by Barry Wolfe
She is able to comply with my request for the next two weeks. We see a lot of each other and have many wonderful evenings…free of religious debate. We go to the now-integrated Glen Echo Park and laugh ourselves silly. We dance until we were exhausted at the weekly Armory dances. We kiss our way through a couple of drive-in theatre movies and feel each other’s erogenous zones in the dark of Valley Street. On one of those nights parked on Valley Street, when we were taking a break from our heavy breathing, Maureen snuggles close to me, lays her head in the crook of my arm, her copper hair spread across my chest, and suddenly says in almost a little girl voice, “Izzy, can I ask you a question?” I feel myself tensing up, but I try to be nonchalant. “Sure,” I answer. “Why don’t Jews believe in Jesus?”
“Oh Maureen,” I say, my body stiffening in dismay. We both sit upright at the same time. “Izzy, I tried not to say anything, but I need to know. I need to know how I can convince you to become a Catholic.”
“Maureen, Jews think of Jesus as a wise teacher, but he is not the Messiah. The Jewish Messiah is supposed to be a warrior who will free the Jews from Roman oppression, not some other-worldly mystic who promises pie in the sky and everlasting afterlife.” Maureen blushes from my characterization of Christian salvation. “But you’re wrong, Izzy. Jesus is the Messiah. We have the truth. Catholics have always had the truth for the last two thousand years. We could be so happy, Izzy, if you’d only allow yourself to accept the truth.”
“Maureen, you think I’m wrong, and I think you’re wrong. So where do we go from here?”
“I won’t give up, Izzy. You will become a Catholic.” I have no more words. I pull her to me and kiss her harder and more passionately than I ever have before. I let my hands roam all over her body. She begins to moan and in a breathy voice calls out my name and moans, “I want you.” She grabs my hand and says, “Let’s go in the back seat.” I’m getting very nervous, but follow her command anyway. We hastily climb into the back seat of my car, and she starts removing our clothes. It dawns on me that she is set on us going “all the way”. Now Desirie’s image looks horrified and I hear her say, “Don’t you dare!” Maureen starts unbuttoning my pants and I have the ludicrous thought that I’m going to lose my virginity without my say so. She is now wet and willing and eager for me to enter her. I hesitate for a moment as I remember the Coitus Interruptus Debacle with Shannon. I also remember how the image of Desirie, who had already rejected me, prevented me from going any further with Shannon. Miffed at the painful memory I tell myself, the hell with it. Desirie is probably gonna reject me again in September. I pull out a rubber that I have saved for a year. I pray that it’s still good. She says, “No rubber.” I say, “Yes rubber.” But in the awkwardness of our position in the back seat, I have great difficulty getting it on. Finally, I miraculously manage to get the rubber on my penis and try to enter her. “No, not there,” she says with exasperation. “Here, let me help you.” She grabs my penis and guides it into the correct orifice. I move inside her cautiously at first and then I begin to thrust rapidly. We both are moaning loudly. Even with the rubber on, I do not last long and I feel myself coming. Desirie’s image has now faded into oblivion. I yell, “Oh Jesus!” Maureen yells back, “Yes, yes, Jesus!” “Oh God!” I yell, and she yells, “Yes, yes, God! They’re the same!” We climax together with a mutual howl. A moment later she’s crying tears of joy and laughing at the same time. “I knew we would come together as Catholics.” “What are you saying, Maureen?” I’m afraid of what I’m going to hear. Now she smiles her incandescent smile and says, “By making love like this, we have sealed our love for one another and for God. I heard you cry out, Oh Jesus, Oh God. That must mean you see that they’re the same.”
“No it doesn’t. This is my first time and WOW!”
“You really believe in the trinity, Izzy, you just don’t know it yet. Now there’s no obstacle to our getting married.” She’s bouncing up and down in the back seat of my 1954 Plymouth and clapping her hands like a little child at her birthday party.
“This is a mistake,” I complain. “What do you mean a mistake?” Maureen looks as if she has been sucker-punched in the stomach. “We should never have made love. It’s too soon and it’s giving you the wrong impression.”
“THE WRONG IMPRESSION,” she screeches. “I’ve just given you my heart, my body, and soul and you’ve given me what—the wrong impression? Oh Izzy, how could you? I promise you two things, Izzy White. You will become a Catholic and my husband.” We drive home in silence. I might be her choice for a future husband, but she neither says nor kisses me good night when she gets out of the car.
So that was July. Despite my prayers not to bother, I have two people in my life who are hounding me to do what I must in order to reserve my place in heaven. August is worse. Elwood Plethysma by day and Maureen McKenna by night were both vying for my soul. Elwood reads me passages from the New Testament to entice me with the rewards that will come to He that believeth in me. Maureen regales me with stories about her father; what a devout Catholic he is and, therefore, what a wonderful man he is. She tells me how handsome he looks in full regalia during the Color Corps march on St. Patrick’s Day—a black tuxedo, white gloves, a red white and blue baldric, a red cape and a blue naval chapeau with a white fringe on top. And she ends her story with the plaintive question, “Don’t you want to be like him?” Her enticements, however, are not spiritual. After her stories, she kisses me, arouses me, and pleads with me to go to Mass with her. As the days go by, I think I’m falling in love with her even as I become convinced that our relationship is doomed.
One Sunday in the middle of August I am invited to Sunday dinner with her family. I had refused Maureen’s umpteenth pleading for me to attend Mass with the family, but I do agree to show up at her house at 1 pm for their weekly ritual of coerced family time. There are many firsts for me associated with this Sunday dinner. This is my first time as a guest at an after church meal with a Christian family, particularly as the designated boyfriend. It is also my first time in a split-level home. It is disorienting to me to see that once you enter the main room of the house there are three short steps running down to a lower level and another three short steps running up to a higher level. For me, it feels like a house running away from itself. And it is my first time in a house in Wheaton, Maryland, a recently built suburb just north of Silver Spring. Throughout my childhood, Silver Spring was the only suburb in which I had spent any time. Three of the younger McKenna children greet me at the door full of laughter and questions. One of the girls shouts in a singsong voice, “Maureen’s got a boyfriend.” The rest of the McKenna family comes into the foyer area as soon as I enter. Everyone is smiling at me, everyone except Mr. McKenna. His greeting is a stone cold stare. Maureen pushes past her siblings, grabs me by the hand and drags me into the living room. Maureen’s 12-year-old sister asks, “Do you and Maureen kiss?” Before I can answer, her youngest brother, Richard, exclaims, “Eew Gross!” Maureen’s mother smiles at me and graciously says, “Welcome to our home.” Her graciousness puts me at ease. Maureen’s other siblings are all talking at once, and I’m unable to make out what they are saying. Her father bellows, “Cut the noise kids. Sit down. It’s time to eat.”
My first faux pas occurs when I reach for the homemade biscuits while everyone else is getting ready to say grace. Mr. McKenna’s look of disdain is almost enough to send my totally shamed being slinking out the door. “Not yet, Izzy,” Mrs. McKenna says with a pitying smile and her hands folded in a prayerful steeple. Mr. McKenna intones in a deep baritone voice, “Bless us, O Lord, for these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord we pray. Amen.” After grace, all of the female members of the McKenna family go into the kitchen. A minute later they return in single file with ham, sweet yams, mashed potatoes, and Del Monte canned peas. I find it difficult to eat with eight people staring at me. I wonder what I’m doing wrong. Conversation remains at the level of polite small talk until
Mr. McKenna asks out of nowhere, “Where do you go to church, Izzy?” “I don’t go to church, sir.” I reply. Now everyone, but Maureen who has her head down, looks at me with a horrified expression. “And why not?” an indignant Mr. McKenna asks. “Because I’m Jewish, sir” I answer feeling an attack of heebie-jeebies coming on. By this time, I feel like I’m sitting on a nest of bees. More looks of horror from the siblings. Maureen looks nervous, her mother looks at me with pity, and disdain returns to Mr. McKenna’s face. He looks at me like I’m a turd that suddenly landed on his dinner table. He cuts his eyes at Maureen and says nothing more for the rest of the main meal. During dessert one of Maureen’s brothers asks me where I go to school. When I say I go to Howard University, a primarily black school, Mr. McKenna suddenly rises from his chair and leaves the room. Maureen goes crimson, the siblings look frightened, and for the first time Mrs. McKenna is horrified. Shortly after dessert, I pull Maureen aside to tell her I’m leaving. She looks sad, but she understands. I announce to the group that I’m leaving, and in unison the siblings say, “Aw so soon?” I continue the game by offering my apologies. I tell Maureen I will call her later, and I make a hasty departure.
I wait several hours before calling Maureen because I need to get over the rage, humiliation, and general malaise I feel about Sunday Dinner at the McKenna’s. When I feel calm enough, I call Maureen. She informs me that from now on we will have to conduct our relationship in secret because her father has forbidden her to see me. She has no intention of heeding his command. Instead, she plans to take our relationship into hiding. “What did he say?” I ask. “You don’t want to know.”
“What did he say? I will keep pestering you until you tell me.”
“Oh Izzy, it’s too horrible to repeat.”
“What did he say? I want every word verbatim.”
“He said, I can’t date any nigger-loving kike; and as long as I’m living in his house, I can only date Catholic boys.” The rage and humiliation come storming back. “I guess that’s it,” I say.
“No Izzy, that’s not it. You’re going to become a Catholic and then I will marry you.”
“And what makes you think I want to have anything to do with your family?”
“Oh they’ll come around. You’ll see.
“I’m not so sure.”
“Izzy, let’s go out tomorrow and we can talk about it in person.”
When I pick her up the next evening, she says, “Let’s go to Valley Street.”
“I thought we’re going to talk.”
“We are, but I want to make sure we have privacy.” When we have parked on Valley Street, she starts kissing me all over. I’m aroused, but my heart is not in it. I tell her to stop, but she continues to try and entice me by kissing me and removing her clothes. I pull away from her. “Listen, Maureen, this won’t work.”
“You’re not breaking up with me?” Her face is wide-eyed with shock.
“I think it’s best,” I answer as gently as I can. I watch her face crumple into tears.
“You can’t do this to me, Izzy, not after all I have given you.” She is sobbing uncontrollably now, and I can’t think of anything consoling to say. I drive her home; and when we reach her house, she starts pleading with me not to leave her. “It’s for the best,” is all I have to offer her.
During the last week of August, I receive at least a dozen calls from Maureen. It’s clear she has progressed from sadness to rage. During the first three or four calls, I listen to her scream out her anger and resentment. I take the full volley as penance for all the real and imaginary transgressions my mind constructs. By the fifth call I have had enough. I listen for a minute and then cut her off. With every call I descend into sadness and ruminate about the difficulties of romantic love. By the end of the week, her calls begin to trail off until she stops calling altogether. Now I only have one person who is still trying to convert me. I still have Elwood Plethysma to deal with.
When I arrive at work on the last Monday in August, Clay Fogmeister pulls me aside. He is smiling impishly as he says to me, “Izzy. I want to show you something.” He is holding a piece of unlined paper with some kind of drawing on it. Now he is dancing around me and giggling. He hands me the paper and it is indeed a drawing of what is supposed to be heaven. There is one lone figure sitting on a puffy cloud with his head resting in the palm of one of his hands. The figure looks forlorn, apparent even through his thick, horned rim glasses. Clay has entitled his work of art, Elwood’s Heaven. In anticipation of my own guffaws, Clay bursts out into high-pitched laughter. The message could not be clearer. Clay’s critique of Elwood’s evangelizing is that he will end up alone in his self-constructed heaven. Clay is not disappointed. The laughter pours out of me. Elwood enters the workroom, grim-faced and anxious. Clay crumples up his work of art with his hands behind his back. “What’re you two up to?” Elwood asks, in a voice that clearly implies that he thinks something sinful is taking place. Clay and I say in unison, “Nothing.” Elwood looks suspiciously first at me and then at Clay. “What are you up to, Elwood?” Clay asks. Clay looks at Elwood to see if our Evangelist-in-Residence is on to us. Apparently, he’s not. In fact, he’s now enthusiastically seeking my attention. “Izzy, I want to read you something.” He pulls out his well-worn copy of The Holy Bible. “Oh, Elwood, not again,” I complain. “Just listen, will you Izzy?” He thumbs through the New Testament looking for the passage he has chosen to read to me. He believes that he’s finally found the key passage that will turn the lock in my closed mind. “OK, Elwood,” I say in a voice that communicates surrender. Elwood finds the passage and now assumes the dignified posture of a preacher about to begin his weekly sermon: There is only one love that loves unconditionally—the love of the Divine. I look at Elwood questioningly. “That’s it? No hellfire or brimstone?”
Elwood relaxes and pulls his chair close to mine. “That’s a distortion of the Christian message. It’s actually about love.” I’m astonished. Elwood’s entire demeanor is changed, and the message of love is incongruent with the fiery tenacity of his previous evangelizing. This sudden change or clarification of the evangelical message jolts me; and for the first time since I met Elwood, I give serious thought to what he’s saying. Something in it clicks for me, and I share my epiphany with Elwood and Clay. “You know guys I finally understand something about you, Christianity, and all those who are attracted to this message. We can imagine perfect, unconditional love, but we just can’t live it….except in our imaginations.” Clay looks a little miffed, but Elwood is infuriated. He rises from his chair, looks out the window of our pillbox office, mumbles something to himself, and then wheels around, points a finger at me and shouts, ”IZZY, YOU ARE DOOMED TO PERDITION! I need a break from you, Izzy, but I’m never going to give up. You understand me? I’m never going to give up. Your soul is overripe for saving.” Elwood doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day, and is barely cordial for the rest of our last week together. Clay, on the other hand, remains friendly, and in fact we have lunch together at a nearby Chinese restaurant on the last day of work. I invite Elwood, but he refuses. During the month of September, I’m inundated with materials on Christianity along with the notes that implore me to accept Jesus as my savior before it’s too late.
Hell hath no fury like an evangelist scorned...And he never gives up.
Chapter
22.
Soul Pain
Tomorrow I begin my last year as a Howard student. So what do I choose to do on my last day of summer vacation? I’ m reading the latest issue of Elwood’s self-produced magazine entitled Fire and Brimstone. As usual, the magazine is replete with Elwood’s own jeremiads on the increasing decadence of the modern world. There is more of hell in this magazine than of heaven, and I suspect that Elwood takes great pleasure in “knowing” that the unbeliever is hell-bound. There’s nothing like the Schadenfreude of the self-righteous! At some point I read the phrase, “You are damned” one too many times and I throw the magazine
against my bedroom wall in total exasperation. I hunger to go outside; but when I look out my window and I see waves of heat rising from the street, I know that remaining in my air-conditioned apartment is the better idea.
You might wonder what my attraction is to Elwood’s magazine since I don’t believe a word of what I read. I confess it is the total certainty with which he believes. I am so impressed, no, astonished by his sense of certainty. And I am trying to understand that mindset. In my admittedly limited experience, I have found that I can be certain of nothing. Maureen too was so certain that I would convert to Catholicism and marry her when neither event was ever within the realm of possibility. So certain are they of their own individual truth that they are unembarrassed by their failed attempts in evangelizing me. They both wanted me to Come to Jesus, and each tried to get me to the same place by truly idiosyncratic means. Elwood preached and Maureen “put out”.
In truth I miss Maureen. I miss her smile, her perkiness, her soft, creamy, voluptuous body, and her enthusiasm for lovemaking. She was a feast for all my senses. I had not planned to lose my virginity that night; but when I did, it felt like it was torn away from me. The tearing away of my virginity forced out of me a cry of loss. As I am luxuriating in the image of our skin-on-skin encounter, my phone suddenly rings. I answer and hear a shrieking female voice on the other end. There is just enough “signal” for me to detect within the hysterical “noise” that Maureen is trying to communicate something to me of the greatest urgency. “Calm down, Maureen, “ I say. “I can’t understand you for all your screeching.” I hear breathless sobbing. “I’m… I’m late,” she says a little more calmly before she again begins her ear-piercing lamentation, “I’M LATE; DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND!” I still don’t get it.