Authors: Robin Brande
Acts
There’s this story in the Book of
Acts about a husband and wife who tell the Apostle Peter they’re going to sell
a piece of land and give all the proceeds to the church. So far so good.
Now, what you have to understand
about Peter is that he’s not a gentle, forgiving man like Jesus was. He was
one of Jesus’s disciples, he saw what they did to his Lord, and frankly, he’s
pretty pissed. Now he’s going to build the new Christian religion, and if he
has to, he’s going to kick some butt.
So this couple, Ananias and his
wife Sapphira, sell their land and make a nice juicy profit, and suddenly they’re
not feeling so generous. What would it hurt, they ask each other, if they just
kept a little bit for themselves? Treat it like a commission. Who’s to know?
Well, Peter’s to know, you dopes.
Remember? Direct hotline to God.
But Peter plays it cool.
“Thank you, good Ananias, for this
abundant offering. God will be so pleased. By the way, was this all the money
you got for the land?”
“You bet it was.”
Peter’s eyes darken. He stretches
out his finger. Thunder echoes in the distance. “Liar! Greedy! Wicked!
God didn’t ask you to make this gift, but once you offered, how could you try
to cheat Him?”
The sky crackles with lightning and
Peter’s eyes glow like he’s ablaze, and Ananias is so freaked out he has a
heart attack and dies right there at the apostle’s feet.
One down.
Soon Sapphira shows up. “Have you
seen Ananias?”
“Good day, madam,” says Peter. “I
was just thanking your husband for your generous gift. But I forgot to ask him—what
this the whole price you received for the land?”
“Oh yes. Absolutely.”
“Liar! (
Crack! Boom!
) Do
you hear those footsteps at the door? Those are the men who just carried out
your husband’s corpse, and now they’re here to get yours!”
And down Sapphira goes, dead before
she hits the ground.
Wow. Good stuff.
The point is, you have to be
careful what you promise God. Once you’ve made a pledge, you’d better be sure
to carry it out. As Peter said, you can lie to men, but you can’t lie to God.
Which was what I kept thinking
about Posie.
Why did she have to lie? Maybe God
didn’t ask her to be a virgin, but once she promised that, shouldn’t she carry
it out?
And what about me? I know it wasn’t
as important, but didn’t she make that promise to me, too, in a way?
When I first found out Posie was a
virgin it was like being lost in a strange country and finally hearing someone
speak your native language.
“You aren’t,” I said.
“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I
be?”
“You’re so . . . popular.”
“So? You think I’m going to give
it away to any of these boys?”
We were hanging out in Posie’s
bedroom, early in our friendship, me lying on one of her twin beds, her on the
other. I love being in Posie’s room. It’s Girl Heaven—perfume and makeup and
clothes everywhere, scarves and shoes and dresses and exotic robes and costumes
she’s borrowed from the Drama department, all spilling out of her closet like
blood from an open artery. On the walls are movie posters and framed photos
and programs from her plays. There’s a full-length mirror on the back of her
bedroom door, another one on the closet, and a smaller one over the desk where
she stores all her makeup and brushes and hair accessories, and the whole space
serves as a giant dressing room (that just happens to have a few beds), just
like a Broadway star might have backstage.
Posie had three arguments for
virginity:
“First, pregnancy. I couldn’t put
myself or my mother through that humiliation.”
“There’s birth control,” I pointed
out.
“I won’t need it. Second, I think
it’s immoral. The Pope says you should wait until you’re married, and I agree.”
Of course, that was back when Posie
still believed in the Catholic church. But we’ll get to that.
“Third,” she concluded, “I want to
have something special to give my husband. I don’t want to waste it on someone
unless I’m sure he’s the man I’m going to marry.”
“Wow. I thought for sure you would
have done it already.”
“Nope. A little fooling around
here and there, but nothing big. What about you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Not even—”
“Nothing. Ever. Not even a kiss.”
“How is that possible?” she asked.
“You’re adorable.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, trying not
to act too pleased. “But I guess I’ve always wanted to wait, too. My parents
were both virgins when they got married, and I like the idea of it.” I
hesitated for a moment before deciding to tell her the truth. “Plus, I’m
deathly afraid of guys.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I always
think they’ll want something from me.”
“Like sex?”
“Yes.”
“They probably will,” Posie said. “But
they’re not that hard to handle. You make it clear what your limits are, and
if they don’t respect them, they’re history.”
“That really works?”
“It has for me.”
Liar! (
Crack! Boom!
Lightning!
) Was I the only one anymore who cared about telling the truth?
Suffer the Little Children
[1]
Two days went by, Sunday and
Monday. No church, no school, no light of day. Just the three of us, my
father and little brother and I, zombies captive in our home, phone ringing, no
one answering, just us and our misery and pain.
Posie finally couldn’t take it
anymore.
“You will come out of there this
instance!” she ordered. She stood at our front door, hands on her hips. “You
look awful, Lizzie—just awful. When’s the last time you bathed?”
It was late Monday afternoon and I
was still in my pajamas. I hadn’t eaten for two days. I hadn’t brushed my
teeth.
“Go away.” I started to close the
door.
Tears sprang into Posie’s eyes. “Is
this about Jason?
Nothing happened.
You have to believe me.”
I could barely look at her, I was
so angry. “Posie, I was there.”
“You’re doing all of this over a
guy?”
“It’s not a guy, it’s you! You
betrayed me.”
Posie dragged me out of the house.
I stood on our porch shivering even though the day was warm.
“Would you listen to me? What is
the matter with you?”
I burst into tears.
Posie hugged me to her. “Honey,
you look sick. You need a shower. You need to clean up.”
“My mother left us!” I cried.
Posie gaped at me. “What?”
“Saturday night. While I was at
the prom!”
“Oh, my God.”
“What am I going to do?”
Posie guided me to a more secluded
spot at the side of the house, behind some bushes. “What’s going on?”
“She’s having an affair.”
“Oh, my God.”
“She didn’t even leave me a note.”
“This is the worst thing I’ve ever
heard. Honey, I am so sorry.” She hugged me again, hard. I know I stank.
She’s a true friend.
“Look,” she said, “I know it doesn’t
matter right now, but I’m telling you the truth—nothing happened with Jason.
We’re just friends. We’ve messed around a few times. It doesn’t mean
anything. It’s just for fun.”
Despite everything else, I really
wanted to know. “Mess around how?”
“Just kissing and playing around.
Nothing big. You know I wouldn’t do anything serious with him. He’s a
scoundrel.”
“You guys were all over each other.”
“I know. I’m sorry it looked that
way. I got caught up in the moment. It was a big mistake. But Jason and I
are just friends. I promise you.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I
said. “He doesn’t like me anyway.”
“He does. As a friend. We’re all
friends.”
“But I love him.”
“Honey—”
It was almost like hearing my
mother call me that. The tears broke out fresh. I was so unbearably
miserable.
“How could she just leave you?”
Posie wanted to know. “She’s a rotten mother. I’m sorry, but that’s a fact.”
“She hasn’t even called,” I said. “I’ve
been checking Caller ID.”
Posie shook her head in disgust. “Why
wouldn’t she at least call? To see if you’re all right? I don’t get it. I
always thought she was nice.”
“Me, too.”
Posie is nothing if not efficient
in a crisis. “Put on your clothes. You’re coming to stay with me.”
“I can’t. My father’s a mess, and
someone has to take care of Mikey. Poor little guy.”
“Lizzie, really, I had no idea this
was going on. You should have called me. I would have come right over.”
“There was nothing you could do.
Besides,” I added with a weepy smile, “I’ve been hating your guts.”
“I don’t blame you. But that’s
over. Come on. You’re coming to my house—at least for a while. You can take
a shower. My mom will feed you. You can bring something home for Mikey.”
“You swear nothing happened?”
“Of course I swear. You think I’m
going to waste it on him?”
“I would.”
“Then you’re worse off than I
thought. Go get dressed. We’re leaving.”
[2]
There’s a line in the Book of
Matthew that people always misunderstand.
A group of children is hawking
Jesus, hanging around him, tugging at him and bugging him, waiting for him to
bless them. And the disciples have probably already had it up to here with the
blind and the lame and the lepers following them around all day, begging Jesus
to spit on some mud to put on their eyes or say the magic words “Take up your
mat and walk!” or even let his shadow pass over them so he can heal them. And
Jesus is always a good sport about that—it’s one of the things he’s there for,
after all—but the disciples get a little testy sometimes, especially when it
looks like there isn’t going to be enough food to go around, or the crowd’s
pushing and shoving, or when someone JUST WON’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER.
So these kids are basically getting
on the disciples’ last nerve, and the disciples try to run them off.
But Jesus smiles in his beatific
way and says, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”
And that’s the part people
misunderstand. I once heard a mother in a movie scream out, “Suffer the little
children? Suffer
your
children—not mine!”
She didn’t get it at all.
What Jesus meant was endure it.
Tolerate it. Get over yourself. Relax and let the children come to me.
I suffered to go to Posie’s. I
suffered to take a shower, to put on one of her thick terry cloth robes, to let
her mother order takeout from the Vietnamese restaurant up the street. I
suffered to stop crying and feeling so miserable for myself. I ate fried tofu
with greens and vermicelli. I brushed my teeth with a new toothbrush Mrs. Sherbern
claimed she’d been saving for a special occasion, and this was it. Then I sat
in Posie’s room, relaxing on the guest bed with the blue flowered bedspread,
drinking in the healing properties of a room that looked like it had survived
attack by clothing bomb.
Posie, on the other hand, was far
from relaxed.
“It makes me sick,” she fairly
spat. She sat on her unmade bed fuming over the morning newspaper that her
mother had wisely hidden from her until that evening.
“So stop reading,” I said.
“I have to know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Posie slapped down the newspaper in
disgust. “Do you understand how truly demonic this whole thing is?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand how we look
at our priests. They’re miniature gods. They’re like the voice of the
Almighty. And for someone like that to—to—”
I stopped her before she could go
off again. These tirades never seemed to make Posie feel any better. “You’ve
got to stop reading about it. There’s nothing you can do.”
Posie picked up the paper again and
read on, shaking her head all the while.
“Oh, my God, it’s disgusting. This
is the worst one I’ve seen.”
“You always say that.”
“That’s because they keep getting
worse!”
“Posie, put the paper down. Why do
you keep torturing yourself?”
“Because every Catholic should know
what’s been going on!”
“Well, now they all do.”
“But they still go to church. They
still give money to all these—” She waved her hand in the air, at a loss for
the perfect word without resorting to cursing. Posie is always careful with
her mouth.
“Look at my mother,” she shouted
loudly enough for the offender to hear over her TV program. “She’ll never stop
giving to the church. And where does she think her money goes? To silence the
victims! To pay for all these crimes!”
Posie paused to see if her message
had any effect. The TV blared on.
“Posie—” I tried.
“She says it’s her sacred duty, no
matter what a few priests did. A few priests! They’re all doing it! I think
they’ve always done it. Why not? Little boys as far as the eye can see, free
for the taking—”
“Stop.”
“I swear to God I’ll never step
foot in another church again.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
I pleaded. “For example, the fact that I’m motherless?”
“I know, and we will, but I just
can’t stop hoping there’s a special hell for all of them. Where they get raped
over and over—”
“Posie, my mother has a lover.”
“I know, but—” She growled and
threw the newspaper across the room, knocking over one of the perfume bottles
on her desk. “I’m sorry. You’re right. But can I just say one more thing?”
I groaned. “One more.”
“I hope they suffer. I hope they
all die miserable, excruciating, agonizing, hideous deaths. With their skin
peeling off and needles in their eyeballs—”
“Posie! Stop. I mean it. Look,
cheer yourself up. What does your hero say this time?”
Posie’s shoulders slumped. The air
went out of her outrage. I knew this would work—it always did. My problems
could wait a few more minutes. It was Posie’s turn to need comfort.
She retrieved the newspaper and
righted the perfume bottle. Then she scanned the article for the quote.
“Here. ‘Plaintiffs’ attorney
Angela Peligro—’” Posie paused for a moment. “God, I love her. “‘—Angela
Peligro recently settled another lawsuit against the Archdiocese for an
undisclosed amount, rumored to be in excess of $13 million.’ Good for her!”
“Outstanding,” I agreed.
“‘Ms. Peligro called it “meager
compensation for the ruination of these young men’s lives, but at least it got
the Church’s attention.”’”
“Pretty tame for Angela,” I noted.
The last quote I’d seen said something about a “policy of privilege and
perversion.” Nice alliteration.
“Wait,” Posie said. “One more. ‘These
boys cried out for help,’ Angela Peligro said, ‘but were shamed into silence.
This ends now, today. The Church will hear them and every boy like them from
this day forward, or the Church will cease to exist.’ Yes!”
“Posie, what am I going to do about
my mother?”
She set down the newspaper once and
for all and gave me her full attention.
“Simple,” Posie said. “Make her
suffer.”