Chastity

“I’m going crazy,” she muttered to herself. “I must be.” She had just come from the clinic, where the wary looks of the examining nurse had told her as much. “Crazy.” Now she was on her way to her mother’s house to break the news.

Mama wasn’t going to be happy. The last time she spoke to her mother, they had had a terrible argument, with shouts and crying. Mama had been against her even working in the clinic, in that part of town, with the kind of people that hung around there. It was too dangerous. And now, after a year working there, she had told her mother that the clinic wasn’t enough. It was too safe. Too separate. She wanted to live with the people she was serving, sit in their homes, share their lives. “Why?” Mama had demanded, staring at her. She’d stared back. Then answered with a question: “Didn’t Jesus eat with sinners?”

But her mother had be adamant. Shocked that she would try to associate Jesus with such a reckless, degrading idea. If Mama had been shocked by that, what would the response be to this? At least she had had a nurse check it out first.

She’d known that her mother wouldn’t like the idea—her going where only addicts and prostitutes went—and had dreaded the conversation. But what had surprised her was that Mama’s main objection was not about safety but about sex. Maybe the thought of assault was just too terrible to consider. Her mother was insistent that she shouldn’t associate with those people again, it was too much of a temptation. “You managed to get out of that life—why go back?” “Because I know what they’re going through... I can help.” “By going back into that filth?” Mama was pacing. “And how will it look?” “But I’ve changed.” “Yes, you’re a Christian now—but other people don’t know that, to them it looks like you’ve gone back to it.” “Well, I’ll tell them...” “They won’t believe you! They’ll think you’re a whore again,” her mother shouted. “And you’ll be letting them think that by going into those places.”

Alone. That scared her, she had to admit. But her fear had been forgotten when her mother told her she couldn’t do it. “You can’t. Not alone. Not as a single, young woman alone. No matter what your intentions are—can you see what it looks like?” She had glared at her mother. “I know you don’t like to hear that,” Mama had continued, her eyes stern, “but it’s the way things are. There are more limitations for us.” Us women, she thought bitterly. “Why don’t you wait until you can find someone to go with you?” “Yeah, that would be nice—but who? I’ve been looking, there’s no one. Who else is crazy enough? I’ve never even heard of anyone else willing to live with those people.” “That’s because no good can come of it,” her mother had said firmly. “It can only tear you down and make good people think the worst of you.” To the pure all things are pure, she reminded herself, but to the corrupt nothing is pure. But she’d held her tongue then.

She stopped in front of the old house, and looked up. The house was like her mother—settled. But the little round attic window winked at her in the sunlight.

It was up there that she had discovered the secret from her grandmother’s past, the unfortunate souvenir that Gramma brought with her when she escaped to America: a cracked, leather chastity belt. She hadn’t known what it was at first. The leather was blackened and curled with age, and it had been cut apart. But when she’d asked Gramma about it, the old woman hid nothing. “I cut it off as soon as I got on the ship. But I kept it to remind me.” Her mother did not like to be reminded, however. All she’d said was, “Your grandmother is a very independent-minded woman. And she’s paid for it.”

As she stepped up on the porch, she laughed nervously. It was absurd. Scandalously absurd! But ridiculous demands deserved a ridiculous response. No, Mama was not going to like this one bit. But maybe she could at least appreciate the irony.

Her mother opened the door and there was an awkward silence as they eyed each other carefully. Then they went into the kitchen and Mama put water on for tea. She watched her mother for a moment. The movements were familiar, comforting, also the faded blue dress, and the way the hair curled around her right ear. She loved her Mama. How could she do this to her, her own mother? She sat down. “I thought about what you said,” she began, softly, “and I had an idea.” Her mother turned and looked at her. “It would avoid temptation and also protect my reputation. It would even protect me, in a way.” Mama’s brow creased warily. “I really don’t think it’s necessary,” she continued, “I believe God will protect me in every way. It’s just to prove to people that I’m serious and my intentions are pure and I’m willing to sacrifice.” “What is it?” Mama asked.

She looked into her mother’s eyes. “I made a chastity belt. I just need someone to hold the key while I’m there.”

Mama took a step back and bumped into the stove. The kettle started to whistle. She plunged ahead, “I had a nurse at the clinic check it out already. I did a good job on it. And it’s perfect, once people know I wear it, no one will mess with me and no one can say I’m a…” “People can say whatever they want,” her mother blurted out. “They can and they do.” “Well, yes,” she said, “I guess they do. They called Jesus a glutton, a blasphemer… But I won’t be letting them say those lies about me. This way I can prove I’m really pure, Mama…” She looked at her mother, pleading, then began to cry. “If anyone cares.”

Her mother stood still for a moment, then sat down next to her and touched her hair. “Oh, baby....” Then Mama took her hand away. And said softly, “But why... please... not that way.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked up. “But it’s perfect, don’t you see? With Gramma, it was used against her, to tie her up. But I’m using it to be free. Because I’m free. I’m not afraid of going anywhere God wants me to go, and I’m not afraid of what people think.” “Oh, baby, you don’t know... good people think terrible things!” She suddenly wondered if there was something in her mother’s past she didn’t know about. But she just said, “I know… but we can’t let that control us. I mean, I’m willing to wear this insane thing if it’ll help people think twice, if it’ll shock them out of their dirty thoughts. But...” She felt a fire in her breast. “Those thoughts don’t make me dirty.”

Her mother got up and filled the teapot, brought the tray to the table, then stopped and looked at her. Mama smiled. “No, baby, you’re not dirty. ‘To the pure all things are pure...’”