Hope you enjoy!
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Sister Mary Ignatius and her boyfriend were parked in his '67 cherry red Corvette, for the 194th time since they met. That was her official count. It might have been off by one or two, or by several dozen. She blacked out every so often, and it was anyone’s guess he did during those times.
In the beginning, he insisted on parking in front of her house.
"I don't wanna drive, babe," he said to her, unzipping his skin-tight jeans for the first time. Mary Ignatius wondered why he wore skin-tight jeans. Nothing inside them warranted such attention. "I'm tired, and your mouth's the same everywhere."
He changed his tune when her grandfather almost caught them in the act, on his way to his monthly Shriners meeting. Luckily, you can't see much from those miniature convertibles.
Still, her boyfriend didn't find the near-miss to be a cause for alarm.
"He's an old fart," he said, dismissing her concern outright. "I could take that geezer."
But after Mary Ignatius told him about her grandfather's extensive shotgun collection, he decided that her mouth was actually more appealing elsewhere.
So he started meeting her at work. Usually he would wait until her shift ended, but occasionally he showed up during her coffee break. Mary Ignatius was never sure when she would get a break, so he would just lurk outside the building waiting for her to come out. Sometimes she wouldn’t get a break for an entire shift, and he would wander outside the store for the entire day, but that was still a more productive use of his time than his usual daily activities, which usually ranged from bowling to betting on bowling. Plus, by the time she finally got out of work, he had been sporting wood for so long he found himself actually excited to see her. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
They would find a quiet corner of the parking lot, as far from the hustle and bustle as possible. Finding a quiet spot in the parking lot was not an easy task. The Wal-Mart was not simply a popular hang-out for teenagers and the underemployed; it was the town centerpiece. When news first broke out that the great chain had decided to place its 3,985th store smack between the Chuck E’ Cheese and the bottomless strip club (but not topless – for that you had to go across town), the locals had high hopes for the future of their town. Even the mayor took the day off from his job and came out for the grand opening.
“The cesspools can empty themselves today – I’m not going to miss this!,” he declared to an eager crowd, while cutting a large red ribbon with oversized novelty scissors.
Indeed, the store succeeded in placing them on the map, putting them in direct competition with such rising hot spots as Tuscaloosa, and Sheboygan. But three years, and two hundred mentally disabled employees later, the town had not changed much. It did not attract the wide clientele the citizens had hoped for. Most of the time the store was filled with customers on their way to or from the Chuck E’ Cheese or the strip club, each shopping in different sections of the store but meeting at the cash registers, where they would exchange sly but knowing glances.
Still, the residents of the small town were happy to have the store, which brought them necessary and exotic items from all over the world. No matter what the politicians say, Japanese enemas are far superior to anything domestically made. And in return, the town looked the other way at the store’s slight code violations, like recycling ordinances, or child labor laws. Most eight-year-old boys have the same upper body strength as a seventy-year-old woman, but they’re not allowed to profit from it. Where’s the justice in that?
Mary Ignatius was especially happy when the Wal-Mart moved in. She had grown intensely bored at her previous job. At first she had enjoyed learning about the intricacies of synthetic ice cream production, but she quickly learned that too much knowledge about the product was not conducive to actually selling it. Plus, there was little room for advancement for women in the chain. Despite its royal title, the Dairy Queen actually has a glass ceiling.
So when the Wal-Mart opened, Mary Ignatius was one of the first applicants. Hoping to land a management position, she showed up for her interview dressed in her best suit, and had even prepared a resume. The resume was padded, sure, but it was printed on nice paper, and it was true enough. Her big city interviewer took a shine to her right away, and praised her for her professionalism in this “one horse town.”
“Though the suit is a bit much,” he said, gesturing at her with a lit cigarette. “Customers like a free gift with their purchase, if you get my drift,” he continued, blowing a cigarette ring towards her breasts. Mary Ignatius knew how to play the game. Nothing below the waist line, just like her mother had taught her. He settled for a little under the shirt action, and the next day, Mary Ignatius became head cashier.
Besides the occasional 28 hour shift and Mexican HMO medical insurance (try finding a proctologist in Guadalajara at midnight), the work itself wasn’t bad. It was certainly much more exciting than anything that ever happened at the Dairy Queen, with the exception of the night she was held up by a masked gunman. Mary Ignatius was slightly concerned when the man pointed a semi-automatic at her head, but then she realized the robber was her ex-boyfriend, and the two of them had a good laugh. She gave him all the money from the safe, and even threw in an extra twenty from her own purse, just because he seemed to be down on his luck, and he was always nice to her.
So far, she hadn’t been held up at the Wal-Mart. It was too big and well-guarded; with 48 aisles and snipers posed at every display, the store lended itself more to shoplifting than full-blown robbery. Mary Ignatius witnessed a good deal of shoplifting during her shifts, but she never said anything, even when someone’s shirt was clearly hiding some ill-gotten item, like an electric hammer, or an automatic salad shooter. More people just down on their luck, she thought. There but for the grace of God.
And Mary Ignatius enjoyed her supervisory role as head cashier. For the first time in her life, she was calling the shots. She carried the master register key, which was needed every time a customer wanted to make a return. It was unclear to Mary Ignatius why she needed to approve every return. It’s not as if she gave each customer the third degree, even when it was warranted.
“Excuse me, sir, did you actually buy these eighteen pairs of pantyhose, or are you trying to pull one over on me?”
Still, just possessing the key itself gave Mary Ignatius an uneasy satisfaction. It represented a great trust between herself and her employer. It weighed around her neck like an anvil. So when their more than occasional trysts moved to the Wal-Mart parking lot, Mary Ignatius worried about being caught. She liked the anvil around her neck. It was certainly better than a cow apron.
"What if my boss sees us?," she asked, glancing nervously around the lot. A few teenagers were skateboarding near the sidewalk, coming perilously close to oncoming traffic. She didn't really mind if they noticed. They had to learn sometime, better here than on the streets. But she didn't want her boss to catch them. The father of four, husband of two, and part-time televangelist -- he had his own show on a popular public access channel, scheduled between The 700 Club and Twin Peaks repeats -- wouldn't understand such things. The rumor was that he was recently acquitted on child molestation charges, but no one had been able to substantiate it. Besides, he was an evangelical, and therefore incapable of such transgressions.
"Mary Ignatius, have you given any more thought to joining the church?," her boss asked her at least once a day. "We really could use some nice, firm youth like you."
"So what? Maybe he'll want to join in," her boyfriend replied with a smirk. Mary Ignatius doubted that – he was an evangelical, after all -- though she had once found him undressing the Barbie dolls in the storeroom. He claimed that he was just making sure that the Mattel people didn't slip any satanic influences into the toy, but he hunched over while he said it.
Eventually, Mary Ignatius relented – it was either that or find another boyfriend, and she didn’t have time or patience to search for a lesser evil -- so they started doing it in the parking lot. And he'd usually drive her home after they were done, if he wasn’t too tired. It was easier than the bus, and a few tissues and the occasional antibiotic are still cheaper than a monthly bus pass.
But since summer began, Mary Ignatius had become less comfortable with the arrangement. He refused to run the air conditioner while they were parked – bad for the engine, he said, plus he enjoyed the smell of her sweat -- and she didn’t like opening the windows for fear of the escaping sound. Even though their dalliances rarely lasted longer than a few minutes, in that short period of time, the combination of the heat, her perpetual exhaustion, and the constant movement of her head started making her faint. Eventually she convinced him to leave the air conditioning on at least partly, but only after she passed out for the third time. He didn’t really care whether she was conscious, but he hated having to do any of the work.
“I might as well use a vacuum hose and some Vaseline,” he told her. She doubted a full-sized vacuum hose was necessary, just like she doubted that skin-tight jeans were invented for men like him. She thought about buying him a dustbuster for Christmas, but he didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
Usually she just went along with it, though, mostly because it was over so quickly, and it wasn’t worth the hassle. It takes much longer to eat a bad meal, and people do that everyday. Mary Ignatius didn’t see much difference. Lots of things in life can make you gag.
Today, though, Mary Ignatius was feeling especially frustrated. An elderly woman had tried to return fourteen pounds of cabbage that morning, and even that was too much for Mary Ignatius to look the other way. Security found several stolen items stuffed into various crevices on her body, some of which lost all resale value as a result. As always, Mary Ignatius tried to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, although she wondered what an elderly woman would do with twelve boxes of condoms. She left it to the authorities to find that out.
"Why does it always have to be the car?," Mary Ignatius asked her boyfriend, watching him unzip for the 194th time. She immediately regretted asking the question. He didn't like when she talked too much. She wasn’t afraid that he would hit her or yell at her or do anything that required the exertion of physical energy; he wasn't that type. He’d just dump her, and find someone who didn’t ask so many questions. Someone whose grandfather didn’t own a shotgun.
"Babe, you know why," he said, showing the dashboard more love and care than he showed her head. ““Smell that? That’s raw power, man.”
Mary Ignatius couldn’t smell the power. All she smelled was the raw, musty stench of his crotch, the rotting pleather seats, and the faint odor of the town landfill that served as the store’s backyard. It was a toxic combination to anyone with functioning nostrils, though he never seemed to notice. People will suffer all sorts of physical torment when they have a sense of purpose.
In the beginning she tried breathing through her mouth, which she quickly found to be an impractical solution. But necessity is the mother of invention, and by their hundredth encounter she could hold her breath for a full sixty seconds. Fortunately, her boyfriend rarely needed more than sixty seconds. If he did, it was usually because he was drunk, and in that case she would just stop in the middle and lie about it when he finally woke up.
Mary Ignatius felt his hand on the back of her head, guiding her up and down. This was about as active and reaffirming as he got, so she didn't protest. Though the guidance hardly seemed necessary. It was a relatively self-explanatory procedure, anyone with a fourth-grade education could do it. There was only one way for her head to go. She had read about ones that grow crooked, but he didn't have one of those. Something to be thankful for, at least.
At first, she hated the taste too. She read somewhere that it could be affected by diet, so she tried to feed him lots of sweets. He refused most of them, claiming to be watching his weight -- too little, too late, she thought -- so instead Mary Ignatius tried chewing gum during it, but the gum kept falling out of her mouth. Once it landed in his pubic hair, which he didn’t appreciate. It took thirty minutes and a pair of cuticle scissors to extract it from his testicles, after holding them over a freezer chest for thirty minutes. He forbade her from chewing gum anymore after that.
But after a while, Mary Ignatius came to tolerate, and then even enjoy, the taste. It reminded her of those summers at the Cape she spent with her family, before the accident, before she knew the kind of choices she would have to make, which weren't really choices at all.
“C’mon, Banana,” her father would call to her from the shore. “Let’s go swimming!”
Hoisting her on his shoulders and carrying her down to the crashing waves below, Mary Ignatius always shuddered as they approached; no matter how many times she experienced the shock, she always found herself bracing for the impact. But Mary Ignatius had been coming to the Cape since she was born, and she didn’t know that an ocean could be anything but frigid and unforgiving.
The waves would hit her father first, and Mary Ignatius could feel his skin bristle from the touch. The ocean did not want them. It frothed at their intrusion, at the boldness of their assumption that, yes, indeed they were welcome here. But instead of retreat, her father would venture out further into the water, taking Mary Ignatius with him further from shore. She marveled at his fearlessness, even as it frightened her.
Sometimes a large wave would approach in front of them, and Mary Ignatius would scream at her father to turn back.
"Go back? But why?," he asked her, bracing for the impact. "This is what we came for, isn't it?"
Mary Ignatius clung to the hair on her father's shoulders and back. It was soft and warm, not like the needles on her boyfriend that dug into her face with every thrust. It kept her safe from the violent tide, a tender wall, a shield of time. They could swim together, laugh together, drown together, all at once, a glorious unity.
It always seemed like an eternity, waiting for the wave to envelop them. Mary Ignatius shook with anticipation at the sight of it, churning towards them with greater and greater speed, with no care for anything in its wake. Time was, her sister would have been by her side, egging her on, teasing her for being afraid, while her mother shouted from the beach not to venture any further. Now it was just them, just her and her father. Just another wave in the ocean.
When the wave finally crashed, Mary Ignatius couldn't see anything under her, except the top of her father's head, and his hands laced around her hips. But no matter how high the wave, or how great the impact, he never let her go. He couldn't let her go any more than he could let go a finger, or a foot.
Inevitably Mary Ignatius would swallow some of the cold Atlantic water. She felt it inside her, filling her stomach, weighing her down and then coming back up. It refused to be contained.
“What are you doing?” her father asked, when he saw her spit it out.
“It’s gross,” she replied, wiping her mouth with her hand. "It makes me gag."
“That’s the ocean, Banana,” he said, taking a handful, holding it up to his mouth and drinking it. “That’s life.”
Mary Ignatius hadn't been back to the Cape since the accident. It reminded her of times better forgotten, as better times often are. Besides, there was no one left to share it with. Just her and the cold, unforgiving sea. She hadn’t tasted the real ocean in years.
And now, in the backseat of her boyfriend’s ’67 Corvette, Mary Ignatius was drinking life again.
But Mary Ignatius was not angry, not at all. This is how it is, she figured. There is no best of times, no worst of times. There's just time, and the march. She had been fooled into thinking there could be more, once. People she trusted had fooled her, and then they let her down. The accident wasn't their fault, of course. Thirteen beers and a rental car. Maybe twelve, and he could have swerved. Maybe fourteen, and he would have passed out. But then eventually someone else would have had thirteen, and he would have gotten them just the same. There's no escape, only delay.
The only anger she held, the only anger she allowed, was towards herself, towards the girl she had been, towards those times that she fooled herself into thinking they were not just fooling her. Just the naive visions of a silly child, she thought, before the thirteenth beer. The most she could hope for now were moments like this. Moments of solitude. Nothing else could get inside; nothing else ever wanted to stay. She wouldn't let it.
Today, though, the rocks weighed her down more than usual, and the branches snapped easier than ever. Thirteen years. Thirteen years, thirteen beers. Maybe there was something to that, she wondered, as tears mixed in her mouth, with the saliva and pre-cum.
Cabbage. Semi-automatics. Panty-hose. Barbie dolls. Pubic hair. Needles. 1967. Thirteen beers. Thirteen years. No, there was nothing to it. It was all random, and it was all solitary.
She floated above herself, unconnected. She watched her head move, up and down, for now and forever; his hand move, up and down, for now and forever; her life move, nowhere, for now and forever. The branches vanished, and the rocks found their home. The water was above her head, and she didn't care. There was quiet there. There was solitude.
That's when He found her.
It was subtle, at first. Just a thought. A possibility. Then it became stronger, clearer, like a camera coming into focus. He didn't impose Himself on her; He simply watched, without judging. The way He did. The way He is supposed to. Mary Ignatius, you're not doing anything wrong, He said. You're just not doing anything right.
And behind Him, she could see hear her sister teasing her, and her mother shouting from the shore. She could feel her father's skin underneath her hips, his hands against her thighs as he lifted her towards the sky. The sun was masked by the clouds, but she felt its light on her face. She knew it was there, even if she couldn't see it. She knew they were there, even if she couldn't hear them. She knew he was there, even if she couldn't feel him.
The rocks floated away. The branches became trees. And Mary Ignatius could taste the ocean again. It came into her mouth, quickly and passionately, flowing down her throat in sharp waves that filled her stomach. She swallowed all of it, hungrily, willingly, and for the first time, happily.
"Babe, that was the best time yet!," her boyfriend shouted, with more enthusiasm than he'd ever shown before. Of course, it wasn't much of a horse race. "We're going to have to do that again!"
Mary Ignatius smiled, wiped the ejaculate off her chin, and got out of the car.
"He's an old fart," he said, dismissing her concern outright. "I could take that geezer."
But after Mary Ignatius told him about her grandfather's extensive shotgun collection, he decided that her mouth was actually more appealing elsewhere.
So he started meeting her at work. Usually he would wait until her shift ended, but occasionally he showed up during her coffee break. Mary Ignatius was never sure when she would get a break, so he would just lurk outside the building waiting for her to come out. Sometimes she wouldn’t get a break for an entire shift, and he would wander outside the store for the entire day, but that was still a more productive use of his time than his usual daily activities, which usually ranged from bowling to betting on bowling. Plus, by the time she finally got out of work, he had been sporting wood for so long he found himself actually excited to see her. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
They would find a quiet corner of the parking lot, as far from the hustle and bustle as possible. Finding a quiet spot in the parking lot was not an easy task. The Wal-Mart was not simply a popular hang-out for teenagers and the underemployed; it was the town centerpiece. When news first broke out that the great chain had decided to place its 3,985th store smack between the Chuck E’ Cheese and the bottomless strip club (but not topless – for that you had to go across town), the locals had high hopes for the future of their town. Even the mayor took the day off from his job and came out for the grand opening.
“The cesspools can empty themselves today – I’m not going to miss this!,” he declared to an eager crowd, while cutting a large red ribbon with oversized novelty scissors.
Indeed, the store succeeded in placing them on the map, putting them in direct competition with such rising hot spots as Tuscaloosa, and Sheboygan. But three years, and two hundred mentally disabled employees later, the town had not changed much. It did not attract the wide clientele the citizens had hoped for. Most of the time the store was filled with customers on their way to or from the Chuck E’ Cheese or the strip club, each shopping in different sections of the store but meeting at the cash registers, where they would exchange sly but knowing glances.
Still, the residents of the small town were happy to have the store, which brought them necessary and exotic items from all over the world. No matter what the politicians say, Japanese enemas are far superior to anything domestically made. And in return, the town looked the other way at the store’s slight code violations, like recycling ordinances, or child labor laws. Most eight-year-old boys have the same upper body strength as a seventy-year-old woman, but they’re not allowed to profit from it. Where’s the justice in that?
Mary Ignatius was especially happy when the Wal-Mart moved in. She had grown intensely bored at her previous job. At first she had enjoyed learning about the intricacies of synthetic ice cream production, but she quickly learned that too much knowledge about the product was not conducive to actually selling it. Plus, there was little room for advancement for women in the chain. Despite its royal title, the Dairy Queen actually has a glass ceiling.
So when the Wal-Mart opened, Mary Ignatius was one of the first applicants. Hoping to land a management position, she showed up for her interview dressed in her best suit, and had even prepared a resume. The resume was padded, sure, but it was printed on nice paper, and it was true enough. Her big city interviewer took a shine to her right away, and praised her for her professionalism in this “one horse town.”
“Though the suit is a bit much,” he said, gesturing at her with a lit cigarette. “Customers like a free gift with their purchase, if you get my drift,” he continued, blowing a cigarette ring towards her breasts. Mary Ignatius knew how to play the game. Nothing below the waist line, just like her mother had taught her. He settled for a little under the shirt action, and the next day, Mary Ignatius became head cashier.
Besides the occasional 28 hour shift and Mexican HMO medical insurance (try finding a proctologist in Guadalajara at midnight), the work itself wasn’t bad. It was certainly much more exciting than anything that ever happened at the Dairy Queen, with the exception of the night she was held up by a masked gunman. Mary Ignatius was slightly concerned when the man pointed a semi-automatic at her head, but then she realized the robber was her ex-boyfriend, and the two of them had a good laugh. She gave him all the money from the safe, and even threw in an extra twenty from her own purse, just because he seemed to be down on his luck, and he was always nice to her.
So far, she hadn’t been held up at the Wal-Mart. It was too big and well-guarded; with 48 aisles and snipers posed at every display, the store lended itself more to shoplifting than full-blown robbery. Mary Ignatius witnessed a good deal of shoplifting during her shifts, but she never said anything, even when someone’s shirt was clearly hiding some ill-gotten item, like an electric hammer, or an automatic salad shooter. More people just down on their luck, she thought. There but for the grace of God.
And Mary Ignatius enjoyed her supervisory role as head cashier. For the first time in her life, she was calling the shots. She carried the master register key, which was needed every time a customer wanted to make a return. It was unclear to Mary Ignatius why she needed to approve every return. It’s not as if she gave each customer the third degree, even when it was warranted.
“Excuse me, sir, did you actually buy these eighteen pairs of pantyhose, or are you trying to pull one over on me?”
Still, just possessing the key itself gave Mary Ignatius an uneasy satisfaction. It represented a great trust between herself and her employer. It weighed around her neck like an anvil. So when their more than occasional trysts moved to the Wal-Mart parking lot, Mary Ignatius worried about being caught. She liked the anvil around her neck. It was certainly better than a cow apron.
"What if my boss sees us?," she asked, glancing nervously around the lot. A few teenagers were skateboarding near the sidewalk, coming perilously close to oncoming traffic. She didn't really mind if they noticed. They had to learn sometime, better here than on the streets. But she didn't want her boss to catch them. The father of four, husband of two, and part-time televangelist -- he had his own show on a popular public access channel, scheduled between The 700 Club and Twin Peaks repeats -- wouldn't understand such things. The rumor was that he was recently acquitted on child molestation charges, but no one had been able to substantiate it. Besides, he was an evangelical, and therefore incapable of such transgressions.
"Mary Ignatius, have you given any more thought to joining the church?," her boss asked her at least once a day. "We really could use some nice, firm youth like you."
"So what? Maybe he'll want to join in," her boyfriend replied with a smirk. Mary Ignatius doubted that – he was an evangelical, after all -- though she had once found him undressing the Barbie dolls in the storeroom. He claimed that he was just making sure that the Mattel people didn't slip any satanic influences into the toy, but he hunched over while he said it.
Eventually, Mary Ignatius relented – it was either that or find another boyfriend, and she didn’t have time or patience to search for a lesser evil -- so they started doing it in the parking lot. And he'd usually drive her home after they were done, if he wasn’t too tired. It was easier than the bus, and a few tissues and the occasional antibiotic are still cheaper than a monthly bus pass.
But since summer began, Mary Ignatius had become less comfortable with the arrangement. He refused to run the air conditioner while they were parked – bad for the engine, he said, plus he enjoyed the smell of her sweat -- and she didn’t like opening the windows for fear of the escaping sound. Even though their dalliances rarely lasted longer than a few minutes, in that short period of time, the combination of the heat, her perpetual exhaustion, and the constant movement of her head started making her faint. Eventually she convinced him to leave the air conditioning on at least partly, but only after she passed out for the third time. He didn’t really care whether she was conscious, but he hated having to do any of the work.
“I might as well use a vacuum hose and some Vaseline,” he told her. She doubted a full-sized vacuum hose was necessary, just like she doubted that skin-tight jeans were invented for men like him. She thought about buying him a dustbuster for Christmas, but he didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
Usually she just went along with it, though, mostly because it was over so quickly, and it wasn’t worth the hassle. It takes much longer to eat a bad meal, and people do that everyday. Mary Ignatius didn’t see much difference. Lots of things in life can make you gag.
Today, though, Mary Ignatius was feeling especially frustrated. An elderly woman had tried to return fourteen pounds of cabbage that morning, and even that was too much for Mary Ignatius to look the other way. Security found several stolen items stuffed into various crevices on her body, some of which lost all resale value as a result. As always, Mary Ignatius tried to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, although she wondered what an elderly woman would do with twelve boxes of condoms. She left it to the authorities to find that out.
"Why does it always have to be the car?," Mary Ignatius asked her boyfriend, watching him unzip for the 194th time. She immediately regretted asking the question. He didn't like when she talked too much. She wasn’t afraid that he would hit her or yell at her or do anything that required the exertion of physical energy; he wasn't that type. He’d just dump her, and find someone who didn’t ask so many questions. Someone whose grandfather didn’t own a shotgun.
"Babe, you know why," he said, showing the dashboard more love and care than he showed her head. ““Smell that? That’s raw power, man.”
Mary Ignatius couldn’t smell the power. All she smelled was the raw, musty stench of his crotch, the rotting pleather seats, and the faint odor of the town landfill that served as the store’s backyard. It was a toxic combination to anyone with functioning nostrils, though he never seemed to notice. People will suffer all sorts of physical torment when they have a sense of purpose.
In the beginning she tried breathing through her mouth, which she quickly found to be an impractical solution. But necessity is the mother of invention, and by their hundredth encounter she could hold her breath for a full sixty seconds. Fortunately, her boyfriend rarely needed more than sixty seconds. If he did, it was usually because he was drunk, and in that case she would just stop in the middle and lie about it when he finally woke up.
Mary Ignatius felt his hand on the back of her head, guiding her up and down. This was about as active and reaffirming as he got, so she didn't protest. Though the guidance hardly seemed necessary. It was a relatively self-explanatory procedure, anyone with a fourth-grade education could do it. There was only one way for her head to go. She had read about ones that grow crooked, but he didn't have one of those. Something to be thankful for, at least.
At first, she hated the taste too. She read somewhere that it could be affected by diet, so she tried to feed him lots of sweets. He refused most of them, claiming to be watching his weight -- too little, too late, she thought -- so instead Mary Ignatius tried chewing gum during it, but the gum kept falling out of her mouth. Once it landed in his pubic hair, which he didn’t appreciate. It took thirty minutes and a pair of cuticle scissors to extract it from his testicles, after holding them over a freezer chest for thirty minutes. He forbade her from chewing gum anymore after that.
But after a while, Mary Ignatius came to tolerate, and then even enjoy, the taste. It reminded her of those summers at the Cape she spent with her family, before the accident, before she knew the kind of choices she would have to make, which weren't really choices at all.
“C’mon, Banana,” her father would call to her from the shore. “Let’s go swimming!”
Hoisting her on his shoulders and carrying her down to the crashing waves below, Mary Ignatius always shuddered as they approached; no matter how many times she experienced the shock, she always found herself bracing for the impact. But Mary Ignatius had been coming to the Cape since she was born, and she didn’t know that an ocean could be anything but frigid and unforgiving.
The waves would hit her father first, and Mary Ignatius could feel his skin bristle from the touch. The ocean did not want them. It frothed at their intrusion, at the boldness of their assumption that, yes, indeed they were welcome here. But instead of retreat, her father would venture out further into the water, taking Mary Ignatius with him further from shore. She marveled at his fearlessness, even as it frightened her.
Sometimes a large wave would approach in front of them, and Mary Ignatius would scream at her father to turn back.
"Go back? But why?," he asked her, bracing for the impact. "This is what we came for, isn't it?"
Mary Ignatius clung to the hair on her father's shoulders and back. It was soft and warm, not like the needles on her boyfriend that dug into her face with every thrust. It kept her safe from the violent tide, a tender wall, a shield of time. They could swim together, laugh together, drown together, all at once, a glorious unity.
It always seemed like an eternity, waiting for the wave to envelop them. Mary Ignatius shook with anticipation at the sight of it, churning towards them with greater and greater speed, with no care for anything in its wake. Time was, her sister would have been by her side, egging her on, teasing her for being afraid, while her mother shouted from the beach not to venture any further. Now it was just them, just her and her father. Just another wave in the ocean.
When the wave finally crashed, Mary Ignatius couldn't see anything under her, except the top of her father's head, and his hands laced around her hips. But no matter how high the wave, or how great the impact, he never let her go. He couldn't let her go any more than he could let go a finger, or a foot.
Inevitably Mary Ignatius would swallow some of the cold Atlantic water. She felt it inside her, filling her stomach, weighing her down and then coming back up. It refused to be contained.
“What are you doing?” her father asked, when he saw her spit it out.
“It’s gross,” she replied, wiping her mouth with her hand. "It makes me gag."
“That’s the ocean, Banana,” he said, taking a handful, holding it up to his mouth and drinking it. “That’s life.”
Mary Ignatius hadn't been back to the Cape since the accident. It reminded her of times better forgotten, as better times often are. Besides, there was no one left to share it with. Just her and the cold, unforgiving sea. She hadn’t tasted the real ocean in years.
And now, in the backseat of her boyfriend’s ’67 Corvette, Mary Ignatius was drinking life again.
But Mary Ignatius was not angry, not at all. This is how it is, she figured. There is no best of times, no worst of times. There's just time, and the march. She had been fooled into thinking there could be more, once. People she trusted had fooled her, and then they let her down. The accident wasn't their fault, of course. Thirteen beers and a rental car. Maybe twelve, and he could have swerved. Maybe fourteen, and he would have passed out. But then eventually someone else would have had thirteen, and he would have gotten them just the same. There's no escape, only delay.
The only anger she held, the only anger she allowed, was towards herself, towards the girl she had been, towards those times that she fooled herself into thinking they were not just fooling her. Just the naive visions of a silly child, she thought, before the thirteenth beer. The most she could hope for now were moments like this. Moments of solitude. Nothing else could get inside; nothing else ever wanted to stay. She wouldn't let it.
Today, though, the rocks weighed her down more than usual, and the branches snapped easier than ever. Thirteen years. Thirteen years, thirteen beers. Maybe there was something to that, she wondered, as tears mixed in her mouth, with the saliva and pre-cum.
Cabbage. Semi-automatics. Panty-hose. Barbie dolls. Pubic hair. Needles. 1967. Thirteen beers. Thirteen years. No, there was nothing to it. It was all random, and it was all solitary.
She floated above herself, unconnected. She watched her head move, up and down, for now and forever; his hand move, up and down, for now and forever; her life move, nowhere, for now and forever. The branches vanished, and the rocks found their home. The water was above her head, and she didn't care. There was quiet there. There was solitude.
That's when He found her.
It was subtle, at first. Just a thought. A possibility. Then it became stronger, clearer, like a camera coming into focus. He didn't impose Himself on her; He simply watched, without judging. The way He did. The way He is supposed to. Mary Ignatius, you're not doing anything wrong, He said. You're just not doing anything right.
And behind Him, she could see hear her sister teasing her, and her mother shouting from the shore. She could feel her father's skin underneath her hips, his hands against her thighs as he lifted her towards the sky. The sun was masked by the clouds, but she felt its light on her face. She knew it was there, even if she couldn't see it. She knew they were there, even if she couldn't hear them. She knew he was there, even if she couldn't feel him.
The rocks floated away. The branches became trees. And Mary Ignatius could taste the ocean again. It came into her mouth, quickly and passionately, flowing down her throat in sharp waves that filled her stomach. She swallowed all of it, hungrily, willingly, and for the first time, happily.
"Babe, that was the best time yet!," her boyfriend shouted, with more enthusiasm than he'd ever shown before. Of course, it wasn't much of a horse race. "We're going to have to do that again!"
Mary Ignatius smiled, wiped the ejaculate off her chin, and got out of the car.
2 people with too much time on their hands:
The answer to your first question - not according to Bill Clinton. I read half - is Sister a sister starting out? I have to come back to finish.
Hey g -- hope you got to finish eventually! And the sister is whatever you want her to be :) (but yes to your question :) ).
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