31-ch24

Hippie Avenger drapes the wet beach towel over the doorframe in the bathroom.

She kneels on the bath mat, reaches down with her middle finger, and twirls herself the rest of the way to the crescendo, trembling violently, tears running down her face and dripping onto her goosebump-speckled flesh.

“Oh, Gary,” she cries, not caring now if anyone hears her, “Oh, Gary, Oh, Gary, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

In the bedroom upstairs, The Statistician unzips his pants, unleashes his erection, and strokes it furiously.

“Oh, Karla. Oh, Karla oh Karla oh Karla. Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

The Kleenex box is empty. He grips his penis just beneath the head right before it spurts, and frantically glances around the room. His eyes land on the empty Wicked Weasel bag atop the bedspread, and he pries open the plastic zipper just in time.

“Ohhhh, Karla,” he moans. “Oh, God.”

When she hears a voice crying out for God, Gilda Jane opens her eyes.

Through the slightest crack in the door, she sees Gary in the bedroom across the hall, ejaculating into the plastic bag.

Tears pool in her eyes; they are the opposite kind of tears to the ones she was crying earlier.

Once she’s sure that Gary is gone, Gilda Jane tiptoes across the hall and delicately plucks the bag from the garbage can. She lies back on the bed that Gary and his wife have been sharing, and opens herself wide to receive this gift.

When she is finished, she sighs, “Thank you, Lord.”

She will never despair again. To despair is to doubt God.

Outside, Gary is searching for his wife.

He is going to tell her the truth. He is going to ask her to forgive him. He is going to ask her if maybe they can start again.

She is not sunning on the beach.

She is not swimming in the lake.

The rubber raft sits empty on the line where the grass ends and the stony beach begins. His wife is nowhere to be seen.

But then Gary thinks he hears her voice, making noises he hasn’t heard in a long time. He follows the sounds to the cottage driveway, to Miss Demeanor’s Subaru Outback.

In the rear window, Gary can see the inflamed tattoo of Wilma Flintstone, swaying back and forth like she’s doing a hula dance.

At first he thinks it’s a guy with a spiked blue punk haircut who is pleasuring his wife like this, but after he hears a second voice cry out, he knows that it is Miss Demeanor.

Miss Demeanor’s tongue and fingers are moving inside his wife. And his wife is pleasuring Miss Demeanor in a similar fashion.

He doesn’t want to watch this, but he can’t look away. She lifts her head to gasp, and her face appears in the window. He has never seen her wearing this sort of expression before.

Then she sees him.

“Gary!” she shrieks. “Oh my God! Gary! Gary!”

He is already walking away. By the time he has finished walking, he will not know where he is.

His wife wants to kick open the car door and run after him, but Miss Demeanor stops her, holds her in her strong embrace.

“Jessica,” she says, “you know it has to end this way.”

“I know, Ramona,” Jessica cries. “I know.”