“Unless you’re married, it’s a dirty, filthy thing. If you slip, the
Devil will have you. The thing inside you will come to the surface for
everyone to see. And no one must ever see it. No one must know what
you’ve got inside you.
You’ve got to wrestle with that evil, keep it caged.” “Yes, Mama.”
aLettin the boy touch you–that’s an awful “Don’t lie to me.” aWe went
to the prom,” Amy said shakily, “and he got sick, and he brought me
home. That’s all, Mama.” “Did he touch your breasts?” “No,” Amy
said, unsettled, embarrassed.
“Did you let him put his hands on your legs?” Amy shook her head.
Ellen’s hand tightened on the girl’s shoulder, the talonlike fingers
digging painfully deep. “You touched him.” she said, her words
slurring just a bit and the flesh of her face sagged on her bones.
When she was sober she was a pretty woman, but when she was drunk she
looked haggard, much older than she looked otherwise. She let go of
Amy, turned away, tottered back to the table.
She picked up her empty glass, carried it to the refrigerator, dropped
a couple of ice cubes into it. She added a little orange juice and a
lot of vodka.
“Mama, can I go to bed now?” “Don’t forget to say your prayers.”
Y won’t forget.”
“Say the rosary, too. It wouldn’t hurt you.” aYes, Mama.”
Her long dress rustling noisily, Amy hurried upstairs. In her bedroom
she switched on a lamp and stood by the bed, shuddering.
If she failed to raise the abortion money, if she had to tell her
mother, she couldn’t expect her father to intercede. Not this time.
He would be angry and would agree to any punishment her mother
proposed.
Paul Harper was a moderately successful attorney, a man who was in
control in the legal arena, but at home he relinquished nearly all
authority to his wife.
Ellen made the domestic decisions, large and small, and for the most
part, Paul was happy to be relieved of the responsibility. If Ellen
insisted Amy carry the baby to term, Paul Harper would support that
decision.
And Mama will insist on it, Amy thought miserably.
She looked at the Catholic icons her mother had placed around the
room.
A crucifix hung at the head of the bed, and a smaller one hung above
the door. A statuette of the Virgin Mary was on the nightstand. Two
more painted religious statuettes stood on the dresser. There was also
a painting of Jesus, He was pointing to his Sacred Heart, which was
exposed and bleeding.
In her mind Amy heard her mother’s voice: Don’t forget to say your
prayers.
“Fuck it,” Amy said aloud, defiantly.
What could she ask God to do for her? Give her money for an
abortion?
There wasn’t much chance of that prayer being answered.
She stripped off her clothes. For a couple of minutes she stood in
front of a full-length mirror, studying her nude body. She couldn’t
see any sure signs of pregnancy. Her belly was flat.
Gradually the medical nature of her self-inspection changed to a more
intimate, stimulating appraisal. She drew her hands slowly up her
body, cupped her full breasts, teased her nipples.
She glanced at the religious statuettes on the dresser.
Her nipples were erect.
She slid her hands down her sides, reached behind, squeezed her firm
buttocks.
She looked at the painting of Jesus.
Somehow, by flaunting her body at the image of Christ, she felt she was
hurting her mother, deeply wounding her. Amy didn’t understand why she
felt that way. It didn’t make sense. The painting was only a
painting, Jesus wasn’t really here, in the room, watching her. Yet she
continued to pose lasciviously in front of the mirror, caressing
herself, touching herself obscenely.
After a minute or two she caught sight of her own eyes in the mirror,
and that brief glimpse into her own soul startled and disconcerted
her.
She quickly put on her flannel nightgown.
What’s wrong with me? she wondered. Am I really bad inside, like Mama
says? Am I evil?
Confused, she finally knelt at the side of her bed and said her prayers