CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

PRIEST

Julie Carboni was sweet on me back when I used to be Anthony Priest, hot stuff. We did each other a few favors—not that kind—and I knew she was connected to all kinds of people. People who could help you get things you want.

She was seated at her desk, twirling a lock of her long blonde hair around her fingers. Oddly I thought, I’ll never be with a white woman again. I’ll never be with anyone other than Gina for the rest of my life. I had to remind myself that we weren’t going to have a “normal” marriage. I wondered if everybody thought stuff like that before they got married. Not the “We’re not going to be normal” part, the “This is it. This woman I’m going to marry is as good as it gets from now on” part. Then I wondered if anybody thought their marriage would be normal.

“Julie,” I said. She looked up at me, and her eyes lit. I don’t care how much I disappointed her, in her mind I’d bounce back and be Anthony Priest again. Why didn’t I remember that when I was shooting up? That not only Larry but Julie Carboni believed in me.

“I need a favor.”

She grinned. I never asked her for money, so she didn’t have to guard against that. I kept our favors business related.

“What’s up, Tony?”

“I need a marriage license. Today. I don’t have a minister yet.”

She raised a perfectly groomed dark brow, which betrayed her true hair color. “You need a marriage license. Are those wedding bells I hear chiming around you?”

I leaned toward her, drumming my fingers on her desk. “Can you help with that?”

“Stop making that irritating noise,” she said.

I stood upright.

“That’ll be hard,” she said. “You have to prove you’re getting married by someone who’s qualified to officiate over the ceremony.”

“I know that, Julie. Which is why I’m speaking to you. If I can come up with a license, maybe I can show up at City Hall and hope somebody takes pity on me and my beloved.”

“Who is she? I thought you were a lone wolf.”

“I’m just a wolf.”

“Is it the girl with the stigmata? Larry said you seemed … close.”

I hoped I’d distract her by moving the conversation forward. “How do I get out of the proving it?”

“You wait. Or find a minister in a hurry. Listen, you can fake the letterhead, but you need a real, live minister.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Julie.”

Before I could get away she nailed me. “Is it her, Tony?”

“She’s not a sideshow freak, Julie.”

She folded her arms and smirked. “You really are in love. Who’d a thought it? Tony Priest and a wonderworker.”

“Everybody needs a little wonder, Julie.”

“Well put. But don’t let love keep you from writing a good story.”

“Love is what made me write the few good ones I wrote, and I do mean few.”

“I stand corrected.”

Her voice trailed behind me when I turned and walked away. “Any old minister will do, Tony. Be creative.”

“Creative?” I repeated, turning more than a few dismal ideas around in my head. I turned back to her. “Thanks.” I walked away to the sound of Julie’s best wishes.

I spent the next half-hour calling wedding chapels and independent ministers only to find a remarkable number of people don’t answer their phones on Monday. Be creative, I reminded myself. Just when I was about to give up I my cell phone chirped.

Fox.

I knew I shouldn’t answer it, but I guess I wasn’t as ready to let go of the comfortable-as-blue-jeans familiarity of my old life. I answered the phone.

“Hello there, Foxy.”

“Hey, baby? How you? Foxy misses you. Where you been?”

“Busy.”

“You must need yo’ medicine real bad. I can’t believe you makin’ it on just that lil’ dab I gave you.”

“I still have it, Foxy. I’m not really interested in using right now.”

“What happened, baby? You always interested in a little feel good. You found Jesus?”

“Maybe I have, Reverend Foxy.”

I know. I shouldn’t have even damaged my brain cells considering it. I know this.

But … he was virtually a minister.

Don’t make me say it, okay? I was desperate.

GINA

The first thing I thought? Oh no, he didn’t. But he did. He came home several hours later with a ring, a marriage license, and a flaming queen. I don’t mean a dainty little girly man in drag. I mean a big, hulking Ving Rhames queen with a capital Q from that television movie Holiday Hearts with Alfre Woodard.

He or she came promenading into the living room with, “Umph, baby, something sho’ does smell good in here.”

I don’t think I could have spoken. My mouth was one big O.

Because I didn’t have bandages on, my wounds—at least the ones on my hands and feet—were completely visible. Priest must not have mentioned that detail to his friend. He got a gander at me, and froze.

She put his or her hand over … shoot … his heart and dropped to his knees screeching, “Lord Jesus! It’s that the girl I read about in the Free Press.”

Foxy grabbed my feet with his/her massive hands. “Oh, sweet Jesus I needed a sign. Lord, have mercy on me. Jesus help me!”

“Priest!” I yelled.

“She’s ordained.”

Foxy went on. “Mercy, Jesus. I need a miracle. Thank You, Lord for sending me to the Bless-ed Regina Dolores for the healing of my soul.”

Heavenly (I think) language poured out of his (her?) mouth.

Foxy began to weep. “I’m so sorry for my sins, Jesus. I was just trying to make a lil’ change on account of that makeup artist school was a scam. Jesus, I ain’t mean to hurt nobody.”

I looked at Priest, horrified.

“Just go with it,” he said. “We all need to be cleansed from our sins.”

“Bless me, sister Bless-ed Regina Dolores, queen of sorrows.” He stopped his flood of tears and lifted his head. “Um, baby. What kind of queen are you?” He scrutinized me with keen interest.

“Not that kind.”

“Oh,” and he went right back to crying, which led to flushing the impressive stash of dope he carried down the toilet as he renounced his sins.

After a half-hour of this, he finally calmed down, and that’s when Priest sprung on me that he was completely serious about his drug dealer performing our marriage ceremony.

I really didn’t want to get into how appalled I was by the notion in front of Zoe or Foxy.

Priest said, “We don’t have many options, love. We need to do this quickly so we can get on with our life. And now that Foxy has asked Jesus to come into his heart, you shouldn’t have any objections.”

“Priest …”

“I checked out the Universal Life Church, or Life Universal … whatever it is. It’s legit enough for him to do this for us. So can we get on with it?”

“We can’t,” I said, beaming. “We don’t have any witnesses. Zoe’s too little.”

“Baby, you can get your neighbor—that ol’ man and his wife. They don’t never go nowhere.”

“Thanks for that, Foxy. Wow,” I said.

Priest ran his hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. “Fine. I’ll be right back. Foxy, you stay saved, and Gina, you stay. Period.”

He went out to his duplex neighbors and fifteen minutes later came back with a curmudgeonly old black man he called “Mr. Glenn” and his wisp of a wife whom Mr. Glenn called Mu’deah.

Jesus, please help me. This can’t be my life. I’m in a Tyler Perry play.

But it was my life, truly.

They all gathered around the futon, and there I sat in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Foxy asked, “Bless-ed Regina Dolores, queen of sorrows, you want me to put yo’ dreadlocks up and give you a lil’ gloss and rouge?”

“Nah. I’m going in just as I am.”

“Awww right then, baby. Let’s do this.”

“Can we speak alone, Anthony?” I begged.

For a man in a rush to be my husband he looked reluctant to be alone with me. But Foxy excused himself to freshen his makeup, and I spoke to Priest.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting us married.”

“Is this really how you want to do this?”

“I just want to do it, Gina.”

“What are you afraid of?”

His shoulders rounded. “I’m afraid it’s all going to go away. At least if I marry you, when everything falls apart I’ll still have you. I need you, Gina, so much.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I was afraid it would all fall apart too, but in the end, I’d have him. That was more than I had before.

I knew we were wrong. I knew it.

Heaven help us. We let Foxy of the Universal Church of the Whatever marry us.

PRIEST

I should have straightaway taken myself to an NA meeting. I had hit rock bottom resorting to such antics, but that’s how much I wanted her. I wanted to close the deal. More than I realized.

I got those people out of my house, begging them not to tell anyone about Gina’s whereabouts. I had no idea how long we were going to last at my place. I had very little money and had to keep a wife and child out of harm’s way.

Oh man. I was a husband and a father, completely ill equipped for both. I did a lot of praying that day, with my new wife and alone. I wanted hope, but I felt like the walls were closing in on me.

We had a quiet evening, the same setup as the night before, only this time, while Zoe became vegetated in front of the television, Gina and I talked.

We shared a lot of secrets. A lot of hopes and dreams. We had the kind of hours-long conversation a man and woman have when they’re falling very deeply in love. Finally, we got Zoe ready for bed. Since Gina’s wounds weren’t actively bleeding, she was a little more independent, though still in pain.

I’d bought her a nightgown of her own, a little wedding-night trousseau—and I truly did mean little. I thought it would make her feel better since she got married in sweatpants. It certainly would make me feel better.

She told me she was tired and wanted to shower and get some sleep. I chuckled, because she made sure to say “get some sleep” instead of “go to bed.” Gina showered and hobbled out of the bathroom wearing the gown.

All I could say was, “Wow.”

Scrubbed face and dreadlocks pulled back and held in place by, of all things, one of her dreads, my wife was a masterpiece: a golden Botticelli maiden, with crucifixion wounds. Lust and reverence wrestled within me, but surely lust would lose. She was, for better or worse, the Blessed Regina Dolores. And me, I was the king of sorrows, knowing I could never know her as all of me desired to.

GINA

I wasn’t trying to seduce him by coming out of the bathroom dressed only in that gown. I mean, what were we going to do with Zoe lying there sleeping? I wanted him to see me in the present he bought for our wedding night. He’d chosen something pretty. Natural fibers. Soft, like he’d paid attention to the things around me—the things I said were healing to me. But it had a little sexy to it, and I believed he chose that gown for a reason.

If someone were to ask me that night what I wanted, I don’t think my answer would be any different than it is now: I wanted to be loved.

I looked boldly into his eyes as he watched me standing before him, and what I saw was a man gazing upon his Psyche—the most beautiful of all. The look in those opal eyes of his made me hungry for more.

Yeah, for a moment I was weak. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Be Christ to me again, Priest. Christ my Lover.”

Turns out I didn’t want a Joseph after all.

PRIEST

I did a little Bible study looking upon Gina in her bridal gown.

How beautiful you are,
my beloved,
how beautiful you are!
Your eyes are doves …

Your lips are a scarlet thread
and your words enchanting.

Your two breasts are two fawns,
twins of a gazelle
that feed among the lilies.

You are wholly beautiful,
my beloved,
without a blemish.

Except those wounds.

A Veronica hit parade played in my head. Her telling me I’d ruined her. Her telling me I was cursed. Blessed Regina had a divine destiny, but I was a stain on her white gown of righteousness. She’d called me monkey and ape baby. And then she’d run off to church to her Lover Jesus. She’d leave me locked inside of our tiny apartment. And I would wait, afraid, sitting in front of a television after I’d exhausted myself with tears. And hours later she’d return, happy that she had spent time with Jesus.

Ever hear the saying, some men marry their mother? That we try to work out what we missed with this new person that’s just like the person who hurt us so much?

Elle was like Veronica; when she was sober she lacerated me with verbal abuse. And I followed her like a lost … child. She was only good to me when she was nice and mellow, and only dope made her that way.

Veronica was only nice to me when she was nice and mellow too. When Jesus had visited her.

Jesus really visited Gina.

I knew dark nights of the soul didn’t last forever. Her wounds were already changing. Maybe they’d go away. What purpose would I serve then?

What would she do when she found out I was scared to death I’d infect her with HIV?

Gina was my beloved.

I wasn’t hers. I knew that. I couldn’t be. I wasn’t Christ.

In my haste I underestimated what our farce of a marriage would do to us. I wanted to love her in the way she wanted to be loved, but I was no more capable of taking her into the heart of the mystery she was asking to be initiated into than I was of truly protecting her. I knew she didn’t want to make love that night with Zoe there, but she would, and so would I. Even considering it—a love story between a junkie and a stigmatic—was outrageous.

Miracles. Were they real? What about the miracle of at-long-last love? Did I make all of it up because I wanted somebody to love me?

Was what happened to Gina psychogenic? Could she heal? What if you believed she did, whether or not she actually could? I wondered if Blessed Regina Dolores healed my HIV status as effectively as she healed my drug cravings and withdrawals. Then again, she hadn’t healed the craving at all. Afro-mudflap girl had grown as seductive as my luscious wife before me asking me to love her as Christ would love His church.

I asked myself the question she’d asked me earlier. What if I just made it up because I needed to? What if I made her a living placebo?

All I had to do was go get tested and put my fears to rest, or tell her everything and let her opt out.

I was afraid. Afraid to know if she’d healed me or not, and afraid to lose her in case she hadn’t. The last thing I wanted to be was the HIV-infected junkie who stumbled, high, into her church.

Afro-mudflap girl was so much easier. She demanded nothing, and I couldn’t disappoint her.

I had to protect Gina, my wife. In my own way, I was looking out for her, even though my foolishness got us into such a predicament in the first place.

“Get dressed. I have to take you away from here.”

An endless pause, then a shy, uncertain smile. She tried to blink away her confusion. “Get dressed?” she repeated. The words came out of her sounding like a question and some penance she’d regrettably resigned herself to.

God knows I wanted to shield her from the humiliation I knew she had to be feeling. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was trying to save her, which was about as Christlike as I could muster.

“I should take you to Alessandro, Gina.”

Maybe if she’d argued with me, raised the roof with her rage, I could bear the crushing heaviness weighting my heart.

“Baby,” I said, “my love, if I don’t take you now, I’m going to literally love you to death. And I can’t do that, no matter how much I want to.”

She struggled with herself. Stumbled over her words, “Ha—How? How can you love me to death?”

“I’m an intravenous drug user, Gina.”

“Not anymore.”

“Things happen when you live that life, Gina.”

“But you’re not a—”

“Don’t make me say it, Gina. I’ve given you enough hints.”

She paused, as if she were choosing her words carefully. “Anthony …”

She never called me Anthony. I wouldn’t let her finish. It didn’t matter what she was going to say I couldn’t … I couldn’t.

“I’m HIV-postive, Gina.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. Listen to me! Making love to me could be a death sentence for you.”

And then she did the darndest thing. She laughed and held up her hands.

“I’ve already got a death sentence, Priest. And it didn’t come from you.” Then she did another thing I marveled at. Gina laid her hand on my forehead. Blood began to seep in earnest out of all her wounds. She cried out in anguish as warmth spread through me, even more intense than what I felt the first time I touched her.

Then she fell forward into my arms.