To look upon Angela Hart was to see the Platonic ideal of Woman: she was in every way remarkable, a creature who seemed both corporeal and at the same time pure and eternal.
Angela was an imposing figure: tall, her chestnut hair rich and flowing; striking blue eyes, a warm look from which could lift up the most downtrodden of spirits. The loose elegant dresses she wore, modest yet stylish, intimated that beneath was a magnificent body. But no man could look upon Angela Hart with lust. The very idea would bring self-recrimination and a blush to the cheek.
She was just too wholesome. Imagine your mother, or the way you wish your mother had been. Or perhaps your fourth grade teacher, the woman who was the very embodiment of feminine integrity. Angela Hart was all this and more. She inspired you to smile at your neighbor and do a good deed for a total stranger.
Angela was the author of two best-selling books on family psychology and hostess of a cable TV show. Her life and her career were rooted firmly in God and Family. Where service to one ended and devotion to the other began, not even Angela could say.
Her own family was Norman Rockwell perfect: a wealthy husband who adored her; two teenage children, both honor students and revered by all as model youths.
Angela Hart was a staple on college lecture tours, at Girls State, and the Future Homemakers of America. Her message to young girls was clear: the path to happiness lies in sexual abstinence before marriage; in absolute loyalty to one's husband afterwards.
Thousands of young women embraced the idea and took the pledge, inspired by the message but even more by the messenger. If being chaste can make me as happy as Angela Hart, they would think, that I must be.
No man admired the woman more than Martin Hessel. He had become aware of her fame some ten years ago as his own marriage had been falling apart. If only Lisa were more like Angela Hart, he would think. But Lisa was not. Headstrong and ambitious, she had moved out of their home in Guthrie, Oklahoma and gone to Dallas, where a career in interior design awaited her. Martin had remained a bachelor since that day. He was still looking for another Lisa or, better yet, an Angela Hart.
Martin was himself an exemplary citizen, an optometrist and now mayor of Guthrie. He was proud to be in attendance the night they honored Angela Hart as Oklahoma's Woman of the Year. She glided onto the stage, a queen before her adoring subjects. In a warm melodious voice she gave her speech.
With a spotlight on her, not unlike a ray from the heavens, Angela described the great joy she had felt as a bride. I walked down that aisle in my pure white gown, she said, knowing that I had earned its purity through virtue. My chastity was a wedding gift to my beloved husband. Among the women, there was scarcely a dry eye in the house.
As for Martin, he gazed reverently at the podium, thinking, now here is someone worthy of a man's devotion. What a woman she is!
Martin was of course eager to attend the reception honoring her after the ceremony. He joined the reception line, as nervous as a schoolboy as he neared Angela. And then it was his turn to bask in the warmth of her blue eyes and radiant smile; to feel her firm hand shaking his.
She hesitated a second, looking at him closely. "Hmm. Have we met before, Mr. Hessel? At Southern Methodist, perhaps?"
"I don't think so, Ms Hart," he laughed, "I'm sure I'd remember someone like you!" But yes, he thought. There is something oddly familiar about her, up close like this.
"Oh, it'll come to me later!" the woman exclaimed. "I'm so happy that you could be here tonight!"
And with that he was moved on. Martin lingered for another half hour; then began to make his way to the hall entrance. Cruel fate placed Angela in his path. She had turned from one group of admirers and was making her way to another when again their eyes met.
"Ah, Mr. Hessel," she smiled, touching her tongue to her lip, "I'm sure I've seen you before, I just don't know where."
Perhaps it was the tongue that did it. Martin shuddered, feeling as if a bucket of cold water had been dashed on him. He gaped at the woman, all thought and propriety driven from his head.
"Wait a minute," he blurted. "Now I remember you! You're Dena Mullins! You're that young whore I once spent the night with in Lawton!"
The woman blanched; she looked intently at Martin. Her blue eyes grew large, then larger still. Her mouth dropped open; she gasped. And just like that, Angela Hart fainted dead away.
Now the fates decided to spare the woman further insult. She fell against a passing city councilman, who grabbed her and gently lowered her to the floor as Martin staggered back, dumbfounded by the realization. By the thought that yes, I know this woman. I've known her in the biblical sense. Known her in the most intimate ways a man can know a woman.
*****
A few moments later Martin sat in a booth at the Downtowner Lounge, holding a vodka and tonic in his trembling hands. It isn't possible, he thought. No way. But some part of him knew otherwise. She really is Dena Mullins. Has to be. I'd bet my house on it.
Now disillusion swept over him. Angela Hart was my ideal woman, he thought. But who is she really? Is she truly a fraud? Are she and all that she stands for just a charade?
He took a deep breath, recalling how he had stumbled out of the ballroom, ignored in the hubbub as everyone rushed to Angela Hart's aid. Now looking around the bar, he thought, how long ago did I meet her? Over twenty years? Hard to believe.
It had all begun in a bar, worlds apart from this one. A small bar, a dump really, with the crack of pool balls hitting each other; Shelly West warbling 'Jose Cuervo' on the jukebox.
Martin had been nineteen, working that summer on a wheat harvesting crew. They'd begun in Texas, slowly moving north as the crop ripened and awaited the combine and the grain elevator. By late July they would reach the Dakotas, the northern limit of the winter wheat region.
But June meant Oklahoma, long hot days and idle nights. He and his friend Dustin were sharing a cheap motel room near Lawton as they worked the southwestern Oklahoma wheat fields: a world of pale blue sky and pale yellow wheat that stretched to the horizon.
He'd been sitting in the Horseshoe Bar & Grill near their motel, sipping a Miller Lite and unwinding from another day. Dustin entered the bar and quickly slid into the booth.
"Hey Marty, want a girl? Guess who I've got lined up for us tonight?"
"Reba McEntire."
"You wish. What d' ya say to a couple of prostitutes? Real ones?"
"Now why would I want t' pay for it? There's gonna be girls tonight that'll be glad t' please Little Willie down here, and for free."
"Yeah, right. As if you were that hot. Besides, you can chase these local skanks any time. I'm talking 'bout high class call girls, women of the world. All the way from Oklahoma City. Ain't you ever wondered what it'd be like to have one?"
"Dustin, you really aim high in life, don't you?" He eyed his smiling companion, then said, "Okay, how much?"
"Seventy five."
"Whoa, that ain't pocket change! I'm saving to go back to school at Okie State this fall."
"Just consider tonight a part of your education, ole buddy. I've got it arranged with the greaseball who runs our motel. Room 211. You get one of 'em from 10 'til whenever. Deal?"
Anything to break the ennui, Martin thought. "Yeah, what th' hell. Deal."
He'd been lying on the bed just after ten o'clock, the door to Room 211 slightly ajar as per instructions. The TV weatherman was saying that tomorrow's weather would be dry, high of 98 F. There was movement at the door, and without a sound she slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Expecting an older woman, fishnet hose and maybe spike heels, he saw instead a young girl. She was wearing cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a pink sleeveless blouse tied around her narrow waist. With a blush on her cheeks, she watched Martin nervously.
"You're her?" Martin asked. "Th' prostitute?"
