Jesus

A babe suckling at the tit of a woman is named Virgil J., and by virtue of a quick fuck and shot-gun wedding, Rutherford. The suckling is done on an untroubled and arid Sunday afternoon at his grand-mère's with a light show-tune lulling off in the background crying off of an old-style radio. The front room is a small slip of an area with a flowery sofa set in the center of the room made right with the idea of inexact, gumming grandmothers with peeling orange plaster speckled with blue birds and dull red insects. The lit rose-scented-candle atop the coffee table – no coffee is set there because grand-mère doesn't like the rings it leaves – is there to remind herself and others of 'the good old days,' grand-mère says. Grand-mère grew up on the border of racial segregation. She is, like her room, rather unquaint and disorienting should you pay more than a trifle of care to the environment, with it's painted black ceramic dollies lined up on one of the three dressers and Time magazine publications by a homely purple rug.

The babe is a fussy one with tears often dried upon it's rosy cheeks and spilled warm milk within the crevices of beefy thighs and atop an overwrought tummy. Mère disallows the boy's cries to drown out her schedule of the tele, cellular, fucking, rinse wash repeat. Grand-mère holds the babe, rocks her body and it to sleep, whispering vulgarisms at her girl and son-in-law until her son-in-law and girl pack up their things to move out to the city, leaving Virgil J., and by virtue of adoption, Foss with a fagged mère.

Ten years rolls, mère calls him a 'babe' no more, shouting for him to come inside from peeking on insects with the cat-call of 'little darling.' He is what a grande-mère would call a little darling on account of his au fait – what the French Mère's and grand-mère's refer to when reprimanding the other little boys of the road – his frolic while getting in the way not here nor there. There's even the type of physical charm, often over or under looked. Close-cut strawberry blond hair atop his head, contrasting against a burnt sienna skin tone – quite the kind you'll find in a child's coloring box – with an undefined little nose, giving the impression of a burrow into his face – the mom's called it 'cute for a boy his age' – and small round lips akin to his brown eyes. Why, the mother's would call on him saying he'd make a fine sip of wine once the years roll on by – given that nose be touched upon.

It's a nice seven years gone by before he's stripped of 'little darling' but only by virtue of age – he's much too big to be a little darling. He's Virgil Foss by acquaintances and Mr. Foss by teachers and Foss by employers and Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Fuck by those he'd saw fit to cradle dick-to-dick atop his grand-mère's ornate sofa, the peaks of nails nicking into fabric and skin, hips and torsos rocking until the grumble of her car would bleed through the woodwork and the two would jump back, fix hair, fix clothes, mend the sexual tension taunting them beneath muscle with a quick peck, and a push out the kitchen room back door and little darling would feel the slightest touch of distress when his grande-mère walks through the door and works a light kiss upon his cheek.

He feels that now, for future reference, that silent disquieting ache in the back of his head, beneath his hair when his grande-mère's lips press against his cheekbone and taps the area with her wrinkled hand.

“Have you been a bon garçon, Virgil?” she asks as she ambles into the room and lowers her ass on the sofa. Virgil mechanically nods, gets down on one knee, and wipes the crumbs from the afternoon meal off the coffee table and into the nearby trash bin. Grande-mère nods just as he does and lets her muscles check into the cushions. “Call Mitch inside – I need to talk to him about his work.” Virgil nods again and says a soft, 'Oui, grand-mère,' before he turns and goes out onto the back porch. One other boy of his age may lay themselves idle on the porch this evening with their eyes all aglow following the hustle of the fireflies above the grass; may fall prey to the tabbed carton of Marlboro cigarettes sitting on the seat of the rockin' chair; could laze about for ten minutes getting to their grand-mère's directions thinking about how long 'til their pick-up trucks get fixed on up and they can ride out into the city for dimmer stars and lighter night skies. 'Virgil est un bon garçon, cependant.'

Virgil's steel-toed boots noise off the wooden porch and onto the rocky pathway. He heads towards the hulking figure in the fields, the walkway ending and following into thick, high blades of grass. The figure stops pulling at the grass and raises his head. Virgil seizes his shoulders, stills his breath, and turns around, index and middle fingers signaling for him to follow. They walk back through the grass, path, porch, – a beat while they unbrace their boots and sink them by the side of the doorway – kitchen, and, in the end, the sitting room, grand-mère in the same position. Mitch bases himself behind the coffee table and Virgil sets himself in the far right corner of the room.

Grand-mère licks her lips before she begins. “Mitchell, have you been outdoors recently?”

Mitch rolls his shoulders and head. “Yes, ma'am. I been outside from ten to five when I left out to help mama – she called me home – and back at six. I been working since.”

“Would you explain to this old woman then,” she says and leans forward. “Why that grass is as high as it was when I left this morning at seven A.M.?”

Virgil places his hands behind his back as he begins to contort them.

Mitch spreads his legs further apart and lifts his chin. “I been working out back of the house than the front, ma'am. Rattlesnakes were trying to make house back there and I wanted to get them out sooner than someone got injured.”

Grand-mère purses her lips and sets her palms on ther knees. “Now, Mitch, you know well true there ain't been no rattlesnakes back there,” she says, a tiny smile balanced on her mouth. “I hear you callin' me 'ma'am' but I'm not fully sold on you knowing I'm as old as I am – your shit won't run with me. Now,” she leans back into the sofa, “I don't give a good fuck what you do in your private time but when it bounds on the business you do for me, that's something else.” She pauses, licks her pale crackled lips, and shakes her head. “I called up Lousia from up the road and at two and she said she came round the house and didn't see a soul workin' out back or front.” The veins in Mitch's neck twitch. “Now, let me tell you, the next time I have to call to check up on your work, I will call you up later that day, crawl through the phone, and merde dans la gorge. Get out and get on home before I get the mind to call your father on you.” Mitch starts for the kitchen, however, he's interrupted by a loud throat clearing. “You forgot something.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Off you go.” Virgil's care is drawn toward the thunking of boots and the belt of the kitchen door. Grand-mère rolls her eyes and falls back into the sofa. “That boy.” She shakes her head and Virgil goes out the room and returns with the pack of smokes. “I know I shouldn't keep him on.” He taps the box against the table and lifts a stick from inside. “But I pity him, don't you?” He nods. “Yes, he's such a sad sight. His dad, you know, is a drunken shipwreck – I didn't like threatening him like that, I didn't, don't think your grand-mère is a cold-hearted shrew.” Virgil places the cigarete between her parted lips. “But he's got to learn his actions have results. One of these days.” Virgil gets his hand on the Americana patterned lighter atop the coffeetable, and lights her cigarette bright as a firecracker. Grand-mère nods and the lid clinks close. “And it won't be long, his dad'll catch wind of his fuck-ups and he'll get fucked up.” She chuckles as she in-and-ex-hales. “I don't, ah, advocate the striking of children but when they don't listen to reason...” she shrugs. “I'll look the other way.” Virgil crouches at the foot of the couch and rubs his fingers on the fabric of the sofa. “You heard that childish stomping?” she takes the cigarette from her lips and shakes her head. “Goddamn fifteen-year-old, he act like. Slamming goddamn doors in my house. I tell you one damn thing, if he tore up that door, I will bring his ass right back here for him to fix it tonight.”

“The nails are all in their proper places, grand-mère.”

“Well, anyway, you know what I mean. Your granny ain't no push-over.” She grins and Virgil does so in response.

The night washes into the morning like that and grand-mère falls asleep on the lounge, cigarette in her mouth and Virgil faintly wonders if he should let it stay lit. He remembers Griffin and his firecrackers. He's decided he's against the thought because as soon as the thought comes is as promptly as he pulls it from her mouth and flicks the butt through the window. The lighter and cigarette box are set back – coffeetable and rockin' chair – and Virgil climbs the stairs to his bedroom. His arms pull the white tank off his body and his fingers unhook the belt keeping the jeans around his waist. His body shivers against the cold sheets for minutes before he's asleep.