The Senator's Punishment
Bernadette Miller
When the photograph of Senator Lowe and his prostitute girlfriend appeared in The Tylerville Gazette, the small midwestern town was scandalized. There on the front page was a respectable state senator, a fiftyish Harvard law school graduate, caught frantically zipping up his fly in the hotel room while plump Margie Hagenstadt, her breasts bare beneath the sheer negligee, smiled demurely as though the photographer hadn’t surprised her.
Local television reporters pressed the married senator for comments before his office building. One young fellow asked, “Why a prostitute?”
Senator Lowe scowled with bushy brows. “A man has a right to privacy with a consenting adult. It’s still a free country.”
“Not if he’s a public official,” the reporter said. “What about your obligation toward the voters? It doesn’t include--”
“Oh, grow up!” Still scowling, the Senator hurried inside the small building, leaving the reporter with a frown for the camera.
“Well, folks, there goes another politician who thinks he owes the electorate nothing. We’ll remember when voting, won’t we.” He ruffled his blond curls and smiled warmly. “But don’t worry, we won’t investigate your bedroom, if there’s no cause.”
After the newscast, the town buzzed with outrage. At The Red Herring Bar, the local pharmacy owner said Lowe should be banned from public office. The postmaster nodded emphatically over his beer and advised impeachment. Wasn’t it unconstitutional for a senator to enjoy unrestricted sex while other married males must endure a boring wife?
Even the Heavenly Crusaders ghosts in the small Park Lawn Cemetery had been scandalized. As usual, they’d gathered above their graves before sunrise to assess good and evil in the town they’d disgracefully left, having themselves been publicly ostracized. As experts on sinning, they’d been chosen to punish mortals, thus coaxing them from temptation while awaiting pleasures in heaven. Mr. Purdy led the Crusaders’ meeting when the other spectres finally quieted in the misty grayness. Formerly a bespectacled accountant, Mr. Purdy had been elected leader because of his ability to reckon accounts, an aptitude which unfortunately had resulted in his embezzling bank funds. At first, he’d modestly refused the Heavenly Crusaders’ honor of being president, until meeting their sexiest ghost, young Ginger, whose big blue eyes startled against her stark whiteness; charming dimples appeared in her misty cheeks.
“The leader and I are very close friends,” she’d said during a conference, and floated toward him. Her long white lashes fluttered, her shroud slipped past bare shoulders to reveal a glimpse of generous bosom, her mother-of-pearl lips parted in coyness--a charming specter of innocence and lust.
Mr. Purdy, spectacles clouding, had peered at her in wonderment, and smiled at the heavenly promise.
“Well, who has a grievance?” he now asked, opening the meeting, his pale visage poking above the shroud’s collar.
Mr. Olafson, a former insurance agent, stroked his white beard while floating in his air pocket. “It’s inexcusable, Tylerville’s bureaucrats having illicit relationships. Unheard of in my day!”
Mr. Purdy smiled. “Unheard of? What about your own affair with that cousin while your wife was touring Europe? Why should the media’s reports about Senator Lowe surprise you?”
“And what about your gambling debts left for your poor wife to resolve!” Mr. Olafson snapped, and paused to calm himself. “Just because Lowe cleaned up Tylerville’s corruption is no excuse to have sexual intercourse wherever he pleases.”
“He’ll probably be voted out of office,” Mr. Purdy said. “That solves the problem democratically.”
“But he might not be,” Ginger said. “You know how the public eats up gossip. I think the senator should be haunted as a warning!” She paused, pushing her shroud neckline again below a shoulder. “And I want to do it. I never get a chance to haunt.” She looked wistful, the pearly lips forming a pout.
“Well, haunting isn’t exactly your forte, is it?” Mr. Purdy said gently.
“But I’d like to be well-rounded.”
“Let her do it,” Olafson said. “It would be proper irony, a beautiful ghost scaring the devil out of the lascivious Senator!”
“Besides,” Ginger said, fluttering her lashes in nervous enthusiasm, “it’s good practice for the Halloween spooking competition. I’d like to prove I’ve got other talents.”
“Yes, let her haunt the senator!” the other Crusaders agreed--except O’Malley, a former alcoholic. Though having died years before, Tim couldn’t forget the wonderfully tipsy effect of alcohol. As he spoke, he leaned first to the right, then to the left, conveying the impression of drunkenness, though he hadn’t touched a drop since being buried.
“Well, now,” O’Malley said, “Why blame the poor senator for a bit of fun, eh? Surely a lad accomplishing as much as he has is entitled to some earthly rewards. Consider his first year alone, how he refused bribes from greedy toy manufacturers to expose their slipshod products and saved thousands of children from mutilation and death. Who are we, I’m thinking, that we should pass judgement on him? Are we so fine, so high and mighty we can’t bear faults in our leaders?” His shroud swayed from side to side. “No, ladies and gents, I fear not. Remember the old saying: a leader is still human, no matter how high he climbs.” With that, he sank to the ground, his shroud bubbling around him.
Mr. Olafson’s bearded visage vibrated with anger. “Who could forget that news photo of O’Malley staggering from a bar? Nobody in Tylerville would re-elect him as mayor! And now we have another profligate--Senator Lowe. His indiscretion must be punished, as a warning to other politicians!”
The Heavenly Crusaders debated plans for appropriate punishment, and delighted Ginger by electing her as official spooker. Finally, she’d make them realize she was more than a pretty face. Maybe someday she could even become their leader! She smiled. Then, there’d be some changes: no more handing it out for free. She’d charge, like in the old days.
“Gee, I won’t let you down,” she said, snowy curls bobbing with enthusiasm at her naked shoulders.
A week later, Senator Lowe, in his Westchester study that warm June night, was working on legal papers for his invasion of privacy suit against the Gazette; reporters, calling his behavior vile, had dug up every detail of his affair with Margie for the public’s edification. Suddenly, something white flitted past the open window. The senator shrugged, murmuring, “Oh, probably just moonlight glinting off the sprinkler.” But the next time he glanced up, a beautiful, shrouded ghost hovered near his desk.
“Good lord!” he exclaimed, startled. Then, calming, he said, “Ridiculous! Ghosts don’t exist. Must be a practical joke.” He rebent over his papers.
“Sen-a-tor Lowe...” Ginger tried to make her voice as scary as possible. She almost regretted having been elected since she knew she wasn’t very good. But there was her possible rise to leadership; she summoned up courage. She’d teach the Crusaders a thing or two about haunting! “Sen-a-tor, sen-a-tor, what e-vil hast thou donnnnnnne...”
“Can’t you see I’m busy,” he muttered. “I don’t know how you got in here, but if you don’t leave, my housekeeper will throw you out.”
Ginger paused, flustered. The senator didn’t seem to mind a ghost’s presence. Her shroud rustled with her deep sigh. Ghosts should terrify mortals--reminding them of the awful future. Yet, being a ghost was fun: all that flying about and making objects move and magic she’d grown to love. She’d hate being banned from the Crusaders; membership among sinners gave her a sense of belonging.
Courage renewed, she floated to the window and rattled the venetian blind. The Senator ignored it, waving his hand absentmindly as if she were an unwanted beetle.
She stared at Lincoln’s heavy bust on a corner stand and caused it to float toward the expensive antique walnut desk, banging a corner and chipping the wood. He remained bent over his papers. Finally, she breathed into the senator’s ear. There, that old trick should arouse him.
He glanced up, surprised. “Who sent you to bedevil me? I’ve got enough harassment by the media.”
Ginger smiled with satisfaction. She finally had his attention. “No joke, love,” she said, and settled comfortably above his desk, her shroud splitting to reveal a shapely white leg hovering across the other. “I’m Ginger, a ghost sent by the Heavenly Crusaders to warn you of punishment for your sin.”
Senator Lowe, thumbs hooked under vest lapel, peered up through reading glasses. “By God, I remember--you were that prostitute who died from pneumonia when I was a teenager. The papers said it happened from overexposure during a particularly cold winter. Everybody discussed it for months. But, that was years ago, you can’t be real--”
“Not real like being alive,” Ginger said, long lashes fluttering.
“Must be a trick.” The senator leaned back with relief. “Whoever heard of a beautiful ghost?”
“Oh, I’m here all right. Want to feel?” She placed his hand on her bosom filling the shroud’s bodice.
His hand jerked back as if he’d touched fire. “I already have enough trouble with Margie!” He glanced up at her and back to his papers. “Whoever you are, you bought a terrific costume. That spun glass wig and blue contact lenses are fantastic, and the luscious body...” He paused. “But why will I be punished? My biggest sin recently was listing a few dinners with friends as business expenses--surely, not unforgiveable.”
Ginger fought the urge to like him, remembering him as a handsome teen, then reminded herself how his politician father tried to run her out of Tylerville until angry male citizens said at the Town Hall meeting that if she left, they would, too!
“Why didn’t you use common sense?” she said now, voice dropping to a husky softness. “Taking crude Margie to the fancy Venus Hotel was bound to catch somebody’s eye.”
“Well, I...” Senator Lowe floundered, trying to explain. “My wife Eloise had been ill for years, paralysis of the lower spine. Incurable. I...I... couldn’t have sex with colleagues’ wives, and I thought Margie would keep her mouth shut since she was trying to drum up business. Then, she insisted on a luxury hotel...” His voice trailed off lamely. “I did the best I could.”
“Gee,” Ginger said, feeling sorry for him. She reproached herself. Her job was to haunt, not cuddle!
The senator continued. “It’s unfair that news hounds can destroy a reputation while raking in piles of money, and the victim merely proving how very much alive he is.”
Shaking her head, Ginger floated to the window and glanced out into the landscaped garden. Poor Senator Lowe. She should have convinced The Crusaders to let her help relieve his awful need, just like she’d relieved most of Tylerville’s males, who agreed that she was incredible. She sighed. But it was the overload and her determination to become the best that led to her body’s weakening condition and eventual pneumonia.
She turned and hovered near his desk. “Gosh, Senator, I’m awfully sorry. But I’ve got to obey The Heavenly Crusaders by warning you about punishment that’s coming soon.”
His bushy brows lifted in doubt. “You’re not really a ghost, are you? Ghosts are supposed to terrify, and you’re beautiful.”
She smiled sweetly and pulled her shroud up to her chin, her voluptuous body nakedly visible underneath. “Oh, I’m a ghost, all right.”
He changed eyeglasses to study her closely, observed the misty outline of her face, and fainted on the shag carpet. When his married daughter dropped by later and revived him, he couldn’t explain what had caused his severe fright--the Gazette would scoff at his explanations with screaming headlines: LOWE BLAMES GHOSTS FOR EXTRAMARITAL LUSTING!
Recovering in his private room at Tylerville General Hospital, he gazed from his bed at the open window, the room fragrant from spring flowers outside. Dinner arrived. He hardly touched the rubbery-looking food. Then, he lay back to rest. Suddenly, something white flitted through the window. Trembling, he rolled over to face the wall.
“Sen-a-tor Lowe...” Ginger tittered.
He turned toward her. Still beautiful with big blue eyes and dimples, she emitted a sweet perfume. She floated toward him and placed a cool, pulsating hand on his member.
He trembled with desire. “You aren’t really a...a...”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling, “a real ghost, just like I told you. I’m here to punish you on account of your indis-indis--oh, you know.”
“Indiscretion.” He thought for a moment. “You don’t feel like a ghost.”
She smiled disarmingly. “You’ll see.”
Tenderly, she peeled away his sheet and untied his hospital gown, her shroud heaping about her white ankles. Her gleaming alabaster body rubbed against him until he moaned.
They had sex all night, the most enjoyable the senator ever had, and even better than elderly Tylerville men had reminisced about. It was if Ginger had surpassed her earthly reputation in an effort to fully satisfy him.
When the doctor visited him in the morning, Senator Lowe lay quietly with eyes closed and an elated smile. But, alas, compared with extraordinary Ginger, all other women would henceforth appear unappealing.
The senator had been sentenced to a life of celibacy.
