Dear Wife - Kimberly Belle Page 0,58

of the border now, all rolling Rs and short, staccato spurts.

The girl lifts a brow. “Your Mexican is showing.”

With a squeal, Martina rears back an arm, her hand squeezed into a hard fist, and I hook my hand in her elbow right before she punches the girl in the face. The move is not entirely unselfish. I like to stay out of catfights as a general rule, but seeing as Martina is the one who got me this gig, I’m thinking it’s better to stop this one before any blood is spilled. I’m too new to have established a good reputation yet. What reflects badly on Martina reflects badly on me, too.

I plant my body between the two women, holding up a hand in both directions. “Both of you, see that cross up there? Either shut up or take it outside.” Martina opens her mouth to protest, but I beat her to it. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

She shuts up. The tall girl, too. They glare over my head at each other while Martina does a deep-breathing technique, less meditation and more trying not to explode. I open my mouth to speak, but it’s the Reverend’s voice that rings out.

“There you are,” he says, and the three of us freeze. Footsteps sound to my left, and I turn to see him walking across the stage. He stops under a stage light, the skin of his forehead shining like wet glass. Particles of dust dance in the air above him, suspended in the beam of light. “Oh good, I see you’ve already met Ayana.”

Martina tosses me a panicked glance. How much did he hear?

But the Reverend’s a good fifty feet away, and he has to raise his voice to be heard. He watches us with a benevolent smile.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to work upstairs today, in the administrative offices,” he says, and I don’t know which one of us he’s talking to.

I nod, but Martina frowns. “What happened to Oscar?”

Oscar is the unofficial head of the cleaning crew, an ancient, gnome-like man who, according to his hunched back and knobby, arthritic fingers, is somewhere between eighty and a hundred and fifty. As far as I can tell, his sole responsibility is pushing a rag over the desks in the administrative offices and shooting the shit with anybody who wanders through. Any other person could do it in half the time, but in this place, seniority comes with the benefit of a cushy job.

“Oscar had to go to Florida, to visit his ailing mother. He’s asked us to keep her in our prayers.”

I make a sound of sympathy, even though I’m thinking, Oscar’s mother is still alive?

“Do you think you could take over, just until Oscar returns from his trip?”

“Of course, Reverend,” Martina says, volunteering in her best Southern Belle accent. “Beth and I will be happy to help.”

The Reverend leans back on his heels, his gaze flitting to Ayana, looking at her like she’s a child who wasn’t chosen for the party. “Maybe you can take Ayana, too. Introduce her around. Show her the ropes.”

Martina falls silent, and an angry flush climbs up her neck.

I smile up the stage at the Reverend. “Not a problem. We’d be glad to.”

“Excellent. Well...see y’all upstairs, I guess. And thank you. I’m so happy that God brought the three of you to me. I am blessed beyond measure.” He drops his hands in his pockets and wanders off, leaving the three of us standing in the aisle.

As soon as he’s gone, Martina swirls to face Ayana. “Swear to God, if you so much as look at me wrong, I’m telling the Reverend what you did.”

“What did she do?” I say. I can’t help it. Now I want to know.

Ayana folds her arms across her chest, her gaze dipping to Martina’s collarbones. “Pretty necklaces. How’d you pay for them?”

Martina’s face blooms bright purple, two matching spots on each cheek. She sputters something that would make Jesus blush, then turns and stalks up the aisle.

I look at Ayana, and she’s smiling.

JEFFREY

PDK Workforce Solutions is housed in the center of a shabby strip mall on Sheridan Road, sandwiched between a consignment shop and a serve-yourself yogurt place on the brink of bankruptcy. The parking lot is mostly empty. I’m one of the first ones here, thanks to the early bird reporters who dragged me from a dead sleep, rumbling up in their noisy vans and calling out greetings like miners punching in at