Teresa, wife of a head-turningly attractive Methodist minister, navigates her new role in a wealthy South Carolina congregation, and is asked to give the women marriage advice.
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I will make myself the perfect minister’s wife for my querido! It is Valentine’s Day, and we are at home in the parsonage of the Methodist church, in what they call Belladonna Commons. To save money, it is outside the security gates behind which many members of his congregation live. Most have more money than God Himself.
After I serve him the special tea and the chorizo con huevos he loves, he asks me to be a volunteer counselor for his church. In six months I will become the mother of his child, so I have stopped working. I tell him I will try. For his sake.
He says there are some things the women in his congregation cannot discuss with him. They are too shy. It would embarrass them.
“That I can understand,” I say, but I know we are not thinking of the same things.
“Do you remember the Christmas Eve service? Right before we announced our marriage?”
“Of course.” He does not know I got drunk on that very night, after he served me the Methodist communion. Then I went to a Catholic confession, where I mocked the old priest.
“Hilda Willis called me at ten o’clock that evening to complain about her husband. He’s the retired biology teacher who thinks Jesus Christ was a gay con man.”
“Like me.” I lean over our tiny table to kiss the tips of his fingers. “Until I met you.”
“I know she wasn’t telling me the whole story, and she hasn’t brought up the subject again. She’s a really nice person, Teresa, but I’m pretty sure she’s hurting. I was hoping you’d be willing to talk with her. Provided she’s interested, of course.”
One old woman. “I can do that.” I stand up to carry our unborn child to him and I say, “I have a name for our little boy.”
“I’m all ears,” he smiles. “Let’s hear it.”
“Roger for you, and Jesús for my own abuelo.” I do not tell him it is the one who enjoyed the beds of young girls.
“Roger Jesús. I like that! We can call him RJ. Perfect for South Carolina.”
I lift up my nightgown. “Is his father all ears?”
He kneels on the hard kitchen floor to listen to his own son, and he tells me I am his Madonna. I put his hands on my breasts and say I am more mujer than any Madonna this world has ever seen. Then I stroke his curly blond hair and I tell him to come to his Madonna in his white cotton robe. While I find my special ribbon.
That Friday I meet with Hilda Willis, in her own home. It is a tiny condominium in Belladonna, but it is behind the magic gates that triple its value. I lived three streets away before I was married, when I was still working at the local TV station. In her kitchen she serves me an avocado salad with a glass of apricot sparkling water. Her husband is at the library, reading the latest Scientific American.
“Ah,” I say. “Still the biology teacher.”
Hilda explains her troubles. She stares down into the marble tiles as she tells me her husband has been mocking her faith for forty years. “I love Noel dearly,” she says. “I always have, and I always will. But sometimes he tries my patience. Do you know what his favorite swear word is? HFC!”
I smile, and I tell her it is not such a bad word. It has only three letters.
“He calls himself Saint Darwin of the Galapagos. I have to hide in the bathroom whenever I pray, so he doesn’t make fun of me. Teresa, what should I do?”
I finish my sparkling water. “What is his favorite beverage?”
“Well, we both enjoy a glass of red wine in the evening. It’s supposed to be heart healthy, so we’ve made it a habit. During the eleven o’clock news. A good way to end the day.”
I agree.
“By the way, we both enjoyed you on WFOP, Teresa. You were our favorite meteorologist.”
I thank her for her kindness, and I reach into my purse for a little pill. “Put this in his wine tonight. But do not tell him.”
“Is it safe?”
“It is perfectly safe. My Roger enjoys it all the time.”
“And you don’t tell him?”
“A man does not need to know everything a woman does.” I smile again, and I point to her bookshelf. “May I see your Bible?”
I open it to the passage that delights my querido – Deuteronomy 23 – and I put it back into her hands. “Memorize these words.” I put my finger on the first verse. “While he sleeps, speak in a whisper.”
The old woman blushes, while I tell her every wife is the house of the Lord. She has only to invite her husband to enter.
“Let’s both have a glass of wine,” she says.
The next Sunday, my husband is preaching on the legacy of John Wesley and the beauty of divine love. We must only be willing to receive grace. He is telling his congregation that anyone coming to the Savior with an open heart is worthy of forgiveness. That God’s mercy has no limits. That no human soul is beyond redemption.
He has told me this many times.
He is wearing his black robe, which I have washed and ironed for the occasion. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And I have seen many.
I am standing at the back of his church, watching all the women watching him. Some moisten their lips with their tongues. If they were in their own homes, looking at him on their computers, their hands would be between their legs, not holding their hymnals. After the choir sings their “Amazing Grace,” I join my querido in the narthex. He has his arm inside my elbow as he is blessing each member of his congregation, urging them to go with God. Hilda passes us both, holding the hand of her own husband, and at the door she turns around to wave at me with her other hand. I wave back.
When his church is empty, he can kiss me and say, “Noel Willis only comes here on Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday. What in the world did you say to Hilda?”
“To invite her husband into the house of the Lord.”
“Well, it looks like he finally took her advice.” Then he kisses me once more, and he asks me if I am ready for my next assignment.
I ring the bell of Ginny Fetterman’s home in Belladonna. It is even bigger than my husband’s church. She opens the door herself and she says, “Honey, come right on in.”
She talks like a woman who lives in a trailer park. Roger has told me her husband, Miles, has inherited great wealth from his parents. His father founded Payne-Fetterman – the drug company which makes, among other things, the little pill I gave to Hilda Willis one week ago.
She brings me into her dining room. It has a chandelier with hundreds of glass crystals that hang over a table big enough to seat at least twenty people. She serves me some iced tea so sweet it makes my teeth ache. “Tell me about yourself,” I say.
She met her husband after a minor traffic accident, while she was still working at He & Thee Christian Cut & Curl. “He was driving his Porsche, and I was in my little Toyota Corolla. It was all my fault, so I gave him my card and told him I owed him a free styling. Things kind of went on from there.”
“I see.”
“Before we tied the knot, I switched over to selling cars. At the Alianthus dealership. I still do his hair, though. Every week.”
I tell her I wish I could cut my own husband’s beautiful hair.
“When Miles inherited all that money from his daddy, I didn’t need to work anymore. Neither did he. But he likes it so much he’s stayed on at Thornblade Academy. He taught history when we first met, and he’s headmaster now.”
“A demanding job,” I say.
Ginny sours her face. “That’s a decided problem. Now I’m blessed with all this.” She stretches both arms to the faraway walls, looking like the Savior on the cross. “We could do anything or go anywhere on God’s green earth, but he’s always at work. Even on weekends. Honey, to be perfectly honest, the main reason I switched over from Baptist to Methodist is I had nothing better to do.”
I sour my own face, but I say nothing. I let her talk.
“He brings home books for me to read, and I do my level best, but I’m not that kind of woman. I like to shop and look at magazines and listen to country music. It’s like he doesn’t even see me anymore.”
“Then you must make him see you.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried.” She leads me upstairs to her closet, which is full of every kind of dress a woman could wear.
“But you still cut his hair,” I say.
“I’m a professional,” she says. “And it saves him seventy-five minutes going to and from the barber. I do it every Saturday, just before his morning shower, so he’s always looking his best.”
“Do you shave your legs, Ginny?”
“Course I do, honey. I keep up my appearance.”
“I can see that.” She is at least ten years older than I am, but she is bonita in her trailer park way. “The next time you cut your husband’s hair, you must shave him first.”
“Miles is partial to his electric razor.”
I point between my own legs. “Or he must find a new barber.”
She giggles. “I never thought of that.”
I go back to her closet, and I find the best dress for her body. It is not a dress any woman who goes to the Methodist church should wear in public.
I put it into her hands. “Wear this. Nothing else. And do not leave a single hair on his manhood.”
Ginny looks at me, and I can see the hope in her eyes. “Well, it just might be worth a try.”
It is the second Saturday in March, and our son continues to grow in my own body. While we are lying in bed, after he has given his mouth to me like a newborn child, Roger murmurs that Ginny Fetterman called him that very morning.
“She thinks you should do a program for the older church women. She’s willing to host it at her own home. I told her we could call it Wives Only.”
“What would I tell them? I am not a minister.”
“That could be a good thing,” he says. “It might make them more – forthcoming. Ginny’s spoken with some of her friends, and they’ve come up with a topic for you to consider.”
Now I place my hand on his manhood, and I tell him I will give it all the consideration it deserves.
I am back in Belladonna, in the dining room of Ginny’s beautiful house, where I met with her before. I have brought my own Sangria, which contains a special something made by the company that bears her husband’s name.
It is not the same something I gave to Hilda Willis.
I tell her to use her biggest glasses, with not too much ice. Because I am new to the church, they are all wearing the name tags Ginny has made for them. They are all much older than she is.
MARJORIE BREEDLOVE. Now that is a name.
ELISE MICHEL. The one who rides her bicycle to church.
HILDA WILLIS. Of course.
VERNA STYLES. The oldest one of them all, with her short hair dyed black as my own. I can tell she was beautiful once, and from the bitter smirk on her face I can tell she will be trouble.
While they are drinking their wine, Ginny leaves the room to answer her Yphone. When she returns, she announces we are all here – since Peg Carmichael has called to say she must attend a fundraiser with her husband, who is the Vice President for Athletic Development at Bullpen College. “Poor Peg. I guess she don’t know what she’s missing.” Ginny refills all the glasses, some for the second time. She wraps her arm around my shoulder, saying they probably remember me as Teresa Torrido, “the WFOP weather awe-thority.” She tells the women how much I have already improved her marriage. She does not say how.
“And she brought Noel into the church,” Hilda adds. “On a Sunday other than Easter!”
The women cackle like old hens.
I tell them to stand up from their ladder back chairs and turn them around. Then I ask them to sit down again, with the rails in front. On the other side of the big table, I do the same. I point to one of the long polished knobs sticking up in the air, and I shrug my shoulders.
“It’s called an ear,” Verna says.
So she is a smart old puta. I had to look that up on the Internet. After I thank her, I reach into my purse, and I take out a clear produce bag from the Econoclast for each of them.
“Will you be selling vegetables?” Verna says, with her old lips over the rim of her glass. “In keeping with your heritage?”
“No,” I say to this pinche gringa. “But I will be giving you food for thought.”
I hand each of them a pair of Italian plums. “Put them into the bag. Like this.”
“Ladies, I told you this was going to be good,” Ginny whispers.
“Now tie the top of the bag to the ear.”
“Left or right?” Verna snickers.
“It does not matter.” At my request, my host provides each woman with an index card and a pencil. “I have a few questions, which I want you to answer with honesty. Without embarrassment. Do not put down your name, but number from one to five. The first question is this: When did you last kiss your husband?“
“That’s easy,” Elise says. “Très facile.“
“When did your husband last make love to you?“
“Next question, please,” Verna says.
“Did you hold his manhood while he gave you his seed?“
The old women giggle, like little girls.
“When was he last in your mouth?“
Most of them can’t stop laughing, but Verna snorts and tells Ginny she needs another drink.
“And the final question: When were you last in his mouth?“
They fold their cards in half, pass them across the table, and I look at them.
“For the first question, all of you have said today or yesterday. Very good. For the second, you have said last Saturday; three weeks ago; sometime in January; I can’t remember; and” – I find Verna’s eyes – “he wouldn’t dare. For the third question, you have said I’m afraid I would hurt him; certainly not; dear God no; I would never even dream of it; and something I cannot repeat aloud.”
I put the little cards on the big table, face down.
“Enough. Our host has asked me to speak tonight about loving a man of a certain age. It is a special challenge. In the presence of your husband, you must use the right terms. I recommend the word manhood.”
“Manhood!” Ginny says. “I like that!”
“Think for a moment, ladies. Imagine you are with him, in your own bedroom, late at night. May I touch your balls sounds crude. Like he is a mere beast. May I touch your testicles makes you his doctor, not his wife. But May I touch your manhood?” I take a little sip from my Sangria and sigh before I continue. “I wish you could see the face of your minister after I whisper those five words into his ear.”
My host has gotten herself a new index card, and she is taking notes.
“But how do you touch? You must remember the first instinct of any male is to protect his genitals. It is an involuntary response. He does not think. So move your hand very slowly, and begin with cupping.” I place my palm beneath the plums, and I speak to them. “So heavy. So full of your seed.” I raise only my eyes to the old women. “Touch, but do not apply any pressure. Almost every man enjoys this. It makes him feel masculine, yet secure. If he does not remove your hand, start stroking downward. Like your fingers are the arms of a little jellyfish. Very lightly.”
“Oh death, where is thy sting?” Verna snickers.
“Very lightly,” I repeat. “Yes, like that,” I say to Elise. Then she catches her ragged nail on the plastic, and I shake my head. “Visit your emery board first.”
I watch until all of them, even Verna, are doing it correctly. “If he likes this, press your fingers around his manhood and pretend you are milking a cow. Once again, gently.”
“This is beyond ridiculous.”
“Teresa is a guest in my house, Verna,” Ginny says.
“So am I.”
“Please be quiet, Verna,” Hilda says. “We’re trying to listen.”
I ignore them and say, “Now I will discuss some things not all men enjoy. But many do. Pretend you have just watched a very bad play, and you are clapping – just to be polite.” I open my right hand, and the plums bounce upward. The old women start giggling like little girls again.
“And if he likes that?” Verna sneers.
“Take the thumb and the index finger of your other hand and place it above them. Press until you can feel his cords.” I demonstrate with my plastic sack. “Then imagine that you have seen a very good play.” I clap harder, but the plums do not move.
“The poor things have nowhere to hide!”
“Yes, Hilda. But that is not what you say to your husband.”
Ginny raises her hand and waves it like she is still in junior high school. “Your manhood has nowhere to hide!“
I nod in her direction. “But not quite so loud.”
Verna pulls the plastic sack off her chair and starts eating one of the plums. She tells me she is emending her answer to question four.
And now I have had enough. I walk around the table, I take the plum from her lizard hand, and I squeeze the juice over her white skirt.
She storms out of the room, and I hear the big front door slam from the far side of the house.
“Good Lord, she had that coming,” Ginny says. “I never did like that particular woman anyway.” And the others shake their heads, and they drink more of their Sangria, and they turn their eyes to me again.
“If he enjoys all this, then you have a special husband. Like mine.”
They screech like teenagers at an American football game.
“Girls, let’s say a prayer for that!” Ginny makes a tent with her fingers, and she raises her gaze to her chandelier. “Almighty God, may we all have special husbands! Just like Teresa’s! Amen!” She walks to the other side of her table to hug me and shake my hand. “Honey, we can’t thank you enough.”
“On behalf of our husbands,” Marjorie declares.
“Peut-être, mesdames,” Elise says, wagging her finger with its ragged nail. “Peut-être.” I know enough French to know her accent is very good.
“There is one more thing,” I say. “If you have done all this, you have a very special husband. One who trusts you completely. If you wish to do so, you can now touch his deepest self. And your deepest power as a woman.”
“Swee-eet Jesus!” Ginny sings the two words. “That’s something I want to hear!”
“You will need a ribbon. A very thin, very soft silk ribbon.” I take one out of my purse. “Now you must pretend you are my husband.”
They do as they are told. I can see the excitement in their faces as I kneel on the padded seat of the chair. I know these old women have spent many hours imagining what is beneath their minister’s robes.
“I am using my thumb and my index finger, like before.” I touch the top of the wooden ear with my lips. “You have become so manly, my love, that I must move them down. Forgive me.” As the plastic is stretching, I say, “A single inch. No more.” I start wrapping the ribbon. “One, two, three times around. I pull, with all my strength. But first, it must go around three times – above them both. That is very important. Then I make the knot.”
Ginny turns over her index card and sketches on the other side. Her Miles is a lucky man.
“I take the long end and lace it between them.” Once again, I show them how. “I wrap twice more, where I have wrapped before, and I again I pull. With all my power. And I make the second knot.”
Ginny drops her pencil. “A cute little halter top!”
“Décolletage masculine.” Elise raises her glass. “Très bon!”
Marjorie says nothing. She is probably dreaming of my husband.
“So purple, my love,” I whisper. “Like ripe plums on the tree.” I pull both ends of the ribbon upward, as high as they will go, with my left hand. “I must have your manhood.”
With my right hand, I reach behind the blue sash of my maternity dress. I take out the pink scissors and open them slowly, until they can open no more.
They scream the scream of my abuelo and their glasses strike the table, but they do not break. Into the puddle of red wine I lower the scissors that have never closed. Not tonight.
I let the ends of the ribbon fall to the wooden floor.
“What now?” Ginny finally asks.
I kiss the plums, and I cup what these gringas would call my baby bump – where my Roger’s seed is growing inside me. And I give them the same smile I give to my own querido every night, after he has given me all of his trust.
“You wait,” I tell them. And then I stand up, and I leave these holy borrachas their own food for thought, hanging from their ears.
