The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [26]
A little boy with skinned knees cries, caught up in the commotion unprepared. “Mama?” he sobs.
I want to dive under something, but what? I turn to run, but only more bodies closing in on me. Arms outstretched, mouths open and twisted, gawking. They’re yelling something, but it all sounds like a tape player running on dying batteries, low and distorted. Blur of humanity and not one familiar face. My heart races and all I can think is, They’re going to crush me. I want to scream, open my mouth, but nothing comes. The ground cracks under me.
“Frances Catherine!” A body heavy on my back. I start to fall forward.
God, help me.
A hand grabs me by the wrist, I trip, inhale quickly, about to be trampled, but the hand pulls me to my feet. “Come on, Frankka.”
Is it Paula’s voice?
She yanks me between two sweaty bodies, in through a heavy door. She manages to pull it closed before the horde can swarm in behind us. All quiet. Dark cool cement floor hallway.
“Are you all right?” Paula wants to know.
“What the hell’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer me, leads me through the dim cold hall into a windowless room. Magdelena and Madre sit silent at a giant oak desk. They look up as we enter, but no trace of emotion crosses their pale faces.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Paula speaks slowly. “The story—it came out this morning in the L.A. Times.”
“And? L.A.’s five hundred miles from here.”
Paula places her hand on my shoulder.
Madre Pia clears her throat. She’s wearing a white jump-suit that makes her look like a big bunny. No makeup. Freckled nose. “It’s not as bad as it seems,” she says.
I take this to mean that it—whatever it is, exactly—is even worse than it seems.
“I—”
Paula pushes the newspaper across the oak desk. It takes me a full minute to register the bold headline:
MANIFESTING THE WOUNDS OF CHRIST
Hysterical Disorder or True Mystical Phenomena?
There’s a quarter-page color picture of me onstage at the River Theater, eyes half open, arms outstretched, palms exposed and bleeding. Somehow the bright of the camera flash and the overhead spotlights conspire to create a halo over my crown of thorns. Then two insets: the publicity shot of the group and a close-up of my open hand against a white motel sheet. My scar. I feel nauseous.
My fellow travelers wait, silent.
I sit down, scan the text:
While Frances Catherine skirts questions regarding the veracity of her wounds, an anonymous source within the performance troupe attests to their authenticity. A preliminary independent analysis of a blood sample obtained by the Times proved inconclusive, but Dr. Deborah Pappas, a leading expert in stigmatic phenomena, characterized the data as compelling. “If this is a hoax,” she said, “it is an extremely well-executed hoax.”
The article goes on to list famous stigmatics throughout history, to note that the wounds are more common in women than in men, more common among priests and nuns than among laypeople, and to quote professors of religious psychology on hysterical hypochondria and other “scientifically plausible” explanations.
Sinking in my wooden chair, I feel cold, heavy. If there were anything in my stomach, I’d throw up.
“Are you okay?” Magdelena whispers.
A rage wells up from behind my gut. Everything is suddenly clear: the flash from the audience at the River Theater, Judy in our blue motel room in Lincoln City, Magdelena spinning at the Worker’s Bar. My face flushes. “You fucking bitch, Magdelena.”
She gulps an inhale like I’ve punched her.
I have no sympathy. “I always knew you were a selfish bitch, but this is unreal.” I can taste the bile between my words.
Magdelena stares at me. She’s wearing this little red dress like she’s on her way to a tango. Three-minute pause. She stands up, stone-faced, lifts her black purse from the floor. The door clicks shut behind her.
Another thick slice of silence. I bury my face in my stupid scarred hands.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm,” Madre offers.
The fluorescent lights flicker. I can still feel the sweaty