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Back Margery Kempe
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

Four girls squatted in the corner projecting their world onto little half-naked bodies which they twisted intently; then one of the girls held her doll up, suddenly animate, so it could speak to the others.

What is there to these dolls besides moments of arousal followed by emptiness? Jesus announced in a stern parental voice, “There is much sorrow coming to you.”

Margery was silent. Is pain more convincing than pleasure? The best prophet is the assassin. She couldn’t see into the assassin’s face—eyes blank, mouth drawn downwards.

Margery experienced the camaraderie of the dolls as remorse without an object. Jesus shrugged, “If you don’t want my love . . .” She was bewildered. With John, Margery had duplicated her parents’ marriage, so Margery was strong; Jesus shrank her down to a child, adoring and lost, perhaps unloved. He called for unconditional surrender—but to what? Raising his palm in an oddly formal salute, he disappeared.

Margery would have been surprised to learn how badly assembled Jesus was. Lacking all external criticism, he was vague even to himself. His visits should have replaced the stream of life with something conclusive—or was his incoherence the attraction? She foresaw the catastrophe though no words passed. In fantasies Jesus showed need and intent in his touch but his actual hands lay lifeless and she tried to prop them up over her back. She made it into a game, “Jesus the Puppet.” If he didn’t respond to her body, he might respond to her joke?

Even when Margery bathed him, he wouldn’t let her caress his nipples or his gleaming belly. It’s painful to describe. She used shrewdness to hide her humiliation from both of them. His coldness was a greater problem than any believable solution; she preferred fraud and Jesus, yet she complained constantly.

No, but I was torn up with loneliness—I say as my puppet says it too. A still beam of sunlight pierces a dark tumultuous fountain, a kind of exultation I can only grasp through the pleasure it might give L. I can’t know it except through him. I have no position—what can I reject? My body seems large, my skin blushes and reaches in every direction for contact with L.’s skin. I raise my eyes to a dark window seven stories high where L. lives in New York. The window is lit, he is flesh and blood, he leans into another man in amusement and then warmth. I whisper his name to elevate this story with the strength of my sexuality.

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