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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
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

Jesus conceded with a friendly willingness to lose the debate. “The less value you set on yourself, the better.”

Margery recognized the arbitrary world. Jesus gazed through her without a flicker of interest. System after system peeled back till there was nothing left but spidery bones. She sank into her grave, crying, “Jesus, don’t abandon me! Your angels offer you my tears.” She raised her head—a skull that was already empty. He looked at the sockets hopefully. They heard a two-syllabled call followed by the muffled purr of rapidly beating wings.

45

“Hello, Bob,” L. says with mild cheer. “What’s new and different?” When he speaks, it’s not about us but current events, updates—the kind of petty news heads of families xerox and send at Christmas. I listen in disbelief—my aging and death could not go forward without his consent.

My back feels tight. I am aware of the infinity of my longing and my frantic being, and of the relative blankness “outside” where clouds are parsed evenly over the night sky in exasperation. I want a hand to scatter my nipples and cock like dry leaves off my body. I look at the phone which contains his voice. His flesh and blood are sitting by a window—the tops of buildings, a loading dock seven stories down.

It’s 2 A.M. his time; I’m in bed in San Francisco. His presence wouldn’t cure my loneliness. My life occurs on the heavy satin of his skin yet he won’t let me be the cause of stimulation. My egotism is turned upside down. I give him an ultimatum: We’ve been dating for three years. Let’s live together or break up.

L. thinks it over a few months; he has the self-confidence to reject me. I write a blistering letter and show it to my friend Kathy. She advises me to delete the anger and beg: “The only thing I understand is holding you, arousing you, seducing you with tenderness and witnessing your face soften and open, a disheveled openness, your lips swelling, and I am gazing into your blue-geode eyes.”

“Well,” he replies, “I can’t say I would necessarily object to seeing each other, but I also wonder how it could be done . . .”

•

Margery tried to kiss a leper on the street but he drew back offended. She knelt in a puddle of yellow mud and cried, “Let them lay me naked on a hurdle for all men to wonder at and let them throw slime and spit at me.” She was afraid of disease but more terrified of her own unhappiness.