The are very few places left to sit. Whole families lean into one another, patting each other's backs to offer comfort, offering tissues to dry tears. There is a lot of sobbing. Not just sniffling, but shoulder-quaking sobbing. My husband points out an empty space in the second pew from the front, right next to one of my uncles. I'd much rather sit in the back where I won't be in the line of vision of a couple hundred mourners. But the only places left are in front.
The church doors are left open to let in the breeze. Sun streams in the windows, infusing the chapel with a golden light. The brass crosses and candlesticks glow. And there is X's casket, closed now, surrounded by all this light. I glare at a cross and think, How could you, Lord? How could you send this glorious sunshine, this warm air sweetened by a gentle breeze, as if you and all your angels choreographed a hero's homecoming?
One by one, half a dozen people step up to deliver eulogies. The hagiography of Saint X. They all mention X's disarming smile. His sweetness. His wicked sense of humor. There are lots of stories about friendly pranks he pulled. Funny things he said. He was so much fun. Loved by everyone who ever met him. My head buzzes. My fists clench. I want to lean over and rest my head on my knees. But I don't want to do anything to call attention to myself. Even though it is a funeral and my reaction will probably seem perfectly normal, I remain rigidly upright. Every muscle is taut as a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. I hope the eulogies stop soon or I might reach a breaking point myself.
The pastor takes his turn and for twenty minutes my eyes burn, not with tears, but with the strain of keeping my composure. I don't know how much more I can take. Apparently X is a hero because he once saved a man's life. He's a good Christian, too, real tight with God. He could recite Bible passages from memory, thoughtfully discuss scripture. I bring my fist to my mouth and press my knuckles to my lips.
I want to moan. I want to pull my hair. I want to run up the aisle and shove the pastor aside. I want to shout, "Bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!" But I am a good girl. A good, Protestant girl. I remain seated. I remain silent. The pastor concludes, and there is silence as we wait for the 21-gun salute to sound from outside. When the first shot explodes, it sounds like dynamite set off beneath my pew. I startle. "Jesus!" I gasp. I instantly want to crawl under the pews. Surely people heard me. Surely I will be thought a heathen. But it is more a prayer than a curse.
The service concluded, the mourners file out. My parents walk beside X's parents after the casket. They have cried the whole service. They cry still. Their faces are haggard with grief. They look ill. I want to run to them and embrace them. Comfort them. At the same time, I want to throw myself at their feet and cry, "Why are you crying for him? Why don't you cry for the girl who floated out the window?" There are no tears for her. There can't be, because my parents don't know. I never knew how to tell them. Seeing their grief, hearing X lionized, I cannot imagine that I ever will.
***
When X is done fucking me, he looks at my thighs. He tells me to stand up and he looks down at the carpet where I was lying. His forehead wrinkles a little. "There should be blood," he says. Then he smiles and shrugs. "Oh well. Some girls don't bleed."
My heart pounds in my ears. First he says it's not supposed to hurt. Then he says it is. And I'm supposed to bleed, too. Will it hurt later? Bleed later?
He kisses me and smiles. "You're not a virgin anymore." He says this as if he is my proud father and I have just learned to ride a bike without training wheels for the first time. I am nine. I have no idea what is so great about not being a virgin anymore. I have no idea what a virgin is. The only time I heard this word before was in church at Christmas, when the pastor told us Jesus's mother was the Virgin Mary. I never knew "virgin" was an adjective. I always thought it was just part of Mary's name.
When I'm a teenager and at last understand what virgin means, I will be ashamed that I am not one. I will walk the halls at school holding my books tight to one side and nervously scanning the faces of the kids moving past me. In church, my family always sits toward the front of the church. I feel the congregation's eyes on my back. No one in church or school says a word. No one gives the slightest sign. Still, I am positive that they see right through me. That they know I am not a virgin. I imagine they are all thinking, "Dirty girl. Filthy slut."
In my early thirties, I will sit in my therapist's office and tell her, "X stole my virginity. He robbed me of the chance to choose my first lover." A few weeks later, between periods, I will discover I am spotting. The small splotch of blood on white cotton will cause me to flash back to a summer evening when I was eight and discovered a similar stain. I didn't understand why it was there at the time. In my thirties, I do understand. The next time I see my therapist, I am excited. "X didn't steal my virginity! I lost my virginity when I was riding a horse!"
It is a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
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