"Ask Jesus" first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of The Madison Review, Vol. 30

Ask Jesus

Erica and I have been married less than a year but already we are drifting apart. Since the start of college football season, Erica has changed her bartending schedule to weekends and tells me that she would rather rake in extra cash than stay home and listen to me shouting at the TV. But I worry that she’s lying to both of us. She barely comments on the Halloween porch display I slaved over last weekend, the life-sized toilet paper mummy rising out of the cobwebbed corner, but she shrieks in glee and slits open the packages which arrive with her costume. She never skips an occasion to play pretend as some sexy dungeon wench or wicked fairy. So I decide that I had better invent a one-of-a-kind ensemble to show Erica how much I love her, before I miss my chance.

Halloween night I run out the front door of my house but stop when I realize the Ask Jesus figurine is missing from my cape pocket. From the driveway Erica yells at me to hurry up, as if I have to be reminded that her managers have been preparing this party for weeks. I ignore Erica and go back inside because I worry that my costume won’t make sense unless I find the Ask Jesus.
One day I will organize my costume closet with shoe racks, a hat shelf and revolving accessory stand. This would have prevented the problem of misplacing the Ask Jesus. For now I head straight for the bedroom and tear apart the contents of drawers; the front door slams shut and a moment later, Erica lurks in the doorway of our room.
“Kind of hard to miss a pink Jesus doll,” she says.
“The Ask Jesus is not a doll,” I tell her. “He’s a limited edition figurine made in 1986. And you could take a look around and help me find him.”
“I’ve got all the parts to my costume,” Erica says. She pets the short black feathers at the top of her bustier. Below the bustier she wears a purple netted skirt, fishnets and heels, supposedly a reincarnation of Gypsy Rose Lee, the burlesque star. I think she looks more like a ballerina on crack.
“Will you check the living room so we can find him and go?” I say. I flip the bed covers and kneel down to drag my hand underneath.
Instead Erica sticks her tits in my face and waggles back and forth. “Don’t I look great in this?”
“Yeah, great,” I lie.
She groans and struts away. “I knew you picked a stupid costume,” she says. “Look, why don’t you just throw on the Smokey the Bear suit from last year?”
“If I can’t find the Ask Jesus, I’m not going to the party,” I answer. I tilt the trash can but see no pink Jesus at the bottom.
“Fine,” she says. She leaves and her patent leather heels clop down the hallway. Her laughter echoes off the bare tile walls. We have just moved in.
My face gets hot and my eyes go watery with tears.

The next morning I stumble into the living room and find Erica passed out, spiked heels and all, on the bean bag chair. On the coffee table in front of her is a ripped open package of vanilla cookies, a glass of Glennfidditch and a Betty Paige calendar opened to next month, November, with some dates circled.
I push away the sticky glass and tug the calendar toward me.
Erica opens her eyes and reaches for the calendar.
“Hey,” she says. “Stop.”
“What time did you get home last night?” I ask, glancing at the dates. The numbers have no apparent significance.
“Did you find him?” she asks.
“What?”
“Oh, God,” she says. She sits up and fake feathers from her boa are stuck on her forehead and neck. “The Jesus. Your stupid pink vinyl toy Jesus!”
“No,” I say. “But that’s not fair. You especially shouldn’t call him stupid. It’s still Jesus.”
“Maybe you should ask his mother, if it’s so important to you,” she retorts.
I toss the calendar at her feet and say, “I’m going to look for him outside. Maybe I brought him out when I did lawn work. He could be stuck behind a gnome or something.”
She kicks and her heel smacks Betty Paige’s head and busts a hole through the paper. I grab her ankles and almost get jabbed in the throat.
“Quit it,” I tell her. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Leave me alone,” she whines, writhing in the chair. I notice her fish nets have runs in both legs.
“How was the party?” I ask. I unbuckle the shoe straps to disarm her.
“Go ahead and ask Jesus when you find him,” she says. “As if you’d care to really know.”
“Of course I do,” I say. Shoes off, she kneads her toes against my stomach. She brings her feet to my chest and shoves me away. I grab her one foot and start tickling the bottom.
“Help me look for him. I’ll make you pancakes,” I tell her. “Maybe even eggs benedict.” Erica hates cooking but it’s my other passion besides costumes.
“I don’t like your cooking anymore,” she says. “And I’m not hungry.”
I drop her feet, slide away from the bean bag and leave her in a sulking lump. Then I pad into the garage in search of the Ask Jesus by daylight.

Erica didn’t find my costume hilarious as she would have a year ago. I don’t understand her. And I don’t understand why she refused to help me in a simple search for the Ask Jesus. It’s not as if I think the stupid figurine is more important than our relationship, or whatever happened at the party—which she refuses to tell me. I think she wants attention but maybe I’m wrong. But when I try and show her how much I care about her by offering to cook or making a joke, she rejects me. Why does my attention not count at all? How can love go flat in so short of a time, a matter of months? Even worse, has she found someone else she’s convinced is better, and now I’m the equivalent of a snail? It’s like she’s out for blood, that she really wants to hurt me.

That night I walk into the bedroom to find Erica reclining with one hand behind her head. The other is massaging her boobs. She is naked, and she alternates her massage from one to the other every thirty seconds.
“Do you really have to do that?” I ask.
“If I don’t, the silicon hardens,” she says. “I don’t want them to be like rocks. You heard the doctor.”
“I don’t remember.” I step into the closet and turn on the light. “My opinion didn’t matter much, if you recall.”
“Well, I like them,” she said. “You have to admit they made my costume a success.”
“I still haven’t found the Ask Jesus,” I say. “Imagine if he’s right here, in front of my face?”
“Why don’t you just give up?” she calls from the bed. “Buy a new one.”
“That’s not the point,” I answer. “He was here, and now he’s gone. It’s not like he ascended.” I rummage in the plastic storage bins piled high with Mardi Gras beads, a lunch box, a baton, the Smokey the Bear hat.
“I don’t even understand what your costume was supposed to be,” Erica says. The sheets rustle and I glance up at her moving towards me, her fake breasts planted like waxen udders. “Who’s the Bible Blazer anyway?”
“He’s the super hero of the Bible belt,” I explain. “The Ask Jesus is central to the costume and stands for the entire ‘What would Jesus do?’ movement. Without it, the costume fails in purpose.”
“You ought to have an Ask Mary doll in your other pocket,” Erica says. “To fairly represent women.”
“Ask Mary wouldn’t be the same as Ask Jesus,” I say. “Not at all. Are you just going to stand there naked or help me find Jesus?”
“And what’s this?” Erica picks up the belt I made for the Bible Blazer costume and as far away from her body as if it were a poisonous snake. I had fixed a miniature Gideon’s Bible, the free ones handed out in airports, over the buckle.
“Get out of my way if you’re not going to help,” I tell her.
“You could help me,” she says. Still holding the belt, she reaches down with her other hand and pinches her nipple. “Aren’t breasts a lot more exciting?”
We stare at one another in the doorway of the costume closet. I take the belt from her hand.
“What happened at that party?” I ask her. “You still haven’t told me.”
“Nothing,” she says. “The party wasn’t important after all.”
Erica looks down at her breasts. Then she does something strange. She slaps them, first lightly but then harder. I watch, amazed. Her lip pouts in anger. She keeps slapping as if I’m not even there. I step forward and grab her by the shoulders, and she stops but brushes past me and into the master bathroom. A minute later the shower is running. I sit on the edge of the bed, unsure of what just happened.
Erica gives a cry in the shower and a thump sounds against the bathroom door. I get up and push the door open a few more inches.
The pink vinyl figure of Jesus rolls into view.

That night Erica takes a sleeping pill and snores soundly within a few minutes, leaving me to lie awake and wonder: did she hide the Ask Jesus on purpose? I probably left it in the bathroom while we were getting dressed for the party, but did she know then and not tell me? Or did she find it now by accident? I replay the scene of Erica smacking her breasts, the fierce look on her face. Three things can happen to a woman who’s had a boob job in order for her to avoid facing the truth of what she’s done—she either turns her self-hatred outward (me) with attacks or plays for attention, or constantly convinces herself of the justification of her decision by showing them off (the party, the costume) or takes justification one step further by becoming a slut (cheating). Signs show all three have happened with Erica.
I sit up and turn on the lamp. Even the dim light hurts my eyes. While I wait for them to adjust, I take the Ask Jesus off the bedside table and study him. He’s about the same height and weight of Mrs. Butterworth and an appropriate Easter pink. He wears a pansy-ass Jesus expression paired with long hippy hair that I don’t really find acceptable, but it’s Jesus, just the same. So what am I waiting for? I close my eyes and form my question. Am I right about what’s happened to my wife?
Then I flip him upside down and stare into the window beneath his pink robes and sandaled feet for the response to appear. The water sloshes and I have to hold him underneath the lamp in order to read the bobbing eight-ball.
His response: It is decidedly so.  

A week later, so much has happened: I find the Betty Paige calendar in the garage trash, big red Xs over Betty’s face, tits and ass, although the page with the marked dates is missing. I’m more of an Audrey Hepburn fan myself. Erica starts wearing loose button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up and makes big breakfasts in the morning, even during the week—waffles, coffee, eggs-any-which-way, Mrs. Butterworth on the table. Ask Jesus perches on top of my dresser next to the TV. I pause in the bedroom doorway and question him from time to time.
Erica gets up on Sunday and says she’s going to check out a non-denominational church down the road. I stay home and complete an on-line dating profile with the requirement, “Ladies with enhancements of any make or model need not apply.” As I complete the series of personality questions on the profile, I consult the Ask Jesus. His answers seem to match my own. This gives me a good feeling.
I have just finished when Erica returns from church.
She picks up the Ask Jesus and strokes his face. “Glad I found him,” she says.
“Did you?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. “Under the bathroom sink. The cleaning lady must have thought he was some type of soap dispenser.”
But I doubt this is true. I suspect Erica didn’t want me to go to the party because her lover would be there, so she hid Jesus on me. Then they had a falling out which she’s now trying to cover up because she now feels awful.
I wave for her to pass Jesus over so that I may ask him myself. Is there any hope to save my marriage? I ask silently.
His response: Pray harder.
“You act as if God is really communicating with you through that doll,” Erica says with a snort. “It’s absurd.”
“Maybe you should ask him,” I tell her. “If my ways are so absurd.”
I set Ask Jesus on the table and scoot him forward so that the doll and Erica face each other.  
For a moment Erica remains still as if squared off in a showdown with the figurine. But then she sighs and grabs the doll. She twists and shakes his body a few times and turns him on end. “Is my husband as foolish as I think he is, Jesus?” she asks in a steady but somewhat mocking voice. She stares for a long time at the answer and her mouth bunches together in a frown. Finally she walks out the door to the pool and chucks Ask Jesus into the deep end.
Allow me to predict His answer: Don’t count on it.