About once a month my family goes to visit an elderly couple from our parish. They invite us over to eat. We keep them company. They like company. We like food. It’s a great thing.
After dinner last week we were there and as always, the church gossip flew. This story was particularly wonderful because, while it sounds like it belongs in some email forward that you’ve read a hundred times: it’s not. And it’s true. Because, little old church ladies don’t lie very often.
There is an older woman (well, in her sixties) who is almost cartoon-like. We’ll call her Deborah Donegal, because I don’t know anyone named Deborah or Donegal. She wears ridiculously loud outfits full of bright colors and patterns and she is incredibly loud. She talks with her hands. And loves Jesus, of course.
About a year ago, Deborah started dating a gentleman who lived in the Hamptons on Long Island. She loved her ridiculously boyfriend very much. Her boyfriend had a wife. They lived in a mansion, this husband and wife. He lived on one side, she lived on the other, and the house staff (maids, cooks, butlers, etc) lived in the middle. I think he owned a large portion of an impressive company. Or maybe he was just a dot com millionaire who hit the bubble (I don’t really know what that means, but I know it’s something to do with money).
One day, Deborah received a phone call from Married Boyfriend. He said to her,
“Deborah. Are you going to be home tomorrow?”
She said she would be.
“Good,” he said. “I have a package being delivered to your house. You wait there to get it.”
At this point in the story, I was sure I was going to hear that a hit man showed up to old Debbie’s house and there was a heroic adventure chase in which the sixty year old retired secretary beat out the twenty-five year old killer. In reality, a flatbed truck pulled into her driveway with a brand spankin’ new specialty Jaguar car (don’t ask me what kind – I don’t know) with 29 miles on it. Married boyfriends are not exactly where I see things, morally but geeze. She got a good one, didn’t she?
So that’s absurd and insane but it didn’t end there. This went on for months. Month or two later the phone rings again:
“Deborah. Are you going to be home tomorrow?”
When she asked him why, he answered,
“I have a package being delivered to your house. You wait there to get it.”
So this time, it has to be the hit man, right? The wife of the guy made him say this into the phone with something lethal pointed at him, she’s sending a highly trained killer out to kill the woman her husband is having an affair with. Yeah?
No. Even better.
The next day, Deborah receives an overnight Fed-Ex package. Inside, wrapped in plain brown butcher paper is a thousand dollars. Cash.
At this point I interrupt the story… Are you kidding me? This can’t be for real. Little old church couple assures me that Deborah took the Jag out last week while it was nice out. She used to drive it about three times a year. Always in the summer. Always when it’s not raining. She’s going to sell it soon. A dealer about 20 miles away is offering to pay cash for it.
Deborah’s married boyfriend died about a year later, during the month of September. Sad. Something slow and painfully expected.
Christmas time that year, Deborah received another package. It had a giant red Christmas bow on it, very fancily wrapped and sent overnight via Fed-Ex. Inside the package was a solemn looking jar and a note. From the boyfriend’s wife.
“You wanted him so bad, you B----? You can have him.”
His ashes were inside the urn.
P.S. I just received an eight month full time contract to be an actress in an educational school touring theatre company. Things are looking up!
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