Lamentations of a Magdalene
1.
Out there in the place that all the town’s teenagers call the Glory Land, there’s a little retention pond surrounded by thickset cattails and high grasses and a big red barn, nearly tumbling over on itself in the field. Violently green grass, as far as the eye can see. Spreading out like an ache towards the wire fences and the upside-down windmill—my God, they should have fixed that up, but once the old man who owned the farm kicked the bucket, they let it rot.
Riker’s sprawled out in the back of his dad’s truck. Not a breeze in the air, just a stale hold, a finger-bruise grip around the farm. All that cuts through is the wooden decay smell and the grass. Brushing against his skin, there’s a spot where you’ll fit right between his arm and his flank.
“That’s what the town is,” musing, love-happy, relaxed. “Rot on rot. Nothing worth sticking around for.”
Here comes his childish grin, the big toothy thing taking up the lower half of his face, and he smells like sweat and musk and like the tobacco he bought out of town that he chews and spits. And chews and spits. He’s here in Pine Grove and plans to die here, free and clear, which feels almost like a waste. Outside of the limits, there’s cities and different kinds of grocery stores and movie theaters and enough things to do on the weekends that people don’t bother going to church. To stay in this place would mean to relax at the teeth in the back of your neck like a dumb puppy, full of mother’s milk.
Riker sighs, brushes the dark, dark hair behind his neck and lets the sweat slide from his hairline down his neck. His kisses send shivers over more bare skin, sticking together out of sheer want, the sharp need to have someone know, to be there to witness each other like this. All under the glass bottle blue sky.
There’s only one way to figure out why God gave us bodies, what those bodies are for. No use hiding from it.
Then, he’s producing the flask—stolen from his dad. Come to think of it, most of his stuff comes from his old man. His hair, the way his nose slopes, how small his pupils get when he’s really thinking about something or when he’s considering another go-round. One time at church they were both in the second pew from the front and one hand of his—a big mitt of a hand—was cupping Riker’s neck, tight. A collar in the fresh light. After that day, Riker came up and talked about the old field in the back of the Darden place called the Glory Land, where there’s a little pond that might have some fish and good, fresh air. And nobody else there. Just two bodies and the red truck and the old barn.
So, maybe God really doesn’t see you take his mouth, lips between teeth, hissing, hands along damp shoulders, collecting sensations. It’s so hot outside in the summertime.
“Wanna try again?” he asks.
Could have been that he was saying the Lord’s prayer. Just another stupid eighteen-year-old boy in the back of a car. But then again, he’s also a Godly son and a shepherd of the earth and the giver of every nice sensation that’s ever been felt. All combined in the hot air and the blasts of birdcall.
Now, other kids are probably on summer break, if they go to school, and when they go to school, they go back home and don’t think twice about the whole thing. Don’t give too much thought to how lucky they are to have that.
Here, there’s the Glory Land. Here is the back of a truck that shivers in the blanketing heat. Here’s a boy more handsome than anyone else in the youth Bible study with his arms open wide and body bare. There’s time lapsing as the sun crawls over the clouds and surely there’s parents at home waiting, fathers with their arms crossed and mothers with their lips jutting out.
“Riley,” he says. “Riley, Riley, Riley.”
And you come when you’re called, because there’s nothing better than surrender, than domestication. Man’s best friend is woman, created for him. Glorious helpmeet, see where the sticky skin meets sweat meets blanket borrowed from Mom and the air is so cool, like something shifted in Heaven when his jaw meets your shoulder. Like a shooting star, it crashes down. Hard, but forgiving, like the upside-down windmill, still wanting to turn and turn.
And turn.
2.
When it happens, it’s like things were always supposed to be that way. On one knee, he is, in those chinos from his dad’s closet that bag around his thighs and knees, muscular like the farm-boy his mother raised him to be but still so small that he cuts new notches in every belt belt he gets. Her, clasping her hands by her jaw, hair pulled back in a sweet updo, giving of the smell of bridal all the way from the front pew. Like she’s the Virgin Mary and she’s rocketing toward her wedding night, going all silly over the way his big blue eyes blink up with her. Oh, just look at her. It’s hard to be mad about it when Riker’s gaze is so magnetic, he could have had any girl in the chapel he wanted. Could have had anyone, yes.
At least now, he knows what to do. Or that’s what he told his buddies at the youth meeting. Didn’t give names, not specifics, he’s better than that, at least. No, he just told everyone that he had some practice, knows how to take care of that Jane Westman, keep their marriage bed happy.
God, that ring. It’s worth it to take the Lord’s name in vain when that rock is sitting heavy on Jane’s finger. He says he’s been planning it since the first time he saw her. So, he says. So, he says. Was Riker planning this with his sweaty skin and hands so hot against your chest? Have it in the back of his mind, did he? When his sparse chest hairs brushed against the flannel blanket Mama loaned off because it was a picnic? It’s always a picnic. Entered the whole scene like some Don Juan and left like a ghost.
As if he’d even understand that reference. What eighteen-year-old boy would? Not the best, not quite playing with the whole deck, but Riker’s funny. Kind. Good with his hands and his hips. He’s better than the other boys, the ones that surround him now, clapping him on the back. Can’t wait to be in the wedding, can’t wait to see you with your wife, Jimmy’s a shoo-in to be best man, isn’t he?
Holy was his name when it crawled out of your lips and unholy is the body that held him inside once. First. Jesus Christ, Jane’s already in white, practically parading her unsoiled skin around the loop, showing off that massive ring. How’d Riker even afford a rock like that? But, there’s no way to blame him for taking a Westman, having a guaranteed house and a plot of land and a hard day’s work every day before he goes home to a lovely wife and ten babies and two dogs and a cat. Marrying into power, this bastard. Devoting his life to Pine Grove and to the church and to this young woman so fresh.
But he had his Magdalene. He had soft hands—bigger than Jane’s, so you couldn’t wear that ring even if you wanted to—cresting over his hair. Held the jaw open and the lips taut and learned all his lessons to be a good man. A gut punch to know that no one will ever understand just how this feels.
‘Cause Riker’s giving his toy back, but it’s not coming back untouched or unburned. Like a peach, a fingertip touch poses death to the woman in this town.
Now, slinking back towards the chapel exit. Organ harmonies like angel cries. In the back storage room is where Brother Amos keeps the supplies, the communion crackers and the knockoff Goldfish for the kid’s Sunday school. And the wine. No one drinks grape juice here like the halfhearted Christians of the outside. This church—Amos’ church—sucks from the Lord’s vein like mother’s milk, becoming whole from the savior like we were always meant to. So, maybe this’ll work. Uncork the thing and take a whiff of the mouth, breathing in the vinegar and old fruit smell. Kick off the sandals Mama got from the discount store and feel the hardwood floor underfoot, the cold reverberations of what could be a coffin if they let it. Wouldn’t that be a great surprise. Here lies Riley, dead because some half-stupid boy touched her once and then never wanted to again. So fucking melodramatic. The wine slides down, lighting a fire on its way, and you hope that it cleanses your veins. A controlled burn in a national forest. Natural devastation. Riker would know better than to stay with a trailer park girlfriend, only good for a spell until the ripeness fades and it’s just not good anymore. Like a knee right to the stomach.
They won’t find you until you’ve gone through the bottle. Mom and Rodney. Babbling on and on about how the wine was communion wine, how the Lord entered your body and wiped any trace of Riker away. They’ll make you take from your savings to replace the alcohol and then write a letter to Brother Amos apologizing. But it was worth it, feeling whole.
M. Anne Avera is from Auburn, Alabama. You can find her at writeranneavera.carrd.co