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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

A thousand years passed till the third day came. A knock at the door. “It’s I, St. Peter, who abandoned Jesus.” He fell to his knees, racked with sobs.

Mary consoled him. “Jesus will cheer us up. That child was the best shit I ever had!” Everyone laughed; the hair rose on Margery’s neck.

•

Mary lay in bed sleeping; she smelled like scorched hair. Margery lay beside her, fists clenched against her temples. The hut had no windows; the appalling midday heat stunned her. Mary Magdalene was looking for Jesus at his grave. A blackbird stood with its head to one side listening for worms. Jesus walked stiffly because his flesh had been dead. He stopped behind her. “Why are you crying?”

Mary Magdalene jumped and spun around; she did not recognize Jesus dressed like a gardener in a jerkin and straw hat. He said, “Mary.” His voice was full of dirt, gritty. She felt her eyeballs swell in her head. She bent to kiss his feet but Jesus rasped, “Don’t touch me.”

Mary Magdalene looked miserable. Margery thought if Jesus cried Touch me not to her, she would crumble along with the rest of her meager story.

51

Margery, Mary, Peter, Thomas, and Mary’s sisters all stood up when Jesus stepped into the sweltering bunker. He shuffled woodenly and brought into the terrible shack a flat stench. He said in the gravelly whisper of the undead, “Hello, mother.”

The skin prickled on Thomas’s back; he guarded his throat in an instinctive gesture. Jesus grabbed Thomas’s fingers and jammed them into the wound in his chest with a look of rapture. Jesus gritted his teeth like L. does during orgasm, desiring sensation but unwilling to be moved by it. Peter gaped in horror at the risen dead and met its enthusiasm with revulsion. Margery fell backwards onto her chair. She thought her cries were drowned by organ music. Others remember Margery as a frenetic dog.

Jesus said, “Will someone put her out?” She smelled the wounds, the shredded hands.

Mary said, “Art yu my swete Sone, Ihesu?”

“I am your son.” He lifted and kissed her. Mary searched his body as though she had lost her place. She took his hand and pressed it to her lips. Her cheek retained his blood and a dangling ribbon of flesh. Mary’s eyes glinted with sardonic humor which she shared with Jesus—their eyebrows raised in amusement—as she turned her gory face for everyone to see.