The Feasting Virgin

by Georgia Kolias

  “We never really know what other people are thinking,” Xeni replied. “If we could hear what everyone was thinking, it would be like drowning in sound. So we keep ourselves separate. And safe.”

  “I would like to know what you are thinking about, what you desire. I won’t drown,” Callie said. “Really.”

  “I want a baby. More than anything. But more than that,” Xeni paused, “I want a virgin birth.”

  Callie absorbed the words, taking them into her heart. “A virgin birth? So you want a baby, but without the man.”

  Xeni nodded, sniffling her nose and wiping a tear away from her eye. “But I know now that it will never happen. I know now that I’m crazy, or not good enough. If I was good enough, God would have given me a miracle by now, so that means I’m crazy.”

  Callie wrinkled her brow, not sure what to say. “Honey, you aren’t crazy. And you are good enough. You just don’t know it.”

  “Then why can’t I have what I want?” Xeni turned to face Callie, looking intently into her eyes. “Why do I always want,” Xeni paused, “what I can’t have?” She locked her gaze on Callie’s, and her eyes welled up with tears again. Callie put her finger on Xeni’s lips and said, “shhhhhh.” Callie felt herself swelling with emotions that she’d been trying to set aside since that night they’d held each other in the bath.

  Xeni suddenly yelled as she pulled away from Callie, stood up, and ran toward the ocean. “I don’t want to be quiet anymore! I don’t want to be confused anymore!”

  “Xeni! Stop! Don’t run away!” Callie yelled and ran after her.

  “Why shouldn’t I run? What good can come of this? You are going to hurt me!” Xeni screamed.

  “No! No! I don’t want to hurt you, Xeni! I want to love you. But I don’t know how. I’m caught in a situation. I have to see it through. For Manny’s sake.” Callie’s chest hurt as she looked at Xeni, standing like a statue against the horizon, tears freezing on her face.

  “Of course, you’re right, for Manny.” She nodded. “I shouldn’t be selfish.”

  “I want to be selfish, Xeni. I want to be selfish so much. But I can’t. I have to find a way to be selfless. I want to be a good mother.”

  “I want to be a good mother, too,” Xeni cried.

  “You will be. I just know it,” Callie responded.

  “How? How will I ever be a mother? Look at me!”

  Callie looked at Xeni, standing just feet from the frothy sea, the wind whipping her long brown hair, her face crumpled in anguish.

  “I see a beautiful, strong woman with big dreams. Extraordinary dreams. Someone who has given me so much and accepted me for who I am. Someone that I would be lucky to spend a lifetime knowing. Someone who would be an amazing and fiercely loving mother. Someone who has so much love to give.” Callie swallowed hard. “And you should be a mother. You will be a mother. If I have to do it myself, you will be a mother one day.”

  Xeni laughed wryly. “If only you could.”

  If only I could, Callie thought, her mind churning.

  Xeni raised her right hand into the wild yeasty wind once more. “In the Bible, the right hand performs miracles. That’s why Greeks wear wedding bands on their right.”

  Callie raised her right hand and placed her open palm against Xeni’s. “The right hand can perform miracles,” she said. Then she pulled Xeni into her embrace and softly kissed her divine tear-soaked lips.

  Purity

  The day of the baptism passes quickly, like a film on fast-forward. I rise in the morning from my bed with a heavy feeling in my chest. I turn toward Doll, who is sitting on the rocking chair, neglected and forgotten. Her eyes stare straight into mine, unwavering, and I take that as a sign that I must have courage to get through the day. I’ve already delivered the baptismal items to the priest the previous day, the white towels and sheet, the olive oil, the soap, the large decorated lambatha candle, the white clothes and the gold cross with the aquamarine in the center. It reminds me of the ocean and Callie’s eyes, the mati, the protective eye of God.

  Mrs. Horiatis is happy for this day to come, even though I’m sure she wishes she were attending a wedding joining me to their family. The thought of it makes me want to laugh. The combination of me and Gus is ridiculous and combustible, like pouring a cup of cold coffee into a pot of boiling oil. Although I imagine we would make beautiful babies, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with crafty eyes and ready lips. But that is only one of many nonsensical thoughts I have this day.

  My mind is in a steady state of confusion and contradictory thoughts. If baptism is to cleanse the soul, how could it lead to ruin? If a godparent is responsible for religious education, they must be of pure thought, and if they are not of pure thought, how can they be a godparent? And if the godparent is impure, why must the child suffer? And if the child suffers, why must their purity be taken from them? And on and on until my mind trips upon itself, and old memories, and fear for the future.

  But they selected me. And I vow to try my best to be pure and shameless, a good example for Manny. Someone who follows the edicts of the church, of God, and who stays an appropriate distance from women with blue eyes and red hair. Someone who doesn’t kiss another woman on the beach. I will prove that a godparent can overcome her own failings to protect and guide her godchild in the teachings of the Lord.

  The ceremony is small. Callie and Gus invited their friends, and Mrs. Horiatis is glowing with satisfaction that her grandson is being baptized. Afterward, she will show him off to her old friends, dressed in polyester dresses with sequins and bows, who will smile, showing their gold teeth and creased faces. The widows will genuflect and embrace him against their black bosoms as if sucking his life force into their hearts.

  The Reunion

  Mrs. Horiatis sniffed away tears of happiness as she held her grandson in the narthex of the church. It was almost time. In moments the baptism would begin, and he would be welcomed into the arms of the Greek Orthodox religion. She looked into his eyes. He had his grandfather’s eyes, deep and brown and soulful. She was suddenly overcome with a familiar scent, one she hadn’t smelled in years. The commingled smell of his cologne and sweat was unmistakable and triggered a cascade of memories. Seeing her husband, Manoli, for the first time, stomping grapes at a neighbor’s farm. Their first kiss. The nausea she felt on the airplane ride to New York. The swell of her belly under her clothes as they got married by a justice of the peace before boarding a train for California. Feeling the baby kick her mercilessly throughout the night. Poking her belly during the day to make him move to know that he was all right. Giving birth in the big hospital where no one spoke Greek. The look on Manoli’s face when he saw his son for the first time. Constantino’s baptism in the Greek Orthodox church surrounded by strangers. His first cold. Walking him to school and back past the loud cars and fast-talking loiterers. Puberty. Worrying. Late nights. Girls. Cars. Manoli leaving. Struggling. And always fiercely loving.

  And now this smell, she hadn’t smelled it in so long. She deeply inhaled. Manoli, you finally came back. This is your grandson. He is more precious than you know. And look at your son. He is a man today. But he still needs you. Watch over him when I go home. I tried my best to match him with the right woman, but now it’s too late. Xeni becomes family today. It’s time for him to fail or succeed without me. She made the sign of the cross and rested her hand over her old heart. She inhaled the scent of her husband’s cologne once more, and for the first time in a long time she didn’t feel lonely.

  Cleansed of Sin

  I enter the narthex of the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Ascension and light a candle before entering the dark nave of the church. Following the richly robed priest’s direction, we begin the baptismal proceedings by rejecting Satan and blowing three times into the air and symbolically spitting three times onto the floor. As I reject Satan, I feel my trembling hands become steady as I hold Manny close to my heart. I know I must also put aside my feelings for Callie, once and for al
l. When I become Manoli’s godmother, we will be family, and my first duty will be to Manoli. I must do everything in my power to be a good and righteous godparent, a protector of his eternal soul, his heart, and his body.

  The priest seems surprised when I can recite the Pestevo by heart, as many Greek Americans, and Greeks for that matter, need to read aloud the Nicene Creed professing their belief in God. My eyes close against salty tears as I recite the words with great passion. The priest glances at the glimmering ceiling and asks God to make Manoli worthy of baptism, to cleanse away old sins, and to fill the child with the Holy Spirit. I wonder if I could be rebaptized, if I could be cleansed of old sins, old memories. The priest confides in me afterward that he was so moved by my display of emotion that he felt himself renewed and filled with a spirit that had sometimes eluded him in his many years leading the parish.

  We stand beside the silver baptismal font, a representation of the divine womb, where Manny will be symbolically resurrected as a child of God. As I hold him in my arms I vow to do everything in my power to raise Manny to be a good Christian and to keep him safe. The church, which is usually so cool, the stained glass dazzlingly blue like the Aegean Sea, feels so hot. I am sweating. The air is rippling with heat, and I feel like I am losing my breath, submerged in a bath of shame.

  The day that I was baptized, my godfather, my nouno, took his holy vow to protect me. It was the day I was supposed to become safe, the day I escaped hell. It was the day that I was assured I’d go to heaven. He was supposed to protect me, and each time he failed me I was reminded of his vow. I look up at the pounded copper ceiling, the hand-painted portraits of the saints, and the face of Jesus. He looks angry, and I swoon as the heat overtakes me.

  Mrs. Horiatis and Callie, in their first cooperative act, undress Manny, symbolically removing each piece of clothing as if he carries layers of their sins. I was too young to remember my own baptism. Being stripped naked and held above the baptismal font, the priest chanting, tracing the sign of the cross on my forehead with his finger and olive oil. Snipping a lock of hair. Salvation through the act of being submerged in water, losing your breath. I imagine dipping my fingers into the cool baptismal water, but know that the water would sizzle and boil over. My entire body is on fire and I can feel the heat rising, my cheeks burning red.

  The priest makes the sign of the cross on Manny’s luminous naked body, and I lovingly rub extra-virgin olive oil into his skin and pray silently that there will always be peace between Manny and God. I hold my breath as the priest plunges Manny into the blessed water of the baptismal font three times, and exhale only as he intones, “The servant of God, Manoli, is baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” And with that, Manny, like Christ, is resurrected and reborn, and placed into my open arms, draped with a pristine white sheet of purity, and I can see the steam rising from my arms.

  • • •

  Gus was overcome with emotions as the priest raised Manoli above the baptismal font and plunged him into the water impregnated with blessings and a small stream of olive oil. He wanted to cry and then laugh with joy as he watched his son consecrated to the church, for Manolaki to enter the embracing arms of the Greek community fully, and to know that whatever happened Manny would now be truly Greek and a member of the church.

  The priest continued with the chrismation, and Gus reached over and found Callie’s hand. He held it as the priest anointed Manny with the blessed miron oil, dabbing his feet so that he might be blessed wherever he walked. He cut three locks of his glistening red hair in the form of the cross, as a humble gift to God. The priest blessed a piece of Manny’s new white clothing and put it on him as he said, “The servant of God, Manoli, is clothed with the garment of incorruptibility.”

  The priest fastened the gold cross around little Manoli’s neck, with the aquamarine stone sparkling with the Holy Spirit against the boy’s chest. As the priest lit the lambatha candle and walked Xeni and Manoli in a circle around the baptismal font for the symbolic dance of joy, Gus fingered the cross that lay against his heart under his shirt and tie, and said a short prayer for his son, that he might find happiness and love in his life, and that Gus would have the strength to be a good father—and he wanted to say good husband. He wanted to. He pressed the cross deeper into his skin and stole a glance toward Callie. She was following Xeni and Manoli with her eyes as they walked around the font, with a smile and contemplative look upon her face. Gus vowed to try harder. Callie looked over at him, and as if reading his thoughts she smiled brightly. Gus returned the smile and felt suddenly hopeful.

  The priest finished reading the scriptures, at which point he signaled to Gus and Callie to come forward. They stood side by side as the priest declared, “I present to you your son, baptized and confirmed, dedicated to God.” Gus beamed at Manoli as the priest nodded at Xeni, prodding her forward. Gus wondered why Xeni seemed reluctant to look at them. Following custom, Gus and Callie took turns kissing her hands. First Gus bowed forward slightly and took Xeni’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles, and then took Manoli from her arms. Gus watched Callie step forward and take both of Xeni’s hands in hers, and tenderly kiss each one before drawing her into a full embrace. Gus’s smile faded, and he felt an unease spread through his stomach as he watched Xeni stiffen, and then collapse into Callie’s arms quietly crying, and Callie stroking Xeni’s hair as she murmured something he could not hear.

  God and the Kitchen

  Sometimes I wonder about secrets. Keeping them or releasing them. Coveting them or spitting them out. It seems to me that there are so many secrets in the world that it is impossible for them all to be kept before they burst their containment, leaving a sticky, funky mess all over their keepers. There were a lot of secrets in my family. Whispers and warnings and bribery. There were codes—let the phone ring once, hang up, and then call again. There were visitors and long naps. There were angry tirades after the red wine was drained. The wine held secrets loose, and wanted more undone. Then there were hissy denials and cries of martyrdom. I knew never to tell what I saw, because it would only lead to more of the same. The secrets, the lies, the dangerous games. I did what I was told and kept my mouth shut. I was taught very early never to say no.

  Some afternoons my nouno would come to our house when Daddy was at work at the butcher shop. I loved my nouno. He would bring me presents, and he was always smiling. He loved to grab and kiss me and make me sit on his lap. Ha ha, it was always smiles when he was there. My mother was happy too when he was there and stopped frowning so much like when Daddy was home. She would give him anything he wanted. Anything.

  I loved him so much that when he came over I would hide his shoes or his keys so that he couldn’t leave. He and Mommy would go and lie down in the bedroom, and when he came back out he would look for his keys. “Where are my keys?” he’d ask, knowing that I’d hidden them. I’d giggle and say, “It’s a secret!” Then he’d grab me hard and bite my cheek, and his grisly gray beard would scratch my face. I’d squirm away and run to see if he’d chase me and he always did. It was a game we played. My mother would come out of the bedroom straightening her sleeveless white sweater and brown pencil skirt. She’d growl at me, “Give him his keys—your father will be home soon.” Mommy’s eyes were hard like lava and I could feel the burn of her anger. She taught us never to say no.

  When I was ten, we moved to a new house. It was around the corner from my nouno and nouna’s house. Daddy didn’t like to be so close to other people, and he didn’t like it when people would call the house and hang up when he answered. Moving to the new house made the secrets get bigger. The phone would ring once, silence, ring again and Mommy would whisper-hiss things like, You broke my heart, and I told you not to call at night. Daddy drank more red wine and cried through his screaming accusations. I didn’t like the new house. Doll and I would sit in the dark bedroom and watch the fog drift by the window. The fog surrounded our house like thick insulation. It kept
in all the secrets.

  One day after school my mother told me that my Nouno was sick and that I should go around the corner to keep him company. I thought that she should come with me but she said “No” and to “go get dressed.” I had a new outfit for Easter, and I decided to wear it so that I would look nice, even though it was cold outside and the fog was swirling thick. I loved the pink and red stripes on the white short-sleeved sweater and how it matched perfectly with the short red skirt. I combed my long hair which hung past my bottom and used two white flower barrettes in my hair. I looked pretty. It was my first grown-up visit alone and I wanted to look nice. Mommy yelled at me to take a sweater and said it was stupid that I was wearing sandals when it was cold outside. I was a bit nervous to go by myself, so I brought Doll with me. I combed her hair too and changed her clothes so she looked nice. Her shiny blond hair was curly, and I put a barrette in her hair that matched mine. Her dark fringy eyelashes blinked at me as I walked, her blue eyes winking.

  When I rang the doorbell, Nouno opened the door in his pajamas. They were all wrinkled and his face looked sleepy. But when he saw me he smiled and told me that I looked pretty. “Come in, come on.” I followed him into the house, past the living room and the dining room and the kitchen. I followed him down the dark, long hallway past the door to the garage and little pink bathroom. I followed him all the way to the bedroom where the air smelled funny and all the curtains were closed. The covers on the bed were messy, and he crawled under them. I stood there by the side of the bed for a moment before I sat in a chair near the wall. The room looked so big to me, like a dark cave, and I couldn’t quite see my way. I crossed my legs at the ankle and folded my hands.