“Bagel?” Debi asked, peeking through Richard’s half-open door. “Got bagel. Got coffee.”
“Oh, hey,” Rich said, looking up from his atlas. That was twice she had brought him breakfast. Swear to God, she was the best. “Wow, you’re dressed up.”
She smiled and did a slight curtsy. “It’s Sunday. You’re my charity stop before church. So . . . am I invited in?”
“Oh, yeah, sure, sure, come on in, I’m sorry,” Richard apologized, waving her in. “I was just looking at the map. I think I can take 66 up to 81 and then it should be smooth sailing to Knoxville—although I think they are doing a lot of construction on 81 in Lynchburg, so I might want to get off on—well, one of the highways. I guess I should just wait and see how traffic is.”
“Wow,” Debi said, looking side-to-side. “You cleaned your apartment.”
“Yeah,” Richard said, grinning sheepishly. “I—it was embarrassing, you coming over yesterday. The place looked so crappy. I hadn’t mopped or dusted--”
“Or taken any of your stuff out of the moving boxes,” Debi added.
“That too,” he agreed. “Look, Deb, thanks for putting a good word in for me with Robbie. He called me back yesterday afternoon. I think this Capitol Brief story could be a really good thing for me. And—well, it was obvious he was going with me on your word.”
“Good,” she said. “I know you’ll do a good job. You could have done a good job at the Trib if Monk had ever let you.”
Richard smiled. He knew better than to think it would last—he had 12 hours of driving in front of him, and long hours in the car would make his thoughts wander. But he had gone to bed feeling pretty good, couldn’t remember what, if anything, he had dreamt, and had woken up in a decent mood. Now Debi was here, perpetual ray of sunshine that she was, with bagel and coffee, to see him off, on the gig she had gotten him the day after he had gotten the axe. “Thanks. I know you went to bat for me. A lot. Monk doesn’t listen to anybody but Monk.”
“No,” Debi said, handing Richard a bagel and a single-serve of cream cheese. “He can be very frustrating. You know, the thing is, he knew you could do it. He knew you had the chops. But everybody there has to climb up Monk’s ladder one rung at a time. Everybody had to go through the same stupid process—I knew he was going to fire you because you wouldn’t do it. But still, it just ticked me off. You know he waited until I was out of pocket all day before letting you go? He didn’t want me to be there. Because he knew I’d give him hell, which I did, anyway, and he puts up with—” She stopped, the sighed. “It’s just frustrating. He puts up with me because I bring in the stories, but if he would just have let you do what he knew you could do, then you’d be bringing in stories that he’d give his right eye for, but because you didn’t want to shovel shit and clean the toilets first, the way he did, he wouldn’t let you, even though he knew—” She paused and took a deep breath. “People are just stupid,” she finished. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep going on.”
“Nah, I gotta go, anyway,” Debi demurred. “I usually try and make Bible study before church.”
Richard, holding his bagel up to his mouth, stopped in mid-bite. “Bible study?” he asked, chuckling. “You serious? I mean, I knew you did the church thing—”
Debi smiled. “Every Sunday morning and Tuesday evening, at 6:00 PM, New York Avenue Presbyterian. You’re welcome to come sometime. It’s the church where Lincoln took in Sunday service. Presidents and statesmen. It’s got history.”
“Uh,” Richard stammered. “I’ll think about it.”
“No pressure. Bagels and coffee are entirely string-free. I would’ve asked you before, actually, but I kind of like to keep work and church separate.” She tapped the small gold crucifix around her neck. “That’s why I keep this inside the shirt at the Tribune, or when I’m interviewing. I learned when I was an intern at the Times that there—well, there are a lot of people who don’t think much of us Christian-folk. Some of those people can make work really hard on you. Especially in this town.”
Richard blinked. “Well, yeah, I guess they—uh—could be—”
“The number of people with the Washington press corps that go to church any time outside of Christmas or a funeral—you can count them on one hand. I’m serious. I’ve done it. So I don’t make a big thing about it. And sometimes I want to, believe me. When you were telling me about your divorce, I really wanted to say something then. I really did. Because I’ve known so many people who have been—I’ve seen the difference it has made, in very bad times, for people I’ve known.” She shrugged. “But, I stick to my policy.”
Richard took another sip of coffee. “You’re telling me now.”
Debi laughed. “Technically, I don’t work with you anymore. And, anyway, it’s Sunday. It’s not going to kill you to hear about church for five minutes on Sunday.”
“Touché, touché,” Richard said. “I mean, you’re right, I ran into three or four people at the paper that I think went to church—maybe—but I can’t think of one that took it seriously. I just—it’s a surprise, I guess, I mean. Well, you can bust some balls. You’ve about had some of those guys on the Hill run out of town. You—you just—”
“A good Christian woman can’t bust balls?” Debi asked, smirking. “Ha! I don’t know about where you grew up, but in Fort Dodge, Iowa, that was the very definition of a good Christian woman.” She giggled. “But I feel a little bad talking about busting balls and such on the Sabbath.”
“‘On the Sabbath . . . ’,” Richard repeated. “I’m sorry, it’s just taking me a minute to get used to the idea. I don’t mean to be a heathen. You . . . you just keep it well concealed.”
Debi adjusted her coat and stepped back towards the door. “It’s my job, right now. You know me as well as anybody at the Tribune ever did, and look how you’re reacting. Witnessing and journalism don’t exactly mix.”
Richard had the sinking feeling he had just stuck his foot in his mouth. “Sorry, really, you just caught me off guard—but, yeah, you’re right, it probably wouldn’t hurt me to go to church. Or something.”
Debi stepped out the door, then turned and winked. “Or Bible study,” she supplied helpfully. “6:00 PM on Tuesdays. Or, you can call me and we’ll go together.”
“Uh—“ Richard stuttered. “Uh, okay. Sure. Why not?”
“It’s a date. I know you’re out this Tuesday, so next week?”
“Uh, next week,” Richard agreed.
“Finish your coffee before it gets cold,” Debi recommended. “Bye.” She turned and disappeared, the sound of her heels clacking on the concrete stairs outside Richard’s apartment, and then slowly fading away.
Richard finished his coffee, crumpled the cup, and threw it in the trash. He looked absently out his open door. Had he just agreed to go to a Bible study class? With Deborah Enos, ball-busting political reporter? Who looked like a supermodel? Were women that looked like supermodels even supposed to go to church? Wasn’t that a sin or something? She was such a babe! She was so smart. And she spent her evenings . . . studying the Bible? What the hell was that? And had he missed something, or had he just agreed to his first date since the divorce? Yes, yes he had. He had, with barely a murmur of disagreement, consented to go on a date with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen . . . in a church. Where they would study the Bible together.
It was bad enough that she was so nice, and so very beautiful—a very dangerous thing, beauty; the longest, sharpest knives were always in the most pleasing packages, weren’t they? Scary enough that she could have been a supermodel or a movie star. But she went to church—really went there, not just for Christmas service and funerals like Richard and probably most people he knew that ever made it to church at all, but she actually went regularly. On Sunday’s and Tuesdays.
He sat down. He had figured the excitement and anticipation would wear away during the long drive, and his mood would dampen. He was used to it. But the nearly genuine enthusiasm with which he had woken up was gone already, and he hadn’t even gotten his bags downstairs. He thought he had offended Debi. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed likely, and that made him feel like a shithead. He was pissed off at himself, for having known Debi for almost four years, and never even having noticed something that was clearly important to her. And he was supposed to be a journalist.
Shit, she had even told him. Oh, God, she had told him and he had laughed. They had been out and she had been drinking—no, everybody else had been drinking, Debi had gotten a Virgin Mary. But they had been out together and she had asked how he had gotten into journalism and he had mumbled something about wanting to make a difference—that had sounded better than saying he didn’t know how to do anything else—and then he had asked her why she had gotten into journalism. Only now, in his memory, did he see her hesitation. Only now did he see her slight lean forward. Her eyes watching him.
“I was called by God,” she had told him.
And he had laughed. Loudly. Obnoxiously. In his mind, he heard himself braying like a donkey.
“And I was being punished by God, so we’re both in the same boat,” he had said. He had thought himself awfully witty, but Debi had just nodded slightly. “It’s different for everybody, I guess,” she had said, and excused herself.
Richard slumped backwards. Had he really laughed like that? She had been seriously telling him why she had chosen journalism, and he had laughed and said some inane, self-pitying piece of tripe, thinly disguised as humor. And she had excused herself. Of course she had. He had hurt her feelings, or at least had proved himself unworthy of the tentative trust she had offered him. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
He remembered the night he had unloaded on Debi about his divorce. About Julie. She had listened to him for hours. At one point, she had excused herself to go to the restroom, and when she had come back, her necklace with the simple gold crucifix had been outside of her black turtleneck. For his benefit? Somehow? Probably. And he had completely missed it. Well, he had noticed, but had completely missed the import.
He had been worried, Friday, that if he had gone over to her apartment, one thing might have led to another and they might have ended up in bed, corrupting what Richard had come to consider their solid friendship with some sort of “sympathy” sex. Reconsidered from the proper perspective, it seemed like he would have been in less danger of being seduced by Debi and in more danger of being evangelized—or already roped into Bible study this morning, instead of next week.
Richard slowly shook his head back and forth over his remaining half-a-bagel. The thought that it was exceedingly unlikely someone so beautiful and gifted as Debi would want to have anything to do with him had been, in its way, comforting on Friday. Now, there was a moral dimension added. A religious dimension. Not only was she beautiful and talented, she was dipped in Holy Water and touched by God. And Richard had been fretting over the possibility that she might—that they might—well, do something that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell ever would have happened. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
“I’m just her charity case,” Richard mumbled to himself. “Her good deed. Just doing her Christian duty.” Rich sighed. The idea that she was helping him to meet her Good Samaritan quota at church made him feel a little ill. Why, exactly, he wasn’t sure—what had he been thinking before, that she was in it for the money? That she was helping him because of his rugged good looks? In truth, it made her interest in him, he guessed, less suspect and more sincere. Still, it bugged him.
He stood up, picking up the remaining bit of bagel and dumping it in the trash. He picked up his bags and grabbed the atlas and started trudging towards the door. He didn’t know what it was, exactly—why the idea of her religious convictions contributing to her interest in him should bother him so much. How he had managed not to notice, after four years of knowing her. He had known Rajesh was a sincere, practicing Hindu after a few months, and he hadn’t exactly been hanging out a billboard or worshipping Vishnu at his desk. As Richard considered it, he realized he might have stuck his foot in his mouth more times than he even remembered. What had she heard him say, over the years? It made him nauseous just thinking about it. Maybe that was what really bothered him. Or . . .
Richard had a glimmer of something as he put down his bag in the hall, turning around to close and lock the door. The pit in his stomach—he remembered it. From after one of his sessions with Julie. After she would dress him down for something, he had always felt that emptiness. That sick sense of impending doom. Julie could be harsh, even cruel. The terrible vacuum in the pit of his stomach, as tough as it had been to take, had at least made sense. Now, with Deborah—it was back again. And maybe it made sense, too. It was like really good people could make him feel just as shitty as really bad people. Different approaches, same results.
Or maybe it was just him.
He closed the door and locked it, and began slowly down the stairs. He had felt so much better ten minutes ago. It wasn’t Debi’s fault, but . . . damn, he wished she hadn’t come over.
Shaking his head—and trying desperately not to hear what Julie had to say about it—Richard loaded up his scratched and dented 1979 Ford Mustang and headed for the interstate.
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