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From: IncestMan <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest,alt.sex.incest,alt.sex.stories,alt.stories.incest
Subject: Story "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" part 3A
Date: Sun, 26 Jun 2005 12:11:29 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/taboo.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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