The Trust by Norb Vonnegut

alone” became his mother’s mantra. No surprise, given he was the only boy.
    Once, Biscuit made the mistake of smarting her back. “You want to run that pony by me one more time?” He’d first heard the expression at a barbershop. All the men chuckled when some guy used it as the punch line to his story. To a young, impressionable boy, the remark sounded like a joke about horses.
    Biscuit’s mother was not amused. She heard the words from her son and whacked his elbow with the closest thing available. Her wooden spoon broke on contact, evoking a right smart “Yeow.” The mashed potatoes went lumpy that night, the half-mushed consistency of porridge. And Biscuit got the message to back off. He had been backing off from women ever since.
    His wife Faith Ann was the one exception. They were equals raising their three sons.
    *   *   *
    “I don’t bite.”
    The HIP clerk placed her hand on her hip. She studied Biscuit, her eyes dancing a cha-cha smirk, her smile perfect except for the faintest twist in one of her two front teeth.
    The big man spotted her name badge and leaned down for a better look: AMY. STORE MANAGER. WE AIM TO PLEASE.
    Remembering his own mission, Biscuit said, “You’re the person I need to see.”
    Amy glanced at the wedding ring on Biscuit’s index finger. She was a true salesperson, all warmth and allure. She asked, “Something for the Mrs.?”
    “Er.”
    “Come here.” Amy enjoyed home-court advantage. She was in command, confident and seductive. She drew him in, tugging his tie playfully. “I know just what she needs.”
    Biscuit turned crimson. He checked around the store to see if anyone was watching.
    Amy grabbed a translucent green vibrator from the stack on her table. It looked like a happy cactus. With a deft flick of the thumb, she hit the On button. A low droning sound erupted, and a few shoppers turned their heads in Biscuit’s direction. The sound reminded him of the spaceship engines from the 1950s Flash Gordon reruns he had watched as a kid.
    “Lean down.” She issued the order with the command persona of a drill sergeant.
    In that instant, Biscuit discovered how a deer feels in the headlights. He lowered his head as instructed.
    Amy touched the happy cactus to Biscuit’s nose. “That’s how it feels on a woman’s clitoris. Trust me, your wife will love it.” She spoke in a loud, husky voice, two clicks too loud.
    Several nearby women tittered. College age. One wore shorts, made from sweatpants cotton, with UNC plastered across her bottom.
    Biscuit wanted to hide. He wanted to get away from this woman, so confident, so much in control. He wanted to leave HIP, to vacate the vibes and videos. But he had work to do.
    “I’ll take it,” Biscuit yammered. For the love of humanity, he wished she would lower her voice.
    “Your wife will be thrilled.” Amy handed him an unopened package. “There’s no shame in making a woman happy.”
    “We need to speak about something else.” Biscuit could feel the heat rising from his red face.
    “Some lingerie?” she offered, still sounding like her mouth was connected to a megaphone. “We have the most adorable teddies in stock.”
    “Nothing like that.” Biscuit folded his arms, trying to regain control, trying to hide the vibrator.
    The manager cocked one eyebrow.
    “Sorry to hear about Father Rossi.” Biscuit did his best to look haunted, as though the two had lost a good friend.
    “Who?”
    She doesn’t know him.
    Biscuit recalibrated. “I’d like to meet the owners of HIP.”
    “Do you have a business card?”
    “Er, yeah. What for?”
    “They’ll call you.”
    “I’d rather call them,” he told Amy. “It’s time-sensitive.”
    “I can’t give out numbers.” She folded her arms across her chest.
    “Whatever happened to customer service?”
    “Do you have a complaint?” Amy flicked on the happy cactus, drawing attention from other shoppers.
    “Now I do.” He wished she’d turn that damn