Who is Judas?
I wait for my husband to fall asleep. I ascend the attic stairs. My King James Bible lays buried under a pile of retired college text books. My hand grazes the leather cover to remove the collected dust. I might offend God if I flip the golden-lined pages without reverence. I cautiously turn to the index. My finger scrolls the list of topics to find it, the name Judas.
***
An unshaven, obese man sets a Starbucks coffee on the courtesy counter. A cigarette lingers on his breath, and I politely mute my cough. He looks at me with peeked interest. I reposition my low-cut shirt closer to my neck. I instinctively smile because that is what a receptionist is paid to do.
“The coffee is for you,” he says.
An elderly lady in the waiting room pulls her purse to her chest. I see her pale blue eyes scrutinizing the man’s dress and judging his character by it. She places a handkerchief over her mouth. I attempt to say thank you to the man, but he hurriedly turns to leave. He leans into the door and disappears.
“I wouldn’t drink that coffee,” the elderly lady warns.
I heed her warning and go to the nearest restroom. The black liquid coats the sink’s white porcelain. I discover red lettering on the bottom of the cup: AFFAIR. I yank my hand away and spill coffee on my skirt. I hear the service bell ring multiple times. I shove the cup into the bottom of the trash, covering it with the used paper towels. I come out of the bathroom to see Dr. Line flirtatiously ringing the service bell.
“What terrible service,” he jests.
The elderly lady giggles. Dr. Line winks at her and her cheeks redden.
“I spilled coffee on my skirt.” I rush behind the courtesy desk and needlessly stack papers.
“Spilled coffee! That is a tragedy. We must remedy that. You must accompany me to Starbucks after my shift.”
“No!” I change to a whisper. “I have a husband.”
“That wasn’t an obstacle last night.”
“I was drunk. I was upset. You took advantage of the situation.”
“You stayed the entire night and woke up next to me. We had breakfast together.”
The elderly lady fidgets with her necklace, and her legs cross away from us. An elderly man comes around the corner. She grabs his arm, pulling him to the exit. He has to hold onto his John Deer hat, so it doesn’t fly off.
“Alone at last.” Dr. Line places his hand on the small of my back, and I pull away. He is genuinely surprised.
“Someone knows,” I say.
“No one knows, except that old lady.”
His beeper sounds, and he rushes down the hall. He doesn’t return before Kelly comes to replace me. My exhausted eyes fall on my cell phone: three text messages from my husband and one missed call from an unknown number. I have an unnerving thought that someone must be waiting for me at Starbucks with intentions of blackmail. I can either return home to my already suspicious husband or drink a pumpkin chai. I send my husband a short text: Starbucks run. I cautiously drive in the slushy conditions and pull into the Starbuck’s parking lot. The car idles, and I turn the heat to its highest level. The radio plays a rap song about drugs and sex. A love song plays next, and I rip the keys out of the ignition.
I truly expect to find the obese man sitting inside, drumming his fingers and reading a newspaper. The only customer is a female student with fashionable reading glasses sitting at a tall table. I order a pumpkin chai, and the chair’s black leather is soft against my skin. I pick up a newspaper to browse the headlines. I pretend to read the front page while I guess who could possibly know.
I hear the door open and close. A tall lady in a business suit enters, still talking on her cell phone. A little girl and boy follow behind her, fighting over a toy. She yells at them, but they don’t pay any attention. She is rude to the man behind the counter, and I start to wonder if there is any hope for humanity.
As the business woman is rushing out the door, she bumps into the obese man as he enters. She gives him a look of repulsion. She grabs her boy’s hand and rushes the two children out the door. The man orders a tall, black coffee and takes a swig before it has time to cool. He causally sits in the chair next to me.
“So my riddle wasn’t hard to follow. I wasn’t sure you’d figure it out.”
He takes the newspaper from me and browses the headlines. He makes himself comfortable.
“I rarely read the news anymore. Too much bad news,” he says.
“How did you find out?” I feel the need to justify myself. “It was only one time. I have never cheated on my husband before. I feel terrible. I will never cheat again.”
“Lady, I ain’t no priest. Confess to someone else.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Settle yourself. You don’t need to worry. We can work this out together. Your husband won’t find out as long as you are willing to help me.”
He leans in closer and hands me a picture of guy with blonde curls who is standing next to an attractive female.
“That girl. That’s my daughter. Her name is Aimee.”
“Who is the guy?”
“He’s the guy I am going to kill.”
I bite my lip. Adrenaline rushes through my blood. I reach for my purse. He grabs my arm.
“At least hear what I have to say. You would want to kill him too.”
I choose to listen. I hear a father, not a cold-blooded killer. My moral warnings are subdued, and I sit next to him like a therapist. He tells me about the blonde haired boy who breaks all the women’s hearts. That was forgivable, but not the rape. We conspire for the next hour.
“I ain’t a professional killer, but I hunt deer. I can aim. I won’t miss, but I need you to reassure him. The blondie is a fighter and he is too confident. If he thinks he’s going to die, he’ll fight. He’ll survive.” The father’s voice is bitter and callous.
“All I have to do is reassure him?”
“You won’t be pulling the trigger.”
“All I have to do is reassure him?”
“No blood on your hands, just a few white lies.”
***
I meet Alex in a shady bar that smells more of body odor than beer. He is wearing a college football jersey, but he informs me it actually belongs to his older brother. I tell him I like his blond curls and his favorite baseball team. He leans in closer to tell me he has never met a female surgeon before. He touches my left hand and wants to know how skilled I am. I tell him I have worked on fifteen gun wounds. We have a few drinks and this encourages his advances. I lure him into the alley, and we hear the shot. For a moment, I fear the man missed Alex and hit me. The warm blood covers my hands. Alex hits the pavement.
He lets out a strained laugh. “Must be fate. I get shot and I have a surgeon by my side.”
I cover the wound with a cloth, but I don’t press hard enough. I pretend to dial 911 and fake a conversation.
“The ambulance is on its way. You are going to make it.”
He rests his head on my shoulder and his arms go limp.
“It doesn’t even hurt.”
“That is normal. You’re going into shock.”
“I am bleeding all over the place.”
“You would be surprised how much blood you have in your body. You can lose tons of blood and it won’t kill you. The bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. You will be fine.”
“I can’t get over my luck. I get shot and I have a surgeon…a surgeon.” His chest rises one more time and never again. I call 911. The ambulance arrives. I tell them I heard a shot, but never saw anyone. They question me, but aren’t suspicious. When they release me, all I can think about is seeing my husband.
I arrive home, my clothes still stained with blood. I stumble through the doorway and see our dining room table has two recently lit candles. Fancy maroon napkins are elegantly resting on our best dishware. Romantic music is playing and Greg is wearing a suit. He drops the lilies in his hands and rushes to my side.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
I tell him I witnessed a shooting. I tell him the boy died in my arms. I see a more determined love in his eyes. He embraces me.
“I am so glad you aren’t hurt. Next time call me. I am so glad you are still alive.”
I rationalize that this kid’s death has brought us closer together. Alex may have saved our marriage. Greg tells me he loves me and then kisses me on the cheek.
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