-
Chapter Thirty: Miracle Whip
- Red Hen Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
103 Chapter Thirty Miracle Whip “Trust me, mayonnaise works better than Noxema. Why do you think they call it Miracle Whip?” “Are you sure?” Sue asks suspiciously. “It’samiraclelikeallofJesus’miracles.”Iremainstraight-facedandsomber. “How do you know it works?” “Look at my face. No pimples. I put Miracle Whip on at night after everyone is in bed.” Now that I’m a Christian Sue trusts me more, thinks I’m trying to be more like Jesus, less like a bully. “Here, let me help you put it on.” She steps inside our tiny bathroom and I rub Miracle Whip on her face. Her eyes look at me doubtful, buried in a face of mayonnaise. If it were warm out, she’d become rancid. “You better get upstairs before Mom and Dad see you. You know how they feel about food being wasted.” Sue looks at her face in the mirror and thanks me for the help. “I hope my face looks like yours tomorrow.” “It will. Don’t forget to thank God for helping you,” I add, hoping some of the blame will go to God when it doesn’t work. Once she has gone upstairs and I’m left in the kitchen alone, I laugh, thinking her face is the funniest joke I’ve pulled yet. As I laugh, the kitchen feels like it’s filled with Jesus statues, none of them laughing. Over and over I hear Sue say, “I hope my face looks like yours tomorrow.” The statues are like the maze of mirrors at the fair, all of them imitating Sue, haunting me with her innocent voice and mayonnaise face. I don’t seem to have the right genetic make-up for this Christian business . I spend so much time backsliding, I don’t feel enough guilt anymore. Good Christians feel guilt all the time, confess their short-comings to large audiences, and receive much praise for their courage. There’s no way I can stand in front of a congregation and tell them about the Miracle Whip. They’d think it was blasphemy, and that’s almost unforgivable. I go to bed. Fortunately it’s too dark to see the mayonnaise. This eliminates most of my guilt. I wonder if the Miracle Whip will really 104 Burning Tulips work or make her face even worse. If her face clears up, I could use this as a testimony, maybe even make a commercial. “Hey, God, I know it ain’t fair to ask for miracles like this, but could you please clear up at least one of Sue’s pimples? I’m not asking for any favors for me, I’m praying for Sue.” This feels Christianly. Gets me on a roll. “See, I wasn’t sure if it would work or not, but if it does work, Sue will believe in you. And we’d get so many more converts if they thought not only their souls would improve, but their complexions, too.” The minister’s wife told me prayers don’t work unless you end them: “In Jesus’s name I pray,” so I add that quick hoping her face will be better tomorrow. I wake up before Sue. She’s sound asleep with her face smashed inside her pillow. I need to know if a miracle has happened, or if I must confess that I’ve backslid once more. I nudge Sue, hoping she’ll roll, but she doesn’t budge. Frustrated, I yank her pillow from beneath her. “What are you doing?” she screams. Her face looks worse than ever. “What is wrong with you?” she yells. This Miracle Whip face will not be producing any commercials for Jesus. “What did you do? Stuff your dirty socks in my pillowcase? What is it this time? I hate sharing a room with you.” I actually feel guilty, so guilty that all I am able to do is laugh hysterically. “It’s my face, isn’t it? I hate you!” she screams, while I continue laughing, frustrated with my endless sinning, the effort it takes to be good. Deep down, I get great pleasure for inciting this anger from Sue. Deep down, I regret she finally trusted me and I failed her again. But all I do is look at her pimply face and laugh. ...