Ashley Esther Elizabeth Bryant was the wealthiest woman on that side of the city, the side where anything less than twelve bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a 360 degree veranda encircling the walls, a swimming pool, and indoor-outdoor retractable roofed tennis court would be considered living in poverty. Her neck and her fingers and her ears held the weight of those round or hanging gold and silver chains. They were made even heavier by those cut diamonds in facets of blinding shine. She bore that burden without smile or grimace, the Botox had left her serene. Her hair coifed and with a golden shine, framed her perfectly cut face in a blond halo. Maybe hundreds of years ago, she might have been canonized as a saint or at least been given the name: Your Ladyship. And in this modern century she tried to live that way. She believed she lived the way she did and had all the money to live like in paradise because she had always done the right things. Her pastor on the television screen had said, “If you’re living in God’s will the money will come to you—-just don’t forget to give back…” She felt she gave back more than she should, on those long nights with her wrinkly husband in bed.

But she forgot to listen to the sermon to its end. She pressed the remote control and rose from her breakfast in bed, spilling a bit of tea from the silver server set. She missed the number that appeared at the bottom of the screen to send the charity to The God’s Saving Ministry. But she wanted to stay within the loving will of God, so she did something. She gathered her old clothes—-removed the labels of GUCCI, Vuitton, Lauren and those Burberry plaids—-so she could remain humble and not fall into pride. She rang for the chauffeur to take her to where poor people might be. He placed his cap on his head and shook it once or twice. He drove to the edge of the city’s central park.

“Here we are ma’am.” Very matter-of-factedly.

“Here?”

He saw in his rear view mirror, her injected puff-lips grow a half-inch larger in disdain.

He sighed, “Yes, here.”

She took a deep breath. It wasn’t going to be easy to do God’s will.

He walked to her side of the limousine and opened the door. He helped her out to her first step of trepidation. She hoped her high heels would hold her steady on their spikes. And then they came for her charity, she was surrounded by odors she had never smelled before. She wondered why these people didn’t bathe. She wondered if this is how her Lord and Savior had felt when surrounded by those crowds in Galilee. She gave and gave that day, without touching a hand. She left that to the chauffeur, he knew he’d need to wash his black leather gloves after that swarm. When everything was gone, he opened the door for her to the back into the car. She got in and felt an exhausted holiness fill her soul. She wished she could have remembered his name to thank him personally. Instead she said ‘thank you’ and gave him a compliment ‘well done’ as she pressed the button to raise the window separating them. He drove her home and quit the next day. At the end of his final notice was signed: Cito Wheeler.

“So that’s what it was,” Ashley Esther Elizabeth mumbled, “Well, God bless him wherever he may drive.”

From all of that, something happened to her heart. It had never been small like the Grinch’s, but it had never been very warm either. Now it was burning hot. She found she liked to give and give and give. She began to write checks and take them to shelters in every corner on the other side of the city. She gave away some cars to the meals-on-wheels, so those lunches showed up in a red Ferrari or polished black Porsche. She gave and she gave. it became a deep rage within her. It had become a competition. She read in the paper or online and saw her picture, Ashley Esther Elizabeth Bryant: Benefactor, Saint to the Poor. Oh, how she loved it. People finally took notice of her, without having to visit Chez You Beauty Salon or have another cut and tuck from Doctor Irvine.

The money she earned by loving her husband (in ways she never wanted to discuss) and his billions and billions would never run dry. Her charity grew and grew. It chocked her heart. Her giving had become a need. Her giving had become an ugly, disfigured greed.