Dallas, TX, Friday, July 16th, 1999
This burrito carne asada with all the fillings of chopped red onions, refried beans, brown rice, guacamole, cheddar cheese, and picante sauce has me feeling bloated only halfway through dining on it. My niece Zoe is my brother Ulysses’ daughter, and I love having lunch with her at the Burrito Shack at least once a month during the work week.
My appetite is re-surging after we downed a plate of chicken fajitas, peppers, and grilled onions with hot tortilla bread, and now the massive signature burrito with delicious tortilla chips.
The oppressive heat of the four o’clock hour is about ninety-one degrees, with unusual humidity, I find myself enjoying my third lime Margarita. The crushed salt clings to the rim edge of the glass and I cleanse my palate by licking it for the tart flavor.
Oddly, Zoe is not ordering margaritas, preferring to sip on lemonade as she devours her chicken burrito, smearing sour cream over it, as she replaces the empty calories from the tequila she would usually consume.
Even more odd, she’s now perusing the dessert menu, delirious in talking about ordering caramel flan.
“It sounds delicious, doesn’t it? There’s never enough caramel flan to go around.”
“I notice you’re sticking to the lemonade. Why do you have such a sweet tooth?”
“It’s better on a hot day, don’t you think?”
“For hydration purposes, ~ is it that you’re making up for the empty margarita calories? When was the last time you had caramel flan?”
“That’s the point,” she lifts her glass to sip through the Burrito Shack paper straw, “the dairy is healthier than the tequila.”
This is a strange remark from my carefree niece who is full of the spirit of life, accomplished as an independent optician, a newlywed of nearly two years, she loves to have the fun of an undergraduate on spring break.
She smiles giving a devilish expression. Her cheeks pushing high squinting her eyes, possessing the glint of mischievous intent, I can tell she is about to reveal a secret.
“I’m eating for two, and I’m not too thirsty for tequila, in the better interest of my little parasite.”
“What do you mean your ‘little parasite’? Don’t tell me you’re expecting!”
“I do, I mean, I am, saying exactly that. I mean it’s true, according to my Ob/Gyn ~”
“Zoe, that is wonderful news, you’re not even showing. When did you find out?”
“Monday. It’s going on seven weeks.”
“Then you conceived after the last time we got together.”
She nods her head quickly with a smile ear to ear.
“And you abstained from alcohol over July 4th?”
“I did, unsurprisingly. Micah and I went to his parents for the holiday, and I didn’t feel up to it. His family thought I was under the weather, but it didn’t matter as they are prudish and wouldn’t tolerate indulgences to any level of impairment.”
“That’s good for you. Micah is the anchor you can benefit from going forward and having a family together.”
“I’m so happy this is happening; you can’t possibly understand how I feel about this miracle of life!”
I bite my lip reactively, as I try not to show the hurt from the statement, after all this is her moment. Her glee rounds off and simmers to the realization of the impact of her expression on me.
“Oh, how careless and rude of me, I’m sorry Aunt Cate, forgive me.”
“It’s alright, this is your moment, Zoe, you deserve all the happiness in the world.”
“Truly, I didn’t mean to be garish, or insensitive,” she reaches over the table to take hold of my hands. “You do understand, though, thank you. I love you, Aunt Cate.”
The tears rolling down my cheeks are bold admissions of sincerity toward the beauty of her authentic, endearing self. I’m at a loss for words, overwhelmed with the emotion of the tragedies from my own ~ lack of experience in childbearing.
It would be one thing if infertility were the issue, but to deliver three consecutive still-births levies profound sorrow in my heart. The divorce demanded by my ex-husband only adds to the desolation of my soul, the intolerable pain of seclusion, the abandonment, and failure made worse by the scrutiny in the eyes of my dear mother, whose love never faded; but she was heartbroken over me until the day she died.
“At least Mother was proud of you when you married Micah, and she was certain you would bring about a great-grandchild for her.”
“But I didn’t Aunt Cate, her sudden death from cancer deprived all of us of the love we strive for, and rightly deserve for ourselves to continue to celebrate.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore then, does it? She’s looking down upon us with contentment, I’m sure.”
It’s unlike my life trying to pick up the pieces of a failed marriage, alone waiting for job interviews; though I can afford never to work a day the rest of my life, I find my passion for work something that allows me to feel alive. My lifelong dream is to achieve as an archaeologist with a focus on biology. My passion is to study the cultures of the past to understand and give them a voice. Understanding is the key to having peace of mind about the nature of existence.
A recent opening at the American Archaeology Society based at the Natural History Museum in NYC is the only way to make the change I feel is going to maintain my sanity.
“For now, I’m working as an assistant to the local arborists residing at the botanical Gardens. I’m researching harmful insects’ natal area, along migratory routes, and how to protect certain plant and tree life from decimation by infestations.”
“You said your mentor from college referred you to this position, where does he work, what’s his name?”
“Jürgen, and he isn’t quite a mentor to me as much as he was the graduate assistant in my final two years of undergrad. We work together on local expeditions. He is an Anthropological archaeologist, and he happens to be in Southeast Asia on an important expedition.”
“Sounds like he’s an important scholar to be involved in an exhibition in Southeast Asia.”
“It’s ‘expedition’, Zoe, not ‘exhibition’.”
“You know that’s what I meant, and I’m the one who’s sober.”
I offer a gentle laugh to her sense of irony, “Having his background in Anthropology; he’s working in a place called Liang Bua, a cave in Indonesia. There’s speculation that remnants of humanoid bones may be discovered dating back eons.”
“Isn’t an ‘eon’ a billion years?”
“It is. Forgive me for exaggerating nine-hundred-ninety-nine million and three-quarters of a million years.”
Zoe laughs taking my humor as only she could, “Safe to say a ‘missing link’ in human evolution?” She blurts out in another utterance of appreciation for my loose tongue.
“Could be, as in a form of a hominid, a branch of the homo erectus family tree. It’s thirty-plus years since it was first explored. Liang Bua means ‘cool cave’, ideal for early humans to make a home.”
“Why can’t he get you involved with such important work?”
“He’s a tenured professor at the University in Utah; that’s where the funding of the project is sourced.”
“The least he can do is give you a referral on your application to the American Archaeological Society.”
“I’ll be sure to follow up with him when he returns in the fall semester at ‘U of U’.”
“You do that, you ‘U of U’ you.” Her sudden joy as she smiles urges me to react in laughter to her clever jab at the advanced level of studies.
Zoe is always keen on being silly, but even more so is her enthusiasm percolating within her anticipating the beginnings of a growing family.
“Jürgen inspired me to pursue entomology. It’s a reasonable quality of living if you can find the work. He’s undoubtedly taking any spare time he has to study the insect populations of Southeast Asia.”
“Oh, I can only imagine,” she rolls out flippantly.
The waiter appears out of nowhere aggressive in attitude, as demonstrated by his rude behavior hammering down the glasses of ice water on the table. He makes the disruption of our conversation to ask if we are all set with our order.
We decline, “We’re considering dessert, thank you.”
Before we can continue our conversation, he creates an outburst confronting customers at an adjacent table.
Three elegantly attired women seat themselves as he remarks inappropriately before taking their order for food, “Don’t rush yourselves, la chochas. The kitchen is shorthanded and unless you’re going to wear an apron you have to wait. I’m nobody’s whipping boy today.”
Zoe looks at me, her mouth agape, and I react with an expression of astonishment. We listen for a moment as the waiter stands brooding over their table. The women are impressive in their demeanor, perhaps they take his translation as ‘friends’, but his sour attitude would suggest the profane. More so, as he doesn’t have a trace of an accent, but his facial features could pass for the Mediterranean.
They order a cheese tray and a bottle of white pinot grigio. On this hot day, it makes for a refreshing appetizer, and to me the coincidence of enjoying a Meade family tradition for simple celebrations, will make good for dessert as well.
It strikes me as a suitable gesture to honor Zoe’s entrance to motherhood. I look to Zoe with a nod of enticement verifying her interest in a cheese tray. She furls her brow shaking her head in approval while leaning forward, “Can you think of any better proof of communication from Oma beyond the grave?”
“I know, the thought gives me chills,” I confirm by extending my right forearm closer to her to view the goosebumps on my skin.
“You see the cosmic vibes are real, a ripple of emotion expressed from Oma showing her happiness through you, Aunt Cate.”
Her words brought about a thumping in my chest, a warmth stirs within me, unlike the humid heat of the day.
“It only goes to prove Jesus is effeminate, if not just downright female!” Zoe says as she crosses her arms in front of her leaning snugly over the edge of the table, eyes wide and filled with blissful contempt towards the authority of paternal Christian faith.
I reflexively smile seeing her sparkling face glowing with happiness before I see the waiter is finished speaking to the ladies seated adjacent to us. I lift my chin making momentary eye contact to gesture him over to our table.
“One day it dawned on me, Aunt Cate ~”
He interrupts her comment without excusing himself, “Have you something more you’d like to order?”
Zoe takes no notice of his unprofessional behavior as she continues her comments, “Jesus most definitely has a vagina; It’s proven as women demonstrate angelic qualities on average way more than men and we have better health overall. ‘Jesus Christ has a vagina’ could provide answers to why there is no recorded history of her adolescence and teenage years.”
“Zoe let’s order first,” I say in discomfort noticing the thick crucifix neck chain the waiter proudly displays on the outside of his uniform. Zoe complies with a slight bow of her head as she rolls her thumbs as if tempted to do the hand trick ‘Here is the church, and here is the steeple, open the church, and inside are the good people’.
“I’d like to order the cheese tray too, with a glass of the pinot grigio, and a refill on the lemonade please.”
The waiter listens in disgust as he jots down the order. “It will be here in a few minutes.” He turns abruptly walking toward the kitchen and making indiscernible remarks angrily.
“You noticed his crucifix dangling out?”
“Disgusting of you Aunt Cate,” she leans closer to me to whisper, “You make it sound like he wears his penis on his chain.”
I place my right hand over my smile in response to her audacious remark.
“Isn’t it reasonable to believe Jesus had breasts developing, and experienced menstrual cycles? It explains a whole lot to me why there is absolutely no depiction of Jesus from the Immaculate Conception, birth in a remote manger, then how much time passes before his divine epiphany? It could be Jesus didn’t play as friendly as he preached. Maybe she was a prostitute like Mary Magdalene but was raised as a male, against her true identity. It profiles well with the stance and practice of many denominations today regarding sexual identity.”
This conversation is growing old quickly with me, after all, I feel the bewildering concept intriguing as I have been emotionally devastated by the senseless stillbirths. The initial description of her concept tickled me as absurd, another thrill ride of Zoe’s mind in the spur of the moment.
“The fact the apostles exclude the possibility, or any mention of it, could’ve been edited out of the gospels pertaining to her lifestyle. The male chauvinism and misogynistic attitudes prevailing in the barbaric dominance of the male ego forbade any acknowledgment of a female Jesus.”
The waiter approaches the women sitting adjacent to us and places the oval-shaped cheese tray on their table before pulling the cork and pouring the wine into their goblets. His movements are sturdy and muscular as he works the corkscrew and cradles the bottle during his pour.
He returns to the serving cart to grab our beverages and cheese plate placing it between us on our table.
“Maybe the reason for the suffering from unwanted pregnancies to infertility in some women, to delivering stillbirths, is Jesus’ way of keeping women in their place,” he unabashedly states after setting the table.
Zoe looks up at him with an expression of utter disgust, “What gives you the right to state your nasty opinions outright, let alone to eavesdrop on our conversation?”
Sensing a serious escalation of tempers, I follow up to accept his point of view, “Listen, I understand you overhear your customer’s conversations, but we are totally being sarcastic on this topic.”
He’s unaffected by my statement, “Don’t you think Jesus Christ would make his sexual identity known?”
Zoe smiles at me like she does when she speaks her deepest thoughts, “I’m certain the prejudice against females would make perfect rational sense to hide his and her dualism. You know, the Alpha and the Omega? Why do you think Jesus can be referred to as the Alpha and the Omega?”
I can see the testosterone boil inside this eighteen-year-old with the passion of his machismo male heritage set ablaze. He takes a couple of breaths, before stifling his apparent anger as it appears he may blow his top!
Reaching up with his left hand to grab hold of his crucifix and pulling it towards Zoe as he faces her, leaning forward enough to exert physical intimidation he warns, “Jesus died for all those of faith, and for you to curse yourself with blasphemy will seal your fate in hell ~ just as your Auntie here with her stillbirths ~ you must be forced to pay for your transgressions.”
“Alpha and Omega, in Christianity,” Zoe speaks in serene calmness, “The first and last letters of the Greek alphabet, used to speak of the comprehensiveness of God, implying that God includes all that can be. In the New Testament Revelation to John, the term Alpha and Omega is a self-designation of God and Christ. I’m surprised a man who demonstrates his unquestioned faith is unaware of this dichotomy in the nature of God.”
The waiter moves slowly away with his eyes fixed in contemplation on Zoe. His face does not reflect a welcoming disposition.
“Only if there was any proof,” I whisper to Zoe as the waiter turns away crashing through the service doors inside the restaurant. “I believe you mean ‘Trinity of God’ don’t you? The scriptures maintain the oneness of God’s being.”
“Proof? Proof isn’t needed when it comes to blind faith. Their superstition is enough to make their case. Even as silly as the notion that ‘the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost’ are one being.”
“Let’s be fair, Zoe, what’s the rationale of Jesus taking out retribution from contrarian apostles, though?”
“One denied her three times and another betrayed her. Besides, as I said, the lack of accounting for her adolescence and teenage years indicates suppression to hide her coming of age concerning the maturation of her physical anatomy. The apostles had many doubts, and failures in life, but none would have reason to believe he is she.”
The waiter re-enters the patio dining area seething with anger and marches off looking at us in hatred. He has a few words for the manager and moves into the restaurant once again in a huff.
“Temperamental, isn’t he?”
“You say that like you haven’t noticed his crucifix neck chain?”
“If he’s that sensitive about his beliefs, and hardheaded toward his customers, maybe he needs to rethink his own path in life.”
The waiter emerges and comes walking stridently over. “Would you like dessert or your check?”
“Check please,” I say smiling pretentiously.
As the waiter walks away, I offer a smirk to my niece, “Meanest waiter ever!”
“Never mind him, I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh, really? What for?”
She slips an envelope out of her canvas bag, extracts a sonogram image, and hands it to me. It contains a view of the tiniest fetus.
“That’s incredible! When will you share it with Micah?”
“When I see him tonight. I had the ultrasound earlier this week and wanted to share it with you first. My first-trimester viability scan.”
“I am privileged.” I raise my glass of wine, “Congratulations to my beautiful niece, Zoe! This image is four-D, cutting edge.”
The waiter comes over with the check, to leave it on the table, but I ask him to give me a second while I count out my cash adding the minimum ten percent tip.
“The ultrasound shows movement now! I was hoping you could come with me to the central flea market this Saturday, it will be fun.”
“I wish I could, but I’m in the lab this weekend. Any other weekend would work, but I’m identifying and cataloging a collection for the museum and there’s no way to postpone it.”
“That’s okay, I’m going for some deals on baby stuff. Micah and I are looking for something emblematic. A representation to build a stronger family bond we can share forever.”
“Where is this central flea market?”
“The old courthouse quad. Proceeds go to the Church down there.”
“Female Jesus or not?”
Zoe looks at me out of the corner of her eye pressing a smile in respite as she slides the sonar image into the envelope, then places it in her canvas shoulder bag.
The waiter turns a new leaf speaking in a pleasant tone, “I’m a member of the congregation. You should get there early; baby items are always the most popular and sell out quickly.”
We look at him with uneasy smiles.
“Thanks,” we respond in unison as I hand him the check with cash instead of carrying on the dread of the moment by processing a credit card payment.
Tuesday, January 11th, 2005, 7:45 AM
A jolt to my senses as a drawer from the end table opens itself falling to the floor, the contents of a notepad, rosary beads, and a variety of knickknacks bouncing into a riotous, reckless collision of violence upon the hardwood floor beside and under my bed. The chill of fright stands my neck hair on end, and the arch of my back brings me to full attention to my present-day surroundings.
It’s too painful for me to remember much after that encounter. On that Saturday, the day following our lunch, Zoe had made her way to the central flea market early as suggested by the disturbed waiter.
I, idled my time at the museum lab when I received the news. And all I can do is imagine the beauty of the fresh cut morning grass, a sparkle of reflected yellow shine on crystal glass; the flow of crisp morning air whistling through an assortment of stainless steel kitchen appliances; mixing bowls catching the blue sky with puffy white comfort; and the subtle humming voices murmur while unpacking plastic bins.
As a swirling breeze lifts her strands of dark blonde hair and Micah holding hands strolling along the vendor tables for that something of a precious find to share through the duration of her pregnancy for their new addition ~ a rocking horse or a stuffed giraffe or a grateful garden teething toy ~ and from the steeple of the church, above all of the good people, the extremist sniper takes aim at the prey from his prayer ~ hatred hammering a bullet that explodes her abdomen ~ claiming the life of a twenty-seven-year-old expecting mother to be.
My beloved niece Zoe, and her little parasite embryo are gone forever.
