Not in the  Bible
 
by Michelle Rogge
 
 
 
I got a son who thinks he's Jesus, but that ain't the worst of it.
 
Right this minute I'm cleanin' up a big brown roll of human shit off the
bathroom floor in Casey's General Store for $4.65 an hour.
 
These goddamn teenagers.  Just because I won't sell 'em a pack of
cigarettes, they think they gotta do shit like this.  Well, I guess I
should say they think they gotta shit.  Period.
 
I'd sell 'em cigarettes but my boss told me not to after they showed
that video on TV where a shopkeeper sold cigarettes to somebody
underage and got busted.  My boss said we gotta watch our ass.
 
It's unfortunate I can't watch these punks' asses at the same time.
 
I'm not supposed to, but I'm lockin' that bathroom up for the rest of
the night.  That's a special privilege Casey's offers customers, and
they abused it.  Betsy agrees with me.  She works in the back preppin'
pizzas.  I know she feels sorry for me havin' to clean up that mess.
 
I say to her, "The last time I wiped up shit off the floor, Jesse was
two.  I was sadly mistaken in thinkin' that would be the last time."
 
She wipes the sweat off her forehead with her crippled hand and
keeps pourin' on the fixin's with her healthy hand.  "Listen, you ain't
had supper, have you?  As soon as I'm done with this one, I'll fix you
up a pizza with anything you want on it."
 
"Honey, I'm dietin'," I say, pattin' my tummy.  "My jeans are gettin'
tight again.  But if you could just fix me up a single slice with only a
little cheese and no meat -- and some green peppers -- why, I'd like
that fine."
 
She makes my slice quick, puttin' on just the right amount of tomato
sauce and cheese, with a few green peppers sprinkled on, then sets it
in the oven.  I think she's a real artist.  She's done some real
imaginative pizzas with sauerkraut and pineapple and other stuff I
would never think of, and she arranges the fixin's in interestin'
designs on top of the crust.  People always comment in an admirin'
way.  It's especially amazin' 'cause she's got that crippled hand that
ain't much of a help to her.  She was in a car accident that wrecked
the use of her one hand and makes her limp a bit too.  She calls
herself "Igor" sometimes, although she ain't got no hump on her back.
 
I ring up another customer, then drift back to have my slice of pizza.
 
"Jesse at home tonight?"
 
"He better be," I say.  "He likes to go over to that church across the
street all the time and pray.  He's been sayin' it's time for him to begin
his father's work, to go out into the world, preachin' and prayin'.  It
just ain't normal for a 14-year-old boy."
 
Betsy folds her arms.  "There are worse things."
 
"Like shittin' on the floor?"  I smile, takin' a big bite of pizza.  "Oh, I
know.  But I'd almost rather he be doin' normal mischief instead of
quotin' Bible verses and lookin' woebegone all the time."
 
Where he went wrong I ain't positive.  I think maybe it was when his
daddy left, but, nah -- he was too little.  It seemed like it just
happened one day when I came home from work.  He was eight --
legal age to leave him at home and not pay a sitter.  I found him not
readin' his comic books like usual but readin' his daddy's Bible instead. 
So funny that John would have a Bible.  He sure didn't put it to no use.
 
Then Jesse started followin' me around while I'd clean house, quotin'
Bible verses to me, starin' at me with burnin' eyes, like a hell
n'brimstone prophet -- like I was the one who sinned against him,
when all along it was his no-good daddy.  So I'd put a duster or broom
in his hand and say, "Clean, boy.  The Good Lord wants you to clean
house."  And he'd do it all right.  All I ever had to do was mention the
Lord to get him to do his chores.
 
I tell Betsy that story and she chuckles.  "Does he do his homework?"
 
"Yeah, that's another good thing.  He does it without my tellin' him
to."
 
"Then don't complain," Betsy says.  "And when they're ready to leave,
why -- you just gotta let 'em go."
 
"Wha--"  Where in hell did that come from?  I fold my arms and look
her in the eye.  "He's fourteen.  He won't be leavin' for some time."
 
The door ringer goes off.  I turn my head to see who has walked into
this sorry-ass place.  Then I feel somethin' go dead still inside me.
 
Wouldn't you know it?  It's my ex-husband John.  I ain't seen him
since he split on me when Jesse was just a baby.
 
He sent me a postcard a while back, postmarked Phoenix, sayin' he
would be comin' through town pretty soon.  I wasn't gonna hold my
breath.  Fact is, I watched his lame picture-of-a-hotel card burn slow,
then fast, on one of my stove burners.  I know how much his promises
and good intentions are worth.
 
But here he is.
 
The last time I seen him -- or I should say, felt him -- was in bed, in
the dark, when he made love with me one last time, thirteen years
ago.  I didn't know it would be the last time.  I just remember wakin'
up to nothin' on the other side of the bed.  And that postcard is the
first I've heard from him since.
 
I take a breath so deep, I'm smellin' the pizza, the chocolate candy
bars, and the odor this place always has -- grease and pine cleaner
mixed together.  I feel somethin' turn over in my stomach.
 
John looks old with that greyin' beard.  And his hair's shootin' out all
over his head like the alfalfa sprouts on one of our salads-to-go.  I
always used to cut his hair and keep it neat.
 
"Hi, Mary Jo," he says, darin' to smile.  "I heard from my cousin Billy
you was workin' here."
 
He's sizin' me up.  Yeah, I put on an extra ten or twelve pounds, but I
still look good.  My breasts don't sag, and my brown hair ain't got no
grey in it.  Not since I've been usin' hair dye, that is.  Like that
brunette in that hair dye commercial says, I'm so-o-o lucky!
 
He reaches over -- where he ain't supposed to be, naturally -- and
picks a pack of Lucky Strikes off the rack and put them on the
counter.  I march behind the counter and stand next to the cash
register.
 
I think of somethin' cool to say.  "Instead of spendin' money on
cigarettes, how about spendin' some on child support?"
 
That wipes that greasy smile off his face.
 
"I'm sorry," is all he says.
 
He has the grace to look guilty, then reaches into his billfold and pulls
out two crisp hundred dollar bills.  "I just got paid.  Here -- you take
it."
 
"I sure will." --Asshole.  I don't say it, 'cause I was brought up to be
polite.  I neatly roll up the bills and thrust them down inside my bra. 
"And I'm not reportin' it, neither.  I ain't had any money from you in all
this time."
 
"You do what you like."  He slips the Lucky Strikes in his jean jacket
pocket and squints toward the windows, even though the sun ain't
shinin' in.  "You get my postcard?"
 
"Yes, I did."
 
"How's the boy?"
 
"Your son?  Oh, he's just fine.  Except he thinks he's Jesus."
 
John stops squintin' and looks over at me, his mouth gapin' open a
little.  "What's that?"
 
"He thinks he's Jesus born all over again, since his 'heavenly' father
ain't around.  He sits and reads the Bible and draws pictures of
crosses and angels and the like.  And he won't let me cut his hair.  He
wants it long, just like Jesus' hair."
 
John shakes his head.  "What have you done to that boy?"
 
Anger rises up in me.  It's been there all along, so it comes right up to
the surface and bubbles over the sides of the pot.
 
"I've been raisin' him by myself on next to nothin', John."  I spit out
the words.  "I've been workin' hard at jobs like this one, that don't
pay shit.  I get to clean up the shit instead."
 
He doesn't hear what I'm sayin'.  "So when do you spend time with
him?"
 
I don't know what to answer to that.  I can't.  I'm too angry.  And
when I get that angry, tears are close behind.  In a minute, I won't be
able to say nothin'.  I grip the cool metal sides of the cash register
and count to ten.
 
Just then two customers come in -- a mother and her little boy.  It
takes forever for the boy to pick out his candy cigarettes.
 
John looks at the boy, who must be about six.  "I missed that stage."
 
"Yes, you did.  That was your choice."  I say in my steeliest voice.
 
John waits until the door closes behind them, then asks, "Did you tell
him I was comin'?"
 
"No.  I didn't want Jesse to be disappointed when you didn't show up."
 
"Where is Jesse now?"  When I don't answer right away, he asks it
again.  "Where is he now?"
 
"At home, where he belongs."
 
I want to say to him:  Get out of here, you  worthless piece of shit!
You deserted us.  For 13 long, hard years.  There ain't no comin' back
and pickin' up where you left off.
 
Instead, I choke out, "Where have you been all these years?"
 
"I've been a truck driver, workin' for different outfits.  Albuquerque. 
Up in Montreal.  St. Paul.  All over."  He reaches into his cigarette
pocket.
 
"You can't smoke in here,"  I say.
 
"Aw, it won't hurt nothin'."  He pulls out a Lucky Strikes and lights up,
blowin' some smoke my way that stings.
 
Blinkin', I say, "Well, my son and I -- Jesse and I -- never left town. 
We've been here all this time."  I feel triumphant sayin' that.  I'm not
sure why.
 
"You still live in that old house?"
 
"Yes -- I got it paid off now.  I own it."  That came from workin' two,
sometimes three jobs. . . waitressin'. . . workin' behind a counter like
this. . . cleanin' people's houses. . . you name it.
 
He nods real approvin' like.  "That's good, Mary Jo.  You should be
proud of that.  Is my name still on the deed?"
 
Funny how he managed to slip in that question right after praisin' me. 
My anger has been refrigerated.  Fear is on top now, a thick layer of
cold, greasy fat.
 
"I don't know," I say faintly.  "It might be.  I worked hard these past
thirteen years payin' for it."
 
"Yeah?  I paid on the house for two years, I think."
 
"One-and-a-half."  I correct him.  Asshole, asshole, asshole!  I'm
thinkin' about lawyers now, tryin' to remember the name of the
lawyer who helped me get the divorce, on the grounds of desertion.  I
can't remember all the legal mumbo-jumbo he worked out.  It seems
like we couldn't get John's name off the deed for some reason.  I can't
remember.
 
"I thought I would stop and visit the boy."
 
I stare at him, measurin'.  "Why do this now, when you haven't seen
him in all this time?  It'll upset him."
 
"I got a right to see my son."
 
A right -- I feel a sinkin' down inside me -- like a grave settles into
the ground -- when the door opens again.  "Looks like he done saved
you a trip, John."
 
Ain't that convenient?  This is supposed to be a convenience store,
after all.
 
Jesse comes in, rushes over to the counter.  He never even glances
once at John.  "Mom, I gotta get my allowance a day early.  I want to
put it in the poor box at St. Matthew's.   Can I get it?  I got all my
chores done."
 
I got a 14-year old priest.  And we ain't even Catholic.  John says
"heh" faintly, amused and disbelievin'.
 
"Wait a minute, Jesse," I say reluctantly.  "There's somebody here
that wants to talk to you."
 
Jesse turns and looks his dad in the face.  He stares at him hard.  "I've
seen your picture in a photo album.  But I would know who you were
without it."
 
"You don't seem surprised to see me," John says.
 
"I knew this day would come."
 
I don't like the sound of that.  Those words sound religious, like things
might change in a painful, permanent way.
 
I try to lighten things up.  "Maybe you two can go over to the cafe
and visit til the end of my shift.  That'll just be a few hours.  Then I'll
come and pick you up, or you can come here."
 
They both look at me.  I can see how much they look like each other
with the same blue eyes and that same goddamn holy intensity.
 
"All right, we'll do that," John says.  "We'll come back here."
 
Father and son go out the door of Casey's.  John stops a minute to
light up a cigarette, and Jesse stands there watchin' him.  I can't tear
my eyes away, wonderin' if I'm crazy to let Jesse go with him, even if
it is just to the cafe.  I know you can go a million miles away in a
single conversation.  Words can take you places no vehicle can.  But
they can also make you itchy to get inside a car or a ship or a plane --
or a truck -- to try to get to those places.
 
What could I do?  I'm workin', and I gotta keep workin'.
 
A ballgame just got out across town, and it's real busy in here for a
while.  Betsy keeps telegraphin' messages with her eyes, but I can't
read 'em just now.  I have to work fast to keep people from formin' a
big line in front of the cash register.
 
Time builds up slow, like the grease on the wall above Betsy's pizza
oven.  When Betsy finally gets to talk to me, all she can say is "Be
prepared" before Jesse and John walk in.
 
Be prepared for what?!
 
I'm not sure if I'm glad to see 'em or not.  Up 'til now I could believe
that Jesse would come home with me and go to sleep in his bedroom
in our little house.  And I could believe everythin' would be all right.
 
"Hello, Mother," Jesse says.
 
I hate it when he calls me that.  He's got on his Jesus voice.
 
Worse yet, John looks sorry.  He's sorry. all right.  He knows he's
wronged me again, but once again, he can't seem to help himself. 
"Mary Jo, I --"
 
"You're gonna take my baby, ain't cha?" I say.
 
Jesse says firmly, "I'm not a baby any longer, Mother.  It is time for
me to go."
 
I fold my arms.  "What about school?"
 
"I've learned everything I'm supposed to learn here."
 
"Bull shit --" I say.
 
John breaks in, "It's just for a few weeks, Mary Jo.  I'll bring him
back.  I swear."
 
"Oh yeah, right -- " I can't believe this is happenin'.  I won't believe 
it. 
"I have custody of Jesse.  If you take him, John --" this time I say it -
- "Asshole, I'll get you for kidnappin'.  I can do that."
 
Jesse says, "Mother, if you do, I'll never forgive you."  He means it. 
There ain't no give in that boy's words, no cushion at all.
 
I can't help bein' sarcastic in return.  "That's not very Christ-like, 
son. 
Ain't there a Bible verse about forgiveness seventy times seven?"
 
"I'm going, Mother.  I want to be with my father."
 
This is too bitter to swallow.  I thought for sure he would be on my
side.  Desperate, I say, "Jesse, he abandoned us.  13 years ago.  It's
been you and me for 13 years --"
 
"Stop it, Mother.  I'm going."
 
I can hear what my boy is sayin' to me.  I know he thinks this ain't
gonna be for no couple of weeks.  I put my head in my hands.  
 
Betsy comes over next to me and puts one arm around my shoulders. 
She says, "You better write down an address where she can reach
you."
 
I raise my head at this.  This is happenin' too easy, too fast -- nothin'
like birth, when he refused to let go no matter how hard I pushed. 
"Yeah, where might you be livin'?  You're always on the road, John."
 
"I got a place," John says evenly.  His temper is startin' to fray.  He
takes a business card out of his big trucker's wallet and writes on the
back of it.
 
"And when you're on the road, is he gonna be by himse--"
 
"I will take good care of him," he says.  "Just as you have."
 
He hands the business card to me.
 
"Just as you have," I repeat.  There is a hollow sound to the words
when I say 'em.
 
Just then, Jesse does one of the things I never know how to handle,
what he calls his "deeds."  He steps forward and puts his hands on
Betsy's crippled one, sayin', "Woman, in the name of God, be healed."
 
Betsy jumps, startled.  But she don't remove her hand.  All us adults
stare at Jesse, who's got his eyes shut tight and his face turned
upwards to Heaven.
 
I look at John, the challenge in my eyes.  Try to handle this one, Hon. 
This is how it is all the time.
 
John don't peek at me but for a second, then clears his throat and
says, "Jesse, we have to go."
 
Surprisin' me, Jesse listens.  He opens his eyes and smiles at Betsy. 
Then, lettin' go of her hand, he hugs her.  She looks down at her
crippled hand  and rubs it.
 
Lastly, Jesse hugs me.  I breathe in my boy's smells for the last time -
- sweat and dirt and incense all mixed together.
 
"Why couldn't you ever listen to me like that," I mumble.  "Why
couldn't you do like I said?"
 
He whispers, "I forgive you in advance of your transgressions."
 
A sound that is a cross between a hard laugh and a sob leaps from my
throat.  "Son, don't forget about school.  Don't forget about me, your
mother."
 
"I can't forget about you," he says.  "You're the Blessed Virgin."
 
On the way out the door, he asks his father, "Will you teach me how
to drive your truck?"  The door shuts before I can hear John's reply.
 
They leave in a big 18-wheeler parked alongside the highway.  My
nutty son is gone, gone with someone who deserted us over thirteen
years ago.
 
That slice of pizza rises to the surface, bubblin' and greasy.  I rush to
the bathroom, but I don't quite make it, throwin' up on the floor as
soon as I grab the locked door of the bathroom, in full sight of a lady
customer who's come in to pay for her gas.
 
"Oh my," she says.  "Are you sick?"
 
Betsy quickly rings up the lady's gas and takes the money.  Then she
comes over to me and helps me up, wipin' my face tenderly with her
apron.
 
"You're gonna smell like it," I say faintly.
 
"I don't mind that.  I've raised children."
 
I feel a pain inside my stomach again, but there's nothin' left to come
up.
 
Betsy straightens my hair a bit with her crippled hand.  Funny, it don't
feel crippled, just gentle.  "There.  You're kind of white, but you look
fine.  I think you should stay at my place tonight."
 
I don't have it in me to protest.  We close up Casey's and leave.  We
watch a little TV at her house.  Then she puts me to bed in her son
Bart's old room.  His purple and white high school banner stares down
at me from the wall.
 
Betsy smiles tenderly, strokin' my forehead.  "I always wanted a
daughter.  You couldn't have been very old when you had Jesse."
 
"Seventeen." I sigh heavily.  "I dropped out of school.  I never
finished high school.  That's another failure."
 
"Hush now.  You could get your GED now if you want to."
 
"I failed Jesse," I cracked.  "He never would have gone with John if I
had done right by him.  He'll forget all about me now."
 
"Darlin', he's not goin' to forget about you.  You were there for him
when it really counted.  You rocked him to sleep at night and saw him
through his fevers and read him books and saw to it he was fed and
clothed and sheltered.  He'll remember that.  He'll  be back."
 
"Maybe," I say tightly.  "I ain't gonna hold my breath."
 
She adds tentative-like, "God sees  how you've done right by him.  He
won't forget about you or your son."  I suppose she thinks I've had
enough religion in recent times, so she don't push matters any.
 
Then, seein' how flushed I look, she feels my forehead again and
thinks maybe I got a fever.  She goes to the bathroom and gets me
some aspirin.  Then we both settle in for the night.
 
I do feel a bit feverish.  But I can still pray to God.  And this is my
prayer to him:  Dear God, take care of my son and don't let any harm
come to him.  But put that son of a bitch father of his in his grave. 
Before you do that, though, torture him first.  Make him suffer for
takin' a child away from his mother.  Amen.
 
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.
 
I lay there, coolin' off a bit.  I know that was a mean prayer, but I
couldn't help it none.
 
I drift off to sleep.  I dream about my boy drivin' that 18-wheeler into
town, people cheerin' him on, me and his daddy walkin' behind and
cheerin' too.
 
I don't know if I'll remember that dream come mornin' or if it'll slip
away like everythin' else.
 
THE END