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Bloberta Puppington slaved over the poor state of her tile set floor, taking gracious care as she rhythmically wiped and waxed and swiped away any suggestion or streak of dirt or dust that found its troublesome way into her methodical cleaning session. Her husband, that shambling, drunken beast that slumbered on the other side of that capricious black screen installed between their beds had long since left for his ‘dead-end job’ (as he dubbed it), something he mumbled in a continuous stupor the his bedroom to the front door. The heavy stomps of his arduous footsteps and jingling of the semi-melted ice cubes inside of his dry, dry drink created a moronic, melancholic rhythm for Moralton’s most morose mayor, something which Bloberta took an odd sense of joy from.
Always enough paper, but never enough paperweights, Bloberta thought as she chuckled sweetly, straightening out each floor tile affectionately as she cleaned. The bitter cold and early dark nights of later December always suffocated whatever holiday cheer and frivolity that attempted to follow it, but the real holiday present was that it occupied all the men in the Puppington household in one form of another. Jesus’ greatest gift to little old me! Bloberta mused. The day had begun to fade into night, bringing the cold and wind with it like uninvited house guests.
Clay had to navigate through a coarse jungle of mayoral paperwork during the holiday seasons. He wielded his cheap ink pens like scimitars with his sloven grip and scribbled signatures into countless documents and letters, which Bloberta was absolutely certain he did not read all the way through, nor that he was sober enough to even attempt.
Orel, Bloberta’s 13-year old go-getter son, normally occupied his mandatory holiday break from school by spreading the good word of the Lord by any means necessary. He would innocently hawk pamphlets containing passages from the good book with the town’s sad old reverend, decorate the main street’s storefronts with garish Christmas decorations free of charge, or attempt to memorize – or even sing – various Christmas carols. Bloberta took a conscious second to cringe upon remembering how Orel had spent his last Christmas - cooped up with his perverse and twisted school coach –- Mr. Stopframe.
Danielle, Bloberta reminded herself unkindly. His name was – is – Danielle. The mustachioed coach was cut from the same gorgeous, righteous cloth as King David himself. He was strong, silent, elegant, compassionate, suave, sensitive, charming, everything a man would need to rule a kingdom – and a household. She had never been so taken with a man in many years, and when he met up with her out-of-the-blue for what sounded like a simple coffee date, she threw herself at him without hesitation. The exact details were all framed in her mind like photographs. The hot, burning-coal feeling of being desired, the initial shame and eventual pride that came with discarding her clothing in front of someone as they came to know each other in her bed. The relations were rough and aggressive, but they still made her heart flutter like a monarch butterfly. For that brief, fleeting moment in her life, Bloberta felt not only loved, but cherished, worshipped .
Then he just…left. He only had eyes for Clay …! I… I don’t know what I did wrong. It has to have been my fault. I… She gripped her washcloth so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Wistfully, she remembered – and perhaps even knew – that their encounter was fated to be a one-time thing, and its aftermath would haunt her for the rest of her earthly days, like a ghost made manifest in twain; her sin and shame took form from her womb – a living monument to everything that could’ve been.
Shapey, Bloberta’s second child, was ostensibly Danielle’s. From the moment he sprouted his golden-blonde hair, Clay knew the boy wasn’t from his stem, but the squalling little brat was the only connection Bloberta had to that enchanted night where she felt something she had never felt before or since - desired. Clay’s cries be damned, she kept the child and raised it well. She fed, bathed, clothed, and walked him as needed.
“Almost there…” she mumbled as she pawed at the crumbs of last night’s meatloaf underneath the countertop with a gloved, furious hand.
She wasn’t sure where Shapey had gone today, nor wherever his witless brother was, whatever his name was. Bloberta’s affection for Shapey came and went like the ocean’s tide, licking and rescinding at a casual, easy-going pace that inconvenienced no one. She only found it in her heart to love that little monster whenever she was capable of breastfeeding him, which was a privilege rescinded by age.
When he wasn’t found quaffing her sour breastmilk, he screamed and stomped and shouted and cried like a boy half his age and a third of their temperament, something she had long-learned to tune out and ignore with her firstborn when he was his age. To her, it was easier to let him fizzle himself out rather than actively participate in that vengeful ghost’s daily hauntings, to let Orel deal with it rather than let it interrupt her cleaning or knitting.
She became so wickedly proficient at tuning out Shapey’s tantrums that she hadn’t noticed that he had been swapped out with another child for an indiscernible amount of time last year with another family’s child, a red-headed simpleton who bore an uncanny resemblance to her own misbegotten spawn. Bloberta wasn’t sure what made her do it, but she retrieved Shapey from the other family, but she also kept the other boy. The two were usually able to entertain themselves, which left the task of rearing that toe-headed little terror out of Bloberta’s hands. She did all that the bible commanded her to - and nothing more. To her, the pair were little more than pups that required nourishment and a roof over their heads. They were what could’ve been.
“Oh!” Bloberta squeaked. She had been so deeply entrenched in thought that she hardly noticed that her cleaning tasks had finally been completed. The knots of trouble that formed in her mind were gently undone, which left her with a sense of unmatched accomplishment. The floor was totally spotless, not a speck of dust, dirt, or crumbs anywhere all throughout the house. The vacuum had been exhausted, the knobs polished, the spare room that Shapey and the other boy slept in had been organized, laundry ironed and folded, chemical and cleaning solution arranged in perfect alphabetical order, & her cupboards rigidly organized and categorized by food pyramid order, just as she commanded.
Bloberta folded her trustworthy washcloth and placed it on the counter, where the family’s set of seven bowls neatly air-dried after their chemical baths on a colourful tapestry of cloth meticulously arranged to follow the colours of the rainbow.
Bloberta took a few careful steps back and admired the breadth of her work, spotless as it was. “Cleanliness is next to godliness!” She announced to herself with vigor and a swell of pride. In her spotless kitchen, she felt invincible, like the holy spirit had multiplied within her thricefold to warm her heart with righteousness. The sink was her river, and the kitchen her untouchable domain. She daintily brushed her damp fingertips on her scarlet dress.
She strolled throughout the home with silent praise for each room. Never before has the house seemed so clean! Every room looked-after and loved and cherished, with one exception.
“Ah, it seems I’ve forgotten one room…” she mumbled listlessly to herself. It was an all-too familiar feeling, but the joy or satisfaction she felt was destined to be temporary, and was swiftly replaced by a melancholy that gnawed at her soul and bones like a dog.
She snaked through the hallway and strode up the stairs until she was face-to-face with the one room she had yet not visited that day – Clay’s study. It was a private, lavishly decorated room meant for her hubby to wind down after enduring his dead-end job for the entire day. Whatever pain drinking brought him was nursed with more drinking, a cycle that came to Clay as naturally as breathing. It was a prison of his own making, she knew that intimately.
Bloberta loathed that Clay loved whiskey more than he loved her, but she knew it was not her place to truly do something about it, at least when her children were around. Without further ruminations, Bloberta braced herself and pushed the door open with great trepidation. She expected to hear the heat and crackling of a fireplace, and to see her robed husband half-conscious in his velvet chair, lording over a glass of booze and a cigarette, or walk in on one of countless punishments Clay dished out to their eldest son whenever he felt cross with him. The lights had been left on, but of course, Clay was not there. Bloberta realized she had held her breath far longer than she was normally capable of, and let out a sigh strong enough to momentarily disorient her. She squeaked out an awkward exhale and entered the home’s most extravagant, dangerous room.
The room looked completely untouched, like it was frozen in time. The bookshelf was organized, the mantle clean, even the countless animal statues placed throughout were free of dirt or fingerprints. Of course this is the only room he took care of… Bloberta scoffed.
She glanced above the mantle and saw a crudely-bolted crucifix hung high above, the unmistakable visage of a bolted Jesus Christ weeping on it, ceramic nails driven through his hands and feet as he timidly cast his gaze up towards The Father with his chiselled face caked in blood-like paint.
The thought never escaped her lips, but Bloberta could never find it within herself to fully sympathize with Jesus and his worldly sacrifice. Of course, she knew why sacrificed himself and what it meant for the greater spiritual salvation for mankind, but it never sat right with her that a man would just submit so passively to his father’s will, much less that the same man would later declare his feelings of abandonment by the same wolfish, icy father on the very cross he allowed himself to die on.
Bloberta thought he looked almost pathetic on that cross, like he was no more than a desperate, hard-headed boy begging for his father’s approval. There’s no reason a man should grovel like that just to make his father happy, she thought. Submission to men was the duty of women and children, Bloberta knew. It was the natural, beautiful way of Moralton – but the rest of the wicked world was clouded by sin and rejection of Martin Luther’s enlightenment, a shameless crime that was only matched with its commonality. The commandments and teachings of Christ were something she was hardly perfect at following, but all of her jabs and pokes at her husband’s authority were just that, and were hardly ever considered outright defiance. Most of the time.
But what kind of father would hurt his son like that? Bloberta’s disgust was felt in equal measure that not only would The Father condemn his son to a horrible execution for the sake of people who actively despised him, but that The Son would accept it without a fight or protest, if not outright reverence for his wicked father despite the abuse. She almost wished Christ would tear himself off the cross and stand up to his father, to look him in the eye and live life for himself out from under his thumb.
Bloberta’s last candlelight flicker of motherly instinct guided her to feel vivid pity for the Son of Man, and some unknowable feminine desire deeply buried within the flood within her soul made her think she could talk The Father down from treating his son so cruelly with kind words and affectionate gestures. However, she felt there was no room for a Mother in the Trinity, just as there was no room for her within the home she came from, nor the home she reared. A prick of guilt crept up her spine and seized her heart – butterflies frolicked in her stomach.
“S-sorry,” Bloberta stuttered sheepishly. Shame came and left her like a chill as it squeezed her throat and released its grotesque grip within a fleeting instant. The silence within Clay’s study had become eerie and oppressive within a single heartbeat. In the stillness of the room, she felt that Christ’s gaze was not to his heavenly father, but to her. His eyes were full of sorrow and judgement and pity – something that reminded her more of the father than the son. She wasn’t sure if Christ was looking down on her for her wicked thoughts, or perhaps that display knew of her sinful history and desires. Whatever it was, she felt nauseous and ashamed that she could not connect with, nor save the Son of Man. Bloberta wondered what it felt like to belong.
She turned her back to the wooden Christ fixture and eyed Clay’s ornate liquor cabinet, his rock of ages that anchored him to earthly life of stupor and hollow splendidness. There were no men in the house, Bloberta remembered. Father – nor father – are here to judge me, so what’s the harm? Bloberta bent over and rummaged through Clay’s collection of wines and booze, which were haphazardly scattered throughout the cabinet without consideration for alphabetical order or size. Her finger traced whiskey, liquor, scotch, vodka, all different elixirs for the mayor’s sorrows, until she chanced upon a thin, tall bottle.
Babylon The Great.
It was a carmine-coloured bottle adorned with a smudged gold leaf label that spelled out its name with big bold black letters, like its name was not just a title, but a declaration of something sinister and confidential. Bloberta felt intimidated as she picked up the bottle gingerly. The liquid swirled and furled as she poured a third of its contents into Clay’s fanciest drinking up - a plastic, gold-coloured goblet adorned with sparkly fake pearls, rubies, and sapphires. She took a deep sip and felt the drink hit her lips, the unmistakable bitterness of wine scorched her throat. The colour was as dark as dirt and tasted drier than blood.
Surely hubby wouldn’t mind if I simply ‘borrowed’ his little drink for just a moment to…reward myself, right? Just a tiny sip to take the edge off…
The goblet felt heavier than a cinder block in Bloberta’s hand as it trembled. She stared outside with dinner plate eyes and kept count on each snowflake that wafted to the ground with alarming accuracy. The sky had darkened and a collection of twinkling stars reared their lavish heads, but she didn’t know what time it was, nor did she care. Once she got a taste for Babylon , one drink became another, and then another. Before she knew it, nearly the entire bottle fell under her domain within an instant and she felt old wounds reopen with feverish vigor as the bitter liquid ensnared its vineyard tentacles into her mind and resurface traumatic memories like corpses floating up to the ocean surface.
She stumbled down the hall and back to the kitchen, the world spun and twirled as she returned to her tiny kingdom. Her husband was a prisoner to Christ’s blood for as long as she knew him, and now it had sunk its teeth into her.
Of course, that was my fault. *I* was the one who introduced him to it, Bloberta hazily recalled. On their first and only date, Bloberta had persuaded a then-stable Clay into ordering as many drinks as she thought he could handle, something that weighed heavier and heavier on her mind with every sip she took of Babylon .
It's not my fault he can’t handle his liquor, or that he bowed so easily to a woman! It isn’t my fault! I…Jesus drank all the time! But that selfish bastard never got the memo. Not like Daddy did…
Bloberta’s father was similarly a prisoner to the bottle, but his addiction mellowed him out and made him agreeable and quiet to his tyrannical wife – Bloberta’s mother – whom she harbored nothing but disdain for. Bloberta resented that he was so passive to her will as a child, but what little precious memories she kept of her homelife always involved her dear old father. He was the only one there for her, when the rest of the family troupe could not appreciate what Bloberta brought to the table, when they closed their ears to her beautiful sopranos. Her father was always remarkably poor at expressing himself verbally, but the two would still bond wordlessly, taking comfort in each other's presence.
She would gaze at the stars at night for hours with her father while the two of them wore their pajamas. Sometimes they would get cold as they stood outside, but their bond kept them warm enough to root them in place. The stars had always brought her to tears and made her feel closer to God in a melancholic, dismal way. There was something remarkable in those tiny lights that dotted the darkened sky, like they were secretly alive but only she knew and her father it. Bloberta felt like she could comfortably watch those little fragments of heavenly light dance for her entire life without a single moment of regret. They existed in a realm forever beyond her reach, but there was comfort in that. There was no opportunity for her to reach them and spoil them with the blight that was her touch and affection, to ruin a good thing for someone else simply because she tried to insert herself into something like a clumsy, arrogant fool. They were just close enough to admire, but never reach. Bloberta could not recall any words exchanged between her and her father while they gazed, but she didn't mind.
Man is supposed to drink! Bloberta assured herself. But why does Clay get so angry when he does it?! Father never did that. Jesus never did that! He just looked so sad that day, and I thought I could…
Bloberta’s contempt for her wolfish, rapacious husband grew with every passing day, but a tinge of pity was mixed within that cauldron of loathing she had churned for nearly 2 decades. Even at his most monstrous, selfish moments, she felt like the right martini could make him see the error of his ways and make him ask her how her day was, that the right elixir could make Clay wrap his strong arms around her, just like she wished her father could’ve done, and whisper "I love you". She chuckled darkly and held onto her countertop for support. The goblet freed itself from her grip and found its place snugly between the clean bowls washed some time ago. Bloberta mourned the death of her decorum in quiet agony, and wished that Clay could find it within himself to find her and hug her tightly.
She buried her face in her free hand and shook it gently as she tried to nurse the drunken thunderstorm between her ears. Stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid. Why did I think I could help him? I know what I did, *I* turned him into that vile, selfish monster. It's all my fault. Because I’m a fucking idiot. a worthless fucking whore, a bad wife and a worse mother.
In her lonesome, Bloberta prayed that Clay had forgotten all about their first date together. Everything that Clay was was a result of her mad science experiment to turn that distinguished, handsome man into someone she could call her husband – or father – it hardly mattered anymore. Shame stabbed at her skin like God himself was her acupuncturist and took malicious joy at pricking her softness.
She always felt like a sick, frail child when Clay yelled at her or said something unkind. She would tremble and shake whenever someone he – or anyone else – raised their voice against her, but never would she let them know. She couldn’t let them see the fear in her eyes, something she had mastered over the course of a lonely lifetime under the thumb of her mother. To her, a teary eye or trembled lip was an admission, a display of a humiliating defeat and surrender. Bloberta knew she never got the true brunt of Clay’s rage, however.
Oh, Orel … She thought wistfully. That poor boy, her own flesh-and-blood, was the prime target for Clay’s rage. She remembered how horrified she was when Clay had brought back his only son in a leg cast and claimed he had shot himself accidentally. Orel was an especially flipper-footed, clumsy child, but she knew that Clay had done something unspeakable to his male heir while in those woods, she just never had the courage to ask the details. Orel was a screaming reminder of who Clay used to be in her first encounter with him, and she knew that sickened Clay to the core of his hardened heart. She never asked Orel about what happened during that hunting trip because she knew the details may have been too much to bear. Why should I? He’ll be fine. I know it, he… he always comes back from these things. I just wish I knew what to say, or what to do… She tried her best to lie to herself, but the pang of motherhood had sunk its cougar-like jaws deep within her being.
Bloberta glanced at the menagerie of framed family photos scattered around the kitchen. Each one had been manufactured, her and Clay’s happy faces looked almost painted with their inauthenticity. Orel’s genuine toothy grin and Shapey’s confused grimace slashed at her heart like a sword, and made her wish for better days. She glared at herself in the photos with utter contempt, and abhorred what she saw. Within the frame, the faux joy she was able to project within that photographed moment looked so revolting that it made her blood boil. Wipe that smug smirk off your face, you stupid bitch. You don’t have anything to smile about.
An all-too familiar wetness stung her eyes. She guarded herself with her trembling hands but felt powerless to contain what was about to come. She felt like a piece of paper attempting to guard against a tidal wave. No, no! Don’t cry, don’t cry! You stupid bitch, you can’t…! I can’t let them see me like this! It took every ounce of strength she had to keep herself together, to not channel her past self and openly sob and appear like a fragile, helpless flower in need of rescue. Bloberta refused to humiliate herself like that, to grovel while intoxicated, to meekly beg her tormentor for a hug. God’s greatest curse against women was making their souls too sensitive, it was something she felt to be an inarguable, immortal truth. She would never be a pushover ever again – she couldn’t afford to feel such weakness.
Between exhaustive & desperate gasps for air, Bloberta’s hand tenderly left her face and and gracelessly swirled around her hips and upper leg. A shameful, familiar heat formed and flared within her – between her. She composed herself shakily and felt her breath hitch as she left the kitchen, her face as red as her dress. God, am I really doing this? I’m fucking disgusting. But I need this. I need it so bad.
She ogled the wooden paddle hung by the front door – the one Clay would use to discipline Orel with, and shuddered with blushing sin. Bloberta recalled the twinge of excitement she felt when Orel had brought it home. The hard-headed, good-hearted fool of a boy, she thought. When she thought of Clay with the corrective instrument held tight in his paternal grip, it made heart soar like it was raised into heaven, but she didn’t entirely understand why.
Once she reached her bedroom, she rummaged through her mattress to find her secret shame, her most glaring, vile, and personal sin – her favourite story . Never had it escaped her lips, but Bloberta kept a receipt of an utmost unforgivable perversion, a vile piece of herself that she never consulted until necessary – a scrap of written erotica she had rescued from behind an abandoned building just out of Moralton. No author was listed, but the finer, irrelevant details seemed to melt when she pictured the story in her mind.
The details both mystified and disturbed her, but as soon as she read those few paragraphs all those years ago, she stashed it away and kept it as a keepsake for a depraved side of herself she revealed to no one. She gingerly held the paper and read it over again and again. She knew the details intimately, but every read felt new and made her tremble with a dark, timid desire.
The story followed a tale of a young husband and wife. She wasn’t sure what the husband did for work, but whatever the occupation was, it carried some kind of great burden for him, because he would come home unstable and miserable and tired. The wife recognized this stress in her dutiful husband and held home close in a comfortable, loving embrace. He sighed deeply into his wife’s breast and thanked her nearly a hundred times for her womanly comforts, but she did not judge him. She only held him tighter and reminded him of everything he had worked for – their home, their lives together, her . When she touched him, he was as powerful as a king, and no king was complete without a queen at his side.
The story was as repetitive as it was ravishing. The unknown author managed to make something as tender as a hug between husband and wife feel like heaven, like the very hinges of reality stood on these two keeping the pyre of their marriage stable and well-fed despite whatever hardships may come.
The husband worried that his fragile state made him a burden to his wife, but the only words that left her mouth were words of encouragement and compassion – words unmarked by the wear and tear of life. The wife reassured him by reminding him of all the countless times the roles were reversed, when he had to provide her love and comfort during moments of great stress of tragedy, but also during those delicate, frivolous moments of joy life provided free of charge. Bloberta shook and trembled as she re-read the passages over and over again, her free hand nervously circling her inner thigh concealed by her dress and strung the flowery waistband of her bloomers like a guitar.
There was something immensely passionate about the embrace between these two lovers, some mystical element found within the sentence structure and prose for such a simple scene that went beyond the pedestrian relations she had ever seen between any other married couple. Miracles would happen in their room every night, Bloberta thought to herself with a heart full of envy. Her own bedroom had been split in half between her and Clay, literally. A black screen was installed between them in order to preserve their innocence in coherence to God, but regardless of their faith, their relations were purely business casual. They had fucked , but never made love, not the kind of love she wanted.
Clay wouldn’t touch her, perhaps even under the threat of death. He preferred anyone and everyone; other women, prostitutes, even the unfruitful & sinful company of men. By comparison, no one would even look at Bloberta. She tried her hardest to embrace someone, anyone at all who gave her the resolute male affection she desired to cleave, but Moralton treated her like a filthy, mutant leper that was poisonous to the touch. Perhaps it was because they respected her marriage more than she did, or they feared retaliation from Clay – but ultimately – she knew what it was.
It's because I’m disgusting, Bloberta thought. I’m a desperate, depraved, pathetic animal. Why would any man want that? She let out a painful hiccup and went pale, hoping against hope that the house was still empty and no one was around to see or hear her secret shame. Clay had so callously taken her virginity the day after they had gotten married, and each scant few times he tried to redeem his poor performance that night he became more and more pathetic, until his body simply couldn’t withstand the alcohol he needed to become aroused for her.
Bloberta put a hand over her heart and felt the wild rhythm drum on mercilessly. Each solitary beat made her wish it could beat in tandem with someone else’s, that she could share this drunken moment with someone, to find the warmth of someone’s hand. Bloberta Puppington felt like the loneliest woman in the world.
She could clearly tell the story was written by a man – some obscure pillar of her soul was absolutely certain of it – but felt that somehow, this author was in the same boat as her. A boat full of grief and longing and appreciation, perhaps for someone who did not love them back. If she had ever met the story’s author, she felt like the two could embrace in mutual understanding and companionship. Maybe it was selfish to write something so self-serving and full of projection, but she didn’t mind.
Why are you so far away from me…?
The story’s prose were penned with a remarkable, painful sense of love, like the man behind this tale had merely transcribed lyrics to a song deep within his heart only recently unveiled to whatever magazine or book it was published for. Each word was full of healthy desire and sorrow, with a tasteful appreciation and compassion for the female form. Perhaps he wrote this story to fulfill the urge to be cared for, Bloberta thought. Was he thinking of someone in particular? Neither of the pair had a backstory to extrapolate from, but something deep within Bloberta’s heart informed her that the two had known each other for quite some time before they decided to take things to the next step.
Tragically, the scrap of paper was just that – a scrap of a larger story. The ending was a mystery, and so was the scrap’s original source. Bloberta cradled the beautiful stationary like it were a damaged baby bird and brought it to her nose while she took a strenuous, strong huff. She sniffed it like the filthy details emitted some kind of sweet rose-like scent she could ferociously consume. Her tongue came next. Their romantic intimacy intoxicated her far more than the wine, much more than any girlish fantasy she could ever muster. Sometimes she thought about the story while she laid in bed, her face painted a dark red in shame. No pillow could ever hug her back, but she did her best to pretend they could.
Bloberta speculated on the story’s conclusion as her hips buckled. She pondered how the story ended, if the pair would embrace in sweet, tender love – or end in a messy, vicious separation. She thought about what the couple’s home looked like, what the husband did for work, and what they would have for dinner after their tantalizing encounter, if the two had any children together, what colour clothing they wore. She hoped the author found love. Bloberta wondered if the couple would touch each other at night, under the cover of darkness and fabric alike. She wondered what it felt like to be loved.
Most poignantly, the name assigned to this compassionate, angel of a woman is what truly made Bloberta cross her legs and sing sweet songs of ecstasy as she consumed the lewd literature - ma petit bourrache . It was a name written in some foreign, heathen language she couldn’t comprehend, but that made her all the more mysterious. The name felt elegant, beautiful, intriguing, strong-spirited, all traits Bloberta measured short in – and she loathed it just as much as she understood it. As stimulating as the story was, her jubilations were crossed with jealousy, and the salty tears that began to form proved it.
A girlish squeal escaped her mouth as her sinful hand traced intimate shapes on her inner thighs with utmost care, feeling the thin remnants of scars she had given herself in previous sick trances of intimacy with whatever objects she could get her hands on that would give her the remotest of pleasure. She held the page out in front of her and reread ma petit bourrache line-by-line, the details came to life and held her tighter, exactly as the wife held her gallant husband. She felt so much remorse in getting a perverse pleasure from something so innocent, but she felt too good to stop.
“Please, I…I need this so bad.” She sobbed. Her mind had already drifted to the aftermath of her alone time after her fingers stiffened beyond the point of flexibility. She welcomed the long showers that accompanied it, even if she had to grapple with the countless apologies she mumbled to God while inside, or the overwhelming feeling of guilt that would fry her skin fiercer than any temperature the nozzle could muster. For all of Bloberta’s cleanliness, there were the stains she could not fix no matter how horrid she felt about them, no matter how badly she insisted she had violated the sanctity of God and herself worse than any rapist could. Her tears would become indistinguishable from the shower water.
Bloberta’s legs crossed and ensnared her sinning hand between them. All it took was a tiny touch of her clit, and a swift swipe of all five fingers underneath her bloomers and-
“Mom, we’re home!”
Bloberta’s face lost all of its colour as she heard her front door burst open then gently shut behind her firstborn child, who had just returned home. Any sense of pleasure she had built over time was swept away in an instant, like a fisherman swept overboard from a boat sailing a stormy sea. She crammed her lewd literature scrap into the front pocket of her apron and straightened her hair clumsily. She could hardly form a coherent thought in her inebriated state and she almost fell down the stairs to meet him.
She stood up straight as an arrow to greet her son, who had already stomped the snow off of his boots and hung up his buckwheat-coloured coat and straw-yellow hat. Bloberta swiped away a droplet of sweat from her forehead and smoothened her dress as she tried to compose herself during her walk to the kitchen.
“Welcome back, Orel. Did you *hic* have fun doing…what you were doing?” Bloberta asked as she punctuated herself with an unintentional hiccup. She had genuinely forgotten what Orel or his brother were doing for the past few hours, but she would never tell him that. There’s no way he can’t tell I’m drunk off my ass. What am I going to tell him? This is all your fault, Clay. If you could control your liquor for once in your life perhaps our son wouldn’t know all the tell-tale signs of a failing marriage.
“You ‘betcha!” Orel responded cheerfully as he confidently swung his arm in a small arc. “I spent all day helping Nurse Bendy & Joe decorate their wonderful little Christmas tree with a big Jesus figurine right on top! Can we get a real tree this year, Mom? I’ve always wanted one, and I think Shapey and-”
“Maybe later,” Bloberta interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Ask your father when he gets home.” Good, he has no idea. I’ll let Clay deal with him when –if – he comes home tonight. Orel looked a little surprised to be cut-off, but not disappointed.
“Golly! I can’t wait for Dad to pick up a real tree for the first time this Christmas!” Orel looked around the kitchen and admired its spotlessness. “The kitchen looks really clean today, Mom! You did a good job making sure Jesus has enough room to come through the fireplace and leave us our presents for Christmas!” Bloberta chuckled behind her hand as a swell of joy came from an expectant, but appreciated compliment her tender-hearted son gave her. Oh, Orel. Always one to point out the obvious.
Orel had such a powerfully naive, but ultimately optimistic outlook on his faith and the world that it made Bloberta feel embarrassed to be so worldly by comparison. He seemed to be genuinely convinced that the little white lie she told him about Jesus personally delivering the Puppingtons their assortment of holiday gifts in the form of whatever Bloberta could scavenge from the Salvation Army to be true, which prevented any awkward talk of what had happened to the family last Christmas. Bloberta did her best to forget how Clay so publicly groveled for Danielle’s approval and affection right in front of his whole family.
“Thank you, dear. You…you always remember to honour the fifth commandment!” She wanted to give Orel’s pudgy cheek a tiny, affectionate pinch, but she knew where that hand had been prior and instead stiffly retracted it from the attempted outreach. The two shared a seconds-long silence as they waited for each other to continue the conversation. Winter’s wind cried from outside, the Puppington’s door softly rattled on its hinges.
Bloberta let out a soft sigh and went to wash her hands when she remembered how clammy they had recently become. The temperature she bathed them in would normally scald any regular person, but Bloberta’s especially cold hands welcomed how it felt – even if it reminded her that she had neglected to store any dish towel or comparable piece of fabric within the front pocket of her apron to conveniently wipe them dry afterwards.
“Mom, what’s this doing here?” Orel asked. Bloberta had flicked her hands dry and saw that Orel had spotted the goblet left on the countertop, trace spots of burgundy liquid still dotted its interior. Shit. I left that there. What am I going to tell him?
“Oh, that’s just your father’s!” Bloberta lied.
“...Does that mean he’s home?” Orel lost his smile and found a disconcerted frown in its stead. The bond between father and son had never been thinner in the Puppington household, and every drunken outrage from Clay further severed said familial thread until it threatened to sever entirely. She hated to see Orel so dejected, but felt no responsibility to excuse anything Clay did or said – even if she felt it were her duties as a wife - or if she made them up entirely.
“No, dear. He just needed something to get him through the day. The holidays are especially stressful for your father. After all, it's quite difficult to sign paperwork and listen to the whinings and whims and complaints of whatever lech stumbles into his office and demands he make eye contact with something that aren't his shoes!” Bloberta smirked as her venomous words fell to the floor as soon as they left her mouth. Orel gazed at his own shoes – or something on the ground – Bloberta wasn’t sure and didn’t ask.
“Well, you know how your father can be when he drinks. And since he insists on bringing out the fine china , perhaps it's best we just leave him be until tomorrow. Then you can ask about…whatever you were asking about prior.” All of the family’s cups had been thoroughly polished, but she grabbed a clean one and began to vigorously dry it once more with a worn cloth. The wind’s whistle outside had become a fierce howl.
“But that’s just like him, isn’t it? When he’s alone, all he can think to do is drink and drink and drink , but what does he get out of it? Your father ruminates and thinks about what went wrong , about how this whole thing started because he said ‘oh, look at that tall drink of water across the aisle!’ when he met someone at church. You…you just look past that perfect smile and those strong shoulders and know that he needed your help, that he needed someone gentle and kind and… loving to say ‘I can fix you’! ‘I could give you the life you never thought you’d have!’ A husband and a father are the most important things you can be, but some people have to settle for being wives instead.” Bloberta gripped the glass cup tighter and tighter, the rhythmic squeaks of her cloth against the material became enraged and more pronounced. The front door practically rumbled with how temperamental the wind became within a fickle instant.
“But on your wedding day, he can’t help but whisper sweet nothings into your ear and get pulled over for driving under the influence. And then you’re crying like a little girl on your wedding day – your mascara running and your dress soiled! The one time you could satisfy that inescapable , horrible urge to help someone, to feel the warmth of someone’s hand in yours, to be told ‘you’ve fixed me’, and ‘I love you! Let’s start a family!’, some able-bodied man to recognize and kiss that tender, nurturing place we all have, to not feel like a burning candle to someone’s gentle moth for the first time in your life! To know that your story will end with you on a farm surrounded by 18 grandchildren, to not bookend it by throwing yourself in a lake because you can get more conversation out of your pillow and the stars at night than him !” A volcanic eruption of contempt began to burst within Bloberta. She grit her teeth so tightly she almost drew blood.
“People always…they always cry and complain that their marriages just ‘explode out of nowhere’, like they’re bystanders to some inescapable, inevitable cataclysm that wasn’t their fault, but they’re lying to you, Orel! It's not an explosion, it's like a drill ! A drill of entropy and…malise, and whatever horrible fragment of our heart that distills our love into apathy that just keeps drilling and-and tearing you to pieces over time – but it always happens faster than you’d think. Sensually , viciously , blood- curdlingly -”
“Mom… what is this?”
Bloberta spun her head around and felt a thunderbolt of shock strike her timid lake of ineptitude with a ferocity only God could possess. Orel looked pensive, distraught – perhaps even disappointed – as he held something in his hands – her scrap of amorous literature. She shot a frantic hand to her pocket, but she knew the answer already – it had fallen out at some point, and Orel had read the entire thing. Orel’s eyes met Bloberta’s. They were full of angst, contemplation, and potentially even judgement. Bloberta opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
She felt thoroughly, empirically dissected , like Orel had stumbled across her private diary that detailed her lifetime’s worth of humiliations, fears, hopes, dreams, and every depraved thought she had ever thought penned down hidden within a fuzzy pink book meant for a teenager, secured by 12 locks. She felt naked, seen-through, like the vastness and breadth of her soul had been written down and explained for the world to study and mock, for her failures and shame to become a cautionary tale for Jesus and his choir of angels.
In her mind, there was no more mystery to her personhood, no more avenues to explore in life with stride and love, the grand sum of her being – the most private sectors of her soul – had been not only exposed, but, examined, and studied like a piece of sheet music – a three-cord disaster. She couldn’t tell what Orel thought of her now. Was it disgust in his eyes? Horror? Pity? His face remained a masonry of stoicism despite the details of her depraved literature. Bloberta felt lesser than the rest of the world, a shipwrecked devil-in-a-new-dress that could do little more than grumble her own name as the rest of the world soared in the sky in exaltation without her. She had not thought it possible, but the remains of her already-fragile self-image and confidence had shattered like a pane of glass against a hurled stone. Her own personal David-and-Goliath made a mockery in the eyes of her own son, and she came out of the duel as the grand, defeated fool. The door nearly swung open with how hard the wind beat against it.
The glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor. Orel flinched and took a step back, but Bloberta crumpled to her knees and completely broke down. What was once a thunderbolt of pain within her turned into a hurricane that entangled her heart within its ruthless tentacles, like a devilish jellyfish of uncompromising disdain that sought to tear her apart. She guarded her face as tears fell free and fat.
“I-I’m sorry!” She stammered girlishly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I… I’m sososossorry !” Her words knocked and crashed into each other as her whole body shook like a leaf in a monsoon. She knew her words were wind against a mountain, but she hoped that if she apologised enough she would be forgiven by God and her son alike. Her most private, embarrassing fragment of herself had just been unveiled in a manner most pathetic and unbefitting for a woman her age, she felt. In her shame, Bloberta could not recall a specific commandment or bible verse or even an anecdote given by her father, or even her mother on how to handle such a situation. She wasn’t sure if it was a forgivable sin in the first place. She certainly didn’t feel like it.
Mascara – and perhaps a bit of snot – streaked down her face and dabbed her lips as her fits of sobs boarded on shrieks and groans. She had become defenseless, like she was little more than that vulnerable, meek child who could only protest the cruelty of her mother with tears and pleads for forgiveness and love. She felt smaller than the dirt underneath the tiles, more loathsome than any devil in Hell, worse than any sinner who lived before her. She didn’t have the capacity to form words or thoughts any more coherent than a throaty apology repeated at length. Bloberta felt like she had finally merged with the version of herself that she saw in the mirror.
She sniffled and tried to wipe away whatever liquids had taken refuge on her face and spotted a particularly large bit of broken glass from the shattered cup. Within the darkest corner of her mind, she felt that shard could very well be her escape plan from this humiliation.
“Mom, it's okay,” Orel said with a determined calmness Bloberta had never heard from him before. He gently placed a hand on her quivering shoulder, which made her rescind and recoil like she had been burnt.
“No! It ISN’T okay! How could any of this be okay?!” She said between sobs. “Look at that disgusting, vile piece of literature! How could that ever be okay!” Bloberta was almost offended by Orel’s assertion. She hoped she had raised him better than to find such crude fiction remotely tolerable, Lord forbid even just ‘okay’, but she was the one who brought such depravity into their home. Whatever failings Orel had reflected onto her, she felt. Clay was providing the income for the family, but it was up to Bloberta to raise the children – she felt she had failed more times than she could comprehend. Orel pursed his hands and struggled to look at her.
“I-I brought that FILTH, that degenerate, disgusting thing into the house! I admit it – it's mine! P-please, just stop…stop looking at me like that! ” Bloberta’s eyes were watery, but she finally pieced together that her son looked upon her with pity. Not contempt, not disgust, just pity – like she was a wounded animal in need of help. She scooted away from Orel and found comfort in wedging herself within the corner of the kitchen by the pantry. She was flanked by cupboards on both sides – no one could sneak up on her.
She tried her best to hug her legs and writhe in the form of a ball, but Orel side-stepped the broken glass and approached her.
“Mom, don’t you remember Jesus in the garden?” Orel said with an earnestness that stopped her heart in its tracks. She wiped her tears and tried to straighten her lips from their trembled form.
“What do you mean…?” She asked with a softness so gentle it seemed almost divine.
“Well, it's in the Book of Matthew, Mom. When Jesus went to the garden of Gesthemetie, he asked his best friends to come with him while he prayed because he said he was so afraid and scared at that moment! So…this is me staying with you when you’re scared. I’ll be your best friend that's always there for you!”
Bloberta had never been so caught off-guard in her life. Orel, despite having read every word in that scrap of paper – her most shameful desires – either chose not to mention it, chose to ignore it outright, or even perhaps chose to simply accept it. She would’ve been insulted by how evasive that answer was had it not come from the mouth of her dutiful, wonderful firstborn son.
I…he did read it, right? Bloberta thought as she tried to summon the strength to stand up. How could he say that to my face? He says he’ll be my ‘best friend’ like I’m not already his mother, I… For once, Bloberta was at a total loss for words. She wasn’t sure how to react – if she should react at all. She had totally debased herself, sobbed until her makeup ran, shattered whatever image of stability she could provide for her child. She could not understand why Orel continued to be so nice to her no matter how much she tried to think about it.
“Everyone goes through a rough patch, even Jesus did! But because he never gave up on anybody…I won’t give up on you!” A swell of joy swept through Bloberta’s hardened heart and took her tears with it. She wiped more tears and mascara on her sleeve and found the courage to speak up.
“But…why? I just…did all that, how can you still say that? How could you…love me?”
“Because you’re my mother. It was in the sermon Reverend Putty gave the other week!” Orel’s basic, no-hesitation answer floored Bloberta profoundly. Orel read everything, he saw her struggle, her breakdown, but resolutely chose compassion and forgiveness, even in the stead of it all. He put an outstretched hand in front of her. Hesitantly, she took it and was surprised that Orel had the strength to so firmly plant her back on her feet.
“I don’t really understand what was on that paper…” Orel admitted. Bloberta blushed shamefully and bowed her head like a regretful puppy. “But… wait here, I have something for you!” Orel spun on his heel – careful to avoid the broken glass – and up to his room. Somehow, that storm of emotions within Bloberta had been calmed from the straightforwardness and steadiness of her son, who held and comforted her with the compassion and wisdom of someone thrice his age.
I did and said all of those horrible things, but he still forgave me. Look at me, I’m more of a child than he is… Bloberta clumsily scooped up the broken glass into a dustbin with a broom and shaky hands. What kind of a mother am I? Consoled by my own child… I didn’t even know where he was all day, nor his brothers… When Orel looked at her, he didn’t see the little girl who could never step up to her mother and who was desperate for love, nor the depraved temptress who found dark satisfaction in uncouth literature, but he saw his mother – who was elegant, beautiful, intriguing, strong-spirited in his eyes. Bloberta almost felt like her sins had been absolved within an instant, she felt light as a feather and as loved as a newborn. She found the stationary on the ground and returned it to her pesky pocket.
“I’m back!” Orel announced. He had run down the stairs and carried something dark and slimy in his hands. He presented it to Bloberta like it was an ancient artifact of unspeakable power.
“My lucky Bible! You know, that one you washed and put in the dryer by accident.” Bloberta cast her gaze away in shame. She knew exactly what that specific Bible was. It was something she had deliberately destroyed because either Clay or Orel had upset her a night before – she couldn’t remember the details. Is he giving this to me to remind me of how much of a bad mother I am? She felt no pride in it, but she would occasionally destroy some of Orel’s possessions when she felt upset in an impotent, passive-aggressive rage that manifested snootily. A nother reason why I’m a total fuck-up who can't raise a child to save her life.
“Everyone has their ups and downs, Mom. This…this is me being your cup-bearer.” He handed the once-lucky Bible over to her. Without a second thought or any further words exchanged on the topic, she took the shriveled book and cradled it like a newborn. Despite this, despite everything, he loves me so…
“Am I a bad mother?” Bloberta asked meekly, her voice scarcely an octave higher than a whisper. Orel’s brows knit together to form an expression of concern. How can he love me knowing how I’ve treated him and his brothers?
“Oh, I don’t know. That’s not up for me to decide, that’s God’s decision!” Bloberta knew Orel would say that, but it stung all the same.
“But…for whatever it's worth, I think you’re a great mom. So do Shapey and Block!” Orel casually walked to Bloberta and gave her a hug that emanated nearly indescribable warmth – not heat. Block. His name is Block. My 13-year-old son raised him better than I ever could…I couldn't even remember his name.
For the first time in over a decade, Bloberta felt like she was in the arms of someone who could protect her as an equal. Orel was not just her child, but her best friend, her rock, her son. She bent over and hugged Orel tighter than she had ever hugged before. She felt impossibly lucky for bringing such a magnificent, compassionate, understanding young man into this world, someone who would always offer her a hand when she stumbled, someone who loved unconditionally. A lifetime of pain & sorrow had fled her body within the tears she shed in that moment, which left room for love to move in.
“Why are we out here again? It's kind of cold to be out in pajamas this late at night.” Orel complained as he hugged this winter jacket tight. In a rare instance of initiative and tenderness, Bloberta had suggested a private bonding experience the two could share right from their balcony. Shapey and Block had been put to bed by Orel’s hand, but she had checked on them and given them something she always struggled with – a goodnight’s kiss. it was a small joy in the face of so much neglect, but she felt like it was the right thing to do, her first step to something greater.
Bloberta insisted that she and Orel change into their pajamas for the activity. She couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something transcendently vulnerable about such simple night-time clothing, like they were a private view and comprehension of something that provides utmost comfort to someone in the most vulnerable position one could possibly be in. The paper story scrap had mysteriously vanished from her pocket when she changed into her gown, but she didn’t mourn its loss – it had lost its purpose.
Orel’s pyjamas were a baby-blue onesie with yellow stars adorned. Perhaps a bit childish for his age, but Bloberta judged not. Hers was a simple pink satin nightgown that hung down to her slippers and dragged against the leftover slush on the porch. The night’s ferocious wind died with a whimper and left Bloberta and her son alone for the night. The chill of the season was strong, but the wholesome warmth between mother and son burned brighter.
“Do you see the stars, Orel?” Bloberta asked as she raised a gentle hand towards the sky. The stars gleamed and winked at the pair as they stood valiantly against the backdrop of the jet-black sky. Not only were the stars visible, they were more beautiful than she ever remembered them being. Little burning fragments of heaven that smiled down on them despite everything, she thought. Despite the impressive display up above, she had the brightest star right next to her.
“They’re beautiful,” Orel mumbled as he stared at the stars, spellbound by their splendor. In that very moment, Bloberta felt like she could live in this moment forever. A moment where she did not feel the constant strangulation of sin nor the guilt of her many wrongdoings. Each pinprick of light high in the sky looked as gentle as a butterfly, but as powerful as a flood, a contrast that nearly brought her to tears of joy. For even just a moment, Bloberta didn’t feel like the loneliest woman in the world.
“I love you, Mom,” Orel said suddenly. She reluctantly accepted those words into her heart with nervous joy. She hadn’t a clue how she could ever repay the endless love and forgiveness her son gave her, but she had a few ideas. I could be a better mother to him, a better mother to Shapey, and to Block. I could sing them to sleep. I need to ask him what happened during that hunting trip. I have to make this the best Christmas ever! I don’t even know where to start… But we can start with staying here all night.
Bloberta knew that to chase the dragon of motherhood would be an endeavor she would have to take on for the rest of her earthly life – but she feared it no longer. With Orel, Shapey, Block, and perhaps even Clay, she felt not only capable, but invincible. She had much to make up for, but she knew she could at least start with ‘sorry’. Thoughts of them together as a family seemed within her grasp, like something she would not ruin with her mere presence.
Even for just a night, Bloberta Puppington felt proud to be herself.
“I love you so, so much, Orel. I’ve loved you from the moment you were conceived. As long as I'll live, you'll be my precious son. I love you to the stars and back."