Chapter 5: White Is for Virgins

was 14 or so and cringing in a new white dress, skin-crawling in tiered lace, and bare legs, and all the attention. With diffidence and as much grace as I could muster, I accepted congregants’ eerily warm words of congratulations for completing my Confirmation just an hour earlier upstairs in the chapel of St. Cuthbert’s, an Episcopalian church way, way out on Long Island. The well-wishers seemed to care a lot more than I did about this religious rite of passage; but then, they were there voluntarily.

I hovered awkwardly at the buffet table, scarfing down bagels—the only thing I had to look forward to on Sundays, when Father was home and he dragged us to church. I was restless, not sure if I should stand or sit, fielding one grandparent’s gruff, pointed demands about the quality of my schoolwork, while submitting to another one’s sudden, furtive ebullience as she sidled up to me and handed me a small, gift-wrapped box.

“I got one of these for my Confirmation, too,” she half-whispered in a sickly-sweet, conspiratorial tone, as she pulled from the box a fine chain with a small gold cross.

I could tell she thought I should, or I would, feel special, privileged; so I hid my disappointment. I didn’t want her to feel bad but, more importantly, I feared her disapproval, even as I yearned for her tiny, shriveling frame to back the fuck away. And I grimaced to think that this trite and otherwise meaningless trinket was to her or anyone else in the family a symbol of some tradition being handed down to me, as if through the generations; only God himself knew even before I did that I would rather die than be another branch in a family tree of weak and kowtowing women. Besides, I knew I had no use for it, until years later when I tried to hoc it, only to discover, after turning my place upside down, that I had tossed it long ago.

I had never conceded to enrolling in Confirmation classes; in fact, the conversation between Father and Father Larry was one to which I was not privy. Like so much of my life, where I went and when was decided without me.

“You’re going to Confirmation classes from now on, every Thursday.”

Mother may have said it, but I knew those words were Father’s.

 I challenged Father’s dictate, of course; by 14 I had learned to argue with logic and big words and to keep my cool–but sound reasoning never factored in on his end, and the arguments went round and round, until I did lose my cool and spewed “Fuck this,” “Fuck that,” “Fuck you,” until he dragged me into the shower, where he restrained me with one arm and forced soap into my mouth with the other. It was usually worth it, though. In fact, sometimes I’d run straight to the bathroom and just start eating a bar of soap, and then let fly what I really thought of him.

There had been something about Confirmation classes that made me squirm–something uncomfortably intimate, as if Father Larry had, through his eminence of authority over a congregation of suburban dolts, been elected by God to escort me from childhood into adulthood, and ordain me not just a person of faith, but a woman.

I had gained nothing from these classes except a rabid skepticism about religion, and a distaste for nearly all the people who went to St. Cuthbert’s. Ever since Father had helped paint the Sunday school rooms, it seemed he had secured his place as a member of the church community and had earned himself a certain social standing–as he, the dutiful, committed man of faith who wanted only to lead his family down the path of righteousness, as much as they resisted. I was baffled and agonized over their willing blindness and was wary on this day of their well-wishes and words of commendation.

I moved from my station by the table of cheap snacks when I felt Father’s presence nearing.

Oh God, not today, I thought.

Already he had been especially attentive, trying to pet my hair, pull me toward him, poke at me at my waist, teasing me.

At least he’s in a good mood, I thought.

Then, from across the room, I heard the eerie giggle. It was hyena-like, ever-escalating in intensity as it warbled and threatened to unhinge. I heard the way it echoed, battering itself against the far reaches of the walls, ricocheting off the high ceiling. Suddenly I was immobilized, rigid and stuck somewhere between demise and demure. Suddenly I was rendered inert, suddenly I was aware of my own two bare, exposed legs, the access to my groin, and deathly wished I were wearing something, anything, else. I felt my face grow warm as the sound got closer.

In a second, Father was upon me, poking at my sides, snatching at my dress, taunting me wildly; he tried to pet my head and I yanked it away like a wild animal. I flushed and thrashed; I gave up on big words and went straight for the expletives. 

“Fucking-stop-it-you-fucking-asshole!”

But he just giggled wildly and cooed and pulled my body against his and wrestled me down to the ground. In a second, he was straddling me, crotch to crotch, pinning me flat on my back.

“Get-off-me-you-fucking-piece-of-shit!”

The more I cursed at him, the more I kicked and fought, my dress riding up to the top of my thighs, the louder he cackled amusedly, the more he held me down. I felt his full weight on top of me, his thighs sturdy and hot. At the crease of my arms he held them down, pushing them into my sides and into the cool, sad-speckled tile beneath me.

Bone into ground, bone shatters and splits; I crack at the elbows, I crack at the hip. If I were ground into dust, at least it would loosen his grip.

I wriggled and writhed, dying to hide; above me his reddened face hovered, mad with glee, an endless chortle rolling off his tongue, somewhere from behind his unruly, black pubic beard. I felt something like a hotness stir between my legs, and I fought harder.

“Get-the-fuck-off-me-you-sack-of-shit!” I protested, but not too loudly, trying not to attract attention. I wondered how they must have peered at me, and I wondered who they judged; but no one came to my aid—and no one ever would.

Somewhere, Mother stood off to the side, meekly gesturing for him to get off me.

“Daddy, Daddy–leave her alone,” she cooed with mild reprobation, and just a hint of amusement. She may have been embarrassed, but not nearly enough.

He didn’t stop.

“Look at little Dannie in her little white dress,” he taunted me, his face close to mine. I caught his gaze, the glimmer of wild, maddened amusement, for a fleeting moment; and he was like a man possessed. I started to struggle harder, instantly averting my eyes, turning my focus to his hands, his legs, seeking an opportunity to escape.

I was breathless by the time he got off me. I jumped up, muttered another curse at him. I pulled down my dress, my eyes on the floor, and walked back quickly over to table of food as if nothing had happened.

I picked up a bagel and began devouring it. And then I ate another, and another.

 This is part of a memoir-in-progress. Read the next chapter published on Vocal here.

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