The Funhouse

Catholic icons her mother had placed around the room. A crucifix hung at the head of the bed, and a smaller one hung above the door. A statuette of the Virgin Mary was on the nightstand. Two more painted religious statuettes stood on the dresser. There was also a painting of Jesus, He was pointing to his Sacred Heart, which was exposed and bleeding.
        In her mind Amy heard her mother's voice: Don't forget to say your prayers .
        “Fuck it,” Amy said aloud, defiantly.
        What could she ask God to do for her? Give her money for an abortion? There wasn't much chance of that prayer being answered.
        She stripped off her clothes. For a couple of minutes she stood in front of a full-length mirror, studying her nude body. She couldn't see any sure signs of pregnancy. Her belly was flat.
        Gradually the medical nature of her self-inspection changed to a more intimate, stimulating appraisal. She drew her hands slowly up her body, cupped her full breasts, teased her nipples.
        She glanced at the religious statuettes on the dresser.
        Her nipples were erect.
        She slid her hands down her sides, reached behind, squeezed her firm buttocks.
        She looked at the painting of Jesus.
        Somehow, by flaunting her body at the image of Christ, she felt she was hurting her mother, deeply wounding her. Amy didn't understand why she felt that way. It didn't make sense. The painting was only a painting, Jesus wasn't really here, in the room, watching her. Yet she continued to pose lasciviously in front of the mirror, caressing herself, touching herself obscenely.
        After a minute or two she caught sight of her own eyes in the mirror, and that brief glimpse into her own soul startled and disconcerted her. She quickly put on her flannel nightgown.
        What's wrong with me? she wondered. Am I really bad inside, like Mama says? Am I evil?
        Confused, she finally knelt at the side of her bed and said her prayers after all.
        A quarter of an hour later, when she pulled back the covers, there was a tarantula on her pillow. She gasped, jumped-and then realized that the hideous thing was only a painted-rubber novelty item. She sighed wearily, put the phony spider in the drawer of her nightstand, and got into bed.
        Her ten-year-old brother, Joey, never missed a chance to play a practical joke on her. Ordinarily, when she encountered one of his tricks, she went looking for him, pretending to be furious, threatening him with grave bodily harm. Of course she wasn't capable of hurting the boy. She loved him very much. But her mock anger was the part of the game that Joey enjoyed most. Usually, in retaliation for his pranks, Amy did nothing more than hold him down and tickle him until he promised to be good.
        Right now he was in bed, probably awake in spite of the late hour, waiting for her to storm into his room. But tonight she would have to disappoint him. She wasn't in the mood for their usual routine, and she didn't have the energy for it, either.
        She got into bed and switched off the light.
        She couldn't sleep.
        She thought about Jerry Galloway. She had told him the truth when she had ridiculed his skills as a lover. She had seldom had an orgasm. He was a clumsy, ignorant, thoughtless bedmate. Yet she had let him touch her night after night. She got little or no pleasure out of the affair, but she allowed him to use her as he wished. Why? Why?
        She wasn't a bad girl. She wasn't wild or loose, not deep down in her heart. Even while she let Jerry use her, she hated herself for being so easy. Whenever she made out with a boy in a parked car, she felt awkward, embarrassed, out of place, as if she were trying to be someone else and not herself.
        She wasn't a lazy girl, either. She had ambition. She planned to go to Royal City Junior College, then to Ohio State, majoring in art. She would get a job as a commercial artist, and she would labor at fine arts in her spare time, nights and weekends, and if she found that she had enough talent to make a good living as a painter, she would quit the nine-to-five job and create wonderfully beautiful pictures for sale in galleries. She was determined to build a successful, interesting life.
        But now she was pregnant. Her dreams were ashes.
        Maybe she didn't deserve happiness. Maybe she was bad, just deep-down rotten.
        Did a good girl spread her