From the Heart Read online

  My intentions were good, God knew. Yet would what had happened at Grace Valley and the drug enforcement unit always hang over my pretty little head like a noose? I had done the right thing. Okay, posing for snapshots in my hooker ensemble for the L.A. Times and letting my YouTube interview go viral might not have been swift. Can’t dwell on hindsight, can you?

  Then I complained to the High and Mighty: “Sure, along with Dancing with the Stars, there was VBS starting Monday, my grandfather’s midlife crisis complete with cowboy boots and a red muscle-car convertible and then, oh, yes, Harmony and her little dog, too, camped at my condo. I don’t need anything more.”

  God didn’t answer, if you’re wondering.

  Multi-worrying had become my way of life. Not a problem for a woman like me? Give me a break.

  • • •

  Like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, I made it to my cubbyhole. I flipped through the gold-trimmed budget info folders Pastor Bob had handed me at the door. It was a dizzy array of cost-analysis schedules, spreadsheets, diagrams, pie charts, flowcharts, and mission statements. What if I’d been five minutes later, or what if I’d sipped my Starbucks at the shop rather than bringing it here to the church offices when he was finishing up with the pep rally? What if I wasn’t around to hear that big fat idea? Would he have found some other flunky who had the District Council breathing down her neck?

  I could go along with Ab Normal’s idea to turn a teen event into Casino Royale, or I could squeal to the District Council. Guess who’d they side with? Yeah, that was a no-brainer after my last encounter with the DC.

  “Ah, shucks,” I muttered. I’d left my iced coffee in the pastor’s office. His door was ajar. His voice boomed, whined, and crackled.

  I could see his back, turned away from the door, and the phone at his ear. He stood up and I listened. I wanted to hear what I was headed for. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.

  “Listen, man, you’ll have it. You can bet on that. Yeah, you’ve heard that before. Give me a chance, will you? Can’t you trust me on this? Just once more, I’m good for it.”

  Then he turned. Our eyes met, but his were bulging. His mouth stopped mid-word. I’ve never seen a human with that color red on his face as he spurted into the phone, “Yes, yes, why, of course. Amen and good talking with you. Of course, I’ll get back to you on that matter. Yes, within the hour. You’ll have to excuse me, as one of my pastoral staff is here.” He slapped the phone in the cradle and ground out between his teeth. “What is it now, Jane?”

  “Sorry, my coffee. On the floor. Next to your desk.” I hustled in, grabbed the cup, and stubbed my toe on the chair and kept the “ouch” to myself. Closing his door firmly, I skedaddled.

  Now, rather than look at the folder for Dancing with Vegas Stars that I was about to hurdle myself into, my brain zoomed back to another conversation. What had caused Pastor Bob to change from Bombastic Bob to Benevolent Bob from just my presence at the door?

  The desk phone was ringing when I entered the cubicle laughingly called an office. “Jane Angieski here.”

  “Madam Pastor Jane?”

  “Petra, how are you? Did Carl survive my attack to his manliness? Not that I’m saying you’ve personally inspected it or anything, but not that there’s anything wrong with that if, well, um, did you rush him to the ER?”

  Long silence. “Madam Pastor, I do not understand.”

  “Oh, nothing. Call me Jane. Everyone does and especially my friends. I certainly hope after our first introduction and embarrassing myself with the situation between you and my grandfather and flinging my petite self out of your arms and into those of your squeeze that we can be friends.”

  “I am sorry, ah, Jane. What does squeeze mean?”

  “Carl. Um, it’s slang.” Speak first and reason second is a way of life for me, a burden most of the time, but it does make life with my mouth stimulating.

  “Carl squeezes nicely, yes. But you said I could call you. Henry said you can listen well. He said you went to special school to learn listening. I cannot imagine someone kind like you to need teaching to listen, but he says so. I believe Henry. He is a good man.”

  “That he is, Petra. I did go to school and have become a good listener. Come here by the church and talk, or meet someplace?”

  “I am Catholic,” she whispered.

  “Everyone is welcome here, Petra, and that includes Catholics. Would you be more comfortable, my dear, at Starbucks near the recreation department? Say about eleven?” I geared up for another icy iced coffee, with relish, mind you.

  “It is just blocks for me but you must drive here. Thank you for your kindness. It is a big trouble that is troubling my heart, Madam Jane. Yes, Jane. No one can solve this, I am thinking, but Henry said you are a good solver.”

  As we started our positively polite good-byes, an itsy bitsy, and absolutely brilliant idea came to mind. It was scrumptious, and smacking my lips I tried to think it through. Once I listened to Petra’s troubles, doing my best to help fix them, it would be a natural segue to get her to help with the fundraising extravaganza, wouldn’t it? Besides, she could dance and help our teens to learn some of the finer points of grace and poise.

  I tossed the now painfully depleted cup in the trash, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed to the car. The A/C would probably just be making the seat possible to sit on by the time I met Petra, but if whatever was troubling her had forced her to call me, a stranger and a lethal weapon on the dance floor, it was significant. I buckled up, settled my scorched buttocks on the burning seat and headed to the coffee house.

  Pulling into the Starbucks near the rec center, it all dawned on me why she’d called. It was as if God had opened the heavens and an angel was speaking, or sort of. I didn’t truly think that, but it could have happened that way.

  Suddenly, I understood that Petra was a slave. She was addicted to something. Drugs, diet pills, something. “As skinny as she is, it’s taking a toll,” I said out loud. Why hadn’t I brought the resource directory from my office? Vegas had scores of self-help programs because, well, many need help and are smart enough to ask. This was not a town where folks hid from excesses or weaknesses, I considered as I trotted inside. I breathed in the fragrance of fresh-ground beans, stirred not shaken, with a hint of whipped cream. I’d arrived first, vowing I would help the woman, get her into a program, and rid her body and spirit of the demon controlling her. The Prophet Moses and I shared spiritual beliefs and a love for flowing robes. He brought the chosen people into the desert. I thought perhaps I had been brought to the Nevada desert for just this reason. I didn’t think this through enough but that didn’t stop me from moving with absolute surety. Being personally convinced of anything, when that belief is based on hunches, can be treacherous, and I lead a hazardous life.

  B-I-G time. I was so far off the mark the mark was in another solar system. Mind you, that didn’t stop me from putting my foot, once again, in my mouth but I’m getting ahead of the story again.

  Chapter 4

  Starbucks snacks nestled, snuggled, and called me from the display case, like some siren’s song. Hypnotic. I fought hard. Muffin or cookie? Cookie or muffin? Is one better for the buns? The cookies were the size of dinner platters, the muffins replicated soup pots. They haunted me, consuming my soul, and I coveted the crunch I’d feel in one tiny munch.

  I tore napkins into shreds, counted backward from a hundred, repeated the mantras I’d learned in a weight-loss program. “A minute on the lips, a month on the hips.” “Hippy today, skinnier tomorrow.” “A donut in the hand should stay in the hand.” “Fat is an F-word.” “Cookie crumbs count.”

  Yes, I do have those all memorized. As I got to the last, the desserts stopped whispering and started using a sugary bull horn. “Jane, come and get us, you want us, come take us out of the case. We love you.” I was a zombie. The
y controlled me with their menacing powers. I used the shreds of the napkins to blot drool from my chin, and I was just getting up from the café table when Petra came in.

  I hugged her skinny little shoulders with all my might. I think she thought I was relieved to see her. I was really relieved that I hadn’t eaten my way through the Starbucks biscotti, cookie, and muffin selection. I didn’t tell her that. “Can I get you a chocolate-covered macadamia nut cookie?” Yeah, I’d buy one for her and four for me.

  “No thank you, nothing, or perhaps something to drink.” She looked like a blast of desert air would knock her on her knickers, so I made a decision to sacrifice my own caloric intake and get us both something sugary. I’ve always thought of others first.

  With my iced coffee and her iced tea, and two huge cookies between us, I began with a bite and small talk. Okay, it was the weather again. Some delicate conversations work best in privacy. Others need crowds, or a dark room. I had no clue which this would be. I knew one thing. The sooner I got her into a twelve-step program for her addiction, the sooner I could organize VBS and figure out how to put on a rootin’-tootin’ “Dancing with the Vegas Stars” event that would generate about two million dollars for the new youth center.

  I had all the time in the world as long as it was done by Monday. Then, to put icing on this can of worms, I remembered stuffy official from the District Council was coming to visit me on Friday, maybe even to hand me new walking papers.

  Could the future get rosier? That’s a foolish question.

  I stared at the cookies, willing my hand to not hover over hers. If it was food she was avoiding, then maybe the cookie would bring that topic up more quickly. If not, well, I could always squeeze in another one.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Jane. I have sadness, I mean, much sadness, and my heart is heavy.”

  “Would you like to pray about it?” I placed my icy plastic cup down and reached over to take her hand, straight over the cookies, mind you, without hesitation. She snapped her hand back as if I were a maniac preacher waving and shouting, “The End is Here.”

  “No, I mean, yes, prayer is good. But I need advice from someone who knows America.”

  “Wait. You need a travel guide? Or about Americans? Americans are loud, pushy, and do awkward things such as heave ourselves on top of each other during a dance class. If you want travel information, there’s a Barnes and Noble around the corner; we can get a book. I have my favorite apps, too.”

  Petra shoved a long strand of hair behind her ear, looking like Reese Witherspoon, pointy chin and all. I wanted to hate her, and I would have, if she weren’t so stinkin’ sweet.

  “I love America.” She sighed.

  “Good, that’s very good, but what does loving America have to do with your addiction? Wait, it’s gambling, isn’t it? There’s so much around nowadays, and let’s not even talk about who has seen what or whom doing what to whom on the Internet, or so I’ve been told.” Okay, I blurted this but it didn’t stop my mouth. “It’s so easy to lose everything, including self respect. Is that what America has done to you?” Now I did grab her hand and began to pat it.

  She was staring at me. Did I see horror? Oh, how could I be such a dolt? It wasn’t gambling. She shook her head, and golden curls swung from side to side as I leaped straight in. “It’s sex? Or is it porn? You are not the first to be addicted to having sex with many people, men and women, and in various locations.” Although, trust me, leading this celibate life, I haven’t gotten in any primary research in that area since Collin died. I watch TV and hey, I’m a preacher. I know stuff.

  “Sex? Pornography? Oh, I do not know what to say.”

  “You can tell me. I can be trusted,” I whispered, and her cheeks got the color of cotton candy. So, hey, I plunged on. “Have you seen a counselor? Are you, um, in any situations that others can see, such as in movies, on YouTube, or the Internet?”

  She jumped up so quickly the café chair tipped back and slammed to the floor. “I do not know what you’re talking about, but people in Poland warned me that perversion was everywhere. You perverts would try to take advantage of me.”

  I grabbed her arm, and I believe it was only because Starbucks was suddenly jam-packed that she didn’t get away. “Wait, please. This is all wrong, stop.” I had a tighter hold on her than I thought, or maybe it was the linebacker from UNLV who blocked her escape, but I quickly went on. “This isn’t about any addiction, is it?” My head ached. I grabbed a cookie for strength. I ate it in two bites. Sugar has medicinal effects, or so some society somewhere must believe.

  “No. It certainly is not.”

  I patted the linebacker on a biceps as big as my leg because he was still hovering over Petra, paralyzed by her beauty and petite form. Or maybe it was that he thought he’d seen her in a magazine, with staples in her middle. I talked fast, to Petra. “I don’t know what got into me. Forgive me, Petra. You came to talk with me. Can we start over?” I attempted to withdraw my feet from my mouth as she sighed and sat down on the chair offered by her hulking admirer.

  I looked up at the football player, handed him a five-dollar bill, and said, “Get something lip-smacking at the counter, pal. She’s not available.”

  “But, lady, you said she was a porn star.” His eyes glassed over and his nostrils flared. “Can I have her autograph?”

  “Mistake, my friend. Just kidding. We always tease so much. You know how women are. Oh ho ho ho,” I tried and then pulled Petra back to the table.

  “No, Jane, it’s me. I am hard to understand, I know. But you speak no Polish, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct, honey. I can understand a lot of it. My grandparents spoke the language fluently, but I’ve never learned the mechanics.”

  “Mechanics? You want to talk about cars?”

  “Mechanics, like grammar and syntax.”

  “Yes, I see, yes, we will speak English, but forgive me if I am awkward.” She nibbled the cookie; the bite was the size an ant would have taken. “I studied English in Warsaw.”

  I took a bite of the cookie let saliva melt the chocolate sweetness. The rush of cocoa and sugar streamed into my veins, so when Petra said, “I am an orphan,” I was ready with: “Oh, I am sorry. Did you ever know your parents? Do your birth parents, your biological ones, the ones who created you, live in the States?”

  Her perfect forehead crinkled. “No, they gave me up for adoption when I was born. I have a letter.” She produced it from her purse. The edges were soft and the color was like almonds. Slowly, Petra unfolded it on the tabletop, smoothed it, and caressed it with her hand. I couldn’t read a word of it. It was in Polish. We looked at each other. “It says that they loved me but wanted the nuns at the orphanage to give me to parents who could take care of me. They had no jobs. They barely had food for themselves or their other babies. They could not feed me and could not raise me.”

  “So the nuns found a good home for you?” I made my voice bright and chipper. It was disgusting.

  Her teeth were straight. Her complexion was like a dewy morn, all softy and creamy. Please don’t make me go on. You get the picture, don’t you? Since she worked in the casino, even at the coffee cart, she had to be in her twenties.

  “A happy home? No.” The words were spoken in a huff. We were in a bubble of our own, created by the words she’d said.

  The din of Starbucks customers and the grinding of the coffee machines continued. “They did not care for me. I was bad.”

  “You? I can’t imagine anything you could do, especially as a child, to be bad.” She looked rather like an angel on a Christmas tree, but then again, some angels have dark sides.

  She placed the cookie in the center of the paper napkin, taking each corner, folding it toward the cookie. “I am, what is the word, retarded. That is it. I couldn’t move or sit up like the other babies. No one w
anted to adopt a baby who was not healthy.”

  Unless there was something terribly amiss under that postage-stamp-white T-shirt that exposed her middle, or the hip-hugging Capri pants, with a neon green and navy sash tied around itty-bitty hips, I couldn’t imagine this woman to be disabled. I’d seen her dance like a feather, too.

  “You look normal to me.”

  “I have a terrible secret.” She inhaled deeply.

  Oh, now, Lord, here it comes. What could be worse than pornography or gambling? Murder. She’s killed someone and is asking for forgiveness. No wonder she’s pale, no wonder she was crying last evening. I held the edge of the table.

  “The nuns sent me, when I was a baby, to a special place for stupid and sick little ones. I was not good enough for Polish couples to adopt. Everyone wants fat and healthy babies. They want rosy cheeks and plump arms. I was undersized and I cried much.”

  “You were filled with hate from so much sadness. I see. You were hurt and sick and you retaliated? Did you murder a nun?” I gulped, but someone had to say it.

  “Killed a nun? No, Jane. I’ve killed no one. May I continue?” Her blue eyes widened but she didn’t stop.

  Have you ever wanted to pick up your hand, make a fist, and hit yourself in the nose? No, I hadn’t, either, until that very second. Lord knows why she tolerated my false accusations, but the only reason had to be the blessed language barrier. I sighed and swore to keep my lips zipped until she finished her story.

  Since Petra didn’t have to interrupt me again, she continued, “I know now that the institution kept me in a crib, and it was from there that I was sold to another organization.”

  “Sold. You were sold?” She had to mean something else. Her English, she’d said, wasn’t good. “I’m confused. Didn’t you just get transferred, perhaps to a special school?”

  “I know what that means. I was sold. Like a car or a dog. Please, I do not want to be disrespectful to Americans, Jane. If you do not want me to say this, if you feel I am wicked, please stop me.”