The Feasting Virgin

by Georgia Kolias

  Manny’s plump body is lying on a flokati rug in the middle of the living-room floor when I get there. The shaggy rug looks like a marshmallow cloud fluffed around his sleeping body. I kneel down on the floor with a dull feeling in my chest and curl up next to him, studying his face while he sleeps. His cheeks, once so delectable and tempting, no longer move me. His thighs, with layers upon layers of juicy fat, leave me cold. His sweet red curls and chocolate-kiss eyes only make me sigh. I am losing my appetite for baby flesh, losing hope that I will ever bake a baby, losing faith that God will bless me, and becoming more sure every day that this curse of dead and disappearing babies will continue to follow me. I lie there listlessly staring at Manny until I slip into a fitful sleep punctuated by baby burps and clashing pot lids.

  “Well, isn’t that cute!” His booming voice makes the floor tremble with sarcasm. I startle awake to find Gus standing over me laughing, with a highball glass of cloudy ouzo on the rocks in his beefy fist, and an exaggerated wink that makes him look like a Cyclops. “I mean, it’s the Virgin’s holiday, and you look just like the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. Maybe I should call you Virgin from now on.” He laughs, winks again, and takes a swig of his drink. Manny has crawled into my arms while I slept and is snuggled against my chest. The whole tableau is humiliating. The Cyclops’s baby crawled into my infertile arms as I slept and now the monster has returned to his lair to laugh at me.

  “Hey, Virgin, is this what we’re paying you to do? Take naps on our floor? Shouldn’t you be helping the little woman with the cooking?” He grimaces and takes another swig of ouzo. “Lord knows she needs help,” he slurs.

  “You’re drunk, Gus.” I pull my arm out from under Manny’s curly head and get up on my knees. Gus is talking but I’m not listening. All I can see is his big mouth making shapes. From his curly brown hair to his sturdy muscular frame to his big wide feet, he is a classic specimen. He is a grown Greek man, crying for his mother. His hairy chest heaves with each new wail, and the muscles in his legs and arms tense as he squats in his dirty diaper waiting for the next willing woman to clean the poop off of his olive-loving ass. I realize that I feel a little sorry for him. His mother is gone, and he can never have that mother and child kind of love again unless one of them travels halfway around the world to get it.

  Callie calls out from the kitchen. “Hey you two, Manny is crying. Can one of you please pick him up?” I jerk out of my reverie long enough to see the Cyclops pick up his offspring and carry him off to the couch where the two of them settle in for a winter’s nap. With the natural stone fireplace jutting behind them, they truly look as if they are settling into their cave, father and son. It makes me want Manny back in my arms, and suddenly my indifference for him disintegrates and the familiar barren ache returns.

  Unable to watch them, I wander into the kitchen where Callie is frantically stabbing a leg of lamb, swearing under her breath, “Mother fucker, mother fucker, mother fucker.”

  “NO!” I yell. “Why are you mishandling the lamb?” The kitchen is a mess. There are dirty pans and bowls everywhere. Several of the white cabinet doors hang open. She is sweating, and her red hair is coming loose from its ponytail and falling into her eyes.

  “STOP! I’m begging you. The lamb didn’t do anything to you. You’ll ruin it!”

  Callie stops stabbing and throws the knife into the sink. “I’ll never do it. I’ll never be good enough! No matter how hard I try I always mess everything up. I just want one time to do something amazing and for it to work.” Her blue eyes are so miserably sad. I take a towel and wipe the tears and lamb blood from her cheeks.

  “No, you will never be good enough,” I tell her. “You will never be good enough if you don’t love your own ingredients more than your guest’s appetite.” I put down the cloth and take her hands in mine. “But you will always be good enough—for me.” She pulls me tight into her arms. So tight that our knees knock together and I can smell the garlic on her fingers as they clutch me close, and it fills me with hunger.

  “He’s such an asshole. I kill myself trying to cook his favorite foods, and please his mother, and learn his culture, and make us a real family, and all he can do is smirk and come stomping in here drunk and insulting the way I’m making the lamb—which is actually one of the easiest Greek things to make! I just realized, all this time, I had it all wrong. He never cared about me. He only cared about his mother. And maybe I never really loved him. I just wanted a family for Manny. We’ll never be a real family! I give up. He’s only good for one thing.”

  I really don’t want to know what the one thing is so I say, “Let’s take a look at this poor lamb and see what we can do to save it.” But before we turn to the lamb I impulsively kiss her cheek, and Callie smiles and I can feel her tension start to melt. We fill the deep cuts with whole cloves of garlic and then massage the lamb with a mixture of olive oil, salt, pepper, and Greek mountain-grown oregano. We peel and quarter brown russet potatoes, toss them in the same marinade and arrange them in the pan around the lamb where they will soak up the lamb juices while they bake. In the end they’ll have a crispy golden exterior that yields a steamy, melting soft inner flesh. They are so good that burning your tongue and the roof of your mouth is a reasonable risk to take, eating them as soon as they come out of the oven, tossing them between greedy, burning fingers.

  As the lamb bakes we prepare the other dishes and drink ouzo. Gus has fallen asleep on the couch with Manny slumbering on his broad chest. We are all a bit drunk. The sun is setting, and the sky is brilliant with jewel-toned clouds. Callie wanders through the house lost in thought, lighting candles and sipping from her frosty glass. I clean up the kitchen and keep an eye on the lamb. The house is silent except for the rising aroma of browning flesh and garlic, the clink of ice cubes.

  I stand in the kitchen staring out of the arched window above the sink, my hands resting on the rim of the sink. I am caught in the brilliance of the sunset’s shimmering edges and the looseness of the ouzo in my body. I don’t resist when I feel the warmth of her arms wrapping around me, pressing me back against her body. The moment is unfamiliar and complete, a recipe without a name. I melt into her.

  “Please forgive me,” she whispers. “I wish I could make everything right. Simple. It’s all been so complicated. It’s like I’ve been trying to make the recipe for a family, and even though I have tried really, really hard, and I thought I had the ingredients I needed, it won’t come together no matter what. But the truth is that you are the secret ingredient I’ve been longing for.”

  She pauses and turns me toward her so we are facing each other. She twines her fingers between mine and holds them close between our hearts. “But you. You make me feel like I can do anything. You make me feel like I can create miracles. More than anything, I want to make all your dreams come true. I think I know the right ingredients for a family now. Do you think you could ever trust me, mind, body, and soul?”

  I don’t know what to say. There is a certainty in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. I nod my head, looking down at our entwined hands, noticing how her slender, freckly fingers fit perfectly into my sturdy olive hands, like a warm béchamel sauce draped over grilled eggplant. I nod again. I understand. I understand wanting to try to make something happen against all odds, and I understand wanting something you aren’t supposed to have. What I don’t know about is this: her. But I do have to confess to myself and to God that she has entered my dreams of what could be. I slowly put my arms around her waist, pull her in closer, and whisper, “I wish you could make my dreams come true.” I rest my head on her shoulder, and my body softens as the tears release.

  • • •

  Dinner is delicious. The lamb is tender. The velvety tzatziki burns our tongues with garlic and cool cucumber. We dip our bread into the tomato and olive oil juices in the bottom of the salad bowl and drink wine. The mavrodaphne is the perfect accompaniment to our dessert of vanilla ice cream with a syrup of sour cherries. The melting, swe
et creaminess of the ice cream mingles lusciously with the tang of the fleshy cherries on our tongues. Gus is happy to be eating such a good meal and toasts me with his wine glass. “Yias ta heria sou!”

  “You should be blessing your wife’s hands, not mine. She prepared the meal.” I am quite drunk and don’t feel like holding back anymore.

  “She’s not my wife, don’t you know? We’re just living together.” He laughs. “Hey, maybe you should be my wife! You cook just like my mother.” He gestures toward me and accidentally knocks his wine glass over.

  Callie shoves her chair back from the table and sits there staring at him. I turn to look at her and then back at him. Callie and Gus aren’t married? But they’re Husband and Wife. I don’t understand.

  “What! What! I’m just kidding! Can’t you take a joke!?” What is he joking about? Are they married or not? And how can he be so rude to her after everything she has done for him? My knife is lying on the table inches away from my fingers. I want to grab it and cut his tongue out and feed it to the dogs. Instead I say, “Gus, you’re drunk. Maybe it’s time to be quiet.”

  “You’re a real asshole. You know that? Thank God we aren’t married!” Callie gets up from the table and starts to sop up the spilled wine. Callie is so mad she looks like she’s going to cry, but all I can think is, She’s not married!

  “Oh, come on. Calm down. I’m just kidding. Come here. Let me give you a kiss.” His tongue isn’t good enough for dogs. I’ll feed it to rats.

  “You know, the only good thing you ever gave me was that baby. That’s all you’re good for!”

  “Well let me give you another one then,” he says as he reaches out and grabs her ass. I will feed his tongue to a snake. It will open its jaws and swallow his fat tongue whole. Swallow him whole.

  Callie stands there staring hard at Gus for what seems like a long time, while rubbing her heart with her right hand and says, “Let you give me another baby?”

  She turns to me and says, “Xeni, can you please put Manny to bed? I think Gus and I need a few moments in private. This won’t take long.”

  Then she takes my hand and leads me out to the hallway and whispers, “I have an idea. Do you trust me?”

  I stare into her eyes and realize that I do. “Yes, I trust you.”

  “After you put Manny to bed, I want to try something. Will you let me?”

  I pause, unsure of what she has in mind. She reaches out to stroke my cheek, and her eyes are so round and intent, her blue eyes swimming with excitement and desire.

  I whisper, “Yes, I trust you with my heart, my soul, and . . . even my body.”

  Callie kisses me on my lips and tells me she wants to make my dreams come true. I wander back into the dining room, still glowing from her kiss. I pull Manny out of his high chair and give him a long hug. I cling to his sweetness, and as I climb the stairs I can hear Callie and Gus start to spar, and my heart tightens.

  “So you want to give me another baby?”

  “Well, if that’s all I’m good for!”

  Their voices fade as I turn on the bathtub faucet. I give Manny a nice warm bath. Then I take him to his room and change him into a fresh diaper and his jammies and hold him while I sing. I put him in his crib and turn on the nightlight. I pull the trunk on his lullaby elephant, and sweet, tinny music fills the dusky room. Manny gurgles, all happy and sweet like a simmering pot of honey syrup, and I stand crisp and hard like a baked pan of baklava hot from the oven. If you try to cut the filo at that point, it will fragment into shards. But once you pour the honey syrup over the hot buttery filo and spicy walnuts it softens and becomes so sweet that you need a tall glass of water to bear it, and it makes all of the sharp edges go away. Manny melts me. I gently pinch his fat cheek and say, “Tha se faw.”

  I shut Manny’s door behind me and go to find Callie. As I come down the stairs I hear a strange sound. It’s coming from the living room, and like a highway motorist I can’t stop myself from rubbernecking at the burning wreck. Gus is stretched out with his Cyclops head leaning over the back of the couch, gripping the beige chenille pillows with his lobster claws and groaning. Callie is on her hands and knees with her head pumping up and down over his lap like an old oil drill. I can’t believe this is happening. Is it happening? We are all drunk. Very drunk. Maybe it is a joke. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.

  What do I expect? They’re together, and who am I? A barren, forsaken, delusional reject of God. It didn’t mean anything when she kissed me and said she wanted to make my dreams come true. I am a pathetic, confused person who at this moment wants nothing more than to vomit up every bite that I’ve ever eaten, every ounce of breast milk, and disappear back into the Earth’s womb. Stop! I want to scream. Stop touching him! Turn around and see me standing here! God forgive me, I want her to grab me by the arms and kiss me with those rosy, cheating lips. I want her to touch me. To love me. To give me a baby. To prove her love for me. But instead she has her mouth on him.

  Gagging, I stumble toward the front door, and almost make it there before the room starts to spin and I pass out on the spot.

  The Promise

  Callie sucked Gus’s dick until she hit oil. As she predicted, it didn’t take long. By the time she got to the bathroom, Gus’s rumbling snore could already be heard from the couch. Callie knew she could either stop at that moment, or never turn back. She grabbed a floral Dixie cup and spit the sticky juice out. The first ingredient. Then she grabbed one of the needleless syringes that she used to give Manny his medicine and drew every last possible bit of the sperm up into it, and tucked it into her bra between her breasts. She grabbed her toothbrush and scrubbed her mouth and tongue clean. Staring into the bathroom mirror she saw a woman in possession of a miracle.

  “Xeni! Where are you?” Callie ran upstairs to look for Xeni, but found only Manny slumbering in his crib. She wasn’t upstairs. She wasn’t in the kitchen or dining room. She wasn’t in the bathroom. She certainly wasn’t in the living room with Gus. Callie’s heart was pounding at the sudden thought that Xeni had left. She hadn’t taken into account that Xeni might leave before she could tell her what she’d done. She started to question her sudden inspiration. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, but the ouzo and the commune baby in her piped up. “We are all one! If one of us really needs something, and someone else has it, we should share, right?”

  Just then she saw Xeni’s body sprawled out on the carpet by the front door. Xeni looked like a virgin angel, her face peaceful, her dark eyelashes resting against her glowing cheeks.

  “Xeni, wake up! Wake up!”

  She was out cold. There could be no discussion. Callie hesitated. Would she want this? What if she didn’t know how it happened . . . what if her dream of a virgin birth could come true? What if she never forgives me?

  Callie could almost smell Ocean Beach as she remembered Xeni standing in front of the crashing waves and their conversation that day.

  “I want a baby. More than anything. But more than that . . . I want a virgin birth. But I know now that 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.”

  “You should be a mother. You will be a mother. If I have to do it myself, you will be a mother one day.”

  “If only you could.”

  Callie knelt down beside Xeni’s body and gently touched her cheek. “I do. I do want to make all of your dreams come true—even your dream of a virgin birth. You are good enough. You do deserve a miracle, more than anyone I know.”

  Callie exhaled deeply, suddenly unsure. She knew she had to decide quickly. Dear Universal Spirit and all that is good, please guide my hand. Please give me a sign. Should I proceed? She felt a vibration in her heart. Callie brought the syringe out from between her breasts. It was still warm and glowed with an unearthly hue. Callie felt a surge of energy shoot through her arm, illuminating her tattoo of the Virgin Mary, and down into her right hand. The air seemed to sparkle with a mill
ion particles of light. Please help me give Xeni the baby and the love she deserves. I will always give her the best of me. So mote it be. She brought the syringe closer to Xeni, hovering over her womb. She paused to stroke Xeni’s face and tucked her dark hair behind her ear. Callie placed her right hand on Xeni’s heart and whispered, “I love you. The right hand can perform miracles. Please trust me. Please forgive me.” And with the very best intentions Callie tried to create the miracle that she’d promised Xeni at the beach.

  A Soul

  As the plunger of the syringe presses forward, millions of sperm enter the pink confines of the vagina and cluster themselves around the cervix. As if on cue, the cervix folds in upon itself and sucks the sperm up into its mouth. From there the sperm start the great race into infinity. Some swirl through the dark liquid atmosphere in a slow, undulating dance following some intuitive pattern toward the open path. Others dart forward in a headlong rush toward dead-end crevices of magenta flesh or swim in frantic cyclones trying to find a way through thick impenetrable walls. Several thousand ride the flush of the syringe all the way up into the long dark pathways leading to the round and illuminated prize.

  Only hours before, the egg had rested within a follicular bubble bathing in the magical hormonal liquor that nurtured its growth. The incubus had finally grown so big that it burst, propelling the tiny pearl of DNA into a boundless, bloody universe where it floats in suspension, only to be caught by the long fluttering sleeve of a fallopian tube. Like slow magma, it rolls down in infinitesimally small increments undetectable to the naked eye toward a predetermined meeting place. And waits.