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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 3A
Date: Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:18:53 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 3A
Just before my 9th birthday my godmother and great-aunt Frances
bought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for my Confirmation
ceremony at St. Mary's Catholic School. It was a dim, cloudy
Sunday afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceiling Gothic
church hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm glorious light over
everyone in the church. Mom and Aunt Frances and my deceased
father's mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front entrance and
let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked the Buick
behind the church. I stood there for a moment looking down at
myself, all got up in the immaculate suit and the shiny new shoes,
my hair slicked with a hefty, odorous portion of Wildroot Hair Oil.
I asked myself if it were really me in this costume. If I bent my
arms the sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkled stiffly, but when
I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into a smooth, neatly
creased tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirt with a flowery bow
tie my aunt had chosen. The tie and the thick collar dug
uncomfortably into the front of my throat.
I felt out of place, as emotionally removed from the impending
ceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a perfect stranger's
dead dog. I climbed the front marble steps and entered the front
vestibule, an imposing, darkly paneled hall where I lined up with a
chatty, squealing assemblage of other suited boys. The girls,
fluttering and chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end of
the hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes. Soon
the long robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing habits shushed us
into silence and strode quickly through our ranks to check us out
and nod their stern approval.
Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to a dead
stop as my own home-room teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, sternest and
most dreaded nun of all, strode into the room. No more than a tiny
slip of a woman, her imperious expression and long stride gave her a
commanding manner. She stood exactly in the center of the long and
narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so that her hands
were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As she slowly
passed her glowering eyes from one end of our ranks to the other,
her thin lips characteristically pursed and reset themselves. The
hall suddenly echoed as one of the kids gave a loud sneeze, which
was quickly followed by the echo of four nuns giving a sharp and
loud "Sh!" In the ensuing silence, Sister Mary Joseph began her
announcement in her usual manner, with a rise of her head and a long
deep breath.
"Children," she said, "you are about to become soldiers for our lord
Jesus Christ." Pause. "As you attend the holy ceremony of
Confirmation today, you will receive a scapular with an image of
your patron saint." Pause. "Wear your scapular at all times. It
is your protection from the dangers and temptations you encounter in
your struggle with Satan. Protect it as you would your immortal
souls. Many holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of death
rather than lose possession of the holy image we will give you here
today." Pause. "You are fortunate and honored that your holy
scapulars will be blessed by none other than Monsignor Kearny from
Blessed Sacrament School. He has honored us by agreeing to deliver
the blessing and the sermon today." Pause. "Now we will all file
into our pews." Pause. "Be silent. And conduct yourselves as
children of Christ and as you were taught in the rehearsals. Don't
forget to kneel and to stand at the proper intervals for a High Holy
Mass. And remember at all times that the Monsignor is watching. I
know you will make him proud of each of you, one and all."
She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vast carved
walnut panels that led into the interior. The place filled with the
shuffling of new shoes and rustling of clothes as we entered
double-file, first the boys and then the girls, and took our
assigned places in a line of wooden pews along the right side of the
church. As I shuffled slowly in line along the narrow aisle I
passed my family, Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way, and
my pert grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasure failed
to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found in the situation
was the heavy waft of candle smoke and paraffin in the air, and the
dulcet singing of the choir in the loft above and behind us. As
this would be a High Mass, I knew I would at least have the pleasure
of hearing Sister Albert's accomplished choir singing the Gregorian
Chant required by the formality of the ceremony.
As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was a
tortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my wandering
mind by studying the dozens of statuettes that line the walls of St.
Mary's. St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular man leaning
heavily on his staff and struggling head-first through some
undefined tempest, the child Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders.
St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later came
to know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wrists
and ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven,
all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail.
My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St. Joseph,
whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosen as the
patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as Herculean as St.
Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seated
at his carpenter's bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand,
his other arm draped around the shoulders of the peasant boy Jesus,
who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studied Joseph's face
interminably, striving to imagine what it might be like to have had
such a father with strong, chiseled features and commanding eyes
under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered what his beard would feel
like.
And the Virgin Mary, a short, full-hipped woman in a simple white
flowing robe with a blue shawl draped about her head and shoulders.
Her slim right hand was raised as if conferring on the viewer the
two fingered blessing that I had seen Pope Pius XII giving from his
balcony in movie newsreels. In her right arm she held the half-nude
child who turned its head to gaze at the viewer with a frown of
divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappropriate on the
infant's face. Always my eyes fixed themselves on Mary's girl-like
oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for her a pair of
enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her expression was tender, knowing,
forgiving. I could not match my mother's face with hers, nor my
great aunt nor my grandmother nor anyone else. I wondered what it
might be like to have such a mother. In many ways her expression
reminded me of one I sometimes saw on Martha Jane. My eyes moved
down to Mary's small bosom, and warmly I remembered the moist swell
of Martha Jane's breasts and the feel of her nipples on my tongue.
I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue would be
scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the feel and taste of
real, warm, responsive titties. Would she, too, offer a nipple to
me for sucking?
I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these thoughts. As
Mass moved agonizingly along, we children prepared for communion by
attending the rear confessional one by one. Dutifully, I ducked
into the dark curtained booth and spoke into the cloth-shrouded
grating that separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly see
and whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappable
Franciscan, Father Edward.
Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice. Dutifully, I
recited the same repertoire of sins I usually confessed and for
which I was truly sorry: for saying bad things about my fat Aunt
Mary, whom I really didn't like, even after I confessed not liking
her; for talking back to my mother or disobeying and upsetting her;
for not making the bed on Saturday; for taking God's name in vain
when I got angry at a kid on the playground and wished that Jesus
would tear the little bastard's tongue out and send him to hell to
be devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep during morning
Mass.
Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy Mother's
breasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of Martha Jane's
breasts or her thighs or that I had made her cum. Brazenly and
stubbornly I refused to connect Martha Jane with evil, and even if I
could I brazenly and stubbornly refused to betray our trust.
On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back in what I
could see was a brown leather-backed chair. He gave his usual sighs
and his usual response: "Very well, my child, and is that all you
have to confess?"
"Yes, Father."
"You know you must honor your mother and you must not have unkind
feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and care for you in
ways you do not understand. And for your penance I want you to say
ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers."
"Yes, Father."
"And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of greed, envy,
and lust."
"Yes, father."
And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: "Your sins are forgiven.
Go, and sin no more. "
"Thank you, Father."
I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered if his
benediction forgave me for that as well as for the sins I had
confessed. I thought the penance was a little out of line for not
liking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at least half that penance must
have been slated for disobeying my Mom.
Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary's reverberating
with the husky, amplified voice of Monsignor Kearny. From the
ornate pulpit at the front of the church he inveighed weightily with
his baritone's voice of doom: "...and be wary, my children, of the
evil nature of the sins of the flesh, sins that render our precious
souls disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesus and His
Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the most offensive
sins of all. Because of them we risk the punishment of being cast
down to a terrible, burning place in purgatory for ten thousand
years, and after that, into the flames of hell for all eternity..."
Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly in righteous
agreement as the monsignor thundered on. I sighed impatiently, my
eyes wandering until they fell on the statue of Jesus, gruesomely
hanging from a crucifix high over the center of the altar. I
cringed at the sight of the bloody nails...
I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn't absorb, but at
the time I consciously rejected it as irrelevant to what Martha Jane
and I experienced. At that time I found other aspects of life to be
much more frighteningly evil: evil was the beating of a boy I knew
by some unknown kids who came to our part of the project one day
from the big apartment buildings on the hill at the top of Exchange
Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop atom bombs on
everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs who had blown off the
arms and legs of soldiers and shot out the eyes of the man who lived
a few doors down from me. But I could not equate evil with the
image of Martha Jane spreading her thighs to allow my hands to
please her. To use a more modern phrase: the equation didn't
compute.
However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not to appreciate the
majesty of the edifice and interior of St. Mary's and the solemnity
of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant had its hypnotic qualities, as did
the ritual of the purple-robed monsignor moving down a line of
piously kneeling children as he draped a scapular ribbon round their
necks.
When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly. Behind me, my
mother stood with her hand on my left shoulder as the ceremony
required.
The Monsignor intoned, "What is the child's name?"
"Steven," my mother answered.
"And who," the monsignor intoned, "is his patron saint?"
"Saint Joseph," my mother answered.
The monsignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out a
scapular-- -a thin ribbon with a small, two-inch cloth-framed image
of the indicated patron-- -and then the monsignor draped it loosely
round my neck.
"Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ under the
guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph."
There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin as he
moved to the next child in line. Even I, brazen and rebellious
sinner that I was, had to admit that the theatrical power of this
pageantry was highly effective. Of course my relatives were
inordinately pleased and heaped praise onto me incessantly on the
drive back home, which mercifully was only a few blocks away.
Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances and Grandma
Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and knotbread for the occasion.
The kitchen being too small, we ate in the living room on aluminum
trays and paper plates. I'd had to fast in order to attend the
required communion during the ceremony and it was well past noon; I
sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man.
"Don't spill gravy on your shirt!" my aunt screamed in her usual
panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin under my tight
collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too hungry to complain.
"Don't eat so fast," my mother prompted. I replied by stuffing
ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the sides of my lips.
"There," my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. "See what he does?
Why won't you listen to your Mama?"
My mother warned, "You better not stain that suit. Martha Jane will
be here later on. See wants to see you in it."
At that, I didn't eat more slowly but I ate more carefully, making
certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy shirt as possible.
But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As it grew
dark I went outside our apartment and looked into their apartment
window next door, but no lights were on. Going back to our
apartment I asked my mother what happened to Martha Jane.
Mom answered, "I guess she didn't have time. She probably went to
the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He gets sick all
the time with that shot up stomache of his, ever since he came back
from overseas."
Once again before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha Jane's
apartment but no one was there. Reluctantly I went back to our
bedroom and removed my suit, getting into my undies for bed. Mom
was in the her nightgown, turning out all the lights. I lay on the
bed in the lighted bedroom near the window and studied the picture
of Saint Joseph on my scapular. The portrait had been done in oils,
apparently in the late Victorian period. The man was heavily
bearded, piously looking toward heaven with a conventionally saintly
gaze. The scapular itself was a simple device, a black flat rayon
ribbon with the cloth-bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of
cloth. The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture
once shown to my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found in a
book what she considered to be a true representation of the fires of
hell. She brandished the book before the ogling eyes of the kids
and told us what would happen to us if we were sent to hell. It
showed a dimly lighted cavern populated by crawling serpents and
evil clouds of smoke. Snarling, leering, crocodile-toothed hairless
dogs ate their way through the intestines of screaming victims and
cruelly tore off their arms and legs.
Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed magic
powers could indeed protect me from such a fate. Certainly, it had
done a shabby job of protecting me from temptation. I couldn't
imagine how anything could keep me from engaging in future naughty
intimacies with Martha Jane. The image that made me feel a creepy
apprehension was that of having to protect the scapular with my
life. Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had
proposed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the country
and arrested all the Catholics and strangled their children? I
would be found wearing a scapular, certainly a dead giveaway, and
would be sadistically and slowly strangled if I didn't give it up.
This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed and shut
the light. When I grew a little older Mom would sleep in the living
room on the sofa bed, but in those days she slept with me. My place
was at the window side, because I often enjoyed sitting by the
window sill and looking out into the dark before falling asleep.
Mom said good night and rolled away from me. For a long time I lay
face up, pondering the magnitude of my responsibilities as a soldier
in the army of Christ with an official scapular that I had to wear
at all times to confirm my identity.
Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone in the bed.
Feeling something moving under me, I rose up on my knees and looked
down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then hundreds of black
thumb-sized roaches dashing across the white sheets in all
directions. Frantically I pounded the mattress and made wide
sweeping movements with my outspread hands to wipe them away. They
kept coming, multiplying, crawling everywhere, I couldn't stop
them...
Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. My Mom slept
on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on the sheets in
front of me. But there were no roaches. Only the clean white
sheets. My heart pounded. I waited for it to stop. The only
object on the sheet before me was the tangled, black stringed
scapular.
I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I did so, my
arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight.
Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, then onto the
floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the memory of my
terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and took out a new sheet,
which I brought with me into the kitchen, carefully looking back to
see my mother still asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me, I opened
the back door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Looking behind
me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into the dark back
yard, barely visible in the light from a street lamp several doors
away near the corner of the building. A cricket chirped lazily. I
moved out near the curb of the access driveway behind our building
and looked across Martha Jane's back yard. I saw no lights. It was
too dark for me to see into their bedroom window. I wondered where
she was. When would she be back?
My mother appeared in her nightgown at the back door, frowning
sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes. "Speedy? Speedy?"
Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my white shroud
trailing at my feet.
"What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night?" She bent
down and examined me. "Are you walking in your sleep? Huh? Are
you asleep?"
Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as any I
might conjure on my own, I nodded yes.
"Are you asleep?" she asked again.
I nodded. "I'm asleep," I said plainly, and looked up to see if
there were any possibility that she believed me.
"Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get back to
bed." She pulled me gently into the kitchen and stroked my hair.
"Are you awake now? Answer me, are you awake now?"
I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to the bedroom,
where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed back into bed. As
Mom settled beside me I nestled back into my pillow, face up, and
looked away from her into the shafts of moonlight that banded the
window sill.
Mom asked irritably, "What *were* you dreaming about?"
"Roaches," I muttered.
"What?"
"Roaches. The roaches from the scapular."
"Roaches?" she repeated, incredulously. "Well, go back to sleep.
Are you alright now?"
I nodded yes, several times.
"Go back to sleep, then."
She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to her shoulders.
Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay watching the moonbeams,
listening for echoes of Martha Jane in the room. The resting woman
beside me felt like a foreign object that didn't sound or feel like
the Martha Jane I wanted to talk to and explain my dream to.
I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fell asleep
again.
Continued...
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