Pray for Two

It's custom that on Christmas, before my parents and I sit around our ornamented table to eat, we attend mass at the local Roman Catholic Parish. We spent the daybreak in a shouting match about my refusal to emerge from my *dziura and leave with them to church.

*The Polish word for "hole". The narrator's father uses it to describe his son's room.

By the time I finished masturbating, it was twelve; afternoon mass had just commenced. I contemplated blowing it off completely, but figured it was the least I could do for my father as he never ceases to remind me that nothing would bring him more joy than my company at Sunday night mass.

I dressed in a plaid red flannel, light gray slacks, a light gray peacoat, and a pair of brown suede dress shoes. If I wasn't so pressed on time, I'd have swapped the flannel for something more elegant, for with the addition of my beard, I looked like a lumberjack in the early stages of converting to a gentleman. However, once I shaded my eyes with a pair of dark amber Wayfarers and gazed at my reflection in a tinted car window, I felt like a thin white Rick Ross (the rapper). And so I started toward the end of my block taking long lofty steps. At the end, down by where the community piled their garbage twice a week, a small pup was dragging his nose on the ground. The pup was preceded by a small, fair-skinned girl with dainty features. Two flat antlers protruded from her cherry-red hair. The dog whipped her around and I observed a small red sphere extending from her nose. As I approached, I recognized her to be the young Jewess who moved into my neighborhood about four years ago. Upon her arrival, she was only fifteen, and although her blossoming beauty radiated to a dangerous degree, I always managed to keep myself in check while in her presence. We hit it off pretty fast—she was quick-witted and bookish. It was easy with her, you'd introduce a topic, a recent event for example, even just a headline that you read, and she already had a thought-out opinion of the matter. And even if you played devil's advocate, as I often did, she'd cement through with bold conviction. Back then, I rejected her chutzpah. At the time, the only thing I was confident about was being unsure of everything. That was until she convinced me that confidence, even in the face of uncertainty, is the only way forward. Once I was convinced, I became both jealous of and feverishly attracted to her.

She turned eighteen at the start of one summer and literally parted her legs before me the minute the clock struck eleven forty-three pm, the time recorded on her birth certificate. We had gone out for dinner at The Olive Garden that evening—our parents knew that she and I would talk for long stretches of time outside and didn't think much of it. My parents liked her; they remarked that she was always cordial whenever running into her outside in the neighborhood. My mother would blush whenever she came up during dinner-table conversation, "I heard the neighbor girl got accepted into Princeton," she said one evening. "Yeah, she did. . . but I think she's choosing The Rhode Island School of Design," I replied. My father looked up after forking up some pickled cabbage, "Perhaps she'll convince you to go back to school," he snickered under his breath with grim sarcasm. At the time I was in the midst of a brief hiatus, taking a year or so to master the art of Chinese food delivery.

I once asked her how her parents felt about me as a serious prospect, and she replied, "Have you ever baked a dreidel?" I said nothing in response, understanding the message, but she proceeded to pinch my cheek saying, "Aw, fuck 'em, you're my favorite little gentile." With me at six-two and her at five-four, I towered over her.

At The Olive Garden the night of her eighteen birthday, she took a breadstick and began to wiggle it horizontally as if trying to perform the rubber pencil illusion. She then turned her head and pressed the tip of the breadstick against her rouge lips. She kissed it lightly and turned to me, smiling coyly. Then, without waiting for my initial reaction, she shoved the stick into her mouth and ferociously chomped down on it before chucking it back into the basket while crumbs were still raining down onto the table. Afterward, she fell into a wild hysteria, laughing like a hyena, gripping her stomach with one hand and pointing at my frozen wide-eyed gaze with the other.

That night, I paid seventy dollars in exchange for three unbothered hours with her in a bedroom at a Days Inn down the street from the restaurant. She was ravenous from the get-go, and we nearly skinned each-other when removing clothes, but once bare, I slowed the tempo—her growing more feverish with every graze. It was tight when I inserted. I manipulated my stroking sequence taking feedback from her every micro expression. We commenced the Bang-Mitzvah with missionary and for at least five minutes she vocalized nothing but high-pitched mouse-like squeaks. Then she looked into my eyes, wrapped her hands around my neck, brought me down to a hair's width away from her face and said, "I'm glad it's you. . . ."

As I approached her this Christmas morning, she smiled, the sun glinting off her face as if it were the surface of a lake.

"Hey, how you been? How's school?" I said while bending down to pay my respects to her furry little brown blotched shih tzu.

"Oh, it's fun. . . have my own space now. . . the freedom," she replied, sneaking a wink in at that last part. This caught me off guard. Ever since I took her innocence, we hadn't really been corresponding much. She left for school that summer, and Rhode Island was a ways away from Staten Island. And a week after that fateful night, I was let off from my food delivery position. The owner informed me that the restaurant's old driver was moving back into the area and that she had promised him a position if ever was the case. But after about a week, a 'Driver Wanted' sign hung in the window, and I began to doubt her story. I think she actually caught on to me. At the end of every shift, I was supposed to report my tip earnings and fork over a percentage . . . I always skimmed some off the top though, reporting less than I actually received. She must've been aware of realistic averages from past, honest drivers. After that bombshell, my funds quickly exasperated and as at least one of our parents was always home, I simply couldn't afford to have sex with her.

"Must be nice," I replied, petting the gleeful pup. "I found decent work, but I don't want to pay rent and share a kitchen with some rando."

"What's the job?" she asked while I rose from the ground, "And I get you."

"I'm a. . . like a teachers assistant. . . I work at a school."

"Aw, I'm so happy for you."

I didn't reply to that. Her pitiful tone indicated that she knew, or at least assumed, that I was going through a rough patch. Instead, I switched the topic.

"So. . . what's up with the Rudolph theme? And that's a wig right?"

"Ah, yes. . . . See, I'm a rebel Jew—you should come in and see my house, I've dressed this collapsible Christmas tree that I keep tucked away in the attic, and ABC Family's '25 Days of Christmas' is blaring in the living room."

"Your parents are cool with it?"

"Oh, hell to the naw—but every Christmas my dad spends all day at his office and my mom's in the city consulting with a doctor."

I put on a thoughtful expression and became quiet.

"Yup, this is just the way I am," she continued, "but come over! Let me show you all the cute little ornaments I put up for the day."

"I'm actually running late for mass," I replied.

"Well, if you're already going to be late, it doesn't matter how late."

"Bulletproof logic. . . . I guess I can step inside for a second. I'm interested in seeing how rogue you've actually gone."

After the dog hosed down the fire hydrant, I followed her inside. All the while I thought of our first and only fuck, and how, if I had the money and she wasn't in Rhode Island, I'd get my own place just be alone and comfortable with her.

Inside was an assortment of Christmas things, mostly little knick-knacks sort of strewn about. There was a nativity scene on the sill under the kitchen window and I wondered if the depiction of Jesus' birth was the same by Jewish doctrine. Ironically, the Christmas tree was topped with a Star of David. I couldn't discern if this was done out of mockery or a whole-hearted display of cultural amalgamation.

"So. . . what do you think?" she said as I was gazing at the star atop the tree.

"This mesh of cultures is causing my eyes to well up. . . it's. . ." I drew in air through my nose and skimmed my finger across a lower eyelid, "it's. . . beautiful."

"Oh, you're full of shit. . . but thank you, that's very kind of you to say."

Albeit her saying that I was "full of shit," a soft rouge blossomed in the centers of her pale cheeks; I stepped towards her and softly clasped my hands around them. Her lips parted slightly, revealing the blinding whiteness of her front teeth. Frosty blue rings around her tiny pupils gleamed against the cold, winter sun streaming in through the windows. I inched my head forward as if it were precious cargo being moved by a crane. As our lips met, I dropped to the couch beside the tree. My body buzzed warmly as if I had just taken a swig of old scotch. I kept my eyes closed, straining in an effort to send her telepathic messages. I yearned for pressure, I'd have settled for a slab of stone over me. And then she went, toppling onto me as if caught by a fainting spell.

Much like the first time, we stripped each other frantically, but when going through the motions, I realized she had gained much experience. While on top, she rode me in various styles as if it were second nature. Before, I was the sole director, now it was a mutual effort—push and pull. This left me conflicted; from one side I was a bit saddened at the thought of some gung ho college boy, or plural, taking temporary reign over her body; and from the other—her promiscuousness, dressing up in racy little clothing just to attend some haphazard frat party, being the object of unshakable desire, willing and ready for the taking, made her all the more alluring! It was enough to drive me mad with desire. I was aroused as I had ever been. Her flesh was as pure as it was the summer before she left for school, and now it was supplemented by experience. I was so lost in my burning desire and her plush interior that I couldn't fathom a reality that was devoid of it. Clinging onto what seemed like fantasy, I asked her:

"Are you on birth control?" My breath was heavy, my thirst for air insatiable.

"Yes. . . kind of," her voice faltered; her breathing matched mine. "Kind of?"

"Just cum in me!" she howled, gripping the back of my neck, bringing my lips to hers as I came down. No further questions, her resolve was what would finally drive me to orgasm. I have only once ever came inside someone before, and severe paranoia had followed me like a rain cloud for weeks afterwards despite the girl's assurance that her ex always finished inside without consequence.

My muscles numbed as bliss spread from the tip of my penis through the rest of my body. My back hunched as I slowly pulled out. My thighs gave out and I collapsed on the carpeted floor, sprawling in ecstasy.

I spent a long moment simply lying there, catching my breath and recovering my senses.

"What did you mean by 'Kind of'?" I asked, now having recovered the rationale one often loses during sex.

"I meant. . . it doesn't matter if I'm on birth control or not."

"Doesn't matter?"

"No. . . it doesn't. . . it doesn't because I've been diagnosed with cancer."

"What?. . . When?"

She didn't reply.

I raised myself till my neck was level with the couch. Her head was turned to the side, tilted up at the Star of David.

"Were you aware before the first time I was with you?" I questioned.

Again, no answer.

"Say something!"

"Look," she said turning her head towards me, her eyelids like buckets of water preparing to overflow, "I did know and—"

"In the event of," I rudely interrupted, "would you keep it?"

"Birth wouldn't outlast the cancer."

"So. . . no?"

"I'd prefer to leave this life with a piece of you within me!"

"That's murder!"

"And abortion is not?"

I fell silent and wished desperately for the ability to rewind the day, deeply regretting not remaining in bed.

"And this fantasy of yours is supposed to justify murder?" I continued after a tense silence.

"Who are you to speak for what goes on in my body? The fate of whoever is developing within me is no ones but my own."

I fell silent and fell against the carpet. I looked up at the star atop the tree then shifted my gaze to the digital time on the cable box below the TV. Mass would end in ten minutes; if I sprinted, I'd be able to make it in time for a single prayer. . . and I'd pray for two.