Blessed Virgin of the Circus-1.

Mara placed the novena candle softly at her feet. The hands were still covered in blood, and as was the case hourly, the rosary beads had fallen onto the ground. This was the most religion she and Yana had out here, for they were forsaken by priests and especially Mara thought this an incredible shame.

“Blessed Lady, wait for me in the wings, teach me to ignore all garbage thrown at me, forgive my mistakes, and pray for my health and the health of all here.” She did her Ave Marias silently and quickly.

Mara shifted in her backless pumps and walked out of the alcove, especially erect and energized. She did not know which job she would be assigned to tonight but she hated working crew, though everyone was required to. The only thing she knew about that next week was that LaShawn was leading crew, which would make it somewhat more bearable, but there were many she didn’t want to see on crew. Maybe she could pull the sciatica card and end up taking tickets while sitting.

Mara made it to her camper. Yana was smoking pot again.

“You know you’re not supposed to fucking do that here. You want to get us ditched in Albuquerque?”

“Fuck you. I practiced all my breathing and eating for the day. We open in two days, and the fucking Girls Scouts are busy camping on the grounds until then. Maybe I’ll show them a good influence. Amalia and Talia might come over later. They hooked up vapes now so we’re not making messes all over the grounds anymore. And I heard somebody got Oxy into camp a few days ago. That’ll help me sleep way better than I am now. And I bought some shitty champagne from the store.”

“You know it’s not Champagne unless it comes from that place in France. It’s sparkling wine. And I keep forgetting that Am is going by that now. ‘Tina and Talia’ sounds like the worst sister act. Whatever.” Mara grabbed her mp3 player and headphones and secured the door back behind her. She walked for a bit and found Jerry sitting under his tarp.

“Tell me war stories about when your drag queen friends used to get beat up in the mid-60s. And how you fought the cops.”  She crawled into his arms.

Jerry was a contortionist, an old-timer and had lived the queer life previous to Stonewall. He’d seen it all, including dancing in the New York Ballet for several seasons in the Eighties. These days he’d understudy in shows but mainly keep the acrobats in shape. His husband Hernan, who ran a sculpture gallery, still lived in the city but would follow occasionally on the road, flying out for dates closer East. Two weeks ago had been a rare treat.

“Since it’s hot and there’s nothing else to do, sure, kiddo.” He started on, but the lull of Jerry’s sonorous voice put Mara to sleep in minutes.

“Ugh, I’m sorry.” She woke up about 20 minutes later. “ I have no idea what happened. I’m tired. I think I’m getting my period.”

“Keep it to yourself.” He grinned, raising an eyebrow.

***

Mara had one memory from church as a kid. It was the only time she had remembered her parents, too. 

Yana was two years younger, so all she could remember was seeing Yana pick her nose a lot of the time. Her main memory was coughing from the incense. It was so strong, but smelled so incredible. Sometimes when the priest would do the transubstantiation, her mother would squeeze Mara’s hand.

She didn’t remember a lot about what she learned about the Virgin Mary in church. She only remembered the pictures, in fact. A brown-skinned woman with brown eyes whose head was covered. Under the top cloth there was often a gold cloth peeking through. She used to make this signal with her fingers. Mara had learned later that it was called a mudra. They never really went to Sunday school. Their parents were thrown in jail, and they had to move one state over to move in with their Aunt Lala.

Mara didn’t really want kids, like her aunt and uncles had bothered her about all the time growing up. She didn’t even really want to have sex with men, and thinking about sex with women, since some of her queer friends would ask if she was gay, didn’t really register either way. Really she just wished that she could get paid to maintain the statue. Nobody else but her ever saw the stigmata blood, so one day she simply stopped showing it to people. Easier that way and she didn’t want word to get to management that she was mentally unstable. Most of the other employees were either Buddhist, atheist, or things she never bothered to ask about. She hated talking to people about religion. The bible-bangers where she had grown up didn’t understand what seemed like Paganism to them that her family practiced. Her aunts and uncles would talk about Jesus and Mary and maybe a saint or two, but they only went to church for Christmas, Easter or rites of passage.

So Mara started talking to the statue. At least her friends and acquaintances had been kind when explaining that they didn’t see the blood on its hands. And sometimes dripping out of the corners of its mouth. She wanted her job with the circus as long as possible.

“Blessed Virgin, sometimes I want to ask you why you bleed the blood of your enemies out of your mouth. But I am afraid.” The only reason she suspected was from a vision she had received one night.