by Selena Kitt
Father Patrick paused, stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers like he had at the gallery that night. She hadn’t seen him since except in passing. She felt the cool metal of his ring, the warmth of his fingers. She shivered, trying to hide it.
“Most women are like Mary Magdalene,” Father Patrick explained. “They lust in their hearts, they tempt men to atrocities of the flesh, and they give birth like animals, like their own animal natures dictate. Mary Magdalene was only redeemed when she turned away from her ungodly life, when she made sacrifices for the Lord, when she sat at the foot of Jesus and wept. Mary Magdalene was man’s whore.”
Father Patrick lifted her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes.
“The Virgin Mary was God’s whore. You, my child, are God’s whore.”
She didn’t respond, holding completely still, trying to control the trembling in her limbs. She only partially understood his words, having not gone through her initiation yet, but the split between Magdalene and Mary, between whore and virgin, was familiar. She had spent much of her teen years fighting Bobby off, finding new and improved and creative ways to satisfy his monstrous lust. And when she had finally given him her virginity, she had panicked and worried incessantly about pregnancy. Like most girls her age, an unwed pregnancy was the worst possible sin she could think of committing.
But she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Her period had come next month, right on time, in spite of Bobby’s insistence that they continue intercourse on a regular basis. He wouldn’t settle for anything less now. And then, her period came again, right on time. And again. And again. There was no fear in her anymore about pregnancy and she thought there must be something wrong with her, but now, listening to Father Patrick’s words, she understood giving her virginity to Bobby, to anyone, hadn’t mattered at all. It was her body’s betrayal that was her gift. Erica couldn’t get pregnant, she was almost sure of it. And that made her special. That made her, as Father Patrick said, God’s whore, not man’s whore.
“Elizabeth.”
He spoke her confirmation name. She couldn’t remember anymore why she had chosen St. Elizabeth, although she had found it horribly ironic and fitting that Elizabeth had lost her mother at a very young age, just like Erica. When she’d chosen Elizabeth, her own mother had still been alive.
“Come, kneel.” Father Patrick insisted. “In front of me.”
Still wearing her blue-and-white uniform skirt, knee socks and Mary Jane’s, her blond hair held back with a light blue headband, Erica slid to the floor, kneeling just like she did in church every day, putting her hands together in prayer and bending her head out of habit. The Mary Magdalenes had taught her this too.
“Good girl.”
She closed her eyes out of habit too, feeling Father Patrick’s hand on the top of her head. He was speaking in Latin, so she didn’t understand the words, although she could guess their meaning. She heard him mention the Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalene as well, two Saints held in high regard in the church.
“Do you swear on your mother’s grave and your father’s soul, that you will fully participate in and to give yourself to the order of the Mary Magdalenes?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Open your mouth, Elizabeth.”
Erica opened her eyes first, seeing Father Patrick holding the Eucharist in his gnarled hand. She stared at it, unmoving, but her body had taken communion so often, her mouth opened without a second thought, her tongue offered to him for the blessing.
“Draw nigh and take the body of the Lord and drink his holy blood for you out poured.”
Erica crossed herself.
“The body of Christ.” Father Patrick gently placed the Eucharist on her tongue. She didn’t move except to retract her tongue, letting the wafer melt in her mouth.
“The blood of Christ.” Father Patrick held forth a jeweled chalice, touching the rim to her lips and tilting it slowly. Erica tasted the wine briefly, just a sip, licking the residue from her lips as she glanced up at Father Patrick. He made the sign of the cross over her, mumbling something in Latin. Then he made the sign of the cross directly on her forehead.
His hand covered her head, his palm resting against her forehead, as he spoke once again in Latin. She didn’t understand the words, but she knew she didn’t need to. Something small and withdrawn was unfolding inside of her as he spoke. Her anxiety and fear seemed to melt away. She kept her eyes closed through the process, kneeling before him, hands clasped in prayer, the picture of the perfect penitent.
“You will swallow the seed of Christ.”
She didn’t open her eyes when he pressed the head of his swollen, weeping penis to her lips. She accepted it, opening her mouth like she had for the Eucharist, letting him slide his flesh into hers. Her mouth opened wider, to take more of him, all of him, and Erica couldn’t help wondering if her own mother had knelt before Father Patrick this way. He kept one hand on the top of her head, holding her still, while he pumped in and out of her wet, pliant mouth.
He tasted clean and fresh; he smelled like baby powder and eucalyptus oil, and she opened herself up to him fully, letting him use her body as a vessel. In that moment, she was Mary, young and frightened, but still with no qualms about giving herself completely. This was God’s will, this was a man of God, and she was ready to submit to Him. Like her mother before her, she suddenly, finally knew her place in the scheme of things. Like every Mary, a virgin whore, accepting the seed of her master.
Father Patrick groaned, thrusting deep into her throat, making her gag, but he didn’t stop. Erica felt tears slipping down her temples, eyes watering, but it didn’t matter. She was ready for him, and when he came, she swallowed his seed, imagining it like a white river of lava, of light, burning its way down to her belly, where it would grow, unseen, except by those whose eyes had been opened.
And then it was over.
She licked the last of him off her lips as he let his robe fall again to touch the floor. He kept his hand on the top of her head.
“May God bless you and keep you until our next meeting.” Father Patrick, still out of breath, took a step back, looking down at her. Erica opened her eyes.
“You were born for this.” Father Patrick rubbed his thumb over her wet, swollen lower lip. “Just like your mother.”
“Was my mother a Mary or a Magdalene?”
“A Mary. Like you will be.” Father Patrick smiled. “She very much wanted you to continue her lineage. You will honor your mother by joining.”
“I have a feeling my father wouldn’t approve.”
“There are things in the world only the feminine can understand. It was Eve who tempted Adam with the apple, it was Eve who craved the fruit from the tree of knowledge. You are very much like Eve, my dear. You are temptation incarnate on this sinful planet. Your sin is your longing to know.”
Erica blinked up at him, seeing in Father Patrick the man her mother must have seen as well, the one she wrote about in her journal, the man she was willing to give everything to, to give everything up for. She understood the spell her mother had been under, the power this priest had wielded in her mother’s young life. And here was history, repeating itself.
“You can go now. You have proven your obedience to me.”
Erica got up from her knees, picking up her book bag and swinging it over her shoulder. Father Patrick was again sitting behind his desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. She didn’t quite understand what had happened, but she knew, like Eve, that she wanted to know. That which is forbidden to us always tastes sweeter.
Chapter Nine
Leah and Marty were secretly knitting going home outfits for their own babies. The two girls had decided to keep their babies—although they weren’t advertising the fact. Marty was making baby booties, a diaper cover, a little jacket and a bonnet, all pink and white. She was sure she was having a little girl. Leah was the opposite, using the same pattern, but she was knitting an outfit for her little man in blue. Her bell
y just kept growing. Just when she thought she couldn’t get any bigger, she looked in the mirror and discovered she had swallowed a watermelon. On top of a basketball.
They had to hide their endeavors, because while they were allowed to knit going home outfits for the babies, they weren’t allowed to give anything to the adoptive parents. It was part of the process. The nuns might have allowed it, but the ghoul insisted that, psychologically, it would be detrimental to both the adoptive parents and the unwed mother. And if the nuns and the ghoul had any idea the girls intended for their babies to wear these outfits home with their actual mothers, they’d never hear the end of it.
The two of them were sitting in the front room, knitting needles clacking, each of them with a baby blanket on top of their project, a clever ruse in case the nuns came in. They were hiding their babies’ going home outfits underneath, and could switch to the half knitted blanket in an instant. This way, they could work without anyone knowing what they were doing.
Jean sat at their feet sorting through the button box. There were hundreds of buttons in the tin, and she liked sorting them. She would do this for hours, sorting them by size or color or shape. The nuns didn’t care, especially since it kept her busy. It had been a week since Lizzie had gone into labor. Jean had been despondent, not talking to anyone, her usual bright smile gone. She didn’t even smile anymore when Frannie let loose with her string of Spanish obscenities, as she was wont to do, especially when it was her turn on her hands and knees washing the floors. Thank goodness none of the nuns spoke Spanish.
“She’s here! She’s here!” Frannie waddled into the sitting room, grinning down at Jean, who didn’t look up from her button sorting. Leah knew instantly. It must be Lizzie.
“Jeanie!” Frannie leaned down, shaking the older woman’s shoulder to get her attention. As extrasensory as her perception seem to be sometimes, she could shut the world out just as easily. “It’s Lizzie. She’s back.”
Jean lifted her head, brow knitted, with that wheels-turning look on her face she got whenever she was concentrating hard. Slowly, it dawned, and the Jean they knew and loved was suddenly back.
“Lizzie!” Jean sprang to her feet—as well as any pregnant woman could spring—and dashed toward the hallway.
She was met at the sitting room door by a diminutive figure. Lizzie smiled as Jean wrapped her arms around the little blonde, hugging her tightly, lifting her right off her feet.
“You’re going to break my spine.” Lizzie laughed, but she returned the older woman’s hug, and Leah thought there might have been tears in the younger girl’s eyes. “So it’s safe to say you missed me?”
Lizzie came into the room, wearing her own going home outfit. They each had one hanging in their closet, the clothes they had worn when they had arrived their very first day. Lizzie’s dress was white, pristinely white, with a red satin sash and red trim. Her hair, usually a curly mass, had been flat ironed. She looked older, although as Leah studied her face, something about the girl was different. It wasn’t just a change in hairstyle.
“So how was it?” Marty asked. “You know we all want to know.”
“Awful. Hurt like… Well, it hurt a lot.”
Jean took a seat next to Lizzie on one of the sofas, threading her fingers through Lizzie’s.
Poor Jean, Leah thought. Lizzie would only be there until her parents arrived. Then, Lizzie would be gone forever. They didn’t even know her real name.
“Boy or girl?” Leah asked. The nuns wouldn’t tell them, although they had asked on more than one occasion.
“Boy.” A brief smile moved across Lizzie’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes.” I’m so glad he was a boy. He’ll never have to go through what I’ve gone through. He’s beautiful. He has curly blond hair. So much hair! You should’ve seen him. Perfect little baby. The ghoul said they found a home for him already.”
“So he wasn’t… Well, I mean...” Leah let her question trail off. She didn’t want to speak the words out loud.
“He was perfect.” Lizzie said this with emphasis on the ‘perfect,’ in case anyone had any doubts. “I got to stay with him. The whole week. They wouldn’t let me nurse him. But I got to feed him a bottle, and change him. They let me name him. The adoptive parents don’t have to keep it, but they might.”
“What’s his name?” Jean asked.
“Henry. Henry Dennis...” Lizzie stopped, not giving a surname. Of course, her baby wouldn’t have her surname. He would have his adoptive parents’ name. But maybe they would keep the name his mother, the mother who had given birth to him, had given him.
“Henry Dennis.” Jean repeated it. “Henry Dennis. Henry Dennis.” She kept repeating it, a whisper, like a mantra.
“So really, what was it like?” Frannie asked, taking a seat next to Leah in one of the chairs. She struggled to get up and down now, with her belly so big. She was twice their size, and the nuns were even stricter with her food, on doctor’s orders of course. The doctor said it was because of her Latin blood that she was gaining so much weight.
“Well… The nuns dropped me off at the hospital. In my nightgown. It was still wet, which was… Anyway, it didn’t matter. By the time he was being born, I could’ve been naked in the middle of the street and I wouldn’t have cared. Nothing happened at first. I didn’t have any pains. But once they started, they didn’t stop. I thought I was dying. I begged them to do something. The nurses were busy, so no one really was there. Just me. Finally it got so bad I was screaming. A nurse came in and checked and said she could see the head, so they wheeled me down to the delivery room. That’s where he was born.”
“Was he born that day?” Frannie asked.
“October twentieth.” Lizzie gave that funny half smile again. “You should’ve heard him. He was crying the minute he came out. They didn’t have to hang him upside down or smack his bottom or anything. The ghoul had left a note in my file for the nurses, telling them I shouldn’t get to hold him right away, but there was a nice nurse, and she let me. I just wanted to make sure he had all his fingers and toes.”
“And of course he did.” Marty was busy knitting again, undercover of her blanket. They were all thinking about their babies, Leah was sure of it. Thinking about the upcoming labor, and then…
“So they let him stay with you for a whole week?” Leah asked.
“Yep. He went to the nursery at night, so he could sleep. But I saw him during the day. He opened his eyes, he looked at me. He was just like a little doll, only real. I fell in love with him. I wasn’t supposed to, but I fell in love with him.”
“Of course you’re supposed to love him. He’s your baby.” Marty looked up from her knitting. “Was it hard? Signing the papers? Giving him away? "
It wasn’t like Marty to ask such obvious questions, Leah thought. It was more Lizzie’s style. But of course the questions were being directed at Lizzie herself.
“What do you think?” Lizzie looked down at the floor, as if a spot there had caught her attention, and kept it. “But I couldn’t keep him. I couldn’t. I’m just fourteen. I can’t… I don’t have anything...”
“Elizabeth.” It was Sister Benedict’s voice from the hallway. She poked her head around the corner, glancing at the group of them. The rest of the girls were upstairs for nap time. They had made an exception for the lot of them because Lizzie was going home. It was nice of the nuns to do that, Leah thought, they didn’t have to. They let them say goodbye.
“They’re here. They’re coming up the stairs now.”
Lizzie stiffened, looking around the room at her friends. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she wasn’t hysterical like she’d been the night she went to the hospital. These tears seemed to come from a deeper place in her, a place previously untouched and untapped. A deep well. Leah put her knitting aside and went over to hug the younger girl. They embraced, and then they all were hugging in the few moments they had left.
Jean watched, not really understanding until Lizzie turned to her,
put her arms around the older woman’s waist, and said the words, “Goodbye.”
That’s when all hell broke loose. Jean finally understood, and she began to wail. Lizzie wrung her hands, distraught, watching Jean. The older woman acted like a three-year-old, throwing herself on the sofa, kicking her legs, flailing around, banging the back of her head against the couch. She even started pulling her own hair out.
Sister Benedict reappeared at the sitting room door, taking in the scene. She gave a heavy sigh, going over to the couch, and dragging Jean off of it. Jean howled, sounding like a wounded animal, as Sister Benedict dragged her into the hallway and up the stairs. It was Sister Lawrence who answered the front doorbell. The ringing of the bell could mean only one of two things, a girl coming or a girl going.