Bible Story

Mike Murray

Though it distorted her appearance, Mary looked even more beautiful when Matthew looked at her through his glass of whiskey. She was tall and lovely, with dark hair that nearly reached her rump. She was lying across her white couch, looking both bored and aroused in a way that had taken her a long time to learn how to fake.

Somehow, the insincerity made it all the more sexy to him.

“You’re thinking about your wife, aren’t you?” She smiled, feigning bemusement.

He closed his eyes and took a mouthful of smooth, cool drink. “I should be with her now.”

She sighed and stretched out. “Has she been taking care of you? You’re not as aggressive as you used to be. Or maybe,” she smiled like a lion, “you are getting old.”

He felt a pressure building inside him.

“It’s my son,” he coughed, “He’s not well lately.”

“Poor kid. Didn’t inherit his father’s iron constitution?”

Her breathing was deep and easy, like the Earth humming a song just for him.

“He’s just making bad decisions is all, young and confused.” He swirled his glass, disappointed that the ice didn’t clink the way he wanted.

“Straighten him out, then. Set a good example.”

“I wish I could… how I wish I could.” He finished his drink, was up and had his jacket on.

“Wait,” she yawned, drawing a circle on the fabric of the couch with her finger. “You’re a slimeball, of course. But you’re smart. Of all the cheaters I’ve met, none were as
straightforward and self-aware as you are. So how does a smart Catholic lawyer end up boning the Whore of Babylon?” she looked off to the side, as if suddenly interested in some dustbunnies.

His jacket slid off. He poured himself more whiskey.

“It’s not about praying to that other Mary,” he sighed, “Nor is it about eating crackers and drinking wine. It’s about… learning.”

“Hmm?”

“Father MacMurphy… he’s the one who made me what I am today. He made me strong. Also made me weak in many ways. But that’s how it is – without him, there wouldn’t be a me, strong or weak.” For inspiration, he held up his half-full glass to the red lamp that lit the room, pondering the mix of gold and blood. “He would always tell us – remember how the story goes.”

“What story?” she closed her eyes.

He lowered the glass. Tried to clink the ice again.

“I have no idea. I don’t think it was any one in particular… just Bible stories, I guess.”

“You hypocrite.”

“May she who is without sin… ”

She rolled on her back then, tipping her head off the edge of the couch. Her hair made a raven waterfall on the floor, covering up the white sofa and the eggshell carpet. With her face upside-down, she looked up at him like a child.

“I think you should leave now. You’re depressing me.”

He noticed his now-empty glass made a circle in his hands.

“Go depress your wife. I don’t want to hear your life story.”

The glass thunked on the carpet.

“I swear to God I’ll tell her,” moving upright now, she undid the top button of her black silk pajamas, revealing a pale breast. “I’ll come right up to your house and tell her myself, and say hello to your son while I’m there, and maybe, maybe even… ”

Her dark eyes rolled back in her head as his mouth stopped hers. As his flesh pressed into her, she silently thanked Father MacMurphy, whoever he was.

His name was Patrick. He was a teenage boy, pretty and young, and his father’s only child.

He went through the ritual he had been trained to do since kindergarten. First, make sure you’re neither hungry, thirsty, or full. You start with stretches. As he bent to touch his toes, he noticed how gray the grass looked now that the setting sun had made it lose its vibrant color. More stretching. When his body felt nice and loose, he jogged. He thought about the wind in his hair for awhile. His father wanted it cut. His mother wanted it longer. After a lap or two, he could smell the dust of the ground and feel a certain warmth inside of his body. Before he started, however, he said a prayer. That was a part he added himself. He prayed often, and had tried meditation many times. But what worked best, he found, was the pumping of muscles, the calibration of each movement, and how every atom of God’s creation suddenly stepped aside when you found the perfect way of moving your body.

He picked up a bat and practiced hitting baseballs.

Matthew was inside listening to him.

Crack.

His wife was lying down. Her headaches were worse lately. He had been thinking about that for awhile now – whether they should look into alternative medicines or something. He thought about the headaches a lot lately. He found it easy.

Crack.

“Why did you make us eat without you?” she asked weakly.
He hadn’t heard her come in. Without moving from the window, he replied “I’m sorry, but I just can’t walk out whenever I want to. I need this job.”

Crack.

“Did Pat eat anything?” he asked

“Yes – he had some meat. He’s very nervous he won’t make the team this year.”

“He shouldn’t be. I keep telling him he’s the best.”

“Don’t talk like that. You always say those things, and he doesn’t believe it.”

“Sarah –”

“Everyone has to lose sometimes, and when he does, he can’t –”

Crack.

Wood on horsehide. The sword on the shield. A call to battle.

Crack.

He heard hear breathing… but barely. It was so soft, like an angel’s. She took her time finding what she wanted to say.

“I – I’m sorry. It’s just that Pat – he trusts you so much more than me. And you got so angry when he, and I don’t think…”

“Don’t think what?” he interrupted

“I don’t…”

“What is it?”

“…”

Crack.

“Can I turn up the heat?” she sniffed. “The weather’s still a bit cold.”

“You’ll be fine, put on a sweater.”

“But you’re not wearing a -”

Crack.

He turned his head to look at her. The sky was thick with clouds and the fading daylight made everything gray. With her lying down, Patrick outside, and Matthew not at home, there was no reason to have the lights on.

He’s so cold, he must be, she thought.

In the dimness, all she was to him were two, big, pleading eyes. Her breaths were shorter and raspier now.

“… Never mind,” she walked out.

He allowed himself to relax a bit. He didn’t want her to see that he was flipping through his old family Bible.

The last time he was reading it, Patrick had almost died – hit by a car chasing a soccer ball across the street. Said he thought he was fast enough, that the kid next door dared him… but Matthew knew why. He hadn’t taught Patrick boundaries. It was all that talk about never listening to people who told you what to do and how to do it. About how all it took was will and determination.

He nearly killed his son.

Patrick nearly died, still wearing his baby fat and little league cleats. Now he was a certified beanpole, a good athlete and a decent student, who would go to a good college in a few years.

Matthew wasn’t reading. But just holding the book made him feel comforted. He loved his son. More than anything. Maybe he should have shown it. Maybe he should have been a better husband, too. He wondered if his son thought that all men and women were like his mother and father.

He blinked a few times, trying to figure out what was wrong. The backyard… empty.
He took a few steps, towards the window in the front of the house. Patrick hadn’t even bothered to come inside?

No. He had climbed into the apple tree out front. The trunk forked very near the ground, making it easy to climb. Many years ago, while his Mom and Dad talked to the realtor, he laughed and swung on that damn thing as if he had died and gone to heaven.
Though they didn’t talk about it, they both knew they bought the house so Pat could have a tree.

Matthew wondered if he should go out and talk to him. It was getting dark.
He decided not to. Not yet. He placed himself squarely in front of the perfectly rectangular window, inside his clean, white kitchen which still smelled of the meat and potatoes his wife had cooked, and watched his son climb a tree like he was half his real age.

When Patrick seemed to have found a familiar branch, he straddled it, scooting his lean body across the thick, sturdy surface, and crossed his ankles.

He remembered the girl Patrick had “dated” – he was so proud to bring home a cheerleader. Ruby lips and gold hair, but also a silky voice and refined manners. Even Sarah thought she was a delight.

He remembered how Patrick had touched her and spoken to her. Like she was a sister.
A sister. Matthew snickered without mirth. What a good Catholic boy – treats the girls with respect. Not that Patrick ever had problems with girls.

Matthew suddenly thought of all the teammates that had slept over at their house. More than a few times, it was just Pat, and one other guy.

He wondered what two boys would do, all night alone in a bedroom.

His son. Good at school. Good at sports. Popular with his peers.

And maybe, kissing a boy.

Liking it, even.

He looked down and saw that he had opened the Bible. He looked up and saw Patrick, hanging upside-down from the tree by his locked ankles, his legs forming a weird diamond shape. His hands were behind his head in a sort of mediative pose, making his elbows stick out.

The boy must be cold, Matthew thought.

He looked back down at the open pages, though the fading light made the words look like squiggles. He thought of a hike he and Patrick had once taken, just two men, all the way to the top of a mountain. He thought of the time Patrick had run away, trying to live with the hippie parents of a girl he knew, and how he came back, saying nothing about what he had done besides how much he hated the vegetarian food he had been served. The weekend Matthew had spent living in a hotel room, without even a phone call from the one person he loved, because of a fight he had with Sarah.

He closed his Bible. He closed his eyes and remembered the sounds of switches clicking, the crack and hum of the heater, the color of his wife’s hair.

He opened his eyes. He looked outside.

Then he ran out the front door.

One was small and inexperienced. The other, a grim giant. But the small one had a secret weapon. He loaded his sling, and spun. The giant merely looked down.
The young one let his stone fly. It went straight and true, knocking the giant squarely between his eyes. The stone thunked off. The wind blew desert sand across both their faces.

The young one held his breath. Something wasn’t right.

Again, the sling was loaded. Again, the true flight of the stone.

Thunk.

The wind bellowed. An army surrounded them both, roaring. He could hear spears rattling on sheilds. The sun burned his skin.

Patrick knew how this story turned out. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. Why couldn’t he see what he knew?

He took a very deep breath. As his lungs stung with the chill of the night air, he wondered how long he had been unconciously holding his breath.

He drank the air in deeply, though it made his chest burn. Then he recognized a smell, a familiar yet unwelcome armoa. Images and shadows prodded his brain, thoughts of hostility and unfriendliness.

It smelled like his father… home late from work.

And then he found himself face to face with a someone.

He had never seen her before in his life, but he knew that she was the most beautiful person in the world, and that he hated her more than anything.

He hated the several gold earrings she wore in each ear, and the thick color on her lips, and the black hair that was pouring behind her shoulders, and her pure, pale skin.

“Hi, you’re Pat,” she breathed, visibly drunk. “I’m a friend of your father’s…”

Slowly, he lifted his body to the branch. Hugging it, he let his legs drop, then the rest of him. He turned to face this figure who had shown up uninvited.

She was even more beautiful when he wasn’t upside-down. Patrick felt hot suddenly.

“You… and my father?” he said, looking into her black eyes.

“Yes, he’s a… good friend of mine,” she reached an arm out to him. She moved smoothly, like a snake. He held her slender wrist. He felt her finger wiggle as she played with his hair.

“Then maybe… you can give him a message for me.”

Sarah, mother of Patrick and wife to Matthew, was already outside. Matthew, father of Patrick, a former track star who still jogged every morning, still made it to the scene before she did. Patrick, son of Sarah and Matthew, had his hands around the neck of Mary, lover of Matthew. Patrick’s arms were wiry and hard. Mary tugged at his wrists, dug her long fingernails into his skin, and still felt her throat being crushed.
Sarah felt as if an unseen hand turned her face away so she wouldn’t see.

If she had looked forward, she might have seen her husband lift one powerful leg and begin to kick.

If she had looked down, she might have seen a large book that was dropped in the dirt.
She looked up. She saw the moon, growing smaller. She saw a few stars. She held out a hand to steady herself on the trunk of the old apple tree.

All four of them had read the golden book cover to cover. But none of them knew how this story ended.