Goddess of Filth

by Castro, V.

  I suppose it was calm up there because all the humans are down here. Was this hell? Global bad news, political bad news—we were used to hearing about the chaos at the border, but young women were going missing locally. Cops called them runaways or high-risk youth, but their families disagreed. They spoke out anonymously because they feared their status in the country. Some did not have American citizenship and others were the children of immigrants. They wouldn’t be kicked out before they knew the whereabouts of their missing.

  Two days later Mrs. Garcia showed up at Sonic at the end of my shift looking like a bull that lost the fight. She scanned the fast food menu in disgust, and then looked at me with the same revulsion. My hair and skin were a pile of oil and sweat as the air-conditioning only worked at half capacity, the small space all counter and kitchen. The overworked machinery couldn’t handle extra bodies in here. All I had were syrupy lime slushies to keep me cool with the heat of the kitchen at my back and the heat from the outside blasting my face whenever the doors were opened.

  “May I take your order, Mrs. Garcia? Fernanda always orders the chili dog and tater tots.”

  “How will you ever learn to cook eating junk like this? Don’t expect to keep that figure, either. One baby and that will be it for you.”

  More anger I almost couldn’t temper. She didn’t know that I had to prepare meals most nights for my entire family. My sisters needed to eat, and the adults had to work. I was fucking good at cooking, too.

  Our eyes locked in a battle both of us would lose no matter who fired first. Mrs. Garcia leaned in toward me.

  “I think my daughter needs a priest, an exorcism. Her behavior is unnatural.”

  Her voice became a frantic whisper.

  “She is doing sexual things to herself and just yesterday she bit my hand when I tried to wipe her face. She has always been a clean girl, but her room is a mess. I need you to tell a priest exactly what you did. What spell did you use, bruja?” Her tone turned to acid. “You probably want to keep her here because you aren’t good enough to make it anywhere else. I’m surprised you aren’t pregnant by now.”

  I hated this woman. The only thing you hear where I come from is don’t get pregnant. Don’t get pregnant because that is always the beginning for us, a prophecy of failure come true. All the pointed fingers could say, “See! Not just stereotypes. Another one is born!”

  We were modern girls. We knew where Planned Parenthood was, at least the ones that remained open. It made me almost wish I had been born without a womb so that no man would want me and no God would expect me to be leashed. The rest of me could be mine, and mine alone.

  Mrs. Garcia wanted to see me cry, to cast her own guilt spell on me. How much she loved Fernanda was borderline obsessive, a red cape before her eyes. But I understood. When you aren’t white or don’t come from a place of privilege, the world needs a compelling, tangible reason to say you belong. Otherwise, you’re just like the rest.

  Speak, I told myself. I would use this unexpected visit to my advantage.

  “Let us see her first.”

  She glared at me in silence, still waiting to hear me beg. I kept my best Alamo face on, hard and strong.

  “Fine. Tomorrow at ten in the morning. But only you. I don’t want a bunch of people in my house to whisper and spread gossip about my Fernanda. If you are late, forget about it.”

  I knew this was a huge win even if the others were not welcome. They knew Mrs. Garcia and would understand. We could meet after.

  Our conversation had eaten up the remainder of my shift and it was time to finally leave. I could have asked her for a ride home, but my pride would not allow it. The rest of the team was scheduled until closing and I didn’t want to wait. I would walk home that night because there wasn’t enough money for gas until payday.

  The journey from Sonic to my home was along Military Highway, a long stretch of two-way traffic with no sidewalk, only grass and trees, the street lights few and far between. When cars slowed down, my heart sped up as I readied my body to run into the woods and hide. There is no sound along that stretch of road except the whooshing of cars or the music escaping open windows. As I walked along with a key wedged between my knuckles, a slight breeze blew against the trees and my overheated skin. I told myself only deer and raccoons dwelled in the darkness as I continued to take big steps through the ankle-length dry grass.

  “Hey, need a ride?”

  I turned to a Volkswagen that had pulled up beside me. A couple the same age as my parents—and just as nondescript—gave me a smile. There was a collection of pine tree-shaped deodorizers hanging from their rearview mirror in a long tail. The windows in the back seat were smudged and dirty with handprints, like my parent’s car but without car seats.

  The man spoke this time, leaning over the woman. A Dallas Cowboys baseball cap shaded the top half of his face. “It’s dangerous to be walking home this late on a road like this. Cars go real fast here. Your family must worry. You live close?”

  “I don’t need a ride. Thanks . . . seeing my boyfriend.”

  “Well, you be safe now.” The woman rolled up her window, and they pulled away. When their taillights were mere red eyes in the distance, I sprinted as hard as I could through overgrown dry grass and weeds. Thank God it was a full moon; otherwise, I would not have found my way home as quickly as I did.

  I cried after closing my bedroom door, feeling trapped in the dark. Eventually I composed myself, and after a few sniffs and a wipe of my eyes I called Ana.

  “Hey. You still awake?”

  Ana moaned on the other end of the phone. “I am now. What’s up? Any news about Fernanda?”

  “Yeah, I am seeing her tomorrow. I was thinking we could all meet after. You around?”

  Ana yawned. “Text me what time and I’ll meet you there with the others if they can make it.”

  “It will have to wait. Mrs. Garcia said only one.”

  “Pfft. I am not surprised. Well, let us know.”

  There was a pause. “Hey, you all right?” she asked softly.

  I waited to answer. It was too late to burden anyone. “You know me. I’m always all right.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  I hung up not knowing if I was all right or not. I could hear the raised voices of my mother and stepfather. It didn’t matter what they fought over; this scenario was a constant when he was at home. His extended periods away made day-to-day life difficult for my mother in caring for a family, but she seemed more at ease with herself when he was gone. That relationship crumbled day by day. It was only a matter of time before it would fall apart.

  I lay back down and put my pillow over my head to cover my ears because it was too late to play music. I felt broken inside.

  “It looks like a training bra! What is this abuelita shit?” The three girls giggled as they tossed her bra around the locker room like a volleyball. “I know . . . we should take it to the quad. Let everyone see.”

  Fernanda looked on helplessly, her cheeks and neck hot as she tried to cover her bare breasts. She didn’t know if she should try to fight back or call for help. Both would leave her even more exposed. She’d have to let her breasts be on show, or be called a snitch for the rest of high school. Nobody lives that label down.

  “Please stop.” Her voice cracked, not much higher than a whisper from trying to hold back tears.

  Gloria, Vanessa, and Mercedes had done this before, back in sixth grade. They’d followed her in a circle shouting insults because she consistently made the best grades and the teacher proudly announced it in front of the class. Fernanda the example. They never touched her, but a fist would have hurt less than their taunts. She didn’t tell her mother to avoid being labelled a snitch. She just kept to herself even more.

  Pauline walked out of the showers with the towel around her waist. “The fuck is going on here?”

  “Just a little fun. Your homegirl needs a lesson. She thinks she is better than us. She ain’t.”

>   “Give me her bra back, now. What’s so funny about it, anyway? I know you get your panties at Walmart like the rest of us. Get the fuck out and leave her alone before I come over there and fuck you up. I’m not even playin’ now.”

  Gloria sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. “You her watch dog now? Eating her pussy after school? Cuz I know she never had a man. You certainly look like a dog.”

  Pauline lunged towards Gloria, her towel threatening to fall to the floor.

  The three girls backed away laughing. “Hey, Fernanda, you know Pauline is only your friend because you can help her with her work. Nobody likes you . . . boring bitch.”

  They left in a fit of laughter to another row of lockers, tossing the plain white, wireless full cup bra with thick straps into a puddle of water. Fernanda reached down and grabbed the sodden fabric.

  “Dumb cabronas. They’ll all be pregnant by twenty. You all right, Fernanda?”

  Fernanda turned to face her locker, trembling, squeezing her eyes shut. She wanted to stuff her bra into her mouth to prevent herself from sobbing. The vulgarity of the insults. The hatred. She didn’t understand why it was directed at her. Be smart, but not too smart. Be beautiful, but not so pretty as to make other females mad. Be successful, but not bossy or overly ambitious. Nobody likes a mouthy brown woman. Be a declawed kitten.

  “You know none of what they said is true . . . ”

  Fernanda opened her eyes. “I know. You make those good grades on your own. But I am boring.”

  “Seriously, though. Guys don’t care what kinda bra you wear, as long as they get to see titties and ass. Dogs. I had a guy try to take my tampon out while we made out. Dirty dogs.”

  Fernanda blushed and tried to chuckle over the sensation of wanting to vomit. She couldn’t imagine even allowing anyone near there at that time of the month.

  “I’m so embarrassed. And then saying you eat my . . . in front of everyone. My mom buys my bras and underwear with me. She says white cotton is best because it breathes, and nobody should be looking at what I wear underneath, anyway.

  “I mean your mom isn’t entirely wrong. Cotton is pretty damn comfortable and easy to wash, but if you want someone to look, there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re beautiful.”

  Fernanda could feel herself shrinking at this conversation. Pauline’s thumb brushed her bare back as she pulled Fernanda’s hair from her face. Her touch felt soft and comforting on her flesh, usually hidden behind fabric. Someone telling her she was beautiful. It made her especially uncomfortable because Pauline stood there half naked, acting like she was fully clothed in the cafeteria. Fernanda didn’t want to go through high school feeling so naked and scared.

  The next morning when I went to see Fernanda, her aunt, Yolanda, answered the door in her blue scrubs. She was a pediatric nurse and always at the house. I assumed she was there to check on Fernanda’s health because she answered with a blood pressure cuff in her hand and a look of worry on her face. Father Moreno sipped coffee in the living room as he listened to a tearful Mrs. Garcia.

  “I caught her with that black makeup and touching herself! I left for a moment to make food before I heard moaning. Disgraceful. Disgusting. This isn’t right, Father.” Mrs. Garcia’s voice warbled in dramatic hysterics; I could swear she was the one possessed. “My daughter is a good girl, a smart girl. She is going to college on a scholarship. We have worked hard to save for those years. Save her, Father Moreno!”

  I hated how she thought of us as little girls. Maybe Mrs. Garcia would want to hear about the time I met a man five years older than myself at a poetry reading at Barnes & Noble. When the event was over, he invited me for a coffee in the café; I told him to take me back to his home. Behind his expression of hesitation and disbelief, I could sense his excitement about an aggressive nineteen-year-old. I fucked him, not because of anything he said or did, but because I wanted to. It was the first time I experienced oral sex while “Bette Davis Eyes” by Kim Carnes played on his stereo. His uncertainty turned me on as he kept asking me if it was okay. Did I like that? What did I like? I didn’t have answers. That was why I was there. I didn’t want to bother saving myself for anyone special because my body didn’t need saving.

  His bed smelled of unwashed skin and detergent, but not unpleasant. Experienced taste buds brushed unexplored nerve endings between my legs, digging a hole to my reservoir of desire. A filthy place licked clean. In that moment I felt invincible and hungry, like a vampire. I couldn’t believe how mesmerized he seemed by a body I felt was too short, brown, and round to be beautiful enough to wield this kind of power. As he orgasmed, I could have done anything to him, including slashing his throat. He lay so helpless pinned beneath my grinding hips as his body went rigid and his hands gripped my thighs like a life raft that would prevent him from drowning. It felt empowering to leave when I wanted, knowing I would never return. He tried to give me his phone number and email address, but I wasn’t interested. I had seen how that story plays out. I didn’t know how to orgasm with a man back then, but the excitement that ran through my blood that night still makes my body shiver.

  The priest, Father Moreno, cross-examined me for half an hour with Bible in hand. He looked worn, as worn as his Bible. Gold lettering that spelled his name and The Holy Bible was a faded print that looked like it had been rubbed too many times. Did he think God would answer him like a genie? If only that was true. Before my eighteenth birthday I attended church twice a week, and not once did a descending dove or the jabbering of tongues occur. My skeptical thoughts remained as silent as the God I sometimes tried to plead and bargain with. By the intensity emanating from the priest’s eyes, this was much worse than some silly game of truth or dare. He sat next to me, placing his hand over mine.

  “Lourdes. You are not in trouble. But I need to know a few things. Did you recite incantations you might have found on the internet or library, or that you made up? Are you interested in black magic?”

  I wanted to laugh. I knew I wasn’t in trouble. I couldn’t help it if they thought of me as trouble. And was he for real? Incantations? I gave him a feeble shake of my head, avoiding eye contact so he wouldn’t see me mocking him in my mind.

  “Did you promise your soul to evil for money or power? A better life? Even if any of this was in jest.”

  He was for real and taking this seriously. Those questions were rich coming from someone who had never even met me before. The entire conversation sounded like it came from a bad horror film.

  “Did you do filthy things to each other?”

  Now he was just another pervert in disguise, like this waiter at Shoney’s who gave me a slice of free pie when I was ten years old. I told my mother I didn’t want it. The waiter frightened me as he stood too close whenever at our table, but she said I was being rude and to never reject things offered for free. We don’t get the luxury of free things very often. Smile and be grateful. He watched behind the counter as I ate every bite. His stare sucked me in whenever I opened my mouth. To this day, that waiter makes me shiver in revulsion.

  Under any other circumstances I would have told the priest to go fuck himself, literally. He would feel better after. But I knew it would make things worse for Fernanda.

  “Never.”

  Yolanda and Mrs. Garcia yelped and cried after each question, keeping a close eye on my answers, searching for solid proof of me being no good. The priest remained stoic, but relished every second. I played dumb for twenty minutes, and then he left us to see Fernanda. Feigning ignorance is the only way to placate some people.

  The two women sat at the table talking quietly so I couldn’t overhear their conversation. The way Yolanda kept darting her eyes in my direction gave me the feeling they were scheming about how to ask me to leave.

  Before either did, Father Moreno rushed out with bloodshot eyes. His lips were a bluish hue, as if starved of oxygen. He sputtered and emitted a choking sound as he gulped air, the kind of retching you do when liquid spills down the wrong pi
pe. Tears and saliva covered his ashen face. He pressed the Bible across his heart. With a voice too shaken to have any authority, he cried, “Lock that girl up in an institution. Nothing can save her! She is ruined.”

  Mrs. Garcia resumed her wailing as he slammed the front door behind him.

  I didn’t know what could have possibly happened in that room, but I had to speak. All the times I had felt silenced had formed a voice in my head, a voice that wouldn’t leave me until it could be heard.

  “Let me see her now. You can’t exorcise her. She isn’t possessed. And she is not a lost cause. Let me find a way. Fuck that priest and fuck anyone that tells us we are crazy!” I screamed this with the same fervor I’d had the night of the séance, calling for a spirit.

  Before Mrs. Garcia or Yolanda could respond, music began playing so loud the bass vibrated against the door. The three of us reared our heads towards Fernanda’s bedroom. Since she wasn’t allowed to go to concerts or to the annual Fiesta in downtown San Antonio, her dad had spared no expense on the stereo she’d received two Christmases before.

  Mrs. Garcia sneered at me in contempt. “What do you know, stupid girl? I’ll keep with my faith and my way.”