This Little Light

by Lori Lansens

  “The truth is, I didn’t know if I had raped this woman. She looked so scared, and she said, ‘You roofied me, right? My coffee last night? Did your friend rape me too?’ The dealer I’d been sitting with at a coffee shop the night before wasn’t exactly my friend. I didn’t need to roofie women to get them to sleep with me, so I was confused. I asked the woman her name and she said, ‘Merilee Magee.’ Then she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’”

  I looked around at the girls and their daddies. Were any of them wondering if his story was true, like I was?

  Jagger kept rolling. “Why was she apologizing? I felt her pain, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. It was terrible—and beautiful—and I knew I was in love with her. Just like that.

  “Then she asked my name, and she smiled when I told her it was Jagger Jonze. She said she loved Mick Jagger. I told her about my life, the evil I’d done, and that I was afraid, and sorry, because maybe I had raped her. I begged her forgiveness, and this woman, this stranger, who for some reason seemed to know me better than I knew myself, reached up to touch my face and said, ‘I forgive you. And God does too.’ I felt this surge of warmth from her touch. This feeling of purity, and goodness. I never thought of God before, never in my life, except maybe as a joke, a punch line, a curse, but I felt Him in that moment. The power of His forgiveness through Merilee Magee.”

  The audience was in deep, totally invested in this romance—this ménage à trois of Jagger, Merilee and God.

  He went on. “We talked for a while, about nothing and everything. Merilee’s pretty hair fell into her eyes, and when I brushed it back, I saw, on her forehead, a large purple blemish. I noticed another one on the side of her neck. She saw me see the spots. ‘Kaposi’s sarcoma,’ she said.

  “I realized in that moment that Merilee Magee was dying. I didn’t want to die too. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Beneath her apartment there was a small greengrocer called Valetti’s. I walked inside to buy some smokes and found a man threatening the little Italian woman behind the counter. It was the dealer I’d been with the night before. I was hit with the memory of the two of us carrying unconscious Merilee Magee up the stairs to her apartment. I stood there looking at this guy as flashes from the night before hit me like machine-gun fire. As the dealer was leaving the store, he bumped my shoulder. He disappeared down the alley before I could say anything—before I could remind him about the night before, and before I could tell him that the woman he’d drugged was HIV positive. That haunted me. And you understand, girls, this is a cautionary tale—another reason to rely on abstinence to keep yourself safe. You are sleeping with every person your partner has slept with before you. And everyone all those other people slept with. HIV. Venereal disease. Condoms aren’t enough. And they aren’t reliable. The only way to be safe is to abstain.”

  The fathers whistled and applauded loudly. Jagger let the noise die down before he went on.

  “I thought about following that dealer, figuring my life was over anyway since I probably caught Merilee’s horrible disease. I wanted to get high more than anything. But I heard a voice whispering my name, but the only person inside the grocer was the old Italian lady.

  “I heard the voice again—Jagger Jonze—and realized it was coming from the direction of the crucifix hanging behind the cash register. And even though I hadn’t believed in His glorious existence prior to this day, I knew in my heart and soul that it was Jesus Christ the Lord Our God. He had a message for me, and it was simple: ‘Take care of her.’ It was like He whispered the words right into my ear. And the urge to follow His word—which is the very definition of a calling—was so strong that instead of going after the dealer, I told the Italian lady, Mrs. Valetti, about what I’d just experienced. She crossed herself, and never doubted for one single second. Then I told her about Merilee Magee, dying in the apartment upstairs.”

  Now the dads were wiping tears from the corners of their eyes. I checked my hive. They couldn’t look away from Reverend Jonze. Ugh.

  “Mrs. Valetti and I climbed the dark stairs up to her apartment with some soup for Merilee Magee. I stayed, and hardly left her side again. That’s when I started writing songs about love, God’s love for us, my love for Merilee. I would sing Merilee to sleep every night, strumming on an old guitar I found in her closet. Mrs. Valetti built a shrine around the crucifix in her little store downstairs. Soon the neighbors got wind of the story of me and Merilee Magee. The women from the church fed us, and paid Merilee’s rent, and kept me strong with scripture and love. Through it all, Merilee never expressed her pain or suffering, just her gratitude, and her abiding love for God, and this unworthy man.”

  His voice cracked.

  “On her deathbed, I made Merilee my wife. And I promised her that I would honor her always, and never touch booze or drugs or have intercourse again. Sobriety and abstinence were my path to God. And Mrs. Merilee Jonze? We never consummated our marriage. Our love was pure and deeper than any love I’ve ever known, except for my love for God. Merilee showed me that sex isn’t love, and that love comes straight from God and Jesus Christ His Son, and is the most beautiful thing in His world. Merilee’s last words, before she left my hands for His, were ‘God’s will be done.’ ”

  The Reverend needed a minute.

  “The morning after Merilee’s funeral, I went to help Mrs. Valetti in the store. The door opened as I was stacking the shelves and my heart leapt because, with the sunlight in my eyes, I thought I was seeing Merilee. But it was a beautiful young girl who had walked in. She was maybe sixteen years old, like some of you, wearing a sundress. By the way she stood in the morning light, I could see that underneath she had thong underwear and a lace bra—she was practically naked. And she saw that I was looking at her. And she liked it.”

  The dads murmured uncomfortably.

  “She came over to the counter, and I heard Jesus Christ speak to me from the crucifix, as He has many times since—that crucifix hangs in my house to this day. You know what Jesus told me to do? ‘Take care of her.’ That’s what He said. And I realized then that Merilee hadn’t needed my help. I’d needed hers in order to know God, and to know the virtue of true love, and to hear my calling and find my purpose. That’s when I understood that God wanted me to take all I’d learned from loving Merilee Magee to help young girls.”

  Jagger paused for applause before he went on. He got it.

  “So I brought that girl upstairs to the apartment and I told her Merilee Magee’s story. My story. And by the end of it, that wanton little teenaged girl was covering herself up with one of Merilee’s old sweaters, and vowing to lead a godly life through abstinence. That’s when the idea of the American Virtue Ball was born. And so, as my beautiful Merilee said?”

  We all got the cue and shouted—well, all accept me, because I just couldn’t—“God’s will be done!”

  * * *

  —

  The Santa Anas have launched a full-out assault on the dying oak beside the shed. The tree is groaning like its limbs are being amputated, and they are, one twisted black branch at a time.

  Paula just looked out the window and let us know it’s all clear. Her abuelo, near as she can tell, is still sleeping in the trailer. I asked how many pills she gave him.

  “Four.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Abuelo’s gun. Should I go get?”

  Fee goes, “YES,” at the same time I go, “NO.”

  Freaking guns. I hate guns. I’m afraid of guns. Every home on the cul-de-sac, except mine, has a gun. For protection. Behind double gates. In crime-free Hidden Oaks. I mean, even Fee’s mom has a gun. My parents, because Canadian, but also because statistics, hated guns, and brought me up to fear and loathe them too. The Shooter On Campus drills we do once a month never made our neighbors question their stance on gun control. Didn’t even make them wonder where the disturbed teens are getting the weapons, because they knew: from the racks in the den, and the bedside tables of the
ir parents’ freaking rooms. And the hundreds of stories in the paper about domestic homicide didn’t have them asking, like, if the husband, or sometimes wife, didn’t have access to a firearm, maybe one of them wouldn’t be dead. Besides. What would we do with a gun? Really? Are we gonna shoot a bounty hunter? Do we really want to play into the media’s hands? We aren’t killers. That’s the point.

  We’re counting down the hours until Javier gets home. His workday is over when the sun starts to go down, and we keep telling each other, soon, soon.

  Fee and Paula just asked me what I was writing. I told them that I’d just gone on a tirade about guns, and that before that I was describing the story Reverend Jagger told us on orientation night.

  Fee looked at me accusingly. “You promised you wouldn’t write about that. What has all that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s got everything to do with everything,” I said. “How do you not see that?”

  “Oh my God, Rory. It’s embarrassing.”

  “To Jagger Jonze?”

  “To all of us.”

  “I’m not gonna stay quiet about him anymore, Fee. I’m telling. Everything.”

  “We’ll look like hos.”

  “We won’t.”

  “And you can’t write about what you think you saw happen between Jinny and Jagger because—Jesus, Rory—Jinny? Never.”

  “Well, I already wrote about that. Especially that.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “No one will believe it,” she said.

  “Not gonna let that stop me.”

  “Ror?”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t say anything about the stuff I told that night. Please don’t write about Dante.”

  Hope. There’s hope. People in the media are seriously investigating Jagger Jonze now. They’re examining his past—and his present—asking, Who the fuck is this guy? He’s only been on the scene for a couple of years. His rise has been fast, and last night meteoric, but aside from the personal redemption story he’s put out there, he’s one big mystery. No social accounts until he started recording songs. No credit rating before he hit the charts. No vehicle ownership in his past. Hmm.

  One news station spent an hour on fact-checking the Reverend’s personal story. They found no record of any person named Merilee Magee in Chicago, and no one called Valetti ever owned a grocery store on the street Jonze described. They found no one from the neighborhood he named—not one person—who could remember Jonze himself. His story’s been out there for nearly two years as he’s been climbing the Christian charts, and then getting his own TV show, but people are only asking questions now. This is good for us.

  I’m hot and thirsty and crampy and still scared, but Paula’s here, and Fee’s feeling better, even if she is kinda pissed at me about my blogging, and finally people out there are starting to figure some things out.

  Just got a news alert that the police chief at last is gonna make an announcement about the metal Gucci purse found in the ruins of the bathroom. I just told Fee and she put her head in her hands. Please God don’t let it be drugs.

  * * *

  —

  It wasn’t drugs.

  It wasn’t melted lipstick.

  They found a pregnancy test in Fee’s Gucci clutch. A positive pregnancy test.

  The police say DNA tests have confirmed that it belonged to Fee. Our enemies are saying that the pregnancy is obviously evidence of our Red Market involvement. Clearly, not only are we runners, but one of us had been paid to have a baby for the mafia’s international baby trafficking ring. Of course, everyone is speculating about what this means. I stared at the headline for a long time:

  CALABASAS BOMB SUSPECT FELIZA MARIA LOPEZ PREGNANT.

  When I looked up, Fee knew from my face what the news headline said. And I could tell from her face it was true.

  Definitely did not see that coming.

  Fee and I just stared at each other.

  Paula looked back and forth from me to Fee, then finally asked, “They find something bad in your purse?”

  Fee took a long breath then said, “I wanted to tell you, Ror. I was gonna.”

  Paula goes, “To tell what?”

  Fee widened her eyes, begging me not to say it out loud, but I couldn’t help myself. “They found a pee stick, Paula. Fee’s gonna have a baby.”

  “Embarazada?” Paula said, using the Spanish word for pregnant. “You don’t look like you have a baby.”

  Fee glared at me before she turned to Paula. “It’s true, though.”

  I’m thinking, how could this have happened? And why did she keep it from me? How did she not tell me about having sex in the first place? And when she thought she might be pregnant, why didn’t she share her secret? I blurted out, “Who’s the father?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Um. It matters.”

  “I don’t wanna get him in trouble.”

  “Well, you’re a minor, so…”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is he a minor?”

  “No. That’s the point, Rory.”

  “I agree, Fee. That’s the point.”

  “Stop it. This is why I didn’t tell you.”

  “So who is he?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  I do though. “Fee?”

  “Rory.”

  “Fee?”

  “I’m not talking about it.”

  “Have I met him?”

  “Stop.”

  “Who are you, Fee? Yesterday you were my best friend and today you’re a pregnant teen with a secret boyfriend?”

  “We’re still best friends. And he’s not my boyfriend. It’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Stop.”

  “It’s just that…I know you. I know your life. You’re either at school or you’re with me and the Hive. So in your pie chart of time, there’s a pretty slim freaking slice for meeting guys, let alone having sex with them. It must be someone I know.”

  “I’m not telling you, Rory. I’m sorry. I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Paula stroked Fee’s arm, deliberately shifting the conversation. “You can still go to school when you have a baby?”

  “I’m not leaving high school.”

  “Your mamá can raise?” Paula asked.

  “My mother!” Fee covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God! She must be dying. Maybe she doesn’t know. Think she knows?”

  I hadn’t told Fee that Morena was facing deportation. I couldn’t tell her now. But I also couldn’t lie. Of course her mother would’ve heard what the Feds just announced. “She’ll understand.”

  “She won’t.”

  “But she like the babies?” Paula said hopefully.

  “Not really,” Fee said.

  “How you gonna raise a baby by yourself, Fee?” I asked.

  “I can’t raise a baby by myself.”

  “You give to adoption?” Paula said.

  Fee shook her head.

  Even Paula, at ten years old, knew what Fee meant.

  “I’m gonna take care of it,” Fee said quietly.

  Paula slumped back against the shed wall and returned the Dancing Dina game to the backpack. The fun—if you can call it that—was over.

  “Are you saying…?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  I know I was grasping at straws. I just didn’t wanna believe this was happening. I mean, on top of everything else? So I said, “Some of those tests are sketch, Fee. Where’d you get it? You need ID to get a pregnancy test. Is that why you went to Cerritos?”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “I’m pregnant, Ror.”

  “And you waited? I mean, you waited until Friday to get a test? You waited until yesterday to pee on the freaking stick?”

  She shrugged by way of explanation. “I was gonna keep pretending. I
was gonna do it next week, after the ball and everything. But I was looking in the mirror yesterday. I’ve gotten so puffy. And I decided I had to know.”

  “Why did you bring the freaking test in your freaking purse?”

  “I did it right before we went to Jinny’s. I didn’t wanna leave it in the trash ‘cause I was worried my mother’d find it, and my purse was right there, and I didn’t exactly expect any of this to happen.”

  “Oh my God, Fee. I wish you’d told me.”

  “I didn’t wanna tell anybody. Ever,” she said, tears falling now. “I prayed to have a miscarriage. Is that evil?”

  Paula grabbed one of the extra T-shirts from the backpack so she could blow her nose.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I get it.”

  Paula nodded like she did too.

  “Does the father know? I mean, he knows now, but did you call him after you took the test?”

  Fee’s chin started to quiver.

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, he wasn’t happy.”

  Happy. “Guess not.”

  “He’s actually pretty mad.”

  “Mad at you?”

  “Mad at the situation.”

  “Right. So you didn’t use protection? Sorry, but…?”

  “Please don’t do that. Please don’t judge.”

  “You found out about all this yesterday and you’ve already made up your mind about…?” I couldn’t even say it.

  She looked up. “I’ve made up my mind. So what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I mean, you wouldn’t be against it. I read your blog. Remember?”

  “Did you tell the father what you were gonna do?”

  “We agreed,” she said.

  “Okay then.”

  Paula stood up to look out the window. She didn’t wanna talk about Fee’s pregnancy anymore. “The wind is strong,” she said.

  Fee got frantic all of a sudden. “The DNA? Will they be able to tell who the father is from that test?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”

  Thoughts of every male we’d ever come in contact with flashed through my mind. Hidden Oaks neighbors. School staff. The guy with the tats from iPhone Fix? Nah. No one made sense. Who the fuck knocked up my best friend? The only person I could cross off the list for sure was Dante—Fee’s cousin. First because cousin, and second because, not counting Friday’s trip, Fee hadn’t been to Cerritos since early July, which would make her five months pregnant, and she’s not.