courage to ask. “Have you ever thought about marriage?”
She let out a sharp laugh. “I told you—I don’t answer stupid questions.”
“I’ll bet there’s lots of fellows that want to marry you.”
Another pillow came sailing over the edge of the bed, hitting me in the face. “Go to sleep. I don’t talk to drunks.”
The pillow was damp with tears.
CHAPTER 9
I woke up thinking of Hosea. That’s the curse of being a preacher’s son—you wake up in the same room with a naked girl for the first time in your life, and what’s on your mind? Bible stories.
Hosea was the prophet whom God commanded to marry a prostitute. I once asked Father if God would ever tell someone today to do something like that. “No,” he said. “That was a special revelation, so that Hosea could stand as a sign of God’s faithfulness at a time when the people of Israel were whoring after foreign gods.”
But if God commanded it once, why couldn’t he do it again? His people weren’t any more faithful today than they were in Bible times. Was God telling me to marry this girl?
I stared up at the ceiling and listened for God, but didn’t hear anything—not even the girl’s breathing.
The folks at Remus Baptist had a direct telephone line to God. “The Lord told me,” they’d always say, or, “The Lord laid it on my heart.” But God never spoke to me. I used to lie awake at night begging for a few words—even a simple “hello”—just so I’d know he was there, but I never got a peep out of him. Maybe it was just as well. If I ever heard the voice of God, I’d shit my britches.
According to my father, God’s main way of speaking was through the Bible. And Hosea wasn’t the only biblical precedent for marrying a loose woman. In Sunday school, they made it sound like the women of the Bible were a bunch of pious schoolmarms—but nothing could be further from the truth. Take Tamar, for instance. She disguises herself as a harlot and sleeps with her own father-in-law, just to prove what a hypocrite he is. Or Ruth. When Ruth spots a man she likes, she gets him drunk, strips off his clothes, and hops into bed with him. When he wakes up the next morning, he has no choice but to marry her.
And Tamar and Ruth weren’t the fallen women of the Bible—they were the righteous ones. In fact, Matthew puts them on Jesus’ family tree, along with that other seductress, Bathsheba. These women were Jesus’ great-grandmothers! If they were alive today, I thought, you wouldn’t find them at a Sunday school picnic. You’d be a lot more likely to find them in the Pink Palace.
If Father ever complained about me marrying a whore, I’d tell him to go read his Bible. What a day that would be.
I lay on the floor daydreaming about all this for quite a while. All this time, I didn’t hear a peep coming from the bed above—the girl sure was a sound sleeper. Then I noticed that the door was slightly open. And next to the door, my extra change of clothes was strewn out on the floor. I climbed up to check the bed.
It was empty. I looked under the sheets, checked the other side, threw open the closet, searched every corner of the room. She was gone—and all my money with her.
+ + +
I paced the room thinking about what to do next. I couldn’t go downstairs and face the mademoiselle—she’d just laugh at me. There was a fire escape outside. I was terrified of heights, but that seemed like the best exit. I unlatched the window.
Then I heard a ruckus in the hallway—someone yelling and kicking and scratching at the walls. Another satisfied customer, I thought. The commotion grew louder and closer. I shook at the old window, trying to wrestle it open. But before I could escape, my door burst open. Mademoiselle Colette stomped into the room, dragging the girl behind.
The mademoiselle threw her onto the bed. “You little slut,” she said. “We don’t treat our customers this way.” The girl’s face was streaked with eye
She let out a sharp laugh. “I told you—I don’t answer stupid questions.”
“I’ll bet there’s lots of fellows that want to marry you.”
Another pillow came sailing over the edge of the bed, hitting me in the face. “Go to sleep. I don’t talk to drunks.”
The pillow was damp with tears.
CHAPTER 9
I woke up thinking of Hosea. That’s the curse of being a preacher’s son—you wake up in the same room with a naked girl for the first time in your life, and what’s on your mind? Bible stories.
Hosea was the prophet whom God commanded to marry a prostitute. I once asked Father if God would ever tell someone today to do something like that. “No,” he said. “That was a special revelation, so that Hosea could stand as a sign of God’s faithfulness at a time when the people of Israel were whoring after foreign gods.”
But if God commanded it once, why couldn’t he do it again? His people weren’t any more faithful today than they were in Bible times. Was God telling me to marry this girl?
I stared up at the ceiling and listened for God, but didn’t hear anything—not even the girl’s breathing.
The folks at Remus Baptist had a direct telephone line to God. “The Lord told me,” they’d always say, or, “The Lord laid it on my heart.” But God never spoke to me. I used to lie awake at night begging for a few words—even a simple “hello”—just so I’d know he was there, but I never got a peep out of him. Maybe it was just as well. If I ever heard the voice of God, I’d shit my britches.
According to my father, God’s main way of speaking was through the Bible. And Hosea wasn’t the only biblical precedent for marrying a loose woman. In Sunday school, they made it sound like the women of the Bible were a bunch of pious schoolmarms—but nothing could be further from the truth. Take Tamar, for instance. She disguises herself as a harlot and sleeps with her own father-in-law, just to prove what a hypocrite he is. Or Ruth. When Ruth spots a man she likes, she gets him drunk, strips off his clothes, and hops into bed with him. When he wakes up the next morning, he has no choice but to marry her.
And Tamar and Ruth weren’t the fallen women of the Bible—they were the righteous ones. In fact, Matthew puts them on Jesus’ family tree, along with that other seductress, Bathsheba. These women were Jesus’ great-grandmothers! If they were alive today, I thought, you wouldn’t find them at a Sunday school picnic. You’d be a lot more likely to find them in the Pink Palace.
If Father ever complained about me marrying a whore, I’d tell him to go read his Bible. What a day that would be.
I lay on the floor daydreaming about all this for quite a while. All this time, I didn’t hear a peep coming from the bed above—the girl sure was a sound sleeper. Then I noticed that the door was slightly open. And next to the door, my extra change of clothes was strewn out on the floor. I climbed up to check the bed.
It was empty. I looked under the sheets, checked the other side, threw open the closet, searched every corner of the room. She was gone—and all my money with her.
+ + +
I paced the room thinking about what to do next. I couldn’t go downstairs and face the mademoiselle—she’d just laugh at me. There was a fire escape outside. I was terrified of heights, but that seemed like the best exit. I unlatched the window.
Then I heard a ruckus in the hallway—someone yelling and kicking and scratching at the walls. Another satisfied customer, I thought. The commotion grew louder and closer. I shook at the old window, trying to wrestle it open. But before I could escape, my door burst open. Mademoiselle Colette stomped into the room, dragging the girl behind.
The mademoiselle threw her onto the bed. “You little slut,” she said. “We don’t treat our customers this way.” The girl’s face was streaked with eye
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