She seemed like the type of woman who stayed on her knees for hours and could rob a bank with one seductive twist of her body. The secret art of cleavage, my mother always said. Give a girl a push-up bra and she owns a man.  I knew Stacey Dawson was a slut the very first time she walked into Saint Joe’s that dewy Sunday morning. She probably thought she could get away with anything with her Colgate smile and that baby pink sundress she almost spilled out of. The men probably loved her. I hated her on sight.

Every Sunday, I could tell, my husband would sit up a little bit straighter in order to catch a glimpse of Stacey’s leggy stride as she strut down the center aisle, Jesus staring her full in the face. Tom should have known better. She had no dignity. She probably came from Vegas or some other trashy knock-off city, because there is no possible way she was raised here in Clear Water. Women knew better. We were raised with a sense of dignity and the strength of the Lord. Most likely she thought herself to be some born-again Christian, but she didn’t fool me. A hell baby is what she was and she would burn this town to the ground.

I pleaded with Pastor Jim—there had to be some way to ban her from the church if not the town in general. She obviously was up to no good and didn’t belong in the slightest with her daggered heels and her inflated chest, stuck out like some sort of parading pigeon. Oh, and I had heard it wasn’t just Jesus she was praising, but that she gave thanks to Jose, Jack, and Jim on a nightly basis at Lucky Eddy’s Tavern on the outskirts of town. Doing God’s work my ass. I knew took extra sips from the communion wine when no one was looking. But it was no use; apparently all are equal in the eyes of God, even if they do present themselves as cheap prostitutes. It became clear; I would have to take matters into my own hands.

That night, Tom was gone. I went to work making a list of all the prominent, upright women of Clear Water: Jane, the head of the PTA; Hannah, the mayor’s wife; Gail, who was in charge of all the service and fund raising events in the area; and Nel, who didn’t stand for much, but owed me a favor or two. Ordinary women would not suffice. I needed strong women of God, and if I couldn’t find those, I would settle for the people who could get the job done. Strength in numbers—I couldn’t be the only female outraged by little miss Stacey’s sexual deviance. With the phone in one hand and a list of numbers in the other I set out to build my army.

“Hi. Hannah? This is Martha Hutchinson.”

“I’m sorry, dear. Who? I’m horrible with names.”

“Martha Hutchinson. From Saint Joe’s. I’ve been your daughter’s catechism teacher for the past three years.”

“Oh, yes. There you are. How are you holding up?”

“Ah, well. I wanted to talk to you about a town disturbance. This really isn’t a topic for phone conversation; don’t want to give any fuel to that gossip mill. But I wanted to plan a little conference, a nice get together if you will, with a couple other ladies, over lunch maybe?

“Lunch? Hmm, I think I could probably squeeze that in this Wednesday, after Tommy’s baseball practice and before Julie’s ballet lessons. So around two o’clock? Yes, that would work.

“Perfect. We can all meet at my house: 1010 Chestnut Lane, it’s the blue house right on the corner.”

“Sounds lovely. See you then!”

I set the phone back into its wall-side cradle and attempted to unclench my fists. How on Earth could that woman not know who I was? I see her almost every Sunday morning with that slob of a husband of hers. She must have been embarrassed that I would judge her for her partner’s less than charming personality quirks. My husband Tom is a hard match to beat. He was named the best sales agent in the greater Minnesota area just last month. He may be constantly on the road, what with business conferences and what not, but he is the happiest when he comes home to me. He is a truly blessed individual to have such a faithful wife. I guess I can’t blame Martha, I suppose I would be a bit jealous, too. Yes, that’s what it was—jealousy. I guess I couldn’t blame her. If anything, I could understand other people’s personal misfortunes. Everyone has their own cross to bear. I had to keep going. After several more successful, but frustrating phone calls, I had assembled a strong group of women that would stand behind me in this fight for our town’s decency. As I climbed into bed, I touched the cross that hung across my neck and smiled.

On Wednesday, I had prepared a full gourmet spread for the ladies. Don’t let the old saying fool you: The way to a female’s heart is through her stomach, as well. We are just much classier about our eating habits. After everyone had grazed over all the hors d’oeuvres, it was time to get down to business.

I stood up from my seat at the head of the table. “Ladies, I think it’s time we talk about why we are all here.” A collective nod went across the room. “I’m assuming you all know who Stacey Dawson is.”

“Oh, is that that sweet girl who lives out past Eddy’s Tavern? She seems like a peach,” Jane inquires as she turns her head to the other ladies, smiling. A peach?! I thought to myself. More like the writhing worm eating the holy hearts out of this community.

“No, no, no. You must be mistaken. She is that classless young women who continues to flaunt her bits and pieces at mass every Sunday,” I say.

“Hmm, yes, she does have a penchant for the more gaudy outfits. What has she done, dear?”

“What has she done?” I ask, exasperated. “I thought that was obvious. She’s challenging all our authority. Don’t you see? One minute we’re making excuses for her dress, the next we’re accepting her into our church, our town, our homes, then the next thing we know she’s sleeping with our husbands. You can’t teach a home-wrecker new tricks. We have to do something.” I had imagined this moment in my mind, when finally the women of this town would finally understand my mission.

I look out into the faces of the women. No one was meeting my gaze.

Finally, Nel speaks, “We know, Martha.”

“Know what? What is there to know, but that we need to get this devil in hot pants out of our town?”

“We can’t imagine what you’ve been going through.”

What are these ladies talking about? Everything is fine, or it will be fine once I get my way and Stacey is gone for good.

“Oh, dear. Don’t do this to yourself. Tom left, didn’t he?” Nel says, making a move to touch my arm. “We noticed that he hasn’t been to church in weeks. And, well, we put two and two together. Don’t blame yourself, but don’t blame Stacey either. She really is a doll once you get to know her.”

“What! No, he’s just been away on business. Yes, that’s it,” I say as I jerk my arm away. “Everything is fine. He didn’t know better.” Don’t they understand? Stacey is why he is gone. That type of girl always leads men to stray from the wives who give them everything. The secret art of cleavage—give a girl a pushup bra and she’ll make a girl kill a man. I had to punish him. If God understood than why couldn’t these women? Now, I just had to get rid of her—Stacey, with her over-applied make-up and cleavage pushed up so far like they were an offering to God. She was the problem. I had seen how she had caressed Tom’s shoulder after mass every Sunday and tittered in his ear like they shared a secret about the world. I knew they were talking about me, about betraying me, about declaring war on everything holy. I got my truth one night when I followed Tom home from work. I gave him the benefit of the doubt when I saw him pull into her driveway, when he got out with a single red rose in his hand. He had to be there to save her, I had thought. He wouldn’t betray me like this.

He did.

Jesus Christ, forgive him for his sins and give me the strength to punish the wicked.

“Martha? I think it’s time for us to leave,” Hannah says. Her eyes darting to the door, then back to the other women as her hands wring the straps of her purse. “Everything will be okay. Give it time.” An awkward smile clings to her face. She didn’t care. None of them cared.

“I agree. Please, get out of my house. I don’t need your hollow niceties,” I look Hannah dead in the eyes, “You should know who I am. I never understand why you women ostracize me for my devotion. I am giving you all a chance to do God’s work. ”

The women scuttle out of the house, my booming voice, no doubt, shaking them to their souls. Well, that was not exactly a success. I don’t think I have the strength to do this alone, again. At least Moses had his staff. What did I have? A red-stained apron and a dull set of cutting knives. God must really have faith in my capabilities. I clean the table of all the leftover food. Slobs, that’s what they all were—men and women, alike. Sometimes I wonder if I am the only decent person left in this world. Sigh. I need a nap before I handle Stacey. I make my way to the bedroom and plop my heavy body onto the royal blue bed sheets. There is a slight stain at the corner.

“Thou shalt not commit adultery, Tom. You broke your vow—your vow to me and your vow to God. Sinners must pay, dear,” I say as Tom’s lifeless blue eyes stare out at me from underneath the satin blue bed sheets. I clutch the gold cross that hangs from my neck. Lord, the things I do for you.