Free Dear Hearts by Ericka Clay Page B

gravel and
slams into a paved parking space next to the church.
     “Hope
you had a better time up there than I just had.  Nothing but a bunch of
goons who can’t tell their asses from their elbows,” Jimmy says, the tailgate
slamming down and buckets of material scrape across the truck’s metal bed.
     “Hardly,"
I say, only recognizing Jimmy as a glimmer of movement and light.  I
didn’t mean to fall in love.  I didn’t mean to do anything and now I do
nothing but feed on that fear.  I think maybe that’s what love is: fear
released and streaming like an open wound.  And up here, back on the roof,
mere seconds from the sky, it hits me: a warm pulse of love.
    But
maybe it’s just the wine.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    TWELVE
    Elena
     
    I’ve been avoiding Ronnie. 
Her little snotty-nosed daughter has been calling Wren out the past two weeks,
taunting her with “Daddy doesn’t love you!” and "Little baby
Wrennie!" because Wren made that vital mistake of trusting a shithead with
her fears.  The other day she comes home and she smells god awful, and I
know it's happened again.  I ask her why nobody called me, and she said
because she went to the bathroom and cleaned up herself.  She didn't want
to be a baby.
    I
cried so hard that night that I threw up on my pillow and worried what Mitch
would think.  But he had left again when the crickets had stopped
chirping, and I only felt his body when he got up in the morning for work.
    "Poor,
Wren.  I know it's not your thing Elena, but our women's group discusses
this kind of stuff.  I mean, Marjorie Hemphill - okay I know the group is
a trust circle and whatnot, but I know that God forgives me saying this if it
helps you - well, Marjorie recently found out she has an STD and the good Lord
knows that woman isn't the roaming type.  Good Christian, solid soul, that
one.  So she shares this and we all just hug her.  Just start hugging
the poor woman who's sobbing and then everyone starts sobbing, and it's just
this powerful moment of knowing we're not alone, you know?"  I look
at Jesus Loving Pam's wonky eyebrow, the one she penciled in a bit too much so
the question she asks me is permanently planted on her face.
    "Mmm-hmm,"
I say and hope it stops there.  What's that word?  Proselytizing.  
I heard it on Dr. Phil once and thought, God damn it, that's what Jesus Loving
Pam does.
    "Just
think about it.  I know you don't like the Jesus talk. " Yes , Pam.  That's it.  I hate Jesus being a born and
raised Catholic and all .     
    "Will
do," I say.  I snap open the platter of cut veggies and pretend its
Pam's skull.  She invited me over to meet with her group because the power
of prayer can heal anything, even a "wayward womb."  She's
sincere, Pam.  She has short blonde hair that fringes near her ears and
her nostrils are always a light shade of pink during allergy season.  And
she's wearing this green smock dress with buttons down the front that looks
like she's about to take my order, but that doesn't make me want to stab her in
the throat any less.
    "Pam. 
Pam, it hurts."  I look up from the sour cream I'm dumping into a
bowl of ranch dressing mix and there's flu infested Jimmy who has his hand on
his pecker.  See, this is why I really feel sorry for Pam.  We both
may be getting played by our husbands, but she's the one who's too stupid to
notice.    
    "Here,
let me get the sink going again.  Hot water, Eucalyptus, God's own miracle
cure," Pam says and Jimmy and I watch as she scoots out of the kitchen and
to their bedroom.
    Jimmy
tries to not look at me, and I know I make him nervous.  That power is
delicious, sexual kind of I guess.  One time when Mitch was going down on
me, I imagined it was Jimmy and came so hard I bit my tongue.  There's
something about a man who fears your power more than you even do.
    He
squirms around for a minute and sticks his finger into the bowl of jello Pam
was about to dress with a