Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  “Excellent input, Bekah,” Mrs. Miller praised, then turned her attention towards me. “Now, go on—tell us what Candace needs to work on. She deserves our utmost honesty. We are doing her a favor, Kate.”

  I remained silent as I examined Candace’s nervous face. She was avoiding eye contact. “I have no critiques, Mrs. Miller,” I said, deflated.

  With a single cock of her brow, Mrs. Miller shot up from her desk and stomped over to me, placing her hands on my shoulders and directing my face at Candace. “If she does not have our guidance, how is Candace supposed to get a husband to provide for her? How will she find a man to serve?” Mrs. Miller asked with a note of pity for Candace. “We are not leaving this class until you speak up, Ms. Fox.”

  “Fine.” I was embarrassed and now the rest of the girls were groaning with disapproval at the prospect of having to stay past school hours. I gave Candace a final once-over: “Candace should use a product to control her frizz. I think she could use—-.”

  “AHHHHHHHHH!” Mary’s scream interrupted my mumbling. She stood up so quick that she knocked her desk over, then ran to the corner of the trailer and hunkered down on top of the green shag carpet.

  “What in the Lord’s name is your problem, girl?” Mrs. Miller yelled, perturbed.

  “COCKROACH!” Mary hollered, and all of the girls went running out of the classroom.

  And thanks to Mary’s outburst, my critique was over. “Thanks little buddy… Rest in peace,” I whispered, bending down next to Mary’s desk after everyone evacuated the room. The culprit suffered from blunt trauma and was now lying belly-up underneath the wooden desk.

  During the month of February, the class practiced posture, taking note of hand placement —always clasped behind the back, never at the sides. What I affectionately referred to as the “constipated flamingo” pose was ingrained in our consciousness as our resting posture: instead of relaxing with feet forward and slightly apart, we were to position one foot delicately behind the other, at an angle. Each student demonstrated their best efforts at the end of each class, and we gave constructive criticism accordingly, often with a sprinkling of wardrobe suggestions thrown in for good measure.

  “’A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner,’” we recited from the Bible each day. As much as I appalled the concept of existing only to be attractive to the opposite sex, I found myself flushed with pride the few times Mrs. Miller pointed out how pleasant I appeared in my natural, reserved state.

  April was not nearly as pleasurable, centering on sex education, which was more like abstinence education with very little talk of the actual act and much elaboration on the religious and social ramifications. At the start of each class, we were given a new verse to recite: “’To the woman [God] said, I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.’”

  We went around the room and took turns reading aloud from our textbooks. Naomi cleared her throat and began, “The school strengthens the teachings of the parents’, namely the father’s oversight of his wife’s emphasis on abstinence and intimacy with Jesus Christ alone to her daughters. The man of the household should warn his daughters of lust’s treachery in the eyes of the Lord, as well as ramifications of submitting to the flesh. Women become unclean as they embark on puberty, tempting men with their shapeliness. It is a woman’s duty to reject any advances of man, to not lure him in with cunning words or suggestive clothing. Any woman who lies with a man before wedlock shall be cast out of God’s holy kingdom, and the responsibility is with the father to reprimand his whore.”

  Our final weeks of Charms class dealt with the second phase of physical appearance, as the counterpart to January’s teachings on making the most of one’s attributes. Attracting a husband started with possessing the qualities that men found attractive, Mrs. Miller explained. Men desired small, slender and quiet women, with conservative cleavage and rumps. Any feature too ample or generous was deemed lewd, and thus, considered undesirable. With only two weeks until graduation, Mrs. Miller, reported that today’s lesson was, perhaps, the most important one of the year. Starting at the left side of the classroom, girls shuffled into a single file line, waiting for their turn to approach Mrs. Miller, who held a yellow measuring tape in one gaunt hand. She scooted a bathroom scale in front of her brown leather loafers, motioning us to come up one by one to get our weight and measurements recorded. Candace was at the front of the line and appeared fidgety even though she probably only weighed a buck ten soaking wet.

  “Arms out,” Mrs. Miller ordered, measuring under Candace’s arms, around her cleavage, then her waist and hips. Finally, she motioned Candace to step on the scale. “Go on an’ write this on the board, dear,” Candace hurried to pick up a dry erase marker. “Candace Cross: five feet, seven inches, 108-pounds, 30-inch bust, 22-inch waist, 28-inch hip circumference—no, no. You stay up there Candace,” Mrs. Miller shook her finger at Candace. “Jot down everyone else’s measurements.”

  I was sweating by the time my turn finally came. The girl’s measurements showcased slight differences, a couple of pounds here and there. I gulped nervously before lifting up my arms for Mrs. Miller. Her eyebrows arched as she studied the tape measure. “Step on the scale,” she instructed without peering up, and I didn’t glimpse down at the number.

  “Kate Fox: five feet, three inches, 38-inch bust, 29-inch waist, 39-inch hip circumference. 143-pounds,” Mrs. Miller rattled off as I tried to tune out the entire class rather unsuccessfully. Bekah and Naomi snickered as I walked back to my seat.

  “Bawk BAWK, eat less chicken, bitch,” Bekah chided in my ear and giggled with the other girls when I sat down.

  I spent the rest of class counting the moments until I was awarded delicious freedom. I tapped my foot in anticipation of the bell. Five… four…three… two…one. The walk back to the compound was my most favorite and least favorite part of the day, in which I was allowed the time to fantasize about seducing a dashing businessman, idly distracted by his Blackberry. I’d catch his attention, batting my eyelashes and biting into an apple, Lolita-style. He would say, “Let’s get outta here,” in one of those old Hollywood-type accents. I’d hop into the passenger seat of his black sports car without questioning the consequences, and when Brushy Fork grew small in my rearview window, I’d chuckle, knowingly. Goodbye, suckers.

  Then again, the walk home was my least favorite part of the day, because it meant I wasn’t safe within the confines of the school walls. I dragged myself toward the Smith residence, toward unsettling reality.

  I stopped at my locker before skipping out the double doors, only to find Gideon pacing down the hallway. His brow was furrowed and his lips appeared chapped and cracked; he double-checked that no one else was in the hallway. Gideon approached, shuffling his feet and toying with the end of a pencil eraser. He asked me to meet him at the clearing that evening, at our spot in the woods. “Don’t tell anyone,” Gideon he leaned in and whispered, then playfully grinned back at me when I nodded in agreement. But I didn’t linger on deciphering the meaning of our future meeting. I had bigger troubles to sort out.

  When Wednesday night chapel commenced hours later, I lied to Joy and told her I forgot my study Bible at school. Obviously, I needed to retrieve it if I was going to get any of my weekly, Biblical self-loathing accomplished. Joy’s beady eyes inspected me up and down suspiciously, as she knew I lacked devotion, but perhaps optimism momentarily clouded her judgment: “Better be back within the hour, girl, or y’know there’ll be punishment,” Joy scowled and shook her pudgy pointer finger my way, then dove back into the box of Little Debbie’s she was demolishing. She was the only person I had ever witnessed sport perpetual frown; I often wondered if a smile e
ver dared graze her face. My guess was not only no, but heck no.

  I hurried off into the forest, which seemed rather dreary for such a nice night at the start of a Kentucky summer. The full moon shone above but didn’t offer any illumination for my path, and I shivered without consent. I didn’t relish wandering alone, not here. Rumor was the forest was haunted by three notorious witches, who were hung by the founders of W.H.O.R.E. at the beginning of the century.

  “Kate.” Was that Gideon calling? The voice was distinctly male and lingered in the air. I glanced down at my Dollar Store watch and set off in the direction of the secret spot, this time with haste. Forty-five minutes.

  “Over here, Kate,” Gideon motioned in his direction. His plaid button-up and pressed khakis, practically Brushy Fork’s man uniform, appeared out of place on a night like this, in the middle of the woods. Gideon rolled up his sleeves, revealing his blotchy pink skin and muscular forearms. I glanced up at him, noticing the sweaty, uncombed hair plastered to his forehead. With his boyish cheeks a flush, Gideon folded his arms across his chest as I studied him. He’s nervous. Maybe Gideon has finally decided to bust out of Brushy Fork with me. We could catch a bus and—-

  “I need to tell ya somethin’, Kate.” Gideon muttered under his breath while he kicked loose dirt around idly.

  “We can leave tonight! I have a bag packed, under my bed. I can run back right now, Joy’s not home. Gideon, I’m so glad you—“

  “No,” Gideon interrupted.

  “No?” I repeated, irritated. “Why did you want me to meet you here, then?”

  His stare bore a hole directly through me, and my cheeks reddened under his gaze.

  “I…I think I love ya, Katie.”

  “Oh,” I murmured, not knowing what to say or how to respond.

  Gideon loved me? Feelings of discomfort settled heavily on my chest, but not in the hot and bothered kind of way. This wasn’t right. I didn’t even think of Gideon as owning a penis. I’d never thought about his dangly bits. We’d never even shared a lingering hug—well, maybe like a one-armed shoulder hug, but definitely no extended eye contact. Perhaps Gideon meant he loved me like he loved his cat, Girdy. Girdy lived outdoors with the goats because she had a tendency to pee on the rug, so after they booted her out of the house, she urinated on the welcome mat instead. Mine and Gideon’s relationship was platonic. Yes, completely platonic.

  Several moments passed in palpable silence, but I attempted to recover our conversation: “So, let me get this straight…You…you love me?” My voice cracked.

  “Yeah, I mean, well, I’ve always loved ya, but—“ Without any warning, Gideon lurched forward and his mouth collided with mine in a sloppy gesture. My neck stiffened under his forceful grip on my face. I stifled a muffled gasp and tried to unhinge my lips from his, but it was a wasted effort. Gideon’s musty aftershave smell, mixed with sweat, filled my nostrils. I don’t want this. I don’t want him.

  I struggled once again, this time, not only to escape Gideon’s arms, but his wandering tongue. This isn’t ok. Why won’t he stop? We’re just friends. Friends. I squirmed, but his grip was unwavering. I needed to act. A volatile combination of panic and disgust swelled within me as I bit down on his tongue.

  Pain proved to be the best communicator. “Get away from me,” I warned, backing away, the taste of blood on my lips.

  Gideon stumbled forward, wiping dribbles of scarlet from the corners of his curled lips. “I love ya, Kate, but I’m not suppose to accordin’ to my pops.” I furrowed my brow in confusion, but his words had little effect on toying with my emotions. Gideon’s father was the pastor of W.H.O.R.E. Although the Smiths forced my compliance, I held no regard for the opinions of a cult leader who thrived off of fear and loathing. “You’re goin’ to Hell. Ya know that, right, honey? Straight to the fiery lake, ‘cause God hates you.”

  Gideon’s pained expression was soon replaced by a cruel grin, and my heart tugged at his intentionally vicious statement. At a loss for words, I turned to leave. Since arriving in Brushy Fork, Joy told me nearly a million times that I was on the path to Hell, but I’d never been outright damned by someone I trusted, someone I considered a friend.

  “Come on. Dontcha frown, babe. I’ve seen God’s plan for us. You and me. I know damn well how to save that soul of yours,” Gideon chuckled, but something was wrong with his smile. It twitched and tugged at the corners of his bloody mouth, showing his teeth like a rabid dog. I darted into the darkness without looking back.

  With three minutes to spare, I stepped through the threshold of the Smith residence. The door groaned behind me in an audible confession, as I spotted Joy looming in the kitchen, lips pursed and staring at her watch: “You got lucky, little girl,” Joy smirked with a raised brow, but her tone was filled with bitterness. Without another word, her floor-length jean skirt silently brushed the ground as she stalked off.

  By Sunday morning service, I’d nearly repressed my Gideon encounter. I silently selected a seat on the back wooden pew, next to girls who were students at my school. Essie’s parents forbid me to publically associate with their prodigal son and daughter, so Essie and Gideon ignored my presence as I strode past them. When I took my seat, the group of girls noticeably shifted away, whispering and eyeing me with unwarranted judgment. Regardless of living in Brushy Fork for six years, I might as well had “leper” branded on my forehead. Oh well, I shrugged, feeling pleased with the extra elbow room.

  The congregation commenced each sermon by reciting W.H.O.R.E.’s favorite verse, straight from Leviticus 20:23: “And ye shall not walk in the manners of the nation, which I cast out before you; for they committed all these things, and therefore I abhorred them.” This week, Pastor Sprite’s message was immersed in the hatred of homosexuals. Admittedly, I entertained myself with an indulgent game prior to each sermon, which involved guessing the subject matter. If my guess was accurate, I rebelliously highlighted John 3:16 in a stranger’s Bible when no one was watching. The passage described God’s love, and I fantasized about Pastor Sprite’s eyeballs twitching as he thumbed through multiple Bibles with that particular verse highlighted. W.H.O.R.E. was consumed by their hatred of the gays, Jews, military, and whoever else was deemed trendy to abhor on any given week. Since I tinkered on the edge of a life in crime, I’d sometimes draw a rogue penis in Revelations.

  “Sodomy! Unnatural faggotism!” Pastor Sprite roared, making jerky hand movements toward the audience. Is ‘faggotism’ even a word? How does Webster define ‘faggotism’?

  When my grandparents used to drag me to church, it was nothing like Blood of Christ. They were Catholic; we’d sing Amazing Grace and mumble the Lord’s Prayer during the lighthearted sermons. Like clockwork, about thirty minutes into the lesson, Grandpa would try to suppress a yawn, causing me to giggle as I smiled at his wrinkly face. He always smelled like peppermints. Grandpa played hangman with me on the back of the church program while Grams shot us dirty glances. Back then, church wasn’t so bad.

  I remember taking my first communion at my grandparent’s church. I was very literal as a child, and when they stated that the bread portion of communion was the body of Christ, I believed it with every fiber of my being. Revolted, I witnessed Grandpa inch the bread closer to his mouth, and I couldn’t contain my disgust any longer. I shrieked, “NO! IT’S HIM. IT’S JESUS. YOU CAN’T EAT HIM.” The pews erupted with laughter.

  No one laughed here. There was no room for fun or joking; not when serious matters like butt sex existed and needed to be thoroughly explored, discussed, criticized, and damned.

  I was quickly jerked back to the present when Gideon approached the altar, where his father stood beside him, pride filling his features: “Y’all know my son, Gideon. He’s gonna lead prayer requests.” With a couple of pats on the shoulder, Pastor Sprite took a seat at the front pew, and Gideon stood in front of all of us. For a moment, Gideon appeared mortified as he scanned the chapel. Our eyes locked, and I redirected my gaze to my feet. What unr
emarkable shoes I’m wearing today…Unpolished black flats that belonged to Joy.

  Gideon broke the silence by clearing his throat and pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his perfectly ironed slacks: “Misty Lawrence was caught lyin’ to her husband ‘bout listenin’ to The Beatles. They sing ‘bout sex and stuff. That music don’t have no place ‘round here. We hope you’re real sorry, Misty. And while we may forgive your deceit,” Gideon motioned to the crowd, then pointed upward, to the ceiling: “God probably won’t.”

  Gideon rattled off nine more ridiculous prayer requests—ranging from gluttony to impure thoughts. As soon as I was convinced Gideon had finished, he cleared his throat once more, an unpleasant, guttural noise rising from his chest: “I wanna share a personal request with y’all. One that God’s been layin’ on my heart, y’know?” An ‘amen’ rattled off the rafters between Gideon’s pauses, “Kate Fox tried to seduce me the other day by offerin’ me her virginity, in exchange for runnin’ ‘way with her.”

  What the heck? All of W.H.O.R.E. spun around to cast a scornful glance my way, as I sat open-mouthed on the back pew, all my by myself. I stood up, fists balled at my sides, about to protest, but Gideon interrupted, slowly inching towards me: “I know your parent’s didn’t love ya enough to keep ya, Kate, but everyone here done their best to keep ya in line,” Gideon, once again, motioned to the rest of the room. “God hates whores, Kate. We’ll sure pray for you.”

  I felt as though I’d been slapped. I opened my mouth, but before speaking, I realized the futility of my efforts. I managed my best go bathe in molten lava glare, aimed directly at Gideon, before skirting through the swinging, wood-paneled doors leading to fresh air. Once outside, I leaned against the trailer, trying to collect my thoughts and, rather unsuccessfully, attempting not to cry.

  “I better not see tears,” Joy warned, waddling through the swinging doors moments later. She was never one for pity—or any conceivable emotion resembling empathy. Joy jerked me by the arm and dragged me back to the house. Her chin appeared even pudgier with her blonde, stringy hair tied up in a perfect knot. Through cloudy eyes, I caught a glimpse of Joy’s church ensemble, a baby-puke-green, floor-length skirt paired with a dreadfully boring white blouse. Not an inch of ankle showing. No, no. W.H.O.R.E. wasn’t much for revealing flesh, not even a risqué ankle. They saved the bare skin for Ruth and Rebecca erotica, those disgusting perverts.