Carmen Speaks

When I was alone, I locked the doors, pulled the drapes and laid myself out on the floor in the shape of a cross. That didn’t impress God one bit, so I decided to try something else. I read the Bible every morning and tried to answer every accusation in my head with Scripture, which I was now calling “inspired text.” I needed a weapon and “inspired text” sounded heavy duty. It worked fairly well—sometimes I could finish a passage without interruption—but when I hit the parts that had always puzzled me personally, the ones about predestination, I had to quit. Brother, did the voice have a good time with that.

I remember watching you run down the aisle. You were frantic for salvation but your instincts were right. You didn’t get saved, and you never can. What did Esau ever do? And Judas Iscariot—there was a guy who never had a chance. I don’t know why the Big G. enjoys torturing people with hope. Don’t curl under the covers, it’s the truth. Why don’t you have a good time while you can? I know you’ve wanted sex since Samy died. I’ve seen you touch yourself.

That’s how my mornings went. In the afternoons, I was with the Junior Women’s Woman’s Club digging holes. That was the spring the club voted to beautify the areas around the town hall, the library, and the historic covered bridge. We started at the library with white impatiens, red petunias, and a border of baby’s breath. I dug holes with such vigor that someone (I don’t remember who) put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Take it easy, Carmen. You’re not going to China.” No, you’re going to hell. Afterwards, during the business meeting held on Virginia Ball’s side yard, I didn’t eat, but I remember drinking glass after glass of lemonade. No one commented on how quiet I was because they thought I’d worn myself out. And I had—physically—but while Roberta Waters was reading the minutes, the voice started up, so loud I thought the words might pop out of my mouth. 

            Ah, the good ladies, trying to beautify this dump. Well, that’s the sort of thing women will do. Throw them a bone and they’ll gnaw it to death, but it’s still a bone. Just look at Roberta, so earnest about the cost of flats. Paul had it right, all women are good for is cooking and screwing.

            I pinched both of my upper arms together and whispered to Tina Hollis sitting next to me, “I’d better go home now.” She patted my hand and said, “Yes, you should. Your face is red as a beet. Next time, don’t work so hard.” 

            I nodded, but as soon as I got out of sight, I ran the back alleys and pounded the asphalt, the backs of my tennis shoes rubbing blisters on my heels, humming a hymn, grabbing a piece of tall grass and chewing it furiously, anything to keep words from spilling out until I sat down in the middle of an alley, covering my head with my hands and muttered, “Not even a dog. I wouldn’t treat a dog like this.”

            What came to me during that meeting had upset me so badly that the next day, Saturday, I sent the three of you to The Virginian Theater with enough money to buy out the concession stand. Then, I bolt locked my bedroom door. I was determined to make God answer. Since the predestination ordeal, I’d quit reading the Bible, but that morning I picked it up, deciding to try again. I expected the voice to butt in, but it was curiously silent. I kept flipping through the pages, then gave up any attempt at logic and snapped it shut, allowing the book cover to fall open on its own, which meant I was in the psalms. I looked for something comforting, but all I could find was David praising God for killing his enemies. Was I God’s enemy? Good grief, what had I ever done that was so bad except being born late in my mother’s life? I threw the Bible across the room, where it smacked against the wall and slid down, open pages crinkling. I opened my mouth to scream, but your grandmother beat me to it. I didn’t even know she was in the house, although I should have guessed it, and as soon as she heard the thud, she made a beeline for my door, shook the knob, and shouted, “Carmen Amber, what’s going on in there?”

            “NOTHING!”

            She waited a moment, then in a voice more controlled but still loud, said, “You’re acting like a spoiled teenager. Come out of there and give me a hand.”

            “No!”
            “What did you say?”

            “I said ‘no.’ And I’m not coming out until you go home.” I’d never talked back to Mother, even as a teenager. Maybe it was time I did. A part of me was enjoying it.

            “I can’t leave.”  She rattled the knob so hard the key on my side fell to the floor, but the bolt lock held. “You’ve got three children. Do you know how much work I do around here?”

            I knew, but I didn’t answer. I was afraid I’d shout out a blasphemy. That would be the end, I thought, because if I ever started talking out of my head, I’d allow someone, anyone, to commit me. But I also knew, whether I wanted to admit it or not, that at this point I needed your grandmother. Because of her, you three were getting fed and had clean clothes to wear. But I stayed in my room and, instead of yelling at God, yelled at Mother instead. When our shouting match was over, I decided to write a letter to God.