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Mother Mary (Ch. 1)

Chapter 1: After Practice

By Mike MainPublished 5 years ago 8 min read
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Mary Christensen was always a God-fearing woman. Her father, a pastor, made sure of that. Sunday afternoons, after his flock of worshippers cleared, he dictated additional studies to his daughter, ensuring she was filled with his same holy passion. She even met her husband, Joseph, at church. An old-fashioned man like her father, Joseph asked her father for her hand in marriage the day she turned 16. Her father said he could think of no better match, a Joseph for his Mary. He approved and they had been married ever since. Less than a year later their son was born. They did not name him Jesus, despite her father’s wishes, but instead named him John.

This penchant to develop quickly was something John carried into his adolescence. Now 14-years-old he towered above Mary, and was a good three or four inches taller than his father and most of his Little League teammates. Practice was almost over. Mary waited for John in their family van. She liked to pick him up from practice, even if he could walk home from the fields.

The coaches huddled the team on the outfield grass to deliver the final encouragements and admonishments, calling practice to an end afterward. John sat on the edge of the huddle absentmindedly pulling out grass, the late afternoon sun streaking his shaggy brown hair with gold. With everything said, the team stood, gathered in a circle, raised their hands, and broke practice with, “1,2,3, Lions!”

Mary saw Coach Jim hold John as the rest of the team left. He must have “lollygagged” (Coach Jim’s favorite insult) during practice, Mary thought. Jim put an arm around John’s shoulder. He spoke with the other hand making circles in front of him. John said something that made him stop and cross his arms. His daughter Sammy jogged toward them. How could he let her wear those shorts around all these boys? Sammy touched John on the shoulder, said “hello.” Mary’s jaw tightened. John smiled at her—a lopsided, nervous, little grin—and said “hi” back. Coach Jim began talking again, more gestures, then gave John a handshake firm enough for her to feel from the car. Jim pointed her out in the parking lot and the three of them approached the van.

“Hey, Mary. How are you?”

“Hi, Mrs. Christensen,” Sammy chimed over her father’s shoulder.

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“I’m good, great! Big game tomorrow!”

“You say all the games are ‘big’, Dad.”

“Nothing wrong with that!” He laughed, a slight snort behind it. Mary thought he sounded like a bearded hog.

“Did John practice well today?”

“Hm?”

“John. Did he practice well today? I saw you hold him back.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. The kid’s great. Just a few tips. Wanted to see him off, say hello. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep, John. Big game tomorrow! Have a good one, Mary.”

“You, too.”

“Bye, John! See you tomorrow.” Sammy waved. He waved back.

John slid the van’s backdoor open, threw his bat bag on the seat, got in and fastened his seatbelt.

“You can sit up here with me, if you like.”

“No, that’s okay. There’s more room back here.” He had one leg up on the seat. He had his phone in one hand, thumb scrolling.

“Okay, fine.” Mary started the engine and pulled the car to the lot entrance, waiting for oncoming traffic on the main road to pass.

It was impossible to get a decent conversation out of John since he got that phone. He was always looking at some app or messaging someone, talking to somebody except the people in the same room. Joseph said it would be good for him to have in case of an emergency. “Every kid had one nowadays,” he reasoned with her one night while they were getting into bed. “We don’t want him to be so different from everyone else.” She knew children—once they reach adolescence, begin to lose interest in their parents, but this was ridiculous—he was in the same car as her, less than two feet away, but he would rather text or look at silly pictures on Instagram. She felt left out of his life.

“How was practice?”

“It was fine.” His eyes stayed glued on his phone.

“Sammy goes to a lot of the practices, I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, she plays softball. She helps with the practices. Like an assistant coach.”

“What does she do?”

“Normal coach stuff, y’know? She’ll shag balls, or fill in for a scrimmage if someone misses practice.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

“Do you like her?”

“Why are you so obsessed with Sammy? Sounds like you’re the one that’s into her.” He laughed off her question.

“I’m just curious.” At a stoplight she looked in the rearview mirror at him, still on his phone. “What were you and Coach Jim talking about, after practice?” She heard him sigh, like he was annoyed with her questions.

“He said I seemed tired at practice.”

“Are you going to bed at a reasonable hour? Like I’ve told you to do? You know school is starting soon.”

“Yes, I have. Lately I’ve just been having weird dreams. Last night, I woke up and had trouble going back to sleep so I was tired all day.” He shifted in the back seat; sat up straight with both feet in front of him, still on his phone.

“Weird dreams? About what?” He failed to mention any of this to her today.

“It’s hard to remember them. They’re just weird.”

The feeling of exclusion came again, along with some jealousy.

“You can tell Coach Jim and Sammy about your dreams, but not your own mother?”

“I told them the same thing! Why are you on my case about some dreams?”

“Someone is grouchy. Okay, then, I’ll leave you alone.” They hit another light, the last one before the turn into their neighborhood. “Gosh, we are just hitting every light today.” She waited for John to reply. When he didn’t, she turned on the radio. “This light takes forever.”

“Thank you to everyone listening today. God’s blessings to all of you. I would like to continue discussion of today’s topic.”

“Come on, Mom! Not this guy again! Just put on some music.”

“Oh, hush, you’re on your phone; you aren’t even listening. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Before I continue, I would like to give fair warning to all the parents out there with children in the car, or in the room with them. It is a topic that is graphic, it is disgusting, and, frankly, it is unholy. I am speaking, of course, about pornography.”

She checked the rearview mirror. His phone was put away, forehead against the glass, staring out the window, eyes wide, brows drawn together.

“Do you see that?”

“See what?” She checked the side mirror. Nothing there. She turned the radio down.

“There’s a rooster on the sidewalk. It’s black.”

Mary turned around to look out his window. “Where?”

“Right there. It’s walking past the van right now.”

A bird fluttered up into a tree. “It was probably just a crow you saw. Roosters can’t fly.”

“It was a rooster, I swear!” his voice cracked.

“Don’t swear.” She turned the radio volume back up.

“These devil picture shows, performed by licentious prophets of Satan, has plagued God’s world for years. But now, now there is the all-encompassing presence of the Internet to contend with. Free pornography is available everywhere. At the touch of a finger.” The voice coming out of the radio was stern and calm, like a doctor diagnosing an illness.

“Parents, it is up to you to contend with this evil. You must remain vigilant. You must monitor your children’s Internet usage! Check their history if you must!” John stirred in the back seat. When she checked the rearview mirror again, their eyes met; they both looked away. “If you don’t know how to do that, there is a very helpful how-to on the website, ‘Parents-Against-Porn-dot-com.’”

The radio preacher paused. His breathing became audible through the airwaves. The light turned green and she made the turn onto Front Ridge Road, then another left into Stonebank Court. She parked in the driveway. John reached for the door handle.

“Hold on. I think you should listen to the rest of this.”

John sighed, crossed his arms and legs, foot jumping up and down and nudging the back of her seat. The preacher continued.

“And, God forbid, if your child has watched pornography on the Internet you must remind them, you must engrave on their minds like stone tablets: when they watch pornography, as soon as they open that screen, they open an unholy portal—a gateway to Hell!—for the Devil himself to walk through, right into your very home! And he will walk through it.” The sound of a fist hitting a desk came through the airwaves. “... And he will corrupt your home, your minds, and your souls! Pray! Else the Devil and his demonic minions should prey on you! Pray; pray for the poor men and women who create this plague of profligacy, for they are currently in the Devil’s bondage. Most importantly, pray for your children. Do not let them fall under His spell. We’ll be opening the phone lines when we come back. Thank you for listening.”

Home was a simple, two story Single-Family house with off-white clapboards, light blue siding, a single car garage, driveway, and small yard, ensconced on a cul-de-sac between other similar houses. Mary turned off the engine. When she got out, she heard the shrill hnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngk hnnnnnnngk hnnngk sound from Jaime Blatty practicing violin next door. I’m glad we didn’t sign John up for drum lessons, like he wanted. John got out of the van after her, his bat bag bobbing along after him at ankle height. His face had a worn look, chin against his chest as he entered the house. Phone stashed away in his pocket. She wondered if the radio sermon disturbed him. Tired, he’s probably just tired.Weird dreams. The sermoner’s language was... colorful, but necessary, she thought. The Devil’s temptations were ever-present, her father taught her, and John needed that same lesson. Mary followed John through the front door.

He went upstairs. “I’m going to shower.”

She began to prepare dinner, still thinking about the broadcast. “Okay. Your father will be home soon. Don’t take too long.”

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About the Creator

Mike Main

@themikestmike on Twitter.

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