Jenny

Not Jenny, the cousin, Jenny the neighbor.

We thought she had everything. She had all the things we could ever want.

We were especially envious of all of the Barbie clothes. All of the Barbie houses. All the Barbie stuff.

But we didn’t like her. Why? Who knows. But we didn’t. OK,

“I’ll be the lookout, and you go get the stuff.”

“OK. If someone comes home, I’ll do something. Go through the side gate, Jenny said it’s always open. Then go into the garage and into the house.”

“Will the door be open?”

“Yes, and the doors are always open. Remember when we were talking about whether or not our families locked doors? Get good Ken, three good Barbies, and the Corvette and some clothes. Then we can go back to my house. OK? Go.”

“Oh no. Red alert. Red alert.”

“Let’s go Jenny‘s. Mom is here!’

“Hi, I… we were just getting some Barbie stuff. Jenny told us we could come in to get some stuff whenever we wanted.”

“Tell Jenny to come over when she gets home. Yeah, to Gabby‘s house.”

“Or we can just Bring the stuff back tomorrow?? Yes. Thank you.”

“No, I think we got everything. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Bye. And thank you.”

Thou shall not steal.

Please Take Me Home

I don’t know why I did it. I’m not even sure it’s that big of a deal. No one knows. No one will ever know.

I hate where I live now. Before now, my house was big. It was white and we had an upstairs. We had a pool, a pool of our own. Not a pool that is downstairs and around the corner, between two buildings. Not a pool where everyone can see me in my bathing suit. One we didn’t even have to share.

We had a laundry room – in the house. Not a laundry room where I have to take someone’s underwear out of the dryer, someone I don’t even know.

I had my own room, not one I had to share with my brother when he comes to visit. Not a room I have to give up when my uncle comes to stay with us.

A house that had a kitchen, but not like the kitchen I have now – full of cockroaches. Cockroaches that won’t let me get a snack in the middle of the night because they are everywhere when the lights are off.

A house with a backyard, big enough room to play soccer and have a tetherball court and a basketball court.

And backyard with trees, not a balcony with a bunch of ignored and dying plants.

A place I didn’t have to pretend we don’t have a cat.

A place that I didn’t have to pretend anything.

So, when my friend said, “We can take you home”, there was no way I was going to take them there. There, to the place where my life sucks and my hopes die. There, where I fight with my mother because she is as unhappy as I am.

So, “Yes, I would love a ride home. Take me to the top of the hill. Yep, this is my house on the one on the right. Oh yes, thank you it’s a nice house.”

No one knows I don’t really live there.

“Oh, but no, you don’t need to walk me to the door. No one will ever know. Ha ha, thanks for the ride. You can go. I guess my mom isn’t home yet.”

No one knows.

“I’ll check if the side gate is open. See you tomorrow.”

And there I will sit and wait – five, ten minutes. They will have gone and now I will walk myself back. Back down the hill. Back down to the busy street. Back, across the street from the McDonald’s. Back into the dark apartment where the cockroaches live and the only one to welcome me home is my cat.

I am 10 and I don’t know why I did it, but it feels wrong.

Forgive me, father.

Communion

I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed up. I am sorry I did it. I know I was wrong. Will Jesus and God forgive me? Can I still have a good life?

It wasn’t that hard, really. And she knew she would eventually get caught, but what was she supposed to do? Was she to sit in that pew every time everyone got up to receive communion? Her shame and embarrassment on display for all the world to see. Stay back and admit that she was the only 8th grader at a Catholic school that still hadn’t received her first holy communion?

To hell with that!

Come on, look at those second graders. She certainly knew more about religion, the church, and how to behave while receiving the body of Christ. God could forgive her, right?

It wasn’t her fault that her parent’s divorce caused them to lose focus of her sacrament of Communion. It wasn’t her fault that now she had to switch schools for the 6th time. It wasn’t her fault that the only decent schools in her new neighborhood were Catholic schools. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t realize she would now have to take care of things herself. 

But yes, she knew this would eventually be an issue. 

Going to Catholic school and not being communionzed? Sin. Her parents are divorced? Sin. Living with her single father? Sin.

One of these things is not like the others. And it was her. A leper.

But she would give it her best shot. She would study. She would learn. And she would take Communion without having her First Holy Communion..

So, the first time her new class went up to receive the sacrament, she stayed back. Oh, no, not today. I just don’t feel like it. But she watched. Watched very carefully. 

OK, number one: stand in line. Look very solemn. Clasp your hands, maybe intertwine your fingers. Look at the ground, look at the person’s hair in front of you, but look like you’re coming before the Lord. This is very serious.

Number two: when you get to the front of the line mouth something. Shit! What is it that they are saying? Is that what they teach you when you officially become initiated? Do they teach you the magic words? I’ll have to fake that part.

Number three: raise your hands up to the man. No longer intertwine, but this time cup your hands. Yes, just like that. See, it’s not hard. 

Number four: receive your bread. He will put it in your hand. But if you really want to get sexy just open your mouth and have them place it on your tongue, in your mouth. Wow. Not for me. Are they chewing? I wonder what it tastes like? No, you can’t chew the body of Christ. I’m thinking about this too much; it’s making me sick. I can’t do it, but I have to do it.

Number five: allow the man to say something, blah blah blah. He’s gonna know.

Number six:walk away, but as you do make the sign of the cross. It’s like a promise. Seal the deal. You’ve done it. 

But there is an extra credit step. Do a curtesy in front of the altar or before you enter your pew with another sign of the cross. 

And you must pray when you get back to your seat. No standing; you must kneel.

And if you follow these steps, no one will ever know you are a faker, a sinner. Except you, you will know.

Lying to God in the House of God. Lying to his face. What kind of life can you hope to have now?

You must not confess this one. You will eventually get caught. 

Forgive me for what I have done and what I have failed to. 

Do you really take away the sins of the world?

Have mercy on me.

Through That Wall

The wells of anger still pooled in her eyes and gut, as he spoke to her. 

“Do you know if I did what you just did, my dad would ram my head right through that wall.”

How dare you even speak to me, she screamed in her soul. 

The night had started as most nights, she fed herself dinner. She went to a room to eat, to do her homework, and watch TV. And around 9 PM she went back to the kitchen, put her dish in the sink, turned off most of the lights, except for the one by the front door, she took her cat to her room, went back to her room to settle in for the night. 

Her mom was on a date. A date with Lonnie. She had a real knack for picking losers. Lonnie, the chainsmokers from Missouri. A tow truck repair man with no education and no social skills. Her guess was that she was trying to pick someone as different from her dad as possible. She was sure where they met and did not care much. Probably in the program, but she didn’t care much.

It was late night or early morning when she heard the sounds. She must be home, she thought. Ignore. Go back to sleep. But the sounds had turned into noises. Groans and moans. And now she was awake. Conscious, trying to figure out what those sounds were, and where they were coming from. The moans in the groans were coming from her mother’s room. Sounds of sex. She knew them from TV. The pools of rage began to swell. And as they grew, her breath turned to panting, and her mind raced. How could she do this? 

Will. She. Never. Stop?

Sex in her house with a man that’s not her father. Sex in her house within hearing distance of her 9 year old daughter.

Shameful. Embarrassing. Disrespectful. Disgusting. 

A woman of the church.

So she began to throw things at the wall they shared.

Hangers and books hit the wall but the moans and groans kept coming. 

She left her room, slammed the door and went to the kitchen. 

Controlled chaos. Controlled rage.

She threw one glass in the sink, and as it shattered, a small droplet of anger was released.

And then another. And another. And another. 

And a plate on the floor. Another plate. And another glass. And now she stood there in her rage and sadness at the ready with another plate. 

The doorbell rang. The doorbell. The sound of the doorbell. The shattering glass and porcelain was louder than the sex sounds and the doorbell was louder than the rage.

She opened the door with tears and shame running down her face. It was the police. Lonnie and her mother in robes came to the door. 

“You, go sit on the couch.”

“Yes, ma’am. We received a call of some sort of disturbance going on here.”

“Yes, my daughter is upset. We don’t know why, but she has decided to smash all the dishes in the kitchen.”

“Everything is all right. Yes, we will keep it down.”

“Can we speak with her? “

“Yeah, she’s right there on the couch.”

“I heard them having sex.”

“So, you decided to break the dishes? Well, you need to keep the noise down. Your neighbors called us because you were making too much noise. I see you are upset, but you need to keep it down. Ok? Is there someone you can call?” 

“Sir, ma’am, you need to get this under control. We don’t want to have to come back.”

“Dad, dad, you have to come get me. I can’t live here anymore. I heard Mom and her boyfriend. I heard them having sex. I hate it here. I hate her. She doesn’t know how to be a mother. I feel stuck. I can’t breathe. 

OK. Tomorrow. OK. Call me. OK. I love you too.”

“You sit back down. I don’t even know what to say to you. The wells of anger still pulled in her eyes and got as he spoke to her. You know if I did what you just did, my dad would ram my head right through that wall…”

…I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me.

Kiss Me.

He did it again. 

But it’s OK, he is my father now. 

Come here. Sit next to me. Kiss me. 

No, not like that. 

Kiss me on the lips. Like you do your mother, but lick your lips first, and then kiss me. 

Our lips touched. A shock.

 

Then Mom came in. Nothing to see here. 

A father kissing his daughter. A daughter kissing her father. 

But why did he say it’s best to kiss when mother wasn’t around? 

 

Mother said she was tired of me. The teenage me.

“Confess,” she said. 

What did I do?

“I’m taking you to church. Confess your sins. Maybe, then you’ll be fixed.”

So, she’s mad at me. 

All the time, mad at me.

Maybe it’s the hormones. People say when you’re pregnant you can become emotional because of the hormones. 

Yeah. It’s probably just pregnancy hormones. 

 

You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on me.