Jesus Boy

by Preston L. Allen

  It sank in deep.

  “Elwyn, I’m older than your mother! I can’t wait to hear Pastor read from the prayer sheet, Pray that Elwyn and Sister Morrisohn’s child be born healthy. Amen, amen. We screwed up big, Elwyn. I know the exact night it happened too. Remember that night? You just hate to wear a condom. You have too much faith in the pull-out. That is not proper birth control, young man. I knew one day it would happen. I warned you.”

  It sank in that his life was over.

  “But I should have known better at my age. Oh the shame when everybody finds out.”

  This was the end. He was dead.

  “We can’t have an abortion because killing is a sin and we’re Christians. You’re going to be a father, Elwyn. I don’t expect you to marry me because you’re so young. But this poor baby … it’ll be so alone … I’ll be so alone … I don’t blame you if you never want to see me again. You’re a man. You were just doing what men do. My body was there, and you were a man. I’m not asking you to do the Christian thing. I’m a grown woman. I’ll deal with it somehow.”

  He was dead. Dead. Here lies Elwyn James Parker. 1963–1982. Died of childbirth.

  She shouted into the phone, “Where are you, Elwyn? Talk to me. We have to do something.”

  There was only one thing that they could do, as Christians, but what would his parents say about a daughter-in-law older than they were? And his grandmother, who had caught them in the act but spared them the humiliation of open confession—this would kill her, if she didn’t kill them first.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Time to grow up. Time to start acting like a man.”

  “… Yes.”

  “Time to stop acting like you can just use people’s bodies and not bear the consequences of your actions. This is what you get for using me.”

  “… Yes.”

  “You must marry me.”

  “… Yes … I know.”

  “You know?”

  “… I have to marry you.”

  “But you don’t sound happy. This is our baby. We must not hate it. You will be happy with me. I will make you happy. I’ll let you finish school. I’ll pay for everything. You’ll never have to worry about anything. Then when you finish college and come home to us, everything will be wonderful. Please don’t hate me, my darling. Please don’t hate our baby.”

  “I don’t hate you or the baby. I hate myself. I got myself into this mess. Now I’m stuck with it. The wages of sin.”

  She gasped. “I am not the wages of your sin.”

  “Not you,” he said. “The baby.”

  * * *

  “Elwyn? Elwyn? I’m not pregnant,” Sister Morrisohn said, cackling.

  “What?”

  “I’m not pregnant. But how do you feel? This is just how you’re going to feel when Donna and the good reverend pull this same stunt on you. It’s an old trick. It’s how all the homely preachers’ daughters find a husband.”

  He wiped a tear from his eye. “You are too much. I can’t take anymore of you tonight. Bye.”

  “But my darling, I did it for your own good. Oh God, I love you, Elwyn. I am not the wages of your sin. Don’t let Donna Witherspoon be the wages of your virtue. She’s too ugly for you. She’s setting you up—”

  He put the phone down. He felt both anger and relief.

  Mostly anger.

  What he should have been feeling was sadness. But the sadness over this exchange wouldn’t come for another nine years.

  Nine years later, during a more somber exchange, he would have occasion to understand how much Sister Morrisohn really loved him and how much of her own happiness she had been willing to surrender to ensure his.

  As it was, after Elwyn hung up that night, he went to bed feeling mostly anger.

  Sister Morrisohn, for her part, had a sleepless night. In the morning, she arose and reread Harrison’s letter. Stop f—-ing that boy. Then she went to the Yellow Pages and looked up the number to the abortion clinic, called, and made the appointment.

  At her breakfast table, she finished off a bottle of fine wine, and she wept terrifically.

  * * *

  So as not to yield to temptation, Elwyn spent the next few nights away from the Witherspoons in a hotel room. Then he formally moved out of the Witherspoon home on Saturday after he’d found a new place and an old roommate.

  It surprised Gypsy.

  It surprised Elwyn too, that he had asked and that Gypsy had accepted. But he had to grow up. He had to get out from under her control.

  Then Gilly Gorilla, who had overheard the discussion, came between them. “The dorms suck big time. Would you kind gentlemen have room for a third?”

  Now the rent would be split three ways. God is good.

  God is so good.

  Though he told her not to, Donna, in her shapeless black dress, insisted on helping with the move.

  When everything was set down in the new place, he left Gypsy and Gilly Gorilla to finish up and he drove Donna back home and they got down on their knees and prayed together. They held hands during their prayer. Elwyn began to weep and Donna put her arm around him.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You can tell me.”

  He told her about Sister Morrisohn. He told her everything. Donna began to weep. He held her. They kissed. Or rather, he kissed her. Donna the Holy Roller. Donna who spoke in tongues. He kissed Donna’s tongue. Put his hand under her dress. Caressed her body. Her intact maidenhead. She cried into his lips.

  It was a very good kiss. He apologized for it. The kiss. Apologized for everything. And the ugly girl arose, in her ugly black dress, and told him to leave.

  He left.

  She never spoke to him again after that, though they continued to see each other around campus. Whenever he saw her he would think, She is very beautiful but it is on the inside. She will make some Christian a great wife. How I wish it were me.

  In the nearby town of Micanopy, they held their Christmas tryst.

  Sister Morrisohn continued to smoke despite his objections, and she had him sneaking out of the room to buy her cigarettes.

  The stranger approached him and said, “You’re the Reverend Gator. Oh man, this is so cool. Dude, I seen you around. Would you pray for me? Man, do I need prayer.”

  Even in his big hat and dark glasses, they knew it was him. He laid holy hands against the forehead and prayed that the man’s father survive open-heart surgery. The man thanked him and got into a car with a nervous blond woman who Elwyn doubted was his wife. By the time it occurred to Elwyn that the woman bore a striking resemblance to KSarah, the car had driven out of the parking lot.

  He stepped in fresh chewing gum.

  Angling his foot, he scraped most of it off on the edge of the sidewalk. Nevertheless, it was a sticky walk back to their room, and when he got there he angrily tossed the cigarettes on the bed where Sister Morrisohn lay.

  “Now what’s your problem?” she asked, reaching for the pack. As she tore open the plastic wrap and tapped out a cigarette, she gestured for the ashtray, which he passed to her. She put the cigarette between her lips as she said, “I hope it’s not Gypsy again.”

  He kicked off his gummed-up shoes. “You’re not my mother.”

  She frowned with her eyes. “Maybe I was too harsh, but I was only trying to protect you from what I perceived as a potentially dangerous situation. You have no idea how wonderful you are. Everybody wants you.” She lit her cigarette and exhaled smoke. “And get over it. It’s not your problem anyway. It’s not you beating on him. It’s not you making his life miserable. It’s his lifestyle. He chose to live like that.”

  Elwyn didn’t respond. He went to where his kicked-off shoes had landed, collected them, and put them by the chair. He sat in the chair and removed his socks, each of which he tucked neatly into his shoes. Sister Morrisohn watched his fastidiousness with amusement. Her little neat freak. Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

  “I don’t hate gays.
I hate their ways. I love some gays very much.”

  “Name one gay you love,” he said glumly.

  She winked and blew him a kiss. “Me.”

  He put his hands over his ears. “Liar. Stop messing with my head. You’ve never been with a woman.”

  She laughed and said, “Oh, Elwyn, give it a rest. You obsess over things too much. It’s not your fault that Gypsy’s that way. It’s his choice.”

  “God made him that way.”

  She puffed mirthfully on her cigarette, launching little balloons of smoke that floated up and then disappeared into the ceiling. “It was his choice. God doesn’t make you gay. Weakness makes you gay. I know from personal experience.”

  Elwyn shook his head at that, frowning, then said, “How do you know what God makes and what He doesn’t? Are you God?”

  She chuckled. “He sure has rubbed off on you. You sure do love you some Gypsy. You’re better off without him. I’m not ashamed of having manipulated you to get you away from him. Leviticus 20:13. If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them—”

  “You actually read the Bible? You actually read the Bible, then you drive all the way up here to put my penis in your mouth.”

  It didn’t faze her. She said, “I like your penis in my mouth,” and she kept right on puffing on her cigarette. Serenely. But Scripture is Scripture and Elwyn wanted so badly to hurt her.

  “Leviticus 20:18,” he said. “And if a man shall lie with a woman having her sickness—”

  “Gross. Shut up!”

  “—and shall uncover her nakedness; he hath discovered her fountain, and she hath uncovered the fountain of her blood: and both of them shall be cut off from among their people.”

  “Shut your fresh mouth. You are so gross. You are something else. That’s not even in the Bible.”

  “Yes it is. It’s the chapter you just quoted from. You should read the whole chapter before you try to quote Scripture with me.”

  “Arrogant little snot. I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s in there and we did do it. You let me uncover your fountain. You should be cut off. That’s Bible. That’s in there. Don’t even try to act like you know the Bible better than me.”

  “Fresh-mouth boy. Sometimes the way you talk to me, you have no respect. There are some things that are private and should not be repeated. A girlfriend is supposed to be able to trust her boyfriend not to repeat certain things. You have a fresh mouth. You think you can talk to me any old way. You think you can just hurt me. You think I need you? I’m a grown woman. You think I don’t have other options—”

  “It’s too cold in here.” He reached up to the wall behind him and pushed the switch that controlled the air.

  The cigarette bounced on her lip as she continued, “I never uncovered my fountain to you! I know the Bible just as well as you. It was something else that you would never understand, so don’t even ask me about it. I was sick, I told you, but you were horny. We shouldn’t have done it. But don’t you go accusing me of uncovering my fountain, goddamn you. Not all blood is the same blood. It was something else.”

  “Okay. Calm down, Grandmother.”

  She fired, “And turn that air back up! I like it cold. I paid for the room. Put your socks back on if you don’t like it. And don’t call me Grandmother! What the hell is the matter with you?” She was shrieking. “I didn’t drive all the way up here to fight with you!”

  He was cowed.

  He was cowed again by the fear that he would lose her. So why not lose her? She was ruining his life. Look at her smoking that cigarette. Cigarette smoking is a sin. It was all so confusing. There should be no cause for him to fear. He should want her to leave him. He got up and turned the air back up as she had commanded.

  She was all his this week, this interminable week. Tomorrow was Christmas, and his parents, especially his mother, were upset that he was not at home to spend it with them. They little accepted his lame excuse: mission work.

  His mother was refusing to take his calls.

  “She still loves you. You know how women are,” his father said. “Is it money? I’ve got a little savings account your mother doesn’t know about—Oh why won’t you come home for Christmas? It’s Christmas, Elwyn.”

  He had no answer for his father.

  Then there was the message on the answering machine left by his grandmother: “Is it just coincidence that you won’t come home for the Lord’s birthday, and Sister Morrisohn is supposedly spending it in Boston with her brother? I bet she’s right there with you. That lying Jezebel. Beware the daughters of Babylon. If I could drive, I’d come up to Gainesville and check your mission work.”

  Not Gainesville, Gran’ma, Micanopy, a town not too far away, a town noted for its motels.

  He shivered from the cold and said to Sister Morrisohn, “But it’s really cold.” He was supposed to be a man. Sex made you a man, didn’t it? He felt like a little boy again with her.

  “Put your sweater back on,” she said, leering. She was better now. Like a light: switch on, switch off. She was patting the bed. “Or you can climb back under the sheets and do your duty.”

  “Is your fountain flowing again?”

  “Don’t piss me off, boy.”

  Obedience is better than sacrifice. The boy stripped to his shorts. The boy climbed back under the sheets. At least there was That. And That. And That. He put his open mouth against her neck. He thought happy thoughts. In vain.

  “Okay, then, wait until I finish my cigarette,” she said. “You’re obviously not in the mood yet. I’ll have to warm you up.”

  “Finish your cigarette,” he grumbled. But it was a relief. Now at least he could get some sleep. He said to her, sarcastically, “Merry Christmas.”

  She began, “Merry Christ—” and got caught up in a fit of coughing. He let her cough some before patting her on the back. That helped a bit. Then he got her some water in a Dixie cup to drink. She said thanks afterward and lit another cigarette.

  He sighed. He wanted a wife and children and happy friendships. He wanted to be free. He had all the sex in the world he could want, but it was Christmas and he was missing his family.

  He was still cold, so he embraced her, but there was no warmth in her body. He released her and pulled the sheets over his head, which helped only a little. She started coughing again. Let her cough.

  Gypsy is indeed a sodomite, he thought, but I like him as much as I like Punching-bag and all of the other guys. She has no right to manipulate my feelings. This is America. I am free to like who I like. I like her, don’t I? What could be worse than liking her? Some people are so ironic in their judgments of others. Some people are so quick to point fingers without looking at themselves first. The Lord said, He that is without sin, let him cast the first stone. She has some nerve to judge my feelings for Gypsy, she who admits to having sex with a lesbian—she who gave birth to her own brother.

  She was still coughing. Her eyes were big. Fishlike. Let her cough. Let her cough until she croaks, he thought.

  He hated the hell out of her at that moment. Who was she to be telling him what to do? Who was she to be controlling him? He was the man in this relationship, was he not? She should be taking orders from him. He was free to do what he wanted. He was free to do what he had already done. So why was he afraid to tell her about it? Why was he afraid to tell her that he had moved out of the Witherspoon’s and into an apartment with his two new roommates, Gypsy and Gilly Gorilla?

  She was coughing, and he drifted into sleep, thinking about how clever he was, thinking how he had gotten one over on her, and his sleep was bad, filled with images of hell and she was the devil and he was uncovering her fountain. He was drinking her fountain. Mouthfuls of red water. He was gulping it down. As she coughed.

  When he woke up again, it was night, dark night with no lights on. She was lying on her side facing him, stari
ng at him as she always seemed to do when she thought he wasn’t looking. He would bet that she had memorized every part of his body.

  She blushed because he had caught her looking. She started to turn away. He said to her, “Will you marry me?”

  Water rolled out of her eyes.

  He took her into his arms and said, “Will you? I mean this is stupid running around hiding like this. You’re single. I’m single. I … I love you. I do. You make me crazy sometimes, but I love you.”

  She sobbed. “But—”

  “I’m not ashamed of loving you. I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

  She crushed her body against his. She breathed the words yesyesyes against his face. They made love to break the bed. They made love to the break of day.

  They made love like man and wife.

  The Murky Jordan

  Parking curbside on A1A was impossible.

  This was Miami Beach, tourist season. Elwyn pulled into the parking garage of the Imperial Point Towers and pressed the secret code to raise the striped arm. The hymn playing on the car’s cassette was “Stand by Me,” and Sister Morrisohn was singing along with it.

  “When I cross the murky Jordan, Lord, stand by me. Stand by me.”

  Elwyn said, “Stand by me.”

  Sister Morrisohn squeezed his hand. “Stand by us, Lord.”

  He felt a prick of fear—Yes, Lord, stand by us, stand by us now, please, as we are about to make this bold step. But when he looked down at her hand and saw the ring with the shiny stone on her finger, he regained his courage. It is the right thing to do, he told himself. The Lord is on our side this time.

  He wheeled the car into an empty space and turned off the engine. He got out and opened her door like a good gentleman. He took her hands and bowed his head. He said a prayer out of force of habit. When he opened his eyes, hers were still closed. He kissed her and she opened her eyes. She wore her hair swept back. She wore a simple blue dress, the same color as his jacket. She was beautiful. He kissed her again, romantically this time.

  “You’re hungry,” she observed.