By, Skelton Church
The days leading to this Sunday (today) were highly sexually charged, so much so that at any sexual reference, no matter how vague, I found it increasingly difficult to control my baser instincts. Part of this had much to do with the electrical attraction shared between a red-haired girl named Trixy, and yours truly. It has been proven to me, time and time again, that the anticipation and mere suggestion of sexual intimacy is far more potent in the imagination, and therefore, more thrilling.
Actually part of that is untrue: I have always found it difficult to control my sexual urges. This has been a fact ever since I was about seven or eight years old. In fact, one might say, I have really no control, for I almost always give in to sexual urges. But none of that now, now is the time for control.
My strategy is this: (a funny phrase to me since I never have a strategy, a true child of instinct) Drip hot heat. Heat, when in modesty, is sultry, but I don't want to overpower. I only want to suggest. To make a masculine suggestion. This is particularly risky because I don't know Trixy well enough to show her my true appearance, which is frankly more foppish but also, or so I'm told, handsome. Better to tone it down for this occasion. But what if I come across too mild? I find it necessary to devise a strategy when dealing with romance because I'm fed up with lady friends. I imagine I've thought this about other or all of my lady friends. Suddenly I wonder how many hearts I've broken. Imagine, me, a ladykiller. We all break hearts. None of us are innocent. Not one.
Some of us want our hearts to be broken. Those people we cannot afford to pity, not that they would be bereft of pity, for typically they carry pity for plenty. I should know, for I am guilty of the worst of them: self-pity. In my experience, self-pity is something to replace action and yields none either. It is with these anxious bats that I prepared myself carefully for midday church service.
There's a church conveniently near Arleen K. Fergusen's house. It stands out of Cruciform twenty or thirty feet tall by two hundred feet long, it's exterior is a rough off-white brick trimmed by prefabricated steel of a muted dark-brown color, and is adorned with a single spire on its east face: an ungraceful, modest visage. No wonder Arleen prefers to stay home with her swans.
It is on church occasions that you can find Arleen dressed in her finest: a pearl necklace that has likely false pearls (and earrings to match), some red or green blouse and/or sweater (this Sunday? Green.), and a skirt that complements, but does not match the color palate on top. Arleen has much enjoyed dressing up on these occasions ever since a couple of years ago when she lost an effortless eighty pounds due to Diabetes. She thinks nothing of it. In fact I'm convinced she'd take it all back if it meant she could eat whatever she wanted. Now she gets by on sugar-free fudge and ice cream. A poor exchange, in her opinion, although she sure has some damn fine pills: plenty of Oxycontin and such.
Arleen and I arrive at church together fifteen minutes early and we take the pew on the far right wall second from the back. Arleen arrives so early because she can reserve this pew by sitting in it so no one will take it. She is very particular about where she sits in church and has been know to remove any and all occupants should they find themselves in "Arleen's spot". Last Sunday, some new members of the congregation took this pew before Arleen could get there and without hesitation, as though she anticipated their presence, she simply waddled up next to the pew, not looking at its tenants, and while pointing her finger as to address a dog not scoldingly said, "I'm stealing my spot. Out," and, confused, they left. I came to believe long ago that if Arleen could not have a good seat in church she would bother to come not at all for church would become an unrewarding chore, testing her already fickle stamina.
The minutes that pass before one o' clock are occupied by the arrival of a parade of three-button suits of black, and grey, and navy varieties, some pin-striped, most single-breasted, some double, all cotton, all well above size 40. Among them are various regular members (I'm assuming), Bishops, councilmen, clerks, choir directors, and organists, all of whom engage in an almost ritual pre-service greeting. A totally masculine display of firm and extra-firm handshaking, patting on the back, and men congenially harassing other men with a courteous "Staying out of trouble there, Frank?" retorted by "Have I ever?" followed by dry chuckles. The women of this congregation are mostly composed of ill-fitting, matronly, well-below-the-knee-length dresses of the most pastoral patterns. I may keep my mouth shut but my thoughts are hardly reverent. Just now a woman who has taken a seat behind Arleen and I has leaned over the pew to gossip to Arleen but I can't hear what they're saying. Arleen obliges, but only just, for it seems she is interested in almost nothing.
Because most of this congregation is either Arleen's age, or appear much older than they are (in other words, drab and tired), or are no older than thirteen, Trixy's fashionably late arrival is a considerable stir and draws much attention to Arleen by association though she appears completely oblivious to it and she hardly moves as Trixy shuffles sideways into the pew. I scoot aside to give her some room next to Arleen so that she is now sitting between Arleen and I with at least a foot of space between us all: an odd combination of non-relatives. When she sits down I smile warmly and excitedly, but not too excitedly (a brilliant execution) and she responds silently although clearly more excited than I, and I congratulate myself in my own discrete way.
The service begins with the church business conducted by the Bishop, followed by an opening hymn "Abide With Me, 'Tis Eventide" and Arleen opens a hymnal to share with us and sing along. As long as I can remember I have never sung in church and it seems neither does Trixy, which I like and makes me feel even closer to her. Arleen, however, always sings in church and her voice is unmistakable for it is undoubtedly the least pleasing to listen to; it is mid-range, yet, falsetto, totally off-pitch, has a very sharp quality like that of a cat's, and requires the same amount of breath as when talking, as though she's not even trying, which, in fact, she isn't. Because her voice is so soft, however, no one notices, or if they do they keep their mouths shut. Arleen's singing is so distracting that it forces bad thoughts out of my consciousness and for a moment I am thankful. I always think of the most irreverent things in church: Murder, rape, adultery, molestation, audits, church collapses, people cursing God, et cetera. I had this problem ever since I was twelve years old, probably younger, when it took a great deal of effort on my part to dissuade an erection, and to make matters worse, at twelve I was of the age to pass the sacrament to the congregation. You would think that, out of fear of embarrassment and public humiliation, I'd be able to keep an erection at bay, but think again.
Ironically, as I sit here next to Trixy I feel very much in control and I think of nothing violent or obscenely sexual, instead I imagine Trixy and I married (for such a thought otherwise would be unholy in a church) and lying on a large bed in a room lit by diffused light and we're naked underneath heavy-ish cotton sheets writhing childlike and laughing, touching each other's faces, our toes intertwining. This thought arrives and passes easily and when I realize once again how dreary this church is (the walls are made of correctional facility-type brick and painted white, as though they're fooling anyone) I laugh soundlessly.
SC: Do you think if this church marks any resemblance to heaven that St. Peter will be dressed like a warden?
Trixy: Yeah, then it might not be so unusual that heaven has gates.
SC: (Silence) So how do you know Arleen?
Trixy: (A beat) I do her alterations. I've had to do most of her alterations since she lost so much weight.
SC: Trixy, the alter-girl. (I laugh at my own pun).
Trixy: What? (She looks at me confused but trusts this is somehow funny. I glance and nod in the direction of the twelve-and-thirteen-year-old boys preparing the sacrament, and after she stares at them searching for the answer she gets it) Oh! (snickers) That's a rotten pun, and besides, we're not Catholic, we don't have alter-boys.
SC: Yeah, well, true.
Trixy: (A Pause, staring off into the space above the twelve-year-olds' heads) Also my name's not Trixy.
SC: (She turns slowly and stares at me plainly, and soon her lips curl into the smallest of smiles. I am giddy, and my giddiness seizes my lungs and I can't breathe though it feels as though my lungs are filled with air.)
SC: (Leaning in, my voice low) So what is it?
Trixy: Oh it's none too exciting. It's boring.
SC: So you chose Trixy?
Trixy: Actually, no. Arleen keeps calling me that. She's kind of senile, you know.
SC: No she's not, and if she is, she's been senile since she was at least thirty. Anyway how did she come to call you Trixy?
Trixy: Well see, I'm not quite sure since I didn't even realize she had been calling me Trixy until about a month ago and I didn't ever bother correcting her.
SC: So what is your real name?
Trixy: (Considers a moment, then) Mmm guess.
SC: Well, you're embarrassed about your name, so it must be something really ugly—
Trixy: Oh it is not!
SC: And yet you're embarrassed about it, or you go by your middle name instead, interesting.
Trixy: (Caught by something, she hesitates) No, I—I don't have a middle name.
SC: Then your name is…plain.
Trixy: To whom?
SC: You tell me.
Trixy: Mmmm…not that easily you don't. Anyway I already told you my name is unexciting so "my name is plain" is already a given.
SC: Then you're right, your name must be just right, it must fit you perfectly or else you wouldn't be embarrassed by it. Are you ashamed of yourself, or are you just vain?
Trixy: (Batting this aside with a wave of the hand) Oh, that's not so special—everyone's vain. You think too much about names, they're just names!
SC: (I catch her hand as it lands back on her lap and put mine over it and hold it, my grip strong yet gentle—a gesture of control—and yet I panic and my heart feels hot, stalls, then picks up again as I move my hand maybe a fractional measurement closer to me. I have softened my gaze and my voice has become warm and low, resonant. This bold move combined with my gentle appearance is a new dynamism that registers within her. All of this happens very naturally in a matter of seconds.) Tell me your name.
In her eyes I can see the same excitement one can see in someone about to commit suicide, and then—she jumps.
Trixy: George.
SC: Your name is George (more of a statement than a verification).
Our mutual gaze is unwavering but we do not stare, we look at each other plainly, and at this moment I am almost afraid for I realize anything could happen.
George: Yes.
SC: (Go on).
George: At the hospital, when I was born, an orderly misinterpreted what my mother told her. They were hiring cheap help even then and because my mother died after labor it was never changed.
SC: Who knows your real name?
George: Almost no one. Well, my grandparents I think. So there it is: a boy's name. Pretty wild, huh?
SC: (You have no idea) Maybe your mother said Georgina?
George: I think so.
I avoid the gesture of pity in cursing the inept orderlies since I think she believes I accept her new identity unmockingly.
The rest of sacrament meeting passes by noiselessly and almost nothing disturbs my new found calm. George is seemingly less calm than I and I imagine the reason for this is because inside her thoughts are stirring, not brooding, but floating like specters suddenly full of life. Ten minutes before sacrament meeting ends George leaves. Arleen turns to me and asks, "Where did she go?"
"Home. She'll be back for dinner," I say.
Arleen, spent, leaves to go home after I tell her I'm staying for Sunday school, but after wandering around the building before class like I normally do I pause, mid-step, and say to myself "Actually, I don't give a shit," and leave.
The meal Arleen has prepared is very good, as usual, and likely took little effort except for the mashed potatoes, which are presumably made from real potatoes and, with the addition of heavy whipping cream and sweet cream butter, are likely not very healthy for you but who cares? Certainly not Arleen, whose excuse is often "what have I got to live for? I'm seventy three years old!"
Dinner is announced by Arleen's tradition—"Come and get it or go without it!" The persons in attendance are Arleen, some invited relatives of hers, (a daughter's family, I think) George, who arrives indiscreetly after the relatives, and myself. Arleen introduces George to her daughters as Trixy, a name that is obviously entertaining to the children and the parents mistake my amusement for dismay at their children's behavior. For the remainder of the evening I glance occasionally at George simply, genuinely enjoying her company, sometimes matching glances. Dinner ends.
The relatives predictably linger, gossiping with Arleen, a guilty but shameless pastime, and just as I'm about to sit down and get comfortable George announces her departure.
"Thank you for dinner, Arleen."
"Thanks, I worked all day on it," Arleen says, exhausted.
I act like this is somehow also my time to go and I gather my things and catch the door. After the door is completely shut I face George directly and say "Take me out to dinner." She pauses and considers.
"Tuesday," she says.
"Italian food."
"Mandarin."
"Sushi."
"It's not cooked."
"Who cares? We're going to barf it up anyway."