god is a woman

Without a real stove, or oven, or even a fridge that was more than the height of his knees with rust eroding the outsides that attempted to be covered with pamphlets of nearby pizza joints, and tourist attraction magnets- Arthur was left without a proper way of acquiring a meal in Wade. That was of course, without visiting Red’s Diner for the fifth time in a row. He wished he could say it was for their chips and steak, or the gravy that smothered the top- hell even a decent coffee. But unfortunately it was none of the above. He was frankly just thankful for a warm meal that wasn’t microwaved, and that should have been enough.

Barley over a week in Wade, he was already beginning to realise the certain suffocation of familiar faces when the brunette beside him piped up as if they’d been friends since as long as he could remember. Waverly he’s certain her name was, he’d remember her at services bright eyed and adoring. But it was her wife he knew better, by whiskey kept hours, and conversation that never lead anywhere between them. Always dancing around things unsaid, they were good at not saying a thing. Let alone enough to give the other an ounce of what they meant.

“I have to say I’m surprised,” He offered the other, careful with his words. “I didn’t think anyone was Red’s biggest fan by the sounds of it.” Arthur was unfortunately roped into community values at home, his wife would say it was good for them. Dinner parties, and barbecues to catch up, let the kids run in the yard with the couple from a few doors down. But they would never dare dream of helping each other, that didn’t seem to be the way from where they were from.

“That sounds nice though. Will the residents here go for that kind of thing?”

Something about this man smelled rotten.

Perhaps it was the void behind his eyes, or the ease with which he pretended it didn’t exist. Perhaps it was the way she’d seen him lingering at services – which, no one could say that was inherently suspicious, but Waverly wasn’t anyone. She knew this game, knew it well, knew her wife, and knew her well.

But there was nothing she could prove, nothing she could see or touch or hear in any real, tangible way, and she’d tear herself to shreds if she let every uneasy feeling she got every time she passed someone in the street who held Lilith’s hand a little too long after service or smelled like something that had stuck to her wife’s clothing. No, she had no proof, and until she had it, she had no reason to be anything other than her normal polite, perfect self.

She got a bad feeling about their mailman. That didn’t mean he was fucking her wife. Get a grip, Waverly. She shook herself. Plastered a wide, cherry lipped smile onto her face.

“People here, they love the Johnsons,” Waverly said, taking a sip of her tea – chamomile. She was trying to cut out caffeine. “And they love pretending to be good people.” She was one of them. But he didn’t need to know that. “They’ll go for it, not because it’s the right thing to do, but because it keeps up appearances, and frankly, does it matter why they do it? As long as they do it.”

She flicked her eyes to him, curious, something fucking lethal in those brown irises. Waverly was used to people underestimating her, to casting her aside, thinking of her as nothing more than a pretty face and a quick wit, and she hoped, hoped, this man would do the same. Would make it all the more interesting if he did.

“You’re new,” she said, eyes raking him over, top to bottom, from his suit to his hair to his shoes. “Can practically smell it on you. And, I hate to say it, but people like you,” people like us, “don’t...fit here.” She smiled, and it was meant to be pleasant, but her patience was wearing thin, and she was starting to get bored, ready to sink her teeth into something, anything. “Anyone been giving you a hard time?”

rhys did not do friends, rhys did not do social events that required him to exchange platitudes about work or the forsaken weather. rhys used to do afternoon tea, used to chat with some friends, before the accident. rhys did not do people, anymore, not in the traditional way.

yet, rhys was pressing the doorbell of the reverend’s house, to see her wife, for afternoon tea. the whole thing sounded so ridiculous in his head, that the urge to laugh got stuck in his throat. monday morning had come with a surprise, when his assistant reminded of this particular rendez-vous. he, honestly, vaguely remembered accepting the invitation solely because the woman giving it out was as beautiful and refined as a Rembrandt. and the fact that she offered tea, all the right words said the right way, rhys hadn’t been able to refuse. still, after the disastrous funeral the town had seen the day before, which ended in the most boring way, rhys wouldn’t say no to a small time off.

the door opened and the smile that stretched rhys’ features could be considered a satisfied one. so effortlessly beautiful, that woman. “ah, i see no reason to lie, it is less …grand.” before she could move, he did catch her hand, delicately placed a small kiss on top of it. “though, it does feel empty, in comparison, as it doesn’t hold your legendary beauty.” a woman of her caliber, dying away in a small as tasteless as wade, what a waste. he did hope the reverend took good care of her woman, or else some might be tempted to …steal her.

the room waverly brought him in was practically a carbon copy his mother’s tea room and though rhys couldn’t say he appreciated his mother much, it did stir up a small amount of nostalgia. a hand on his heart, he tilted his head and offered a small smile to the woman. “waverly, really, i am utterly undeserving of your fine work. but i absolutely appreciate it.” accepting the cup of tea, rhys gently placed it next to the chair he claimed, and couldn’t help but steal a small sandwich as he helped her arranging the service. the satisfied moan that escaped his throat was a surprise, even for him. perhaps he did miss afternoon teas. “i’ll say it now, and probably later too if i’m honest, but waverly … you deserve so much better than wade. god, i had only one and i’m ready to invest in a restaurant for you.”

Before Lilith, Waverly was a reluctantly self ascribed shameless flirt. She basked in the glow of attention from anyone who would give it to her, and regularly used a suggestive hand or a lingering glance to get whatever it was she desired. After Lilith, she had sworn to ditch the habit, and, for the most part, she did. She loved her wife. She cherished her marriage. But it wasn’t always easy, and Waverly wasn’t always strong. And now, in Wade, where she felt like a rose dying on the fucking vine–

She forced the thoughts out of her mind, painting a demure, amused smile onto her pretty pink lips. She was a good cook, she would be the first to admit that, and perhaps, a part of Rhys was hamming it up for her benefit, but god did it feel good to be wanted, to be pursued. She was a rarity, a diamond in the rough of Wade, and it was like finally someone was seeing her.

Perhaps his business acumen was just that good. Perhaps he meant it. Waverly decidedly chose the latter, even though she was certain it was the former.

“My life is with Lilith,” she said with feeling, and she meant it, she meant every breath of it, but sometimes, wasn’t it nice to pretend? “She wanted to come here, to Wade, and so, I came with her. Is it...the nicest place in the world? No. If you’d asked me, where do you see yourself in five years, would I have told you here, in this town? Certainly not. But am I happy?” Waverly’s lips spread into her widest, most charming smile, eyes igniting with a passion for the thought of what this place could be, rather than what it was. “Yes,” she said, voice firm, determined, almost cracking under the pressure. “Incandescently so.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, playing with the pearl stud tucked into her lobe, feeling the prick of its back against her thumb, the discomfort of it bringing her back to earth, to this moment, to her perfect dreary life in this perfect dreary town. “I will admit,” she said reluctantly, “while Lilith has her purpose here, her place, I’ve... struggled to find that. Which is no fault of hers nor of mine, simply a virtue of our situation. I’ve never lived anywhere so quaint before. I thought Chicago was small, coming from London. Chicago!” She laughed, a surprised, melodic sort of noise.

“All of this to say – I’m looking for my next project, and well. I’m sure you were joking,” she said quickly, hastily, backtracking. “You’re a businessman, you don’t just go investing in people you barely know. But. Well. A restaurant, it could be fun for Wade, don’t you think?”

     Etta purses her lips, thinking of the gummy vitamin bear she stress chewed this morning and sighs. “The bottle says it has vitamins and shit in it. And it was two dollars less than the other kind.” She’s a journalist who has to live with her uncle who owns said paper she’s writing for. She’s barely being paid enough to buy socks.

The touch to the shoulder causes an involuntary flinch from Etta. Having grown up with little affection she isn’t very trusting of it when it’s dished out. Even if it’s from someone like Waverly. “Coffee has water in it. I’m fine, really. And the scene is still fresh so maybe I can find something the cops won’t.”

However, at the mention of an actual meal, her stomach decides to be a traitorous little bastard and gurgle out in some dark famished language. Sighing heavily, Etta pinches the bridge of her nose before caving in. She had already planned to break in far later to get her hands on some information. “As long as that meal includes curly fries.”

Waverly had a lot of things on the tip of her tongue: Etta wasn’t a detective, she wasn’t even a journalist with any real kind of credibility, she was just a girl stuck in a small town with a twisted obsession and a wounded heart, and perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t her job to solve any of this, just to process it, but, well, Waverly knew how people around here felt about honesty. And frankly, she wasn’t bored enough to drum up that kind of chaos.

“I’m no savage,” she said, with mock affront. “Who goes to Red’s without getting curly fries?”

She smoothed down her black pleated skirt, flipped her hair off her shoulder, and looked to Etta, expectant. “Well? Shall we?”

Time hadn’t stopped since Josie’s body had disappeared, even if it felt like it should have.

Frankie hadn’t slept since the previous morning, and at the point she was at, it seemed like she had no choice but to stay awake until at least the end of the work day. For her, that meant finishing out the day at the apothecary, and then manning the counter at Spins until midnight. The grips of exhaustion had been the motivating factor in her driving over to Red’s, anyway: she reasoned that the short drive would perk her up a little, and that a cup of black coffee from the diner would help revive her, just a little. She’d been decidedly wrong on the car ride – she’d almost blown clear through a red light, and probably wouldn’t be good to get back behind the wheel until she’d had at least two cups. The coffee helped a little, but not as much as she’d hoped. 

Frankie thought she might’ve had a tab of LSD hiding somewhere in her car’s glove compartment, and made a mental note to dig around for it when she eventually got back into the car. A fifth of a tab could help – she hoped – perk her up enough to finish out the shift at the apothecary.

There was no way to be sure how long the woman beside Frankie had been talking to her when she finally noticed, and she tried to piece together what it was they’d been talking about. Frankie recognized the woman as being the wife of the Reverend, but couldn’t place her name. “Definitely,” Frankie replied, turning her bleary-eyed expression onto the other woman, and doing her best to pretend that she knew what she was talking about. “We – uh, my Grams and me – would help out.” Frankie had missed the first part about what they were signing up for, but she’d keyed in on Red Johnson and “collective hearts.” “Whatever we can do.”

Waverly knew when she was being listened to and when she wasn’t. And while she felt the sharp prickle of annoyance under her skin, she knew, realistically speaking, that this whole town was in a daze. People were mourning, their hearts were bruised, and they were trying to figure out how to pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and move forward. She almost felt sorry for the young girl. Almost. Would have been able to muster some more pity if the redhead had...y’know...been paying attention.

But no one would be able to tell the way annoyance licked at her heels from looking at her, a perfect look of sorrow and sympathy knitting her brows together and turning her pink lips down into a frown.

"Are you alright, darling?” she asked gently, the posh lilt of her accent reminding her so abruptly of her mother. “You look...” Disheveled? Unkempt? Sickly? A tinge green? “You look sad,” she settled on finally because it was honest and the least offensive thing she could think of under a time crunch. “Understandably so, I can’t think of a single reason to not be sad right now.” 

Spinning slowly on her chair, delicately and purposefully, like a doll on the top of a music box, not a hair out of place. With her arm coming to rest on the bar, she regarded the woman beside her carefully, always watching, always assessing. So cold and calculating she was. Intending for something to be stolen only applied if it wasn’t that person stealing it. “It’s what some people say, sure. Those that believe he is faultless.” The implication being that she did not, or at least wanted Waverly to believe that.

Looking around the room as the woman gestured around she couldn’t agree more, while the owners had really turned it around from the dump it used to be, it still left much to desire. At least for her, but by anyone’s standards it could sure use some better taste. “Interesting yes.” And that is exactly what it had been, interesting to everyone regardless of what they thought. Everyone was talking about it, even the radio station, it was certainly a far cry from the mundane normalcy that they were all used to.

“Because we wouldn’t want the town to think I didn’t care.” There was something about the other that Vi liked, but couldn’t quite place it. Was it the attitude? Or that she wasn’t some holier than thou nut? There was a certain amount of genuineness to her words, but there was always something more with her, and she wasn’t the type to play all her cards at once. And it raised an excellent question of her own, “So what brings you here then? Because to me, you seem not as emotionally distraught as everyone else.” A statement, a matter of fact, yet something that Vi didn’t seem to mind. Whereas others would call the two of them heartless, maybe even cold and unfeeling. Lifting her glass of coke to her lips, she was almost certain the woman had seen her adding some of the contents of her flask to the drink, but she was curious as to whether or not she would stop her from drinking it.

Sometimes, Waverly forgot that there were people in Wade who could keep up with her. She liked to picture herself as some withering rose, alone in a glass case, but that certainly wasn’t the case, far from it, in fact. It was simply the most romantic, and thus, the most tragic thing she could think of to describe her circumstances.

The thought tended to make her territorial – it was so much less clean if she couldn’t martyr herself, if she had to acknowledge that her feelings were not unique, just to her and her alone. But tonight, she was grateful that the suffocating void of decent company was being filled by someone at least tolerable. And, if she saw what she thought she saw, someone who didn’t mind making things interesting. She wondered how old this girl was. Certainly not old enough to buy herself a drink. Hence the flask.

“I’m here, same reason as you,” Waverly said, a glint in her eye, nodding her thanks to the bartender as her drink appeared and she sucked down a mouthful through the tiny black straws. Not enough lime. She grimaced. “It’s a farce, this whole place. You show up to a thing like this, you gather as much empathy as you can muster, and then you hope that you’ve ingratiated yourself enough that these people don’t plot your murder behind your back.” Why she was being so honest with a stranger, she couldn’t say. But it felt...nice to be seen. As much as Waverly would like to pretend that her facade was all there was, sometimes she needed to acknowledge the hunger, the rage, underneath it all. Otherwise it could become unbearable.

“Who’s going to tell them?” she said under her breath, glancing back around at all of the mourners around them. “That their grief is as much of a performance as our sympathy...”

Waverly didn’t miss the life she had in London, but god she missed the city, the pace of it, the people, the little nuances you couldn’t find anywhere else. Kensington still was even more specific – her earliest, most vivid memory was being all dolled up for tea time with her mother’s group of friends and their children, all around her age, and ever since, there had always been a fondness, a nostalgia, for proper English tea, with the finger sandwiches and scones and pots of steaming hot Earl Grey. And sure, no one ever refused when she declared she was gong to be hosting afternoon tea, but no one here, not even her wife, understood the sentimentality of it, the ritual of it.

When Rhys Kingsbury blew into town, Waverly knew she had to befriend him, if not for this alone: some inborn understanding, some shared, communal history.  And when Waverly set her mind to something, even a goal as small as this, she rarely, if ever, failed.

They’d had this date, so to speak, scheduled for weeks now – Waverly had double checked with Rhys’ assistant a few days prior, making sure the man hadn’t double booked her – and while it wasn’t exactly the best timing, what with the funeral, she was hard pressed to find a reason to move it to a different day. So Josie Johnson was missing. She’d already been dead before. The world would keep turning. And Waverly had no intention of postponing the only engagement on her social calendar she actually might enjoy.

Four-thirty on the dot, and she heard the doorbell chime. A giddy little smile curled its way at her lips – punctuality was a virtue she oh so admired.

“I’m sure this place is smaller than what you’re used to,” Waverly said as she opened the door to allow Rhys inside. “But, well, I can hardly welcome you to Wade in your own home, can I?” She ushered him into the living room, where two three-tiered trays sat opposite each other on the coffee table: cucumber mint and cranberry chicken finger sandwiches arranged neatly on a white doily on the first, raspberry lemon scones with salted honey butter on the second, and bite sized carrot cakes and walnut fudges on the top, final tier. It had taken her most of the day, but, well, what else did she have to do? Where her wife was, she had no idea, and frankly, she hoped Rhys didn’t ask.

“I may have gone a little overboard,”she said, sheepish, her excitement evident. “It’s just– sometimes I forget how nice it is to have afternoon tea. And I thought you, of all people, would be able to appreciate that.”

     Receiving the comment that now is not the time simply pulls an eye roll from the journalist. There is never a right time for anything. But Etta wants to look at much of the place as possible while everything’s still fresh. Maybe someone left something behind in haste that they’ll cover up later? She’d definitely coming back when the sun sets. She has to get her hands on Josie’s file here and the list of employees so she can weed out who would’ve helped with the body haul.

She has fallen into deep thought again before a question is sent her way. Etta blinks a couple times before dark irises look up at Waverly. She mentally tries to figure out the last time she ate but lately her diet has been mostly black coffee, cigarettes, and takis from the newspaper’s shitty vending machine. “Does a multi-vitamin count?”

“Only if it’s an actual pill, not a gummy,” she said, twinkle of amusement in her eye, because, really, those chewable things didn’t count. They were just candy rebranded.

Waverly stepped closer, friendly hand resting on the other woman’s shoulder, because, well, that’s what people did, wasn’t it? Comfort in times of crisis? “I understand the temptation to stay here and scrutinize, I really do, but a clear head and a focused mind are what you need right now. Not staying here, surrounded by all this noise, probably a little dehydrated.”

She tipped her head, gentle, thoughtful. “How about accompanying me to the diner? A hot meal,” some water, “could do us both some good.”

“I was thinking of starting a list.”

Waverly spoke without provocation in the middle of her meal, turning to the person sitting next to her at the counter. “A rotation, of sort. Everyone could sign up for certain days, that way the burden doesn’t fall all onto one person. Bringing things to the Johnsons. You know, groceries, supplies, maybe even just a friendly face to say hello and check in.” She frowned, eyes flicking down to the floor. “It could be stupid. I don’t know.” The sincerity was surprisingly devoid of true care. She was bored and needed a project, and it seemed that she was trapped here forever in this hell, so might as well spruce the place up. Kindness could look good on a town like this at a time like this.

“All I’ll say is this: I think we could all use something uplifting in our lives, no one more than Red Johnson, and what better way to soothe the collective heart than to soothe his?”

She glanced over at her companion, eyes flickering up and down the person’s face. Waverly was a social animal, struck up conversations with anyone who stepped within a ten foot radius of her. Whether she enjoyed them or not was an entirely different question, but that didn’t stop her from speaking to every person she came in contact with until she found someone who didn’t bore her.

However, this particular conversation, this particular day, she was playing a game of hers that had only begun after the McDermotts had moved to Wade, a game that had become a recent obsession––

Who here, in this place, has fucked my wife?

When Waverly didn’t know what to do with her hands, she cooked.

Tonight, it was lamb shanks with pomegranate and walnuts, fat reduced to a decadent sauce drizzled on top, with a chickpea, barley, and feta salad served cold on the side. Pop the cork on a 2013 Zinfandel, pour two hefty servings, plate to perfection, and voila. Dinner is served.

She’d come back from the funeral and the drama that came after it feeling wholly unsettled and deeply unnerved. As if the murder wasn’t bad enough, as if the rumors of cannibalism spreading through the town like wild fire wasn’t that much worse, here they were now, trapped in suburban hell in a town that was tearing itself apart. Chicago was a mere car ride away. They could be back in their old apartment, or something just like it, by morning if they wanted to be.

Lilith, she knew, would take leaving as some sort of sign of defeat, an affront to her pride, but Waverly knew it to be anything but weak to follow your survival instincts. They were there for a fucking reason, she wanted to snarl, but instead, she just shaved some parmesan over the salad, and tried to ignore the way her muscles coiled, like a bird ready to take flight.

She untied her apron, hung it back up on the hook in the pantry, and caught a glance of herself in the reflection of the oven. Whoever said you had to stop trying once you got married was dead wrong. Waverly had never tried harder in her life, pulling the neckline of her shirt low, pushing her tits up in her bra, flattening the pleats of her skirt, smoothing down her silky dark hair. All she wanted was to see the hunger in Lilith’s eyes, to know she was hers, and after all these years of marriage, well, let’s just say she knew her wife well.

The twist of the lock. The schwick as the front door swung shut. Footsteps, unmistakable, walking down the hall. The rush of the faucet, the squirt of soap. Waverly sat, patient, at one end of the table, a vision in mauve – to match the wine, to match the sunset, to match the blood of a sacrifice, of a funeral. Food waiting at perfect temperature for her wife – who was two minutes late. Dinner’s at 6:15 xx was the text she’d sent two hours ago.

Lilith walked in, and, frankly, on a day like today, Waverly felt a spike of wrath, sharp and bitter, rise up within her at the way her heart came undone just at the sight of her. It was pathetic, was what it was. Who knew where Lilith had been or frankly, who she’d been with? They’d been together at the funeral, at the wake to follow, but then there had been no wake, and Waverly had lost her in the crowd, and god, she couldn’t do this anymore, the lies, the deceit, the games–

But then, she smiled. Picturesque. Rage was for savages, and she would not be savage, not today, not right now.

She wasn’t above being petty, though.

“You’re late,” she said because she was nothing if not exacting. “Understandably so. Given...everything. But you still owe me two minutes.” She did this sometimes (all the time) – keep a ledger of things Lilith had taken from her, a detailed list of everything she’d sacrificed, which she intended for her wife to pay her back, with interest. She smiled, playful, coy, hoping to soothe whatever storm was within her partner before it even came to pass, flipping her dark curtain of hair over her shoulder, exposing the angle of her jaw, the length of her neck, because they were nothing if not creatures of habit, and Waverly knew what Lilith liked.

She waited for for her wife to sit, take her spot at the opposite end of the table. Then, blinking her deep, brown eyes, pursing her pink stained lips, she asked, “Would you like to say grace?”