The Bighead

by Edward Lee

  So why these incessant dwellings?

  It seemed almost as if Jerrica proved the archetype of all the things Charity wished she could be. Yes. Jerrica.

  “Have you seen Jerrica, Ms. Charity?” Goop asked next, leaning forward on his wheelbarrow handles, as if to denote secrecy.

  “She went to town with Father Alexander,” Charity said.

  “Oh…”

  Don’t get jealous, Goop, she nearly wanted to voice. The man’s a Catholic priest. “He seems like a unique man.”

  Goop’s face blankened, as if he weren’t familiar with the word unique, which very well may have been true. “I ain’t met him yet, but Ms. Annie tolds me he came in last night.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll like him, Goop. And, by the way, where is Aunt Annie?”

  “Off on hers walk, I ’spect. She goes fer a walk’n the woods ever afternoon.”

  Charity remembered this; she’d seen her aunt wandering into the treeline yesterday, with twin bundles of flowers. And, now that she thought of it, two decades ago, when Charity had lived here, her aunt had done the same thing everyday, hadn’t she? Where did she go?

  “She’ll be around,” Goop assured. But the tint of hurt in his face shone baldly—he was thinking of Jerrica. “Well, I gots ta go now, talks to ya later. ’Bye.”

  “‘Bye, Goop.”

  She watched him push away behind the wheelbarrow, and wend toward the rear flowerbeds. Poor Goop, she thought. Don’t you know that you were just a one-night stand? What a cruel truth Charity was privy to. The poor dumb kid was propping himself up for a heartbreak.

  But that thought made her think ever more incisively about herself. That’s what my entire adult life has been: one string of one-night stands…

  “Charity!”

  She glanced away, into the opposite end of the back yard’s shaded spaciousness. There was here aunt, barely seen, waving to her.

  Charity, smiling, walked the stone aisles, passing great eruptions of flowers. “I was wondering where you were.”

  “Oh, I’m just picking my daily flowers,” her aunt replied, bending over a flank of multi-colored paintedcups and delicate bluecurls.

  Charity stood with the sun warming her bare shoulders. Her aunt was wearing a sundress nearly identical to her own: a blank, pastel chartreuse. “I remember now,” she said. “From when I was little. Every day you’d gather flowers and go for a long walk in the woods behind the house. Where do you go?”

  “Well…” Annie stood up, smiled indistinctly at her niece. “After all these years, I guess it’s time you found out, now, ain’t it?”

  Charity didn’t query; instead, she followed her aunt into the thickening woods. The dense trees—a conglomeration of Blackjack Oaks, Red Maples, and tall, tall Mockernuts—made it seem cool as evening, and as dark. The fieldstone path led on and on, leaving Charity again to wonder where the money had come from to lay it. “Aunt Annie?” she couldn’t resist. “I’m really curious about something—”

  “Let me guess, hon,” her aunt came back. “You wanna know where I got the money.”

  Was the fine, old woman psychic? Or was it a question she’d expected all along? The latter, of course. “Well, yes, if you don’t mind my asking,” Charity admitted. “I don’t remember a whole lot about the time I lived with you, but…you know, the house was run down, there were no fieldstone paths—things were tight. I mean, that’s why the state took me away from you, isn’t it? Because they felt you didn’t have enough money to raise me?”

  Annie seemed to wilt, her pace feebling. Around the next bend came a sitting area, with facing white-painted iron benches, and, dejectedly then, she sat down, bidding with her hand for Charity to do the same. “Sometimes I just feels like luck ain’t on my side, like there’s a blight on me, honey. But yer right, that’s why the state ’thorities took ya from me, ’cos they deemed I didn’t have enough money ta raise ya proper. Guess it were true. I only hopes ya kin fergive me.”

  “Aunt Annie!” Charity exclaimed. “It wasn’t your fault!”

  “I hope it weren’t, honey. All I can say is I did my best with what I had.”

  “Of course you did!”

  “An’ I feel mighty bad ’bout only writin’ ya letters all these years, an’ never invitin’ ya out, but the reason I didn’t is ’cos things never seemed ta change. Yer ol’ Aunt Annie just kept gettin’ poorer, and the house kept gettin’ more run down.” Annie brushed a tear from her eye. “I was just too ashamed ta invite ya back home. But then…”

  Charity waited, poised on the hard metal bench.

  “What happened were like a gift from the Lord. A class-action suit’s what they call it. Turns out that my land an’ ’bout a thousand acres either way were what they called Schedule E Mineral Property. And goin’ back ta way back when, Northeast Carbide was pipin’ natural gas without tellin’ no one—offa our land! Makin’ millions a year, they were, and, well, some fancy lawyer from Roanoke got wind of it and he took the case. Proved in federal court that those Carbide bastards were stealin’ from us, takin’ gas from our land an’ not payin’. An’ this lawyer, well, he won his case. So me an’ a whole bunch’a others ’round here got paid what they call a pro-rata settlement, based on the number’a acres we each had a deed to. Most of ’em, you know how fellas are, they blew all their money on gambling an’ such. But I used mine to make repairs and for signs. That lawyer took a third’a the total take, but it was worth it. My end was close ta half a million dollars. Got most of it socked away still, but I used some ta fix the place up, and post all them signs.”

  “Signs?” Charity asked.

  “The roadsigns, honey, like the ones you saw on yer way with yer city friend. Folks on the highway see the signs and pull in. We’re a good place to stop fer those headin’ south, and there’s some fine tourist attractions, the Boone National Forest, Kohls Point, best fishing spot in the state. And, a’corse, the woods themselfs. An’ ya know what? It worked. Every fall an’ spring ’specially, I gotta full house, makin’ an actual profit. That’s how I kin afford to have Goop, and fixin’ up the flowerbeds. An’ I make a couple thousand a month from bank interest from what I got left. But—” Annie’s graceful face turned down, the flowers in her lap like something stillborn. “It just makes me feel so bad…”

  Charity couldn’t for the life of her understand. “Aunt Annie! That’s wonderful! There’s no reason to feel bad.”

  Annie’s eyes welled with tears. “I feel bad, dear, on account’a I can’t understand why it took so long. If this’d happened all them years ago, then I’d’a never lost ya. I feel like I let ya down…”

  Charity got up and sat down next to her aunt, put her arm about her. “Don’t cry, Aunt Annie. That’s just the way things happen sometimes.”

  “But that ain’t good enough,” Annie whimpered. “Yer mama dyin’ so awful by her own hand, not a year after she gave birth to ya—she was my sister. I felt obliged to take care’a ya, but I couldn’t. The damn state took ya away from me.”

  Charity stroked her aunt’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, Aunt Annie. You did the best you could, and that’s better than most. And, look at it this way. You’re doing fine now with the boarding house, and I’m doing fine with my career and my night classes. It’s like they say—”

  For some reason, Charity thought instantly of the priest.

  “God works in strange ways,” she said.

  (II)

  “God works in miraculous ways,” Alexander stated matter-of-factly, behind the wheel of the Diocesan Mercedes. He’d been answering a common question, of Jerrica’s. If there’s God, how come there’s war? How come there’s ethic cleansing and murder and rape and child abuse… Typical questions of a non-believer.

  “God does not own the title deed to the earth,” he said. “The devil does, and he has since Eve put her choppers to that apple. All God has here is His holy influence, and His love of mankind.”

  “But what’s miraculous about w
ar and genocide and rape and everything else?” Jerrica challenged.

  “Nothing. It’s God’s love for his kingdom that’s the miraculous part. I can’t judge you personally,” he said, steering around another sweeping, wooded bend, “but I can promise you that you’ll know what I’m talking about when you die.”

  Jerrica hitched up her halter, awe-faced. “You really…believe all that, don’t you?”

  Alexander glanced at her, lit a cigarette. “Yeah. I believe it because it’s true.” Then he quoted Psalms. “‘I have chosen the way of truth.’ And as for genocide, rape, murder, war?” Romans. “‘The whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.’“ And, finally, from Isaiah, “‘I have chosen thee in the furnace of adversity.’“

  “I—” Jerrica blinked. “I guess I see your meaning.”

  “But you don’t believe a word of it,” Alexander challenged her now. “You’re appeasing me.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Sure you are.” He chuckled at the wheel. “But don’t worry. You will see the light before your life on earth is over. You will arise to the Kingdom of God.”

  Now Jerrica smiled. “Oh, yeah? How do you know? Are you psychic? Did God whisper that in your ear?”

  Alexander’s glance turned blank as a carved wood totem. “Yeah,” he said. “As a matter of fact, He did.”

  They drove on for a spell, in silence. That got her thinking, Alexander felt sure. Good. That’s my fuckin’ job. That’s what God is paying me for.

  They’d already gone to Hull’s, the general store, where Alexander purchased flashlights, batteries, several alcohol lanterns, work gloves, and cleaning supplies. Then they’d driven slowly about town—Not much of a town, the priest noted—where Jerrica pointed out the local bar, the diner, then took him down the block and explained the “sewing shop” enterprises. Evidently it was common for non-resident clothing companies to come here and employ women at a minimum wage. Oppression, he knew, was relative. And more oppression passed them when they turned and headed out. “And there’s Donna’s Antiques,” she said, pointing to the high clapboard building. “It’s really a brothel.”

  “Oh yeah? I ought to walk in there and ask them if they have any 1820 Sheraton bow-front chests in Hepplewhite walnut. Can you imagine the looks on their faces?” Alexander laughed behind the padded wheel. “A priest? Walking into a whorehouse?”

  Jerrica shared the hilarity of the image. “Somehow I can’t quite picture that.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first whorehouse I’ve walked into.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “I haven’t always been a priest, you know,” Alexander admitted. He’d visited, in fact, several such establishments in Saigon, sex for a ten, blowjobs for a buck. It was even cheaper in the field. God had a knack for payback; three times Alexander had been sent to the med unit with cases of the clap so virulent he felt like he’d been plugged into a mobile generator. You live and learn, he thought. Before he’d been embraced by the priesthood, the sins of the flesh hadn’t been foreign to him. Some of the things he’d seen in The Nam bordellos, as a non-participant, were appalling: “Butt-bangs” and “fletch parties,” 20-man blowjob galas, G.I.’s paying 12-year-old hookers to fornicate with dogs. If anything, the sorority girls in college were as bad. Sex and drugs and rock and roll, and if you had to let your English proff sodomize you in order to pass—well, hey! And a little coke money never hurt anyone, right? Once Alexander had TA’d a philosophy course and was astounded by the number of girls who’d offered themselves for higher grades, and he’d been even more astounded by the things they’d offer to do. Evil was everywhere, and it had a lot of different faces. Seeing it was how one learned about the world, and sometimes learning hurt. But Alexander, unlike most priests, had no problem admitting his less-than-saintly days; denial was as false as lying bold-faced. “No, I haven’t always been a living model of Christian thesis.” He laughed again. “But at least I am now, so I guess that’s all that matters.”

  Jerrica didn’t get the joke. She seemed very focused right now, full of questions she wasn’t sure if she could ask. Alexander had seen it many times: women were fascinated by the notion of celibacy.

  “If you—” Jerrica stumbled. “—don’t mind my asking, when, uh, when was the last…time?”

  “1977,” he answered without even having to think. He’d almost married that one, hadn’t he? They’d had sex seven times in one night. Talk about getting things out of your system. Yes, he’d considered marrying her, but right now he couldn’t even remember her name.

  Jerrica looked pale. “That’s almost…twenty years.”

  “Uh-huh,” then, just as brazenly, “And, no, I haven’t masturbated since then either. That’s usually the next question.”

  “Good God,” Jerrica whispered.

  “Yeah, He is.”

  They both laughed at the remark. He could tell she had many more questions bubbling in her, but she wouldn’t ask now. Christ, people think priests are made of tissue paper, he thought. And he knew he was no exception; before the priesthood, they’d been on par with the Marquis de Sade. He could tell, too

  —just by looking at her—that Jerrica Perry was no stranger to the sins of the flesh. Maybe it was her aura…

  They passed an old, steepled church. Alexander, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, crossed himself.

  “Don’t bother,” Jerrica said. “Charity told me that church is closed.”

  “So?” He shrugged. “It’s still the house of God, full of the presence of God.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Where are we going now?” He’d been heading out of town actually, back to Route 154. “Well, I guess I better drop you off back at the house,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do at the abbey.”

  Jerrica turned briskly in the Mercedes’ leather sat, her face suddenly alight. “Oh, Father, please! I’m dying to see the abbey. Let me go with you.”

  “Out of the question. It’s dirty, it’s dangerous. I’ve got a lot of grubby work to do—”

  “Please, Father! I’ll help you.”

  “No way.”

  She leaned forward, her breasts compressed in the bright-white halter. Alexander could smell the lovely scent of her herbal shampoo.

  “Pleeeease, Father,” she nearly whined. And her smile escalated to something bright as the glare of the sun.

  Alexander frowned. Christ, what a sucker for a pretty face.

  He pitched his butt, lit another, waved a hand.

  “Oh, all right,” he agreed.

  (III)

  She were preggers, this one. Red-hairt, she were, an’ skin so smooth’n white likes nothin’ he ever seed. Big high tits, twice the size’a his fists, an’, a’corse, that big preggered belly.

  The Bighead licked his chops.

  He’d walked miles since mornin’, crunchin’ along, thinkin’ ’bout his dreams’a the castle, the angels, an’ the Voice he’d heard, sayin’: COME. An’ that’s when he come upon this li’l red-hairt thing. She were buck nekit, warshin’ herself in a creek. That were about the only cause’a Bighead’s object-shure-uns: that she were warshin’. See, Bighead liked his gals stinky, ’cos it occurred ta him that bein’ stinky were part’a bein’ real. Bighead hisself, fer example, he were a might stinky, on account’a he ain’t took a bath since the day he were born. Didn’t see no reason ta. When The Bighead walked through the woods, see, he’d bring a stink alongs with him that’d make a buzzard puke. An’, yeah, he hisself liked the smell’a shit an’ piss an’ buttcrack, an’ b.o. Liked ta taste it too. Somehows, tastin’ up a gal who’d just warshed were like ettin’ a possum-gut stew with no spice.

  Were kinda bland, it were…

  Anyways, this red-hairt preggered gal, Bighead were watchin’ her from behind a fat tree, and she were bendin’ over just then, warshin’ her backside, an’ when she done so, Bighead could see her pie, he could. An’ it’s were a big pie, that red fur goin’ r
ound the slit, an’ the slit bein’ bigger’n a groundhog hole. So’s that’s when Bighead got ta thinkin’. So far he’d hadda problem havin’ a proper fuck with a gal on account’a their poons weren’t never big enough ta take alla his pipe. But this gal here, with that yawnin’ baby-hole onner? This might be somethin’, yes sir!

  That might be just the pocket ta take alla Bighead’s meat…

  She screamed ta high heavens, she did, when The Bighead walked out from behind that fat tree, showin’ his big warped head, an’ the eyes in his face, one biiger’n the other an’ lower, an’ a’corse that big smilin’ yap fulla long crooked teeth like a dog’s. He hauled her up a’shore. She screamed so loud she did, ’n’fact, he thought she might break her voice. He socked her groggy with his fist, thens went down onner, suckin’ that purdy red pussy’a hers, ands at first she tasted kinda creeky-clean, but once he gots ta suckin’ hard, a bunch’a cheesy stuff came out her hole, reals tangy-like, an’ that just made The Bighead’s day. Wished he had some’a ol’ Grandpap’s flatbreads or cattail pancakes, he did, ta wipe that girlcheese onto. Then he’s started fuckin’ her right there in the creek mud, after hockin’ a big loogie onner hole, ands at first her pussy were a might accommodatin’, even fer Bighead’s big pole. He humped her fierce, he did, whiles she just lay back screamin’ inta the big, bright afternoon sky, an’ there were milk sprayin’ out her big titties whiles he humped her, which Bighead thought were kinda neat. Just li’l sprays like mist, they was, an’ white as a spiderweb. Bighead, ’n’fact, were so intrigued by this that he leant over an’ sucked hard on them big milk-filled titties, whiles he continered fuckin’ her. He musta sucked a bucketful’amilk, he musta, and’s it tasted warm’n sweet, an’ he could’a swored her titties was about half the size once he were done, him havin’ sucked out all that good mama’s milk. Sucked ’em dry was about what he did, till there’s was nothin’ left in ’em. But lo’s an’ behold-