Goddess of Filth

by Castro, V.

  I felt less dejected after her explanation and wrapped one arm around her. “You want to see the video again?” Fernanda smiled and I pressed play.

  When I lay in my bed that night, I prayed to the dark for guidance. I don’t think purgatory is a place for people—it’s a space for all those prayers that seem to go nowhere. Just look at the faces of the families torn apart. After a while all those hopes and wishes spread like a broken yolk over our being. Where do those spoken manifestations go? Fucking purgatory, just like an ugly Bosch painting. That’s how I imagine it. So I’d fall asleep thinking of another day at Sonic taking orders in my pit-stained uniform, curse myself for being too stupid to figure this out, and then visit my friend.

  There was no change in the situation for days after showing her the video. Fernanda allowed herself to be led to her room when she was lucid and then moved back to the garden when the thing made an appearance. Even in the sweltering heat, it wanted to be outside. She would squat in the damp earth in her white cotton with black lipstick and heavily lined eyes. You could tell when her mother had tried to remove the makeup because the stain of black extended beyond her lips and the edges of her eyes. I was still adamant she didn’t need a priest or an exorcism, but there was no question that we needed help. She couldn’t go around as two people, and it was imperative she start college in the fall. Time was running out and after seeing what she did at the club, I feared more for the safety of others.

  The longer this carried on with no answers the more my heart broke for my friend. I called out for something ancient to show itself, though I didn’t believe anything would really show up. Nothing in my short goddam life amounted to anything worthwhile. Why would conjuring a spirit be any different?

  I sat with Fernanda in the dirt and brushed her hair while her mother wiped blood from her thighs. Any attempt to move her before whatever was inhabiting her was ready to move ended with a snarl and gnashing of teeth followed by hysterical sobbing. At least she drank and ate when offered sustenance. Fernanda’s father bought cases of Gatorade for us. I sat day after day in my sweat, still finding it impossible to translate anything but those words from the first night: “Naqui. Niyoli.” “I enter. I live.”

  More priests were invited by the family. They looked embarrassed at the sight of Fernanda while completely ignoring me in my bikini top and denim cutoffs. The older ones scarcely glanced in her direction, their eyes showing no compassion or real concern.

  I couldn’t tell if either Fernanda or the inhabitant had any awareness of these visitors. They evoked no response from her. Only when her speeches came to nothing did she react. This is when she would scrape her hands down the stems of her mother’s dead roses. The petals were long gone, but the thorns remained sharp. Her palms were shredded, bloody rags she offered to me with black tears running down her face. I clasped her hands to cry with her. With her blood, she crudely wrote in the dirt, “Send them away.” I tried to show Mrs. Garcia, but she dismissed it as more devil talk. “Of course a demon doesn’t want priests!” she screamed in desperate frustration.

  I’m surprised my body wasn’t turning into a pillar of salt from all my sweat and tears. But I wasn’t the only one at the end of her patience. Mrs. Garcia had begun to look for spiritual guidance elsewhere. The priests’ judgments were not just reserved for Fernanda and me, but also fell upon her. What had she done to bring about this calamity? Yolanda suggested a curandera she knew. Maybe a cleansing from whatever was cursing them. Reluctantly, Mrs. Garcia made a list of potential enemies and prayed for forgiveness for whatever ways she might have wronged them. The home was cleansed, filling it with the scent of herbs and smoke. The curandera came and left with the same results as the priests, except one hundred dollars richer. Fernanda planted herself in the dirt, chanting louder than before to remind us the inhabitant was still there and not going anywhere until it got what it wanted, which was a mystery to us all.

  The smell of wood in the quiet room made it all come together. There would not be another Martha to steal his peace. No, if you build your house in Sodom and Gomorrah, expect fire and salt. Unlike the days of old, there would be actual proof. All would see the toll of worshipping Satan, and he would be exalted. All the years he’d given to Christ would finally be for something because as of late his faith had been waning in the isolating modern world.

  Perhaps he would even have enough power to have a say about this new pope, so quick to give in to the liberal nature of society. Instead of enforcing the natural laws set by God, he accepted all sorts. Tears and fire, Father Moreno would have both. He prayed to God for a plan to show the world that the wages of sin is death, even if it meant this young woman would lose her life.

  With that thought, he ached to speak to Martha.

  He left the confessional for the back office of the church. The small space had an old brown metal desk with a wide, out-of-date desktop computer taking up most of the surface. There was also a landline phone, metal filing cabinets, and a closet for cassocks and robes. The rest of the room was filled with various statues of La Virgen that Father Moreno had been collecting ever since he was given one as a boy after having incurable night terrors. His childhood room was filled with them. In adulthood, he increased the collection. There were some as small as coins, as well as some life-sized statues. All of them unique and sacred in different ways that made him feel protected and loved.

  In the corner, another door. This room was half the size of the office and used for storage. Against the wall lay a humming rectangular freezer used to store ice cream and bags of ice for social events. Father Moreno had padlocked it, the only key around his neck. He cited kids stealing the frozen treats. He unlocked the freezer and lifted the lid.

  There she was, his immortalized Virgin. Her body lay in the fetal position like the sacrifices of old, arms crossed and legs drawn towards her chest. Both ankles and wrists were bound with a rosary. A lace mantilla pinned to her head glittered with ice as did the robe she wore. Ice crystals crusted her eyelashes. He brushed them away so as to see her face clearly. Her eyes were always the one thing to make him melt and wish away the cruelty of fate, that test God placed before him to prove his faith. She looked like she did when they were younger, a virgin. His La Virgencita always and forever.

  “Hola, my dear Martha. I’ve missed you. You wouldn’t know how lonely it can be without you. Your children are fine. Their fathers bring them to Sunday school every week. They should make you feel proud. I know it must be lonely for you, too, but not for much longer. There will be another angel joining you soon.”

  Eddies of cold air caressed his bare skin as he looked upon Martha with a deep yearning. Even in this state, she aroused him. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. Pangs of guilt sometimes gripped him when he saw Martha’s children with their fathers, but mostly because of the thoughts of what their children would have been like, had their love not been deemed a test.

  “Soon I will have a collection of angels for myself and for the glory of God.”

  Father Moreno closed the freezer and made sure it was securely locked, placing the key back around his neck beside a small vial of Martha’s blood and tears. He’d collected them as a relic as she lay dying. Relics are powerful things. As the life drained from her body, he held the vial to his own cheeks so their fluids might mingle on this earth. He wore it always, touching it before bed as if it was her flesh. A smile crossed his face as he realized the hour. It would be time for evening mass shortly. Tonight’s sermon would be on original sin.

  “I’m blacking out most of the time now. Please tell me what is happening!”

  I am trying, Fernanda. These tales are from your ancestors, humans who worshipped me long ago. Their language and vision must be preserved in their tongue. I can feel your friends are close to understanding. I have attempted to touch the one you are closest with in her dreams.

  “Is it working?” Fernanda asked.

  I do not know. Time will tell. But I will admit, som
etimes I forget how your time and aging are different from mine.

  “Were you ever human? We don’t deal well with things we can’t control or see.”

  I have never been human. Only adored by them. I have seen what the worst impulses are capable of but also envy the bodily experiences you enjoy yet take for granted.

  “The things you have taught me. I want to act on them.”

  With the young man Ruben?

  “Yes.”

  Then if he feels the same, have him with my blessing.

  Fernanda could feel the warmth of the goddess receding.

  Twelve a.m. glowed red. A shadow crossed Fernanda’s open blinds. Ruben stood there with his hand outstretched as he looked side to side. She opened the window wide enough to escape.

  “I parked around the corner,” he whispered. “My truck makes way too much noise.”

  Together they ran through the dark. Fernanda’s heart beat hard from running but also from knowing what she wanted from Ruben. They sat in the truck without him turning on the ignition.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  Fernanda placed her hand on Ruben’s thigh and then leaned over and kissed him. “Let’s go to Espada Park. No one is there and we can have a bit of privacy. I want you all for myself.”

  They lay in the bed of his truck in the glow of a battery-operated lamp. Ruben had placed blankets on the hard metal. He breathed heavily next to her.

  “Do it like this.” She guided his hand between her thighs, the way she did to herself.

  “You feel so good, Fernanda. I can’t believe this is happening,” he moaned.

  “Kiss me while you touch me,” she whispered.

  Hungrily he placed his mouth on hers. His erection through his jeans rubbing against her thigh made her want to feel it in her hand. This made her even wetter, the friction from their intertwined fingers even more pleasurable. Round and round, slower and faster, until the sunburst exploded. She could feel Ruben shudder next to her. They both panted hot breath onto each other in their post-orgasm euphoria. Wilted in the best of ways.

  “Fuck. I will have to say I spilled a drink in my lap in the drive-through if anyone sees me.” They both laughed and held each other.

  Fernanda could feel herself drifting off in the dark, his body keeping her warm. “What time is it?”

  He lifted his wrist, his face still nuzzled into her neck. “Almost two.”

  “Shit. Need to get home.”

  Ruben looked at her with a dreamy expression. “Sure thing.”

  The drive back was quiet as she laid her head against the glass.

  Ruben stopped just before her house. “I want to see you soon. Tomorrow? You know I leave soon, and I want to talk about whatever this is.” He seemed wide awake and eager.

  “I also wanted to know if maybe you would consider coming to England with me. A visit at first. Maybe longer if you like it. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. You’re perfect to me, Fernanda.”

  “I will let you know.” Fernanda reached for the door handle.

  “All right. Be careful going inside. I don’t want to know what your mom would do to me if she caught us.”

  The thought of her mother slightly spoiled the joy of the night. He was right, despite the fact that her mother adored Ruben.

  “Bye, Ruben.” She jumped out of the high cab and ran to her bedroom window.

  Damn. Fernanda had made sure to leave it open a crack but now it was closed. It wasn’t locked so she could still get in, but the noise might wake her mother. With both palms tucked beneath the ledge she pushed the window up as slowly as possible. No sound. Just a little wider and she would have enough room to slip in. Fernanda put one foot in and then ducked her head beneath the window. As she swung her other leg in, she grazed the corner of her bed. She let out a closed-mouth moan and squeezed her eyes shut. Then footsteps. Her insides trembled; she didn’t know what to say or do.

  Goddess, I need your help! she silently screamed.

  The light flicked on. Mrs. Garcia held her housecoat closed with one hand. The sound of a revving engine had woken her up. She stood at her bedroom door listening. A thump came from Fernanda’s room. Mrs. Garcia ran to her, flinging the door open. There stood her daughter, in front of the open window. She had a long red scrape on her leg.

  “What are you doing? It is dangerous out there at night. Did those girls put you up to this? I should have never . . .”

  As Mrs. Garcia hurried closer, Fernanda snapped her head towards her mother. But it was not Fernanda. Her eyes glittered bright yellow and green beneath the light. She made a hissing sound.

  “El Diablo!” Mrs. Garcia screamed.

  Fernanda grabbed her mother’s face, bringing it close to her own, and inhaled. Memory sparked like embers and blew into Fernanda’s mouth.

  Mrs. Garcia could only stand there, feeling particles of her mind and heart float away. It was the one secret she kept. The most difficult. She wanted to cry, but it was done. She hoped whatever was doing this would not tell Fernanda. Anything but that.

  Fernanda let her go, and then climbed into bed. Mrs. Garcia could only stand there dumbly, unable to move, just ponder the consequences of the secret that had been taken from her.

  The air conditioner clanked and wheezed, blowing semi-cold air. The sound made the workday seem even longer. You would think with all the frozen drinks we sold they could afford a new unit; then again, they were paying a premium for the water needed to make all that frozen shit. I drank my fill for free, my lips so red from wild cherry slush I didn’t even need lipstick.

  Mrs. Garcia came in a wet oily mess just like me. I hoped she had looked in the mirror. Without a greeting, she spoke:

  “I am afraid of Fernanda and am more afraid for her than ever. She attacked me last night.”

  Mrs. Garcia melted before my eyes. I had seen my mother like that so many times, even though she did her best to hide it. Suddenly, I felt sorry for her despite the fact that she had never shown an ounce of compassion for me.

  It wasn’t right, but I took one small jab to let her know not to fuck with me today, not at work, not when I was being watched by my boss for any reason to fire my ass.

  “Did you do something to deserve being attacked? Like having another priest try to exorcise her?”

  She looked wounded.

  “Lourdes, break time!” my manager shouted from the kitchen.

  “I will give you five minutes, Mrs. Garcia.”

  She nodded, and I poured her a large lime slushy because it tasted like a non-alcoholic margarita. If only there was tequila.

  “Tell me.” I slid the drink to her and walked to the other side of the counter.

  “It was about two or three in the morning when I heard noises and went to check on Fernanda. When I switched on the light, she hissed at me. I could see a cut on her leg, so I went to help her. Well, she grabbed my face like she was going to kiss or bite me. I felt my insides twist until something broke. She took something from me, something that has been buried for a long time. I’m ashamed to say it felt good to be rid of it.”

  Mrs. Garcia clutched the neck of her sweat-soaked blouse and the cross that lay beneath as she drank the slush. “Fernanda might know that she isn’t my child. She is Yolanda’s. Yolanda was only fifteen when she got pregnant. She was always the smart one with dreams. I offered to take the baby. We didn’t have the same options as you girls today. I was married and settled. Pete had a good job with the post office already. The deal was I had full control of raising Fernanda without interference. As time went on, I took it as a blessing from Jesus because Yolanda went on to have more children and a career. Pete and I were never blessed with a child of our own. I will never have another one. She is all I have.

  “What do you think we should do? You have been friends for a long time now and probably know her better than me.”

  All I could do was stare at her dumbly, not knowing if I’d heard her right. This was a bomb of information. My fi
rst instinct was to call Fernanda. Had the inhabitant even allowed her this life-altering information? First the possession and now this strange extraction that Fernanda seemed capable of. This was more of a puzzle every day. Without a box cover to reference, we would build in the dark.

  “What did she do after?”

  Mrs. Garcia sucked down on the slush, flinching at the tartness. “She just kissed me on my forehead and said it was okay with these eyes I can’t forget. Reptile eyes! Dios! Then she got into her bed. She is sleeping, I suppose. Her father is at home watching over her. I had to come here to speak to you.”

  I looked at the clock. What was left of my break would not be long enough to talk to the girls. Should I even tell them? My mind was a hurricane of questions. I needed time to think.

  “If anything changes, call me straight away.”

  Mrs. Garcia smiled and nodded.

  “Thank you for the drink. Even though I’m scared for my daughter, I am glad she will know the truth. How to tell her has weighed on me for so long. Yolanda and I have fought over it. Also . . . I know I haven’t always been nice to you. I’m sorry. Having this weight off me has made me think about many things.”

  No one had ever apologized to me for anything in my life. This stunned me as much as her intimate revelation had. “Thank you, Mrs. Garcia. But know I won’t take any more abuse again. No more slandering me for no reason. Stop fighting me and listen. Really listen. That is all I want.”

  She nodded her head and shuffled out. I had a double shift to get through and wouldn’t go to Fernanda until the morning.

  As if Ana could sense I was about to call her, her name popped up on my phone when I switched it back on after work.