Chapter 31 Debbie Gets Screw-ged #2
“Really? I’ve heard the name ‘Adam’ more often in the last couple months than in twenty years of fCOC Sunday School and sermons combined!
And wipe that silly grin off your face when I say his name!
Jeez, Screech, you’ll see him on New Year’s Eve, right?
Can you just live in our world until then?
You know, the world where Colton just threatened a female friend of yours? ”
That got Matt’s attention. “Fine,” he said. “Treat me like a dumb jock and explain it to me again how Colton’s targeting faculty and staff.”
Remember that resolution he pushed through SGA about a month ago?” Molly asked.
Matt shook his head.
“You were at an away game that night, but I told you about it later. I showed you the resolution.”
Matt vaguely remembered something with a lot of whereas clauses followed by a whiny request that the administration ensure that faculty and staff were practicing Christian family values in their personal lives. He hadn’t given it much thought since then.
Molly continued. “Two weeks ago, Colton upped the ante. He was obviously frustrated that the administration hadn’t taken any action on the resolution, so he wrote a letter to the editor of The Beakly News. Does that ring a bell?”
Matt shrugged. “I’m sorry, Molls, I don’t read every page of that paper, especially letters to the editor. So, help me out. Please? What did I miss?”
“Did you just call me ‘Molls?’”
Matt braced himself, nodded meekly. “You call me ‘Screech.’”
Molly grunted. “Fine. Okay, back to Colton’s letter to the editor.
He argued that the students had done their part by showing themselves eager for the wholesome mentoring promised by the school’s mission statement—not by people living in violation of God’s laws.
He went on to write that by not acting, the administration had been ‘weighed in the balance and found wanting.’ Seriously, who writes like that? ”
Matt chuckled. “Anything else?”
“He listed a bunch of scriptures to back up his point that real Christians live pure lives or something like that. Don’t expect me to remember the scripture references.
I looked up a few of them. It was the usual list: no drunkenness, no premarital sex, no divorce, and, of course, no homosexuality. ”
Matt was relieved, frankly. None of those applied to Debbie. Still, he wanted to go check on her. “Anything else?”
“Colton’s feeling cocky,” Molly said. She reached into her camera bag and retrieved a folded copy of the Daily Oklahoman, laid it on the tabletop.
“Section C, page 9.” She pointed to the paper.
Matt thumbed to Section C.
“Brace yourself,” Molly warned.
Matt flipped to the page. Saw Colton Langley’s fraternity-boy mug beaming back at him.
Matt’s mood darkened, curdling his frown into a grimace.
The headline proclaimed: “Senator Picks Intern.”
Senator James Inhoffe had selected Colton for a summer internship. Same Colton who, according to the article, was gaining ground on Mother Teresa in the sainthood department.
So, next May, when Matt would no doubt resume his burger-flipping career in order to help pay his tuition, Colton would be in Washington, D.C., his feet propped up on a desk, his only purpose being to secure Inhoffe’s endorsement of his own future political career.
Matt’s stomach lurched—whether from disgust, hunger, or both, not certain. He wasn’t jealous. It wasn’t that he expected more from a U.S. Senator; he expected more from Karma.
“Soon he’ll be unstoppable,” Molly said of Colton. “He’s a junior now. He’ll graduate May ’97. With the Inhoffe connection and his family’s influence, he’ll get elected to state office in ’98. He’ll be Governor before he’s 40.”
Matt nodded. It was probably true. The Langleys were Oklahoma’s Kennedys.
“He’s just honing his skills here,” Molly continued. “Like a serial killer torturing critters before moving on to humans.”
Matt nodded numbly. A frisson of dread coursed through his veins. He was thinking of Debbie. “I gotta go,” he announced suddenly. He stood, wished Molly a Merry Christmas, and headed for the exit.
The Registrar’s office was shoehorned into a windowless corner of the building. Its door was covered in red Christmas paper, crisscrossed with a green ribbon to look like a giant present. That had to be Debbie’s doing.
Matt pushed open the door, stepped inside.
The office was not a large space. There was a counter. Behind that were the desks of the three women who worked there.
Two—not three—women hunched over their desks.
Debbie was not one of them.
One of the women—Liz—looked up, saw Matt, and burst into tears.
The other woman—Matt couldn’t remember her name—stood quickly. She put a hand on Liz’s shoulder (more of a “pull yourself together” touch than sympathetic), handed her a tissue, and stepped to the counter to deal with Matt.
Other Woman was in her sixties, widowed, had grandkids. Just because Matt couldn’t remember her name didn’t mean he didn’t know her. They had talked during some of his visits to Debbie.
“Debbie’s gone,” Other Woman said, matter-of-factly.
Matt could see that. What he wanted to know was when she would return. Was she OK? Why was Liz crying? And why was Debbie’s desk empty? As in no pictures of her cats. No pictures of him or the rest of the team.
“Debbie doesn’t work here anymore,” Other Woman said.
Oklahoma wasn’t the prettiest state any time of the year, but in December it was the ugliest. It was a prairie, after all, pancake flat, the ground fried crispy over the long summer, desperately hanging on for spring rains.
Snow wasn’t on the menu until January, if then, so no White Christmas, boys and girls.
The only snowmen were the plastic lawn decorations twisting in the constant gusts.
Matt’s Jeep tore through the streets on its way to Debbie’s house.
His mood was black. The only detail he’d been able to glean from her coworker was that the dean had called Debbie to his office.
While she had been there, a security guard had shown up and boxed her belongings.
She’d been escorted to her car, told never to return to campus. Merry Christmas.
Matt could not escape the feeling that he had let Debbie down.
His eyes misted.
He white-knuckled the steering wheel. Took corners so fast the handcuffs hanging from his rearview mirror jangled angrily. Yes, handcuffs. A parting gift from Garland to remind Matt of who had tamed him.
Matt had news for all of them: this Mustang wasn’t tame and never would be.
Not in a bedroom. Not anywhere. He’d consented—one time—to be handcuffed and face fucked by Garland.
Fine. No shame in that. No regrets. No sequels either.
If he ever played with handcuffs again, he would be the one doing the taming.
What galled him was how he had let William geld him where Colton was concerned—because, face it, while Debbie’s firing had been instigated by Colton and abetted by Dean Smith, it had also been enabled by William. There was culpability to spare.
William had been Godmother of the GM for a year now.
He had pulled his punches and turned his cheek at every one of his ex-lover’s provocations.
Had stopped Matt from giving the guy a well-deserved vigilante beatdown.
Had instead led Colton to believe that he, William, was in possession of an antique wooden box full of Colton’s old love letters and cards to him.
Debbie’s house loomed into view.
Debbie’s 1984 Chevy Chevette, always garaged, was parked askew on the driveway. The driver’s door hung open.
Matt parked behind her car, got out, and investigated. He’d never been this close to it, was surprised to see that the tires were nearly bald.
Her boxed belongings were in the passenger seat.
He retrieved the box, closed the driver’s door, and walked to her porch, past a plastic lawn Santa and a sleigh full of toys. Past the scattered cat graves, gnomes, and whirligigs.
Knocked on the front door. Waited. Knocked again, a little louder.
Peered through the door’s window. Saw Debbie huddled on her couch, holding all three cats in a tight hug.
“Mom Debbie?” Matt called.
He tried the door.
It was unlocked.
He eased it open, poked his head inside. “Mom Debbie?”
“Hi Mustang.” Debbie’s voice was flat.
Matt stepped inside, set her boxed belongings on the floor, and sat on the couch beside her. The TV was on, muted, playing It’s a Wonderful Life.
Matt reached over and petted Cleopatra, Debbie’s Calico cat with one good eye.
Cleopatra stirred, weighed her options, then moved to Matt’s lap. She made biscuits with her paws for a minute, then settled in for a nap, purring softly while Matt stroked her fur.
The other two cats, Butch and Sundance, had not warmed to Matt, despite his many attempts to win them over. They eyed Cleopatra disapprovingly.
Debbie stared at the muted TV, clutching Butch and Sundance to her. Her face was a mess. Mascara streaks traced the course of dried tears.
“I love this movie,” Debbie said. “When I was growing up, we had a family tradition to watch it every year. Mama would make popcorn and other snacks. Daddy would always discreetly wipe away a tear at the end. Mama and I would pretend not to notice.”
Matt smiled. He was a tinge jealous. The closest thing his family had to a Christmas tradition was the annual blowup when his mom asked his dad one time too many to set up the tree.
It was the only thing she found the courage to push the man about.
He’d get stubborn and put it off just to spite her.
She’d gently remind him until he lost his shit and then set it up in a huff—usually just a few days before Christmas.
Debbie’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I always thought I’d carry on the tradition with my own kids, you know.”
She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Tried to sound upbeat.