The Lord is my shepherd

Literary Review, Summer, 1995 by Adelia Prado, Ellen Watson

- I John 5:14

"But I mean won't you get sick of me? You really think you'll go on liking me forever?" That was the subliminal way - the only way - Jurema found to talk to Anselmo about the odious subject. Sometimes it really irritated him, she was so insistent, and he'd flash her that imploring look she found so delicious, but Jurema couldn't settle down in her love. Handsome, hot Anselmo wanted her - even though he knew that she . . . ? She'd take out his picture and stare into his eyes, hard, but just the memory of it contaminated her pleasure. Anselmo, too . . . he . . . did it . . . She'd let the word into her head, and spit out the sound, biting her lips. Even when praying and concentrating on the crucified Lord she experienced pangs of conscience. Because even He . . . Well, it was true, wasn't it? Didn't he have a human body? Then He too . . . the same as Anselmo and everyone else. Disconcerted, Jurema struggled to understand what was happening to her, capable of neither humility nor compassion. She would talk to her father, that's what she'd do, he didn't have any hang-ups: "Papa, doesn't it bother you, the things our bodies do?" "No, child, everything God made is good. It's completely natural, all of it, just listen - " sand he'd tell an anecdote as an illustration, he was an expert storyteller. Did she worry that he'd stare at her with silent, uneasy eyes? Nothing of the sort. Just her silly imagination. Later she'd say to herself, I'm going to be a new person, a whole new person for Anselmo, and think only about the good things, instead of ruining everything. How had Abelard and Heloise managed it? Or Dante and Beatrice? Or, worse yet, Anita and Garibaldi - in wartime in the middle of the forest? The truth is, they managed. After all, that's what those immortal works (as opposed to the mortal ones) prove, isn't it - that their love survived? So, she reasoned, there's got to be a way for me, too. Her uncle had the right idea, it didn't matter who was around, he would just let loose - and it was strange, but she had to admit it took a certain kind of courage, nobility even. At least it was a lot easier to swallow than Alcides's mania of fancying up the toilet bowl with frills and artificial flowers. Her grandmother was another one. Impassively crocheting after dinner, she'd tilt one way, then the other, at regular intervals and . . . let out a bomb. Without so much as pursing her lips or furrowing her eyebrows to betray the least embarrassment, utterly serene. Which inspired in Jurema a mixture of admiration, envy, and rage. Behavior like that was the complete opposite of the kind of life she wanted with Anselmo. How was she going to do it once they got married? When he was at work, of course. But what about the first eight days, when he'd be on leave? Picking your nose was no big deal, at least it didn't ruin the romance the same way, since there was no deception involved, and she scrubbed her nails with a brush and cut them down to the quick. Of course digging for gold in public definitely qualified as ugly and vulgar behavior, like spitting - and would naturally break the spell. But only that most odious of activities truly crucified her, defiled her, every time. Books on manners were no help, they just made her mad; she couldn't stand the tone of propriety oozing from the pages, so artificial and unconvincing - she kept imagining the author's face, him of all people, the big jerk, looking like - what was Grandma's expression? - like the dog that ( ) in church. Perfect! Grandma was really something, Jurema thought out loud, for once no obstacle between her and love, enjoying for a brief moment the natural course of things, everything in its proper place. But then, in a fresh outbreak of zeal, Jurema found herself inventing a hierarchy of nastiness: the gases being a thousand times more potent than their obvious, explicit matter. She became fixated on the smell, and on the priest who said: we sin with all our senses, even our sense of smell. Right. Pleasure in the sense of smell? She felt like throwing up, she felt like dying. She knew it was dangerous to be alone, she was off balance. Miserable and confused, Jurema didn't last ten minutes with her students that day. She notified the custodian, fled the building, and dashed out into the street, oblivious to the traffic. She walked to the church farthest from home and sat down inside, heaving, dry-mouthed, her thoughts coming in spasms. Because she couldn't discount the good things in life, either - Anselmo running his hand through her hair, his dark eyes, the way he said "Come on, Jura, come on over here." Simply, fearlessly, without a single misgiving. Weeping through her prayer, she thought yes, she'd be brave. She would get married. After all, she loved Anselmo, and the word coward was weak and unpleasant. Didn't she like everything to be out in the open? Didn't she want things true and just and aboveboard? Wasn't everything God made, by definition, good? If only it were so. If only He would see her there, heart in hand, if only He, God the Father, would take pity on her, free her from this "thing," send her a sign, illuminate her path, unencumber her love for Anselmo, worried and sad, and beginning to show the strain. She would just go ahead and do it - like a non-swimmer simply closing her eyes and jumping into the water. Yes, she would do it. All God had to do was make it clear it was His will and she would submit, she would get married. She would take on the risk, the suffering, and, above all, the shame of living in the same house with Anselmo, without being an angel, with her necessary and impertinent body. Dear God, send a sign.