain her presence inflicted.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No,” I said bluntly.

“Can I do anything?”

“No,” I said again, shaking my head.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And more than just coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I shot her a quizzical look.

“For what you saw,” she explained. “For what you’re feeling.”

I couldn’t tell her that part of what I was feeling was anger and frustration at not being allowed to stay and investigate, at being treated like a chaplain and not a cop. In the light of what had happened to Nicole, my self-centered, sophomoric feelings seemed even more silly and superfluous, my hypocrisy more pathetic. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I was telling her how I wanted to stop investigating so I could concentrate on chaplaincy.

“I can’t know what you’ve seen or what it’s done to you,” she said, “or how much pain you must be feeling.”

I didn’t say anything, just tried to get some of what I needed from the energy of her full attention. Desiring her so strongly and not being able to have her hurt so badly that I couldn’t tell which was stronger, the wounds or the wanting, and I wondered if I had the ability to inflict the same unseen injuries on her.

“But it’s just an excuse you’re using,” she said.

“What?” I asked, my anger flaring.

“You’re drinking because you want to,” she said. “Fine. But don’t use that precious little girl to justify it.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s late,” I said. “I’m a single man. You’re a married woman.”

“ John -”she started before I cut her off.

“I’m not your concern,” I said. “Don’t come chasing after me in the middle of the night. Have some self-respect.”

“ John ,” she said, her stunned tone filling the single syllable with more pain than I thought possible.

“Go home to your husband,” I said.

Which she did, and, as I sat there alone in the comfortless silence, her absence was as palpable as her presence had been.

After waking up late at Rudy’s following a fitful few hours sleep in my booth, I raced down the empty stretch of pine tree-lined highway between my trailer and the prison. White clouds filled the sky and the air was fresh and cool, especially for May.

A quick shower had helped revive me, but my head throbbed, aching with every beat of my heart. As I drove, I thought about Nicole and the nightmares her death had resurrected. Like an old black and white film in an empty auditorium, they flickered in the theater of my mind.

I’m running up Stone Mountain, my heart slamming against my breast bone from exertion and the fear of what I’d find when I reached the top. I’m weary and unsteady, a mixed drink of bone-tired fatigue, mental exhaustion, and vodka coursing through my veins. Still I run as fast as I can, but I’m too late. When I reach the top, he releases her, and her body slides down the cold solid granite, following its contours like a tear in the crevices of a wrinkled face.

It was why I didn’t sleep much… why it wasn’t restful when I did, and why I was speeding to work on the empty highway with a hangover and didn’t see the flashing blue lights until they were suddenly reflecting off my rearview mirror.

I pulled my truck to the side of the road and rolled down my window by hand since my old Chevy S10 didn’t have power anything, even when it was new nearly two decades before.

Since my dad was the sheriff of Potter County, and everyone in the small county recognized my truck, I had never been pulled over before. I glanced at my watch. When I looked back up, I caught sight of a young deputy in an ill-fitting green uniform swaggering toward me like John Wayne. The walk alone was enough to let me know it was my younger brother, Jake.

When he reached my window, he flipped open his ticket book and withdrew the small piece of toothpick from the corner of his mouth.

“This ain’t I-75, hot shot,” he said. “You ain’t in Atlanta anymore.”

I shook my head in disbelief. The only thing more absurd than the obviousness of his observation was the fact that it came from Jake, who more than anyone reminded me of just how true it was.

I found his slow, thick drawl more grating than usual, and though the last thing I needed this morning was getting into it with him, I lacked the restraint to resist.

“Thanks for the reminder, Officer,” I said, the sarcasm coming out with an edge that had nothing to do with Jake.

In my mirrors, the official lights on top of his car blinked ominously like silent alarm signals, and the passing drivers slowed to look, shaking their heads or blowing their horns when they recognized us.

Jake and I had never been close, but the enormous gulf between us had grown to infinity because I had moved away and he had not. Before, I had simply not quite fit in. Now, I was an outsider, and in addition to everything else, the gap between us had in many ways become cultural.

“Are you giving me a ticket or what?” I asked in frustration. “I really need to go.”

“What’s the rush?” he asked. “Inmates can’t wait until they’ve had their breakfast to get their religion?”

Sighing heavily and shaking my head, I cranked the truck and put it into gear.