His bed smelled of unwashed skin and detergent, but not unpleasant. Experienced taste buds brushed unexplored nerve endings between my legs, digging a hole to my reservoir of desire. A filthy place licked clean. In that moment I felt invincible and hungry, like a vampire. I couldn’t believe how mesmerized he seemed by a body I felt was too short, brown, and round to be beautiful enough to wield this kind of power. As he orgasmed, I could have done anything to him, including slashing his throat. He lay so helpless pinned beneath my grinding hips as his body went rigid and his hands gripped my thighs like a life raft that would prevent him from drowning. It felt empowering to leave when I wanted, knowing I would never return. He tried to give me his phone number and email address, but I wasn’t interested. I had seen how that story plays out. I didn’t know how to orgasm with a man back then, but the excitement that ran through my blood that night still makes my body shiver.
The priest, Father Moreno, cross-examined me for half an hour with Bible in hand. He looked worn, as worn as his Bible. Gold lettering that spelled his name and The Holy Bible was a faded print that looked like it had been rubbed too many times. Did he think God would answer him like a genie? If only that was true. Before my eighteenth birthday I attended church twice a week, and not once did a descending dove or the jabbering of tongues occur. My skeptical thoughts remained as silent as the God I sometimes tried to plead and bargain with. By the intensity emanating from the priest’s eyes, this was much worse than some silly game of truth or dare. He sat next to me, placing his hand over mine.
“Lourdes. You are not in trouble. But I need to know a few things. Did you recite incantations you might have found on the internet or library, or that you made up? Are you interested in black magic?”
I wanted to laugh. I knew I wasn’t in trouble. I couldn’t help it if they thought of me as trouble. And was he for real? Incantations? I gave him a feeble shake of my head, avoiding eye contact so he wouldn’t see me mocking him in my mind.
“Did you promise your soul to evil for money or power? A better life? Even if any of this was in jest.”
He was for real and taking this seriously. Those questions were rich coming from someone who had never even met me before. The entire conversation sounded like it came from a bad horror film.
“Did you do filthy things to each other?”
Now he was just another pervert in disguise, like this waiter at Shoney’s who gave me a slice of free pie when I was ten years old. I told my mother I didn’t want it. The waiter frightened me as he stood too close whenever at our table, but she said I was being rude and to never reject things offered for free. We don’t get the luxury of free things very often. Smile and be grateful. He watched behind the counter as I ate every bite. His stare sucked me in whenever I opened my mouth. To this day, that waiter makes me shiver in revulsion.
Under any other circumstances I would have told the priest to go fuck himself, literally. He would feel better after. But I knew it would make things worse for Fernanda.
“Never.”
Yolanda and Mrs. Garcia yelped and cried after each question, keeping a close eye on my answers, searching for solid proof of me being no good. The priest remained stoic, but relished every second. I played dumb for twenty minutes, and then he left us to see Fernanda. Feigning ignorance is the only way to placate some people.
The two women sat at the table talking quietly so I couldn’t overhear their conversation. The way Yolanda kept darting her eyes in my direction gave me the feeling they were scheming about how to ask me to leave.
Before either did, Father Moreno rushed out with bloodshot eyes. His lips were a bluish hue, as if starved of oxygen. He sputtered and emitted a choking sound as he gulped air, the kind of retching you do when liquid spills down the wrong pipe. Tears and saliva covered his ashen face. He pressed the Bible across his heart. With a voice too shaken to have any authority, he cried, “Lock that girl up in an institution. Nothing can save her! She is ruined.”
Mrs. Garcia resumed her wailing as he slammed the front door behind him.
I didn’t know what could have possibly happened in that room, but I had to speak. All the times I had felt silenced had formed a voice in my head, a voice that wouldn’t leave me until it could be heard.
“Let me see her now. You can’t exorcise her. She isn’t possessed. And she is not a lost cause. Let me find a way. Fuck that priest and fuck anyone that tells us we are crazy!” I screamed this with the same fervor I’d had the night of the séance, calling for a spirit.
Before Mrs. Garcia or Yolanda could respond, music began playing so loud the bass vibrated against the door. The three of us reared our heads towards Fernanda’s bedroom. Since she wasn’t allowed to go to concerts or to the annual Fiesta in downtown San Antonio, her dad had spared no expense on the stereo she’d received two Christmases before.
Mrs. Garcia sneered at me in contempt. “What do you know, stupid girl? I’ll keep with my faith and my way.”
She didn’t tell me to leave, giving me an opportunity as small as a crescent moon, but I held fast to it. Until I came up with a plan, I would help to care
