by 19
All of these were formal words, which boiled down to the fact that Spectre had already said yes. That much was evident by the fact that he was listening to any character witnesses at all. A no was always immediate.
Well, almost always.
Spectre went into the kitchen, without a word, giving him a bad three minutes of doubt that nearly forced him into a nervous breakdown.
After eternity, Spectre came back–with a bottle of expensive champagne and four glasses. –Congratulations. I guess you're my future...what, cousin-in-law?
He smiled, almost dying of dizziness and relief. –Thank you, he said, and he couldn't think of any more to say, so he said it again. –Thank you.
He hugged Spectre close, having to grab at him to do it, almost upsetting the champagne, holding him too hard. Spectre groped until Jordan rescued the bottle, and hugged him back, patting his shoulder. –It's okay. I'm happy for both of you.
–I'll make her happy. I'll make her queen, he promised, his eyes aching. –I adore her. I promise you.
Three months later, they bought a marriage license from a flat-faced woman with mouse-brown hair at City Hall. She gave them each a questionnaire to fill out, and they sat on uncomfortable chairs in the lobby and compared answers and giggled. They asked Mary if she was a virgin, if she intended to obey her husband, if she intended to raise her children within the church. –Don't they mean the tent? he whispered to her, making her screech and smack him.
They asked him if he could support a family, provide for his wife, and if he understood a lifelong commitment.
They brought back the forms, with a squiggle where his name belonged that the clerk didn't look twice at. She started listing the times that Elijah would be able to conduct their ceremony.
–Thanks, that won't be necessary, he said quickly. Mary was standing beside him, holding his hand in both of hers. –I'm from another township, and we're going to be married there, by a friend of the family, he told her, handing her two hundred dollars in paper cash, and leaning on her mind with a featherlight insistence.
The clerk frowned, pressed her lips into a thin disapproving line, but she took the money and gave him a copy of the license.
–Where did you get that? Are you crazy? You can't let them know you have that kind of money. They'll start asking questions, Mary told him, once they were outside.
–You're supposed to obey me, remember? Mind your own business, he teased her, moving quickly to avoid the kick she directed at his shin.
–I'm serious, she insisted, putting her hands on her hips and giving him one of those looks.
–So am I. Get in the truck. I have to buy you a wedding dress, he said.
He married her one week later, at sunset, in the shadow of the oak tree behind the safehouse. Spectre led the ceremony, dressed in a gray tuxedo and his straw hat. Zillah and Jordan were there, both in black dresses, more or less as bridesmaids.
He was in a black tuxedo of his own, with a red shirt underneath. Mary was in a blood-red wedding dress he had found over a hundred miles away, in a consignment shop, with a full train and floor-length veil. She had on black lipstick, carefully applied by Jordan, and a bouquet of marijuana leaves (Jordan again) with a single white rose in the middle.
He promised to love her forever. She promised him the same thing, even though she looked at him so hard it made Spectre laugh on the obey part. When they were man and wife he bent her all the way back to kiss her until she was damn near lying on the ground, getting sand in her dress, laughing, her veil crooked and her lipstick ruined.
She threw the drug bouquet behind her. Zillah caught it, and gave the groom an amused and cold look.
The back of the truck was piled high with furniture and plywood and bedsheets and clothes. Jordan had written THIS SUCKER JUST GOT MARRIED, HALLELUJAH! in white shoe polish all over it, along with interlocking pairs of hearts and smiley faces. Tin cans and combat boots were strung from the bumper.
They both kissed everyone–he even kissed Zillah, on the cheek this time, and a little too quickly. And he helped Mary bundle her red dress into the truck, kissed her again for the benefit of their wedding party (all right, so there were ulterior motives there) and roared out of Spectre's yard, towards Calvary, rattling all the way.
(20)
The red wedding dress was on a hanger, dangling from one of the intact cabinet handles in the kitchen. Mary had disappeared into the bathroom, where she was taking an exceedingly long shower.
He brought in one of Spectre's wedding gifts–an ivory goosedown comforter, with silk sheets to match. He had never really made up a bed before. The sheets were too big, confusing him utterly. Finally, he stuffed the extra material up under the mattress.
He lit candles, and the kerosene lamp, and paced. He knew damn well what the bride was supposed to wear on her wedding night. Nobody ever had any suggestions for the groom. He settled for taking off his jacket, his tie, and his boots. He left the makeup on. He couldn't have taken it off anyway with her in the bathroom. He took her brush from the vanity and dragged it through his hair. After that he sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
She came out in a cloud of steam and perfume, and went straight over to the vanity and sat down. She was dressed in the black silk cruelty he had bought her. She had the outer robe over it, held close up to her chin. She was brushing out her hair, her hands shaking.
He came up behind her, took the brush away and did it for her, very gently. –I love your hair.
She made a nervous laugh. –It's just like yours.
He smiled at that. –It looks better on you.
She was about to cry. He could tell. He set the brush down and leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, near her ear, and put his hands on her shoulders.
–What are you so afraid of?
–You, she said, in a tiny scared voice. –I'm afraid of you.
He kept working on her shoulders, trying to unknot the muscles there.
–Have I ever hurt you, Mar?
–Well, you bit my finger, she said.
He tugged at the end of her hair for that one. –Besides that.
She shook her head, looking down at her hands. Her lips moved. He couldn't hear her, and he leaned closer. –It's just me, Mar. Same old me.
She shook her head again, faster.
–What is it?
–I can't tell you, she pleaded, desperate now.
He went down on his knees and pulled her around to look at him. –Whisper it to me. I won't tell. Come on.
She put her hand on his shoulder, timid and embarrassed, and whispered so close her breath was in his hair. –My mother told me that this...what's going to happen...is painful. And degrading. And I'm really afraid of pain. I can't stand it, I never could.
–The things we do to our children, he said, not really to her, and pulled her closer than close and hugged her hard. –Oh, Mar. My beautiful, beloved Mary. Do you trust me to prove her wrong?
–I wish you would. I just want...to make you happy. I just don't want you...to not want me anymore.
–You'll be a widow the day that happens, he promised. –Come on. Your hair is fine. I'm just going to mess it up again anyway, he said, smearing his hand through it to make her smile. –Come here.
She was still afraid. She followed him anyway.
He brought her over to the bed.
He pulled her down beside him, and just lay there with her, touching her face, looking into her eyes.
–Don't hurt me, she pleaded, just once, and that was the last of her voice.
She didn't resist. She let him kiss her, let him touch her. After a long space of time she raised her hands to touch him back.
He put his fingers where she needed them, finally, gentle and awed by this mystery he was touching, and said, does that hurt?
She made a frantic sound in answer, and said I love you, and bit his shoulder hard, and moved against him.
In the end he destroyed her hair, ruined her makeup, and sna
pped the strap of her nightgown. When it was finished, nearly dawn again, she was lying with her feet tangled with his, her mouth open against the back of his hand, her breathing deep and even and exhausted. There was blood on the sheets.
He prayed these people weren't insane enough to make him hang them out the window. Mary would die of embarrassment.
He woke up before she did, and when she opened her eyes he asked her, –Was your mother wrong?
–My mother was an idiot, she told him, and licked the hollow of his throat, pretending to growl.
(21)
They drove back to Spectre's for dinner that night. Everyone there made merciless fun of them. How's your back? Are you thirsty? Did the neighbors complain?
–I don't have any neighbors, Mary had said, exasperated, snapping at Jordan with a dishtowel.
–Lucky them, Spectre said behind her, an assault on two fronts. She turned and caught him in the neck with the corner of the wet towel with ninja speed and dexterity.
He watched this, laughing sometimes. Something was different, now. He was a part of these things. He was no longer just an observer. He could go to Mary. She would kiss him, hold him, scream and laugh if he picked her up and ran through the house with her.
He belonged somewhere.
He belonged here.
Nowhere, in any of his faded patchwork memories was there anything like this.
She came up to him, handed him a drink, kissed him deeply enough to make him shudder. –You look so serious, sitting over here all alone.
–So come sit with me.
Someone tapped on the front door.
It was almost comical. Everyone in the house shut up, and looked at him to see what they should do.
Must I be the leader? This isn't even my house.
He went to the door. –Who is it?
There was no answer.
He reached behind him, still looking out into the yard.
Jordan put a gun in his hand.
Spectre tried to push Mary towards the bedroom. She leaned hard against his hands and glared at him. He stood in front of her instead.
He opened the door, thumb on the safety, gun up and ready. There was no one there. There was only a shoebox-sized package wrapped in brown paper, marked with a cross in pencil.
He nudged it with his toe. It rattled.
He brought it inside.
–It's an offering, Spectre told him –It's a gift for religious reasons.
He handed Jordan back his gun. He set the possible bomb on the coffee table, studied it, and finally unwrapped it. The inside of the paper read: For the man who healed me at the church. God bless you.
He folded that, quickly, so that none of them would see it. Especially Zillah. –It's for me, he said.
There was about a hundred and fifty dollars in change and bills. –Fuck. There's no way he can afford this. I have to give it back, he said, starting towards the door.
–No, Mary said, Spectre repeating it a half-beat behind her. –You can't give it back. That's an incredible insult; you have to keep it. It's yours
–You have it, then, he said. He set the shoebox in her lap, went into Spectre's bathroom, closed and locked the door.
Mary was there, knocking, not two seconds later. –Don't be angry at me.
He was staring into the mirror, having a furious conversation with himself in the language of thought. –I'm not angry at you, Mar. I love you. I'll be right out, he told her, without taking his eyes off his reflection.
He opened Spectre's medicine cabinet, took out a package of razor blades.
He cut the back of his arm, two long tugging buttery pulls, deep enough for blood to run into the sink.
Don't you do that to me ever again, he thought at his image. Not ever.
(22)
The first one happened two weeks later.
They were celebrating their two-week anniversary, camped out on the kitchen floor, smoking a joint, drinking red wine. He was trying to teach her to French inhale.
–You have to blow upwards, out of your mouth, then inhale it through your nose. Like this.
She blew out a silly puff of smoke with her lips puckered into a satire, and expired with laughter, lying on the vinyl floor, holding her wineglass miraculously upright.
–No, you geek, he said, pretending to be exasperated.
She dipped her fingertips in her wine, flicked them at him.
–Oh, that's it. I try to teach you something, and this is how you act? You are in so much trouble. He took her glass away, pinned her to the floor, held her hands above her head. –Apologize, he ordered, mock-furious, with vague delicious ideas of turning her over his knees when she refused.
–Never! she shrieked, wiggling. It made him grind his teeth.
He was kissing her neck, biting to leave strawberry marks when someone banged on her front door.
He sat up. They stared at one another in horror.
–Spectre? he asked her.
She shook her head. –Aaron?
–Why? I haven't even stepped on his toes.
–Oh, that's awful, toes, she whispered, looking appropriately scandalized.
–Not yet, anyway. Too busy, he grumbled. He snapped his teeth centimeters from the tip of her nose to make her squeal. –Fuck, this whole...goddamned house...reeks of weed.
He stubbed out the joint in the ashtray, hid the entire thing in the cabinet under the sink.
He opened the door. The man there was vaguely familiar. He was standing there, looking embarrassed.
At the revival. He was one of the lieutenants, catching fainting parishioners and dragging out the subversives.
The man was no longer ironed, impeccable and stone-faced. In fact, he looked as if he had been crying. –Please, he began. –My name is Daniel. My daughter...she's terribly sick. I think she's dying. Please, you have to help her. Elijah already tried. They say...you healed Issac's lung. You're for real.
It's started, he thought. And so soon.
So fucking soon.
–I think you have the wrong house, he said, coldly, and started to shut the door.
–Wait! Daniel held the door open, groping in his pocket.
–I don't want any money. I'm not a healer. If she's dying, you need a doctor or a priest. I'm, not, either.
–No, just a minute...
Daniel pulled out the only thing on earth that could have persuaded him.
A photograph of a little girl in a white dress, with bright gold hair, combed and fluffed within an inch of her life.
He closed his eyes. It did not help him to stop seeing the little girl.
–Please. She's seven. She won't wake up. I'm begging you.
He sighed, deeply, and looked into Daniel's eyes, and said over his shoulder to Mary, –I have to go somewhere.
He looked back at Daniel. –Wait here. I'll be out in two minutes.
He went back in, started pulling on his shoes. Mary was watching him, with that little familiar line between her eyebrows that meant troubled. –Why does he want you to go?
He tied his boots, pulled on his t-shirt and a battered canvas trenchcoat to cover the tattoos, grabbed his sunglasses. –He thinks I can do faith-healing.
She laughed, in disbelief. –But you aren't even...like that, she finished lamely, seeing the look he gave her.
–He seems to think so. I couldn't say no. He's desperate. He went back over to her and leaned down to kiss her. –I'll be back in about an hour.
–And you'll finish what you started?
–Yes. And you'll finish what you just started.
He nipped at her earlobe, moved to leave.
She stopped him, pulled him close and kissed him again, and put her hand down the front of his jeans. –Half an hour?
–Oh...fuck, Mar...okay...half an...very soon, half an hour...
She smiled, pleased with herself, and let him go.
He decided he liked being a newlywed. He hoped it went on well into his sixties.
/> He followed Daniel, kept his hands in his pockets, hid behind his hair and his sunglasses. He ignored the man's prattle about his daughter's symptoms.
–If you know Elijah is full of shit, why don't you call him on it? Or why don't you at least look for other work?
Daniel was dumbfounded, either by his language or his statement. –Well...I have to provide for my...family...
–I read that in the marriage license they handed me, too. That's not what your reason is. That's an excuse you're reciting. You don't see me out scamming people who are too stupid to know they're being taken. What you mean is you like the money more than you'd like to do the right thing.
–That's not...
He'd had it with this idiot's rationalizations. Awkward silence would be better.
–Look. I'm doing this for Rebecca. I don't give a damn about you. You're a whore. So is Elijah.
–I never told you her name.
–Walk faster.
Daniel did.
They didn't speak again.
Rebecca was lying in a thin heap on her bed, like an antique rag doll. Her room was pink and white, with a picture of Jesus surrounded by fluffy white lambs hanging over her. She wasn't conscious. He hadn't even scanned her when he smelled it, the thick salt-sweet meaty scent of an infection.
He sat beside her, watching her for a long moment.
Daniel stood just in the doorway, his wife a meek shadow behind him.
When he spoke, his voice was very soft, and absolutely terrible. He said six words.
–This child is dying of syphilis.
He took off his sunglasses.
He looked at Daniel.
Daniel shook his head, mute with terror, seeing what the sunglasses had hidden.
Three more words.
–So are you.
He put his hands on Rebecca, one on her forehead, one between her legs. He made it mercifully quick.
The infection was easy.
