"Visions"

Last night I was in the Piggly Wiggly on Mansfield Road inspecting the grapefruit. I balanced a Ruby Red in the palm of my hand, tossed it from hand to hand. Then I punctured the thick skin with my thumbnail like I always do. My mother taught me this foolproof way of testing freshness. This time something went wrong. As I lowered my head to smell the ripeness of the grapefruit, I inhaled the metallic smell of ripe blood, and in my hand was the severed head of John the Baptist. I don’t believe in visions. But there I stood, holding the awful evidence beneath the unforgiving fluorescent light, a trail of blood making its way down my arm.

Ten minutes later I was in the parking lot with a can of Beanie Weenies, a quart of skim milk, a canister of Crystal Light, and the grapefruit. I noticed a teenage couple sitting on the tailgate of a pick-up truck. I eyed them warily as I got into my car. I have the ugly habit of thinking teenagers look suspicious if they aren’t engaged in some sort of organized activity. It’s a character flaw I’m trying to work on. Or maybe it proves the inherent character flaw of teenagers. The girl gave me a surly look before she left. I’ve seen that look on Marilee Stanley who sits in the front row of a class I teach at Immaculate Conception high school; it’s a look that says, you’re a twenty six year old with a hail-damaged Toyota, a history of failed relationships, and a dead-end job. Loser.

As I got into my car, flash frames of the grocery store transformation came back. The martyr’s mouth agape, the open, haunting eyes, the collar of clotted blood around the neck. Leftover images, maybe, from a community college art history class, a famous oil painting of John the Baptist with his head on a platter and Salome about to perform her Dance of the Seven Veils. I don’t remember how John got himself into such a mess with Salome, and I wonder what any of it has to do with me. When I got home, I rummaged the grocery bag for clues; I only found the Ruby Red still and mute at the bottom of the bag.

This morning I called in sick. I left a message on the school’s answering machine before the office opened. I’ll be honest; I’m not fond of my job. I’m the audio/visual director and teach a course called "Mass Media Literacy." It's as banal and pointless as it sounds. I tell my students to think about how the media influence their reality maps. Last week I gave them Sharpies and had them trace their maps onto thick pieces of white butcher paper. My reality map says staying at Immaculate Conception past this year is pretty unlikely. My reality map says I have no goals in my life, and every road I happen down turns out to be a dead end. My reality map is fucking depressing.

The message was short. I just said I wasn’t feeling well, and I wouldn’t be in. I let the last words trail off a bit like I was about to cough or maybe even throw up. I knew I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t very well say, "Hi, this is Harriet Reed. I won’t be able to come in today because I’m trying to figure out why a motherfucking grapefruit morphed into the head of John the Baptist while I was holding it at Piggly Wiggly. I plan to eat the little martyr for breakfast, actually. I’ll let you know how things work out."

It’s not like I’ll be missed. Even if the kids happen to like you, (which is rare; trust me.) it’s not as if they’ll be disappointed if you don’t show up. Having a substitute teacher is sadism at its youthful finest.

After I hung up the phone, I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct what had happened the night before. I saw myself walking toward the produce aisle. A poor, tinny rendition of Coltrane’s "A Few of My Favorite Things” played over the loudspeaker. In my mind’s eye I could see my linen khaki capri pants with a simple white tee. An older woman in a short denim skirt was pushing a cart. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had thick brown hair, kind eyes, and toned and tanned legs. I smiled; she threw back a scowl. That’s when I turned and picked up the grapefruit.

I play this part over and over in my head, reverse it, slow it down, stillframe it. I expect to see the martyr’s betrayed forehead, pale as marble, his aquiline nose, but my mind shuts down after picking up the grapefruit. I think about calling the night manager at Piggly Wiggly’s to see if there was a surveillance camera. Maybe I could watch the tape. There might be a logical explanation. A reflection of light? Something to explain away my vision. Right?

I remember reading about a woman in Metairie, Louisiana who saw the Virgin in her husband’s underwear which she displayed just in time for Easter weekend. Thousands of people showed up. The picture in the New Orleans Times-Picayune looked like a bleach stain, probably accidental or maybe measured out with care to take on the Madonna’s shape. Near Sonoma, California highway signs were spotted with the same proliic Virgin. The spokesman fo the California Department of Transportation says, "merely oxidation," and I believe him. I want to believe him. A church spokesman said there was no indication that anything supernatural was going on. The thousands of visitors to Sonoma to look at stupid roadsigns beg to differ.

People have seen Christ in a tortilla and Mother Theresa in a cinnamon roll. There is always a logical explanation for this shit. Visions of the Virgin Mary are the most common, an estimated thirty thousand. I found out about this on the internet, though there was absolutely nothing about John the Baptist. An ex-Jesuit I know says visions are the machinations of the uneducated, important to the cultural history of the church, but trivial in terms of a "thinking man’s" beliefs. Okay, sure.

I went to the kitchen, made two pieces of whole grain toast, and heated up some soymilk for chai tea. The grapefruit was sitting there, lurking on the kitchen table next to an over-ripe banana. I usually peel grapefruit and eat them like an orange. Oh, but this one deserved something different. I opened the silverware drawer, pulled out my sharpest paring knife, and carried it to the cutting board. I held the grapefruit up to the fluorescent light and inspected it carefully, looking for a blemish, something, that would give me a clue to what had happened. But it was as quiet and unassuming as any grapefruit I've ever known, yielding to the knife silently as I sliced it in two. It looked like a grapefruit, smelled like a grapefruit; the rational part of my mind was snidely saying “this is just a grapefruit”, yet I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. I put the halves upside down in two pale pink ceramic bowls and slid them into the refrigerator. I slammed the door, grabbed the chai tea, put the toast on a paper towel, and carried my breakfast back to bed. I was never allowed to eat in bed as a kid. My mother said it was overly indulgent and unsanitary, so I got a kick out of dropping crumbs on the sheets while balancing the mug of chai on my lap. That’s show her.

There are logical explanations why people behave the way they do, and everything can be explained using science and reason. Cause and effect. Q.E.D.

The phone rang, and I let the answering machine pick up. It was Mr. Winningham, the vice-principal, wanting to know how long I’d be out; he was arranging for substitutes. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe I was sick. All of a sudden breakfast in bed wasn’t so much fun. The toast was cold, and I had let my chai tea grow tepid. I should have just gone to work, forgot about the damned vision.

I pulled on pink track suit after deciding to go for a jog to clear my head. As I laced my running shoes, I realized the girls at Immaculate Conception would be on lunch break. They’re not supposed to leave campus, but they always do. If they saw me, Winningham would have his proof.

I took off my shoes, felt a spiral of heat travel from my stomach to my neck. I ignored the discomfort, and jotted down some notes on the back of an old envelope lying on the dresser – grade quizzes, balance checkbook, eat the goddamned grapefruit.

I closed my eyes and tried again to replay my grocery store vision. I was going for an aerial view this time, wanted to study my eyes as they fixed on that point of time that wrapped around me like a greedy lover. But there were no images, only a familiar weight in the palm of my hand as something was tickling my wrist. I pushed up my right sleeve, saw a thin line of blood snaking toward my elbow, and realized

I know nothing of visions.