Cory

Chapter. 12

Cory put the suit on for the first time on the morning of May 27, in his  room. He had bought a special brassiere to go with it, which gave his chest the proper uplift (not that it actually needed it) but left the top halves uncovered. Wearing it gave him a weird, dreamy feeling that was half shame and half defiant excitement.

The suit itself was nearly floor-length. The trousers were loose, but the waist was snug, the material rich and unfamiliar against his skin, which was used only to cotton and wool.

The hang of it seemed to be right - or would be, with the new shoes. He slipped them on, adjusted the neckline, and went to the window. He could see only a maddening ghost image of himself, but everything seemed to be right. Maybe later he could...

The door swung open behind her with only a soft snick of the latch, and Cory turned to look at his mother

She was dressed for work, wearing her white sweater and holding her black pocketbook in one hand. In the other she was holding Daddy Ralph's Bible.

They looked at each other.

Hardly conscious of it, Cory felt her back straighten until she stood straight in the patch of early spring sunshine that fell through the window.

"White," Momma murmured. 'I might have known it would be white."

Cory said nothing.

"Take of that suit," Momma said.

"No."

"Take it of, Cory. We'll go down and burn it in the incinerator together, and then pray for forgiveness. We'll do penance." Her eyes began to sparkle with the strange disconnected zeal that came over her at events which she considered to be tests of faith. "I'll stay home from work and you'll stay home from school. We'll pray. We'll ask for a sign. We'll get us down on our knees and ask for the Pentecostal Fire."

"No, Momma."

His mother reached up and pinched her own face. It left a red mark. She looked to Cory for reaction, saw none, hooked her right hand into claws and ripped it across her own cheek, bringing thin blood. She whined and rocked back on her heels. Her eyes glowed with exultation.

"Stop hurting yourself, Momma. That's not going to make me stop either."

Momma screamed. She made her right hand a fist and struck herself in the mouth, bringing blood. She dabbled her fingers in it, looked at it dreamily, and daubed a spot on the cover of the Bible.

"Washed in the Blood of the Lamb," she whispered. 'Many times. Many times he and-"

"Go away, Momma."

She looked up at Cory, her eyes glowing. There was a terrifying expression of righteous anger graven on her face.

"The Lord is not mocked," she whispered. "Be sure your sin will find you out. Burn it, Cory! Cast that devil's innocence from you and burn it! Burn it! Burn it!"

The door slammed open by itself.

"Go away, Momma."

Momma smiled. Her bloody mouth made the smile grotesque, twisted. "As Jezebel fell from the tower, let it be with you,' she said. 'And the dogs came and licked up the blood. It's in the Bible! It's-"

Her feet began to slip along the floor and she looked down at them, bewildered. The wood might have turned to ice.

"Stop that!" she screamed.

She was in the hall now. She caught the doorjamb and held on for a moment; then her fingers were torn loose, seemingly by nothing.

"I love you, Momma," Cory said steadily. "I'm sorry."