Virgin Territory Read Free Page B

dinner together Monday through Friday; it’s become a ritual. Dinner is never fancy. This evening, for instance, Doug picked up burritos on his way home from work. Because the burritos come with a salad and a garnish and cost twice as much as drive-through, they’re considered “gourmet.” Doug says he can taste the difference. I’m listening to him as he compares the contents of the fancy burritos to the crap we normally eat. I arrange my face as if I’m actually paying attention, but really I’m thinking about the Blessed Mother.
    She’s here for you
.
    I should probably mention that I’m not a religious person. As a kid, I never set foot inside a church or a synagogue or a mosque or a temple, unless it was part of some outing designed by my mother to expand my frame of reference. In New York City, it’s possible to come in contact with representatives of just about every religion under the sun, sometimes all gathered together under the same roof for an ecumenical something. They were all nice enough people as far as I could tell, but none of themever convinced me to sign up and become a member of their church or to follow them to India.
    As far as God Himself is concerned, I have nothing against the guy, but I don’t think He’s spent enough time in New York City or in Jupiter, Florida, because I’ve never once seen Him. Or maybe I
have
seen Him, and I didn’t recognize Him. In any case, God and I have adopted a policy of laissez-faire, which means that as long as I don’t bother Him, I expect Him not to mess with me.
    Of course, I’ve heard Bible stories about Jesus and the Blessed Mother and even the Apostles. They’re like famous baseball players—I know their names and what team they play for, but anything more than that slips my mind because I don’t follow the sport. I have nothing against religion, you understand. It’s just not my thing. So I’m thinking, when the woman at the golf course said, “She’s here for you,” she must have meant
you
in a general sense, and not me in particular.
    After dinner I’m scraping the leftover food into the garbage disposal and loading the dishwasher when Doug comes waltzing into the kitchen. He’s freshly showered and smells like a scented trash bag. He hoists himself up onto the countertop. I decide not to tell him that he’s just plopped his ass smack on a patch of apricot jam left over from my morning toast. He looks happy, and he’s ever so slightly stoned.
    “So …”
    He’s holding up a piece of paper in front of his face as thoughit’s a mini Magna Carta, and now he’s reading aloud as if to a crowd of invisible dignitaries.
    “Says here, a person can sell their real estate by burying a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary on their front lawn, upside down and facing the house. What d’ya make-a that?”
    I can’t bear to look at Doug when his face is cleanly shaven and he has a buzz on. He’s just too open or something, and I see too plainly the face of the guy he once was shining through the face of the guy he’s lately become. It’s not that either of those faces is hard to take. No. It’s the distance between the two that kills me.
    Don’t get me wrong. Doug has always been a decent-enough-looking guy. His hair is black and shaggy, and though it’s salting around the edges, there’s still plenty of it. His eyes are a shade of blue that match a color-enhanced snapshot of the ocean. He has that tall, dark, Irish American thing going for him; and being outdoors all day makes him look like a tennis bum with a trust fund, a look that women seem to find appealing.
    “I wouldn’t have a clue what to make of it,” I say as I carefully place a two-in-one Action Pac into the dishwasher, close the door, and press NORMAL . Almost immediately the machine starts breathing out the toxic fumes of Citrus Breeze. Because the hum of wash and rinse is threatening to trump our conversation, I up my volume. “I’m grounded and denied access to the