by Xenia Ruiz
“You can open your eyes,” I heard her say.
I didn’t realize I had closed them. She still had my hands in hers, but I felt like she was still talking to me with her eyes, calling me closer. She pressed her lips together, perhaps to moisten them, maybe to give me a sign. I wasn’t sure. I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from her lips, especially the thick bottom one, which looked swollen.
I cleared my throat. “I didn’t hear anything,” I said.
“Yeah, but did you feel it?”
I didn’t answer. Tentatively, I took a step toward her, but she abruptly released me and leaned back against the doorjamb. I leaned back on my side.
“I can’t believe you have two kids in college,” I said, and the way she looked at me with that one eyebrow cocked, I knew she was thinking it was a line.
“That’s usually what happens when you get married at nineteen.”
I waited for her to ask why I didn’t have any children, but she didn’t. Whether she cared or not, I couldn’t tell. Nevertheless, I changed the subject.
“You know, when I used to go to church, and they prayed,” I recalled out loud, “they always made a big production out of it, you know. Praying loud, in front of the church. It was never quiet like this, peaceful.”
“That’s how it used to be in the church I grew up in. Loud and scary,” she agreed. “Do you know Matthew six, verses five and six?”
I shook my head, slightly contrite.
“It says, when you pray, don’t pray like the hypocrites who do it on street corners so they can be seen by others. It says you should go into a closet and shut the door, pray to God in secret, and that which He sees in secret, will be rewarded in the open.”
“Man, you’re deep into this Bible thing. Quoting scriptures and whatnot.”
“I don’t know many of them, but Matthew is my favorite. I think it contains just about everything that God is about.” She looked down, slightly embarrassed, like she had said too much.
But she had said just enough.
CHAPTER 9
EVA
A MULTICULTURAL CONGREGATION and an energetic, humorous young pastor made TCCC one of the most popular churches in the Austin area. Because of its proximity to Mt. Carmel University, a Christian college, there were many students, recent graduates, and faculty who had joined the church over the years. Those who moved out of the neighborhood years before were now coming back as gentrification threatened the diversity and spirit of the community. There were the usual elders who had been in church all their lives and the families who had recently moved into the neighborhood, but the majority of its members were young, single or divorced professionals with a commitment to community outreach. The church ran a day care center and an after-school program, had its own Christian elementary school, and offered tutoring for dropouts and English classes for the growing influx of Latino immigrants.
Because of its large number of unattached members and the recently married Pastor Zeke who had just turned forty-five, the church was dubbed the Singles’ Church. It was Pastor Zeke’s mission to marry as many parishioners as possible, because he believed man and woman were not meant to be single. The problem, of course, was the dilemma that plagued many churches, and society in general—women outnumbered men.
As always, I listened to the pastor’s words with my eyes closed because I found that I was able to digest the Word better that way. Now and then, I nodded or clapped in case Pastor Zeke looked my way and thought I was sleeping. I liked Pastor Zeke because he never raised his voice in order to get his message across. He was like a father who believed he could be more effective when chastising a child with a low, even-tempered voice than when yelling. I remembered going to my mother’s church as a child and how the pastor would shout from the pulpit, with accusation and condemnation, as if we were doomed to be sinners forever with no chance for redemption.
Like many of the churchwomen, I had developed a misplaced crush on Pastor Zeke when I first joined the church, much like a misguided student who idolized a teacher who paid her special attention. When I first heard the pastor’s Texas accent and watched him pace back and forth on the lectern, his hands gesticulating with passion, I was mesmerized. But it was the pitch of his voice that most captivated me, the way it resonated with the emotion and conviction of the beat poets from the coffeehouses, and how he paused after every two or three words, stretching his syllables and then accelerating without attention to punctuation. It was unlike any preaching I had ever heard. As the months went by, my infatuation was soon replaced by my passion for the message, disregarding the messenger.
The topic for that Sunday’s sermon was the pastor’s dominant theme: “Single People, Marriage, and God.”
“Let’s turn to First Corinthians, chapter seven, verses one and two,” Pastor Zeke continued. “‘Now for the matters you wrote about: It is good for a man not to marry. But since there is so much immorality, let each man have his own wife, and let each woman her own husband.’ Amen?”
A scattering of “Amens” resonated throughout the church.
The Oak Tree Man had come to me in a dream the night before, the branches hanging over his face like imitation dreadlocks. In the dream, I had succeeded in removing the hidden leaves and revealing its face, a face with nondescript features that looked at me in anticipation, as if it wanted to speak but couldn’t because the mouth was missing.
“I don’t think you heard me. I said, ‘Amen’?” Pastor Zeke repeated, briefly interrupting my fantasy. I envisioned the customary unbroken grin on his face.
“Amen,” I whispered along with the chorus of Amens.
“It would be a wonderful world if we could be like Paul and refrain from touching the flesh,” the pastor surmised. “But we are not like Paul. Amen? Single people, this is not your time to sample this flesh, and sample that flesh, like a child in a candy store. This is your time to get closer to Him. Amen?”
“Amen,” I answered again, louder.
“Let’s move on. Corinthians seven, eight, ‘Now to the unmarried and the widows, I say: It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am…’”
My mind wandered and I thought back on my dream, how the branches had reached down and stroked my hair, my face, and my neck. Then before I could move, the branches wrapped themselves around my neck, then my chest and waist, twisting tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe.
“‘BUT,’ Paul says, Corinthians seven, nine—are you still with me, people?” the pastor asked, then paused for effect, waiting for affirmation that everyone was still listening. And here his voice dropped almost to a whisper into the microphone, slowly and with dramatic effort. “‘But…if…they…cannot control themselves, they should marry: for it is better to marry than to hum.’ Let me reiterate that in case you missed it: ‘It is BETTER to marry than to BURN.’”
I felt a nudge at my right side, and then at my left, which forced me to open my eyes, slightly startled. I knew Simone and Maya were referring to my abstinence, but their teasing couldn’t touch me. When I was listening to the Word, their mockery rolled off my back.
On my right, Simone smiled at me. I had finally convinced the little heathen to come to church. She had yet to officially join and accept salvation, but each time she appeared, I liked to think she was one step closer.
To my left, Maya was looking intently at the pastor, as if she hadn’t touched me. On her other side sat Marcos and Lucas, and then Alex, who looked like he was losing the battle to stay awake. The boys were fraternal twins, and though they each favored one parent more than the other, they looked enough alike that people often asked if they were twins, even though they never dressed the same. Sometimes when I looked at Maya with her nuclear family, intact and happy, I wished I had never divorced and had worked things out with Anthony. But I knew the portrait of a happy family was a façade that involved a lot of hard work and tolerance behind the scenes. I knew what my sister had endured, was still enduring, and I knew that everyth
ing I had been through—dealing with infidelity, divorce, single motherhood—had to come to pass in order for me to get where I was currently.
I closed my eyes again and returned to my meditative state.
“Now, people ask me what ‘burn’ means in this context. King James says ‘burn’ and leaves it at that; NIV says ‘burn with passion.’” Again, the pastor paused for effect. “I’ma let ya’ll figger that one out for yourselves,” he said, switching to slang for the sake of the teenagers in the audience. Laughter echoed throughout the church.
I had awakened at dawn with a start, my heart pounding like my head during a migraine, searching blindly for my new medication. My doctor had said it would take at least a month before the hallucinations stopped. I found myself thinking about Adam, about his cancer, how I had held his hands, not really giving a second thought to my touching him until afterward. I remembered him leaning in closer and how I panicked because I thought he was going to kiss me. As always when I was unable to sleep due to anxiety or worry, I began praying. It took a while before I was able to drift back to sleep.
“They say women want to be married, but men need to be married.” Laughter rippled up and down the pews. “But I tell you, there is a difference between needing and wanting. And God gives you what you need, not what you want. The way I see it, men, ya’ll need marriage more than the women want it.”
I felt the poke again, harder this time, from Maya’s side and my eyes flew open, just in time to see some women glancing with reproach at their husbands and nodding in agreement. With her head, Maya gestured toward Alex who had drool sliding from his mouth in his slumber. Maya shook her head in disgust. The boys giggled.
“Uh-oh, I done started a revolution up in here.” Pastor Zeke chuckled at his own words, an intoxicating laugh that made people respond with more laughter. “A spiritual revolution. Amen? Amen.
“Just remember, when you’re struggling to stay faithful. Remember His awesome power. Remember His ultimate sacrifice. God said that He would, and He will. He said that He could, and He can. Now, all you have to do is believe that He is and it shall be.” At his trademark closing remarks, the congregation began clapping in a steady rhythm until it broke into all-out applause and praises. My eyes still closed, I whispered, “Amen, Amen, Amen,” my hands coming together like they had a mind of their own, still throbbing from the earlier praise and worship.
After altar call, I got up, following Maya, greeting and embracing fellow parishioners as we walked down the aisle. As we neared the last pew, a red, green, and black cap caught my attention as it streamed through the doors. I strained to get a better look, but there were too many people blocking my view. I thought maybe it was Adam taking me up on my invitation and though I didn’t know every single member of the congregation, I knew who wasn’t. Outside, I glanced around the parking lot, but the cap and its owner were gone.
Once a month after Sunday services, Maya, Simone, and I took turns having brunch at each other’s homes. It was Maya’s turn so she went ahead with Alex and the boys to prepare the meal. Simone hitched a ride with me and in the backseat began changing out of her confining “church clothes.”
“Why don’t you just wear decent clothing? That way you won’t have to change,” I teased.
“Hush, peasant,” she grunted, struggling out of her pantyhose and into some shorts. “You guys know I can’t stay long. I have that radio interview on V103 with Zephyr. Then I’m meeting Ian for an early dinner.”
I shook my head silently; I had resolved to ease up passing judgment on her.
“What?” she challenged, removing her blouse to reveal a tiny T-shirt that looked like it had shrunk in the dryer.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you want to. I can see right through your Oil of Olay”
“You’re being paranoid,” I chanted.
“No, I’m not,” she chanted back.
Maya still wore her calf-length sundress but was barefoot, padding back and forth around her newly remodeled kitchen, making coffee, sandwiches, and Caesar salads. Alex and the boys, she said, had eaten the first round.
“How was coffee with Adam?” she asked.
“Yeah, how was the Rastafarian?” Simone asked, suddenly remembering.
“He’s not a Rastafarian,” I said.
“You know that’s a religion,” Maya said, as she sliced some romaine lettuce like it took too much effort. I could tell by the frustrated look on her face and her inability to stay still that she had had another fight with Alex. Their fights had become almost routine since Alex began attending church less frequently—and when he did he’d fall asleep. “They believe some Egyptian leader was a prophet. Celeste, somebody.”
“Haile Selassie,” Simone corrected her, pouring coffee into three cups.
Maya and I looked at her quizzically.
“I dated a Jamaican a couple of years ago. Remember Ty? Remember I used to say ‘me like heem’?”
Maya and I shook our heads because neither one of us could keep her men’s names straight.
“Maybe he’s a convert,” Maya suggested.
“He’s not Rastafarian,” I assured them. “He’s Christian. He had cancer and he thinks if he cuts his hair, the cancer might come back.”
“Can’t he, like, comb it into some cornrows or something instead of those … dreads?” Maya asked spitefully. “They look so dread … ful.”
“He had cancer?” Simone asked, shocked. “What kind?”
“I kind of like his hair,” I answered Maya first. Then I immediately regretted it as they both looked at me like I had said something cute. “I mean, when he pulls it back into a ponytail, it looks nice, you know, neater …” I stuttered.
Just then, Alex and the boys came into the kitchen. They had changed into tennis outfits and carried tennis racket bags over their shoulders. Alex, a part-time instructor, was convinced his sons were going to be the next Williams tennis champs. He liked to joke that they already had the famous last name. He came up to Maya and said, “We’re gone. See you later.”
Simone and I watched as he pecked Maya’s cheek. It was a basic, run-of-the-mill kiss, but I watched longingly. Simone crossed her eyes in mock disgust. I wondered how Maya could be with Luciano, no matter how platonic she claimed their relationship was, and then come home to Alex. Although I believed her when she said she had not slept with Luciano, I knew that the more time she spent with him, the closer she was to temptation. I realized I had yet to talk seriously to her about my reservations with Luciano.
“Bye, Ma!” Marcos and Lucas cried as they kissed Maya with more emotion than their father had. They then kissed Simone and me before hurrying after their father.
More than anything, what I missed most about being with a man was kissing. I tried hard to remember what it was like, being held by a man, his hands in my hair, around my waist, as he sampled my lips. After leaving Adam, all I could think about was what it would have been like to kiss him. Whether I desired to kiss any man, or specifically Adam, was debatable. I quickly felt convicted, especially after having just come from church. More than once, the pastor had warned that the enemy always attacked just when one was trying to get closer to God. It was certainly the case with me as I thought back to my dream with the Oak Tree Man in the middle of Pastor Zeke’s sermon. The dream had been related to the medication, I reasoned. However, the first time I had experienced the hallucinations, the tree didn’t have dreadlocks. Already Adam was creeping into my subconscious. Forgive me, Lord, I thought. Remove this man from my mind.
After Alex’s car left the driveway, Simone and I watched as Maya neurotically cleaned the table, swept the floor, and washed the dishes. Then she started in on the sautéed chicken breasts for the Caesar salads, hacking them up.
“Would you stop with the OCD housekeeping?” Simone asked, snatching the bowl of butchered breasts from Maya, insinuating Maya suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder. “Remember, I can’t stay long. I ha
ve to meet Zephyr in an hour and I got a date with Ian later.”
Maya finally sat down. I blessed the food and we began to eat. She turned to Simone. “I love you, my sister. But you need to stop dating all these men.”
“What do you mean, ‘all’? There are only two men in my life.” Then she held up two fingers and in Spanish said, “Uno, dos.”
“This time, it’s two. Last year, it was three,” Maya said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “God did not intend for woman to have a bunch of men.”
“Then He should have made men more multidimensional. I’m sorry but one man cannot fulfill my every need. And look who’s throwing stones?”
“For the last time, Luciano is my friend. We are not lovers,” Maya insisted. She poured French vanilla creamer into her coffee and took a sip. I thought back to Simone’s party, how Maya sat with Luciano on the sofa’s arm and, later, kissed him on the back porch stairs. If they were friends, I’d hate to see what her version of “lovers” looked like. But I didn’t say anything. “Remind me to say a special prayer for you tonight.”
“You need to say one for your husband,” Simone countered.
“Oh, I always pray for my husband, sweetie. Always.”
Although they constantly got into it whenever the topic of their men came up, I believed that secretly, they envied each other. In a way, Simone wanted what Maya had: the successful husband, big house in a nice neighborhood, the kids—well, maybe not the kids. And Maya wanted Simone’s life, which was basically the freedom she never had because she had been married half her life. However, neither would ever admit it.
“What is your problem with her husband anyway?” I finally asked Simone.
“My problem is this,” Simone began, standing up so she could pontificate as if she were on stage. “Man is supposed to be made in the image of Christ. He’s supposed to love his wife like Christ loves the church and all that. He’s supposed to be the head of household and lead his family by example. But I don’t see your husband doing that. He doesn’t go to church all the time—you either go by yourself or with the kids. It’s almost like you’re the head of household and he’s a bachelor.”