He was part of a liars’ club three hundred million members strong. The discovery occurred in haphazard increments, but proved as unstoppable as an oil tanker on a new course.
He had known himself to be a liar and a sinner; he ate too much, was envious of his more successful co-workers, and worst of all, went all too often to filthy web sites and did things to himself that would be held against him in the final tally.
It was hard to believe the Devil put so much effort into him, but He did. As a result, he didn’t trust himself, but there were people you could always trust: the President; the Church elders; the principled principal of Dingby Baptist High School where his two kids went. And first and foremost, your wife, because she held it all together and she was truer
than true.
Then there had been the Dixie Chicks, his wife’s favorite band; it was clearly music for women, but one night after he had tucked Tyler and Shayna in, he had listened to “Godspeed”: “Sweet dreams, little man, Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels’ wings, Godspeed.” To his complete astonishment, he had found tears rolling down his cheeks, and at first had felt betrayed by his emotions—but the love for his children that had swelled in his chest, that massive surge of joy and gratitude tinged with inexplicable sadness, that could not be the Deceiver’s work.
He had felt open after that, and … and dare he say it, saintly. He had been willing to actually listen and relate to Jane’s complaints about the household that night. He had felt less envious at work the next day. And so the Dixie Chicks had joined the very small Pantheon of artists you could trust your heart with.
Then there was that day of Revelation in May of 2003, a spring day so warm that Sheila Stiles had worn summer clothes, and the torture of not allowing his eyes to linger on her cleavage had begun earlier than usual.
They had all been sitting in the break room, all seven of them in the Logistics and Supply Chain team, even that smarmy Dick Weinthrop who took any opportunity to have lunch with the General Manager; they had been eating fast food, vaguely watching TV, and talking about the drought of Biblical proportions Texas would face if the early heat wave went on like that when Sheila had shushed them all.
“Did you hear that?” she had said, her bosom aquiver.
Everyone had lifted their head from their Styrofoam lunch boxes and muttered “what,” “what’s going on,” “what’s the deal,” and, he now remembered, it had sounded like cows mooing in unison.
“That’s Natalie Maines” Sheila had croaked. “She said she’s ashamed that the president is from the same state as her.”
Of course, that was Texas. That was their home state Maines had talked about.
There had been a long silence.
“The gall!” Sheila had said. “Look at that Jezabel” she’d added, her breasts seemingly ready to burst out of her blouse from the outrage. “I’m never buying a Dixie Chicks album again.”
Jan Sorenson, who always finished her meals methodically, had snapped her half-full Styrofoam box shut and stared at the ensuing Kellogg’s commercial with indignation.
There had been nods, frowns, cold anger, and a generally wonderful feeling of united hatred; but not for him. Instead, there had been an icy feeling descending from his throat all the way into his stomach, like those terrifying stalactites he had seen at Carlsbad Caverns.
What exactly had Natalie Maines meant? The others had gotten it, and he still hadn’t. What was she ashamed of? President Bush’s decision to go to war in Iraq? Was that it?
He thought of the things that caused him shame: his secret admiration for Weinthrop; his lust for Sheila; his obsession with the porno sites. But war? A righteous war? How could that be shameful?
He had felt bewildered and let down, and had had trouble falling asleep. The following day he’d gone to the Food Court with Jan, who had huffed and puffed as she tried to keep up with him—as much as he slowed down she still had trouble waddling along. She had finally inserted herself into a plastic chair and picked at her Caesar’s salad, taking tiny bites. “I don’t know how you do it” she had said. “You eat so much more than I do, and you stay trim.”
She always made comments like that, and he invariably felt flattered; but that day, he couldn’t help but goggle at her. A scream had formed in his throat, a scream so powerful that it had threatened to take him over. “If you eat so little, then why are you so morbidly obese?” The thought had flooded his brain. He pushed it down frantically.
“Something wrong?” Jan had asked.
“Nothing” he had said. “I’m still upset over that Dixie Chicks thing.”
