Secret Sins Ch. 09

"What if someone drops in, and here I am, dressed like this?"

"It's hot out, they'll understand."

"But, it's not a very proper impression to put across. I represent the Salvation Army, and-"

"Sweetie pie, for God's sake, nobody is gonna drop by. Nobody's dropped by in the entire time we've been here, other than the Rahmans and the Bennetts, and I don't think they're gonna have any complaints about the way you're dressed."

"I've been out walking and meeting people for two weeks," I pointed out, "inviting them here. There's every possibility that someone could drop by. Somebody could have dropped by yesterday during our little lesbian festival of hedonism, and then where would my career have been?"

"I thought you were over that already."

"No, I'm not over it!" I snapped. "Yes, I feel better, but the fact remains that I'm a Christian and... and a slut! Those two things are in direct conflict, and I have to clean up my act here! I know you don't care about those things, but they're very important to me!"

"Putain, je suis si malade et fatigue de cette merde!" she snapped, (whatever that meant) suddenly whipping the bowsaw she'd been using down the lot in frustration before stomping over to me, her features livid with a frightening anger that I'd never seen on anyone's face before then.

"Haven't you figured it out yet? Huh?! You're not gonna help anyone here, you silly pute, because nobody here has any use for you! They're friendly, but you're just a fool to them, and you're a fool to your own superiors! You're only here as a face behind that stupid shield out front, and that shield is only out there for appearances, because that's all your almighty Salvation fucking Army cares about! They don't care about North Central, they don't care about helping others, and the last goddamned thing they care about is you!"

With that, she grabbed the long handled pruners from my hand and whipped those down the lot after the bowsaw before storming to the rear porch and into the house, slamming the screen door behind her. I stood there in shock with the notion that I was lucky to have survived the last thirty seconds.

And I'm not saying that lightly.

I stood there because I was too afraid to go in after her. Her eyes had turned like they were in that lost photo on my drowned and dashed phone, those hellish black holes that led straight to burning oblivion. No, there was no longer any doubt of what I'd seen that night before I'd dropped it in the tub, and my suspicions that there was something frighteningly wrong about Donna were now a certainty as cold, tingling shivers of fear ran down my back in the sweating hot, July sun.

It was at least a half hour before I could bring myself to go inside. I checked out the entire house (except for the basement) without finding her before I walked outside to see that her car was gone. Locking both doors, I reached the top of the stairs before I remembered that she had a set of keys to the house anyway. That brought another wave of tingling chills down my back, but there was nothing I could do about that. Walking into my room, I grabbed my laptop and hopped up on the bed with it.

I googled the last name, 'Liski' and found it to be a rare surname, thought to have originated in Finland, and certainly not a French name. Though I don't speak French, as a Canadian, I certainly know it when I hear it, and I'd certainly heard her using it in the backyard. And that wasn't the first time I'd heard her use it, either.

Next, I googled her full name, hoping I might get lucky and come up with her Facebook profile. There was only one Donna Liski on all of Facebook, and the profile did belong to someone who lived in Regina. It contained a cover photo of an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with brown eyes and long, dark brown hair who, beyond general similarities, was obviously not the Donna Liski I knew. Or thought I knew.

Having found no other references online, I went out to my front room to grab my valise, taking that back to my room. Once there with it, I dug out her resume for another look. Her Address was on Francis Street and, after a quick look at Google Maps, I knew exactly where I was going, and the creeping chills of fear that were still running down my back were only offset by the fact that, whatever Donna Liski was, I knew she loved me.

Pondering that fact was probably the only thing that got me to Francis Street without turning around to retreat in fear. Sitting in my car, across the street from Donna's address, I thought of the strange connection that she and I had with each other. It was there almost from the outset and now, even when I was afraid of her, of whatever she was, it was still there. Yes, I loved her as much as I had yesterday, as much as I knew she still loved me, and I wasn't looking at presently inviting myself into her home based solely on curiosity of her. If that's all it was, I never would have gone there, would probably still be in the backyard of the Mission, or on the highway, fearfully putting as many miles between me and her as I could. I was there to make up with her, and my fear of her was based largely on the natural human fear of the unknown. Whatever she was, Donna Liski loved me and, therefore, would never hurt me. At least, I was pretty sure of that.

So, I got out of the car and made it halfway across the street when I noticed a man in the front yard of the house next to Donna's. He'd been watering his lawn, but had stopped waving the stream of water to and fro in favour of simply staring at me, a mute reminder of the fact that I hadn't changed before I left on this courageous business.

"Shhhit," I hissed to myself.

But, by the time I was walking up Donna's front steps, it didn't bother me. I was too distracted by my fear and, anyway, I had to admit that a part of me kind of enjoyed it. I'd always liked being noticed by men, and this was only a more intense reaction that I could enjoy all the more. Besides, Donna liked me wearing this type of outfit, and my wearing it here would help my case in getting me inside and apologising to her.

So, I knocked on the door with my heart in my throat, waiting less than fifteen seconds for a dumpy, middle aged man to open it.

"Hello," he gratefully expressed with a leering grin.

I was so surprised that it wasn't Donna that I could only stare for a moment, as though making sure it wasn't really her in disguise or something.

"Uh, I- I'm sorry, I'm looking for a woman..."

"I got a wife inside," he chuckled, staring openly at my boobs.

(Oh, good Lord)

"No, I mean I... Does a woman named Donna Liski live here?"

"No but, if you wanna come in, I can take a good look around to make sure."

I smiled, more embarrassed about my attire now, but also getting horny, the slightest temptation of actually taking him up on his perverted offer tickling the corners of my imagination. But that wasn't why I was there.

"Okay, I don't understand, I- this is the address I have... I don't mean to pry, but have you just moved here?"

"Nope. Lived here for twelve years, honey."

"Oh, okay, well... I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Oh, not at all. Hey, you sure you don't wanna come in? Awful hot out there, and I got an air conditioner and some cold beer."

"No, thank you," I said over my shoulder while hurrying down the steps.

I kept hurrying to my car, boobs bouncing, not hearing his front door close behind me, but feeling his eyes all over my tushie the whole way. His lawn watering neighbor was also staring and, by the time I was safely back in my car, I'd given some sensible second thoughts to going out in public dressed the way I was.

It was just past four o'clock when I arrived back at the Mission. I hurried inside and up the stairs, checking that address on Donna's resume even though I knew there was no need. Of course, it was the Francis Street location that I'd just visited, and I sighed in thought over this.

If she'd lived at that location twelve years ago, it was a little hard to believe that Donna would forget to update the address on her resume in all this time. It was a lot easier to believe, especially after what I'd seen in her eyes during our earlier altercation in the backyard, that she'd just used a random city address. But, why? What exactly did she have to hide? Did she simply dislike the possibility that someone from her work could show up at her door? It was possible, and a likely explanation, but my fearful, cramping gut somehow doubted that.

Staring at her resume in blank thought, I was suddenly inspired. Starting with her most previous employer, I went down the list, calling each one under the guise of someone who was considering hiring her. Each person I was able to contact reported nothing but positive about Donna Liski. Any real prospective employer would come to the conclusion that she was an honest, reliable, hard worker with a good attendance record, respected by both management and her fellow employees. For my own purposes, I'd learned that her prior work history was not a fiction as her address seemed to be, though none of her previous supervisors were aware of her ability to speak French. Of course, in this part of the country, that wasn't an issue that would necessarily come up in a vocational setting anyway.

I wanted to continue on this investigative track by calling some of her personal references, but I knew that people often used friends as references while actually listing them as otherwise, and I couldn't take the chance that my inquiries would get back to her.

So, that left her phone number. And a lot of fearful apprehension.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Donna, it's me."

She offered no reply, so I felt it necessary to specify.

"Tara."

Still no reply.

"(Ahem) I... I feel really bad about today. I was wondering if I could come over...?"

" ... Uh, I'm actually not at home. ... Sweetie pie, I'm sorry too. I was mean, and I didn't... We could talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Well, I was hoping to get this cleared up and off my chest tonight. I don't like sleeping on this stuff. I could wait till your home and come on over then; it's no problem."

"No, I... why don't we meet somewhere? There's a restaurant on Victoria Avenue called Spices of Punjab. We can meet there at six if that's good for you?"

(Damn)

"Yes, that's fine... Um, would you...?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to dress like a slut?"

I had no idea why I asked that. I suppose it was my version of a peace offering, and it was met by quiet laughter on the other end before she replied.

"I love you so much. Dress whatever way you want to, sweetie pie. Just not one of those horrid polo tops, okay?"

Once off the phone, I was surprised to find that I was smiling and no longer afraid.

The restaurant was practically deserted. Apart from a lone East Indian man dining in one of the booths, she was the only other occupant when I walked in. I slid into her booth, opposite her, and we exchanged conciliatory, if uncomfortable smiles before she softly broke the ice while nodding to my outfit.

"A little half and half, huh?"

I glanced down at myself, the white Martha blouse, tucked with two buttons left undone. One could somewhat easily see through it to my dark blue push up bra. A pair of the tight blue jeans she'd encouraged me to buy in Moose Jaw covered my lower curves, and a pair of light blue heels finished the outfit.

"You look really nice," she complimented. "You're learning to present yourself as the sexy woman you are, and it's nice to see."

"Thank you," I replied, sincerely accepting her compliment while avoiding her beautiful, potentially soul chilling eyes. "You look really nice, too."

She wore the time honoured 'little black dress', the cleavage sporting bodice supported by the thinnest shoulder straps that tied around the back of her neck. As usual, her very presence made me a little horny and kept my newfound fear of her in the back seat.

"Thanks, sweetie pie," she smiled, taking a sip of what looked like Sprite.

Our waiter arrived and, with their help, I was able to choose something from the menu that he promised wouldn't burn holes in my mouth. He left with our orders and we made polite small talk until he returned to leave a screwdriver for me while we waited for our meals.

"Sooo," Donna began as I almost helplessly focused my attention down the bodice of her dress. "I'd, um... like to apologise for the way I spoke to you. You didn't deserve that. I do know how much your career means to you, and I shouldn't have... Sometimes I forget that people have their ambitions. Like I told you, life is short and, ironically, without ambitions, that brief span could seem pretty pointless."

"But... it's more than that," I gently amended. "I really do care. I admit that I do have my ambitions- I was hoping to make Major before I was thirty- but, beyond that, I really do want to help people. I really am dedicated to doing the Lord's work. It's not just ambition for me. And now... well, it seems that it's all about to go up in smoke because of the way I've been acting lately. Oh, Donna, I didn't mean to take it out on you. I love you, and I know you know that like I know you love me, and I would never want to hurt you, but I'm becoming a little frantic because..."

"Because you feel like you're losing control," Donna finished.

"Yes, that's it exactly. And I don't know what to do about it. For the first time in my life, I don't know what to do. But, that's no reason for me to blame you. I know you don't believe in Christ, and I know that you've accepted..."

"Being a slut?"

"Yes," I said with a sheepish smile, "but I'm... I'm just having a lot of trouble with this. I feel like I'm being pulled in two directions at once and, sooner or later, something's gonna give. I'm afraid that something will be my career, everything I've worked so hard for. My parents..."

"I understand," she said, taking my hand on top of the table. "I've lost things... people... I do understand. (Sigh) Look, please don't get upset here but, as much as I regret some of the language that I used with you today, the basic message was... Tara, you don't need that uniform, sexy as you look in it, in order to help people. Not at all. Again, I don't want to upset you here, I know your feelings on that uniform and all that stands behind it, but I do have some previous experience with the Salvation Army, and I've known a few people who've worked for them. They're not exactly what you think and, slut or no, I'd stack your integrity against that red shield any day of the week."

"I'm not sure if I should feel complimented, or insulted," I said with a little smile, now brave enough to look her in the eyes, if not directly.

"I'm serious," she said with a little smile that nonetheless acknowledged my comment for what it was worth. "People who've worked for the Army, they mostly all leave that job with a very negative viewpoint of that organisation. The only exceptions are those who play ball for their own interests, but are too stupid to see how they're being treated like dogs anyway. They're a business organization, about as non-profit as the banks are, no matter what they say. No organisation as large as they are could possibly be non-profit, and they profit by exploiting their own employees and the people they're supposed to be helping.

"Tara, you have it within you to really help people. To really help them. You see yourself as part of something bigger in the Army, one of their officers who does what you're told for the greater good, but really, you own them. Yes, you do. This is your life and you make the ultimate decisions in it. And, as with any other job or career, the Salvation Army has a place in your life only for as long as you want them to. You have the control, not them."

"So... if this is how you feel about the Army, why did you apply?"

This seemed to take her by surprise. Her composure slipped for a second before she regained it to reply, "Well, that's a conversation for another time. In the here and now, I only want you to realize that you're being used. I'll never use you. I'll always take care of you. Sweetie pie, I know you're worried about your career, but know here and now that I'll never leave you."

At this point, I was looking directly into her eyes and, though my suspicions of her remained, though I still firmly believed that there was something frighteningly wrong with Donna, I believed every word she said.

"And what if I get married?" I half seriously asked.

"Then he becomes my husband too."

"Oh..." I replied, wondering if she was serious. "Uh, look, you should know that, assuming my career in uniform lasts that long, I'll sooner or later be transferred away from Regina."

"And I'll go with you."

"Donna, it doesn't work like that," I softly explained. "You'll stay and become assistant to my replacement."

"No. I'll never be anyone else's assistant. I'll be going with you, wherever that is and whether or not I remain your assistant."

"You'd leave Regina? For me? But, this is your hometown, this is where you grew-"

"Pfft!" she commented, rolling her eyes before replying, "I hate the fucking prairies."

I couldn't help but grin, asking, "Y'know what?"

"What?"

"So do I."

We shared warm laughter over this and, though there may have still been some issues between us, it was clear that we'd made up and would never part ways. The latter part of this fact seemed somewhat enormous to me, as was the growing impression that she was now in love with me, that she needed me. I'd never felt that from anyone before, and it was fairly mind blowing as we stared fondly at one another for a minute before she broke the silence.

"We have a connection, you and I."

"I know. I... I felt that almost as soon as we met."

She only gave me an odd smile, one that hinted that there was more to what we were talking about, but only added, "Yes, we have a lot in common, not the least of which being our sex drives."

"Tell me about it," I replied with a humourless grin.

"And that's something you have to work out. You know that."

I nodded, indeed well knowing that and confirming it with, "I have to... I don't know. I just have to find a way to... live a more Christian life around my...my latent needs. God help me, I don't even know where they came from."

"You grew up," Donna explained.

"That seems a little too simple and convenient an explanation."

"Not at all. It started with porn, an outlet that, while seeming wrong to your Christian mindset, was a manageable way to deal with your new and suddenly very adult desires. Your Lingerie collection was a more physical extension of those same desires. Once you moved here, to Regina, on your own for the first time in your life, a lot of the surrounding authority figures gone from around you, your mind suddenly allowed itself to explore more fully what you really are. A slut."

"Uh, okay, I should be offended," I remarked with a smirk and a raised brow.

"But, you're not."

" ... No."

"In fact, you're turned on by it. Aren't you?"

" ... Yes," I admitted.

"And how were you planning to- how did you put it? 'Live a more Christian life around your latent needs'?"

"I don't know," I miserably admitted. "I'm reminded of your hungry dog analogy right now, and it's not exactly inspiring any ideas."

"You're just not allowing it to shine its light into the right corner."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean that your nature is what you are. Your beliefs, on the other hand, are only fluid, momentary concepts that were taught to you as truths. Be happy being what you are while allowing truth to present itself."