Dead Virgins

She erupted. It was not uncommon. Three, four times a year she was known to spew. Usually about money, but often that morphed into feeling left out. No one ever saw it coming. How could you? No rumbling. No tremors. Not even little curls of steam emanating from her jagged ridge.

Sometimes it came in the form of a phone call. Endless minutes of circuitous prattle half of which wasn't understandable, as if she were talking through oatmeal, marbles stuffed tight into her cheeks. The pitch of her voice tip-toed up to the high ranges and dogs in the neighborhood could be heard howling in the background.

Other times, like this time, she'd write her eruptions in cryptic emails filled with small letters where there should be capitals and three magical dots to denote a change of subject. Wild changes of subject from "it's always all about you" to "how is the puppy?" to "do you even know what I'm going through?"

The clencher is the "i love you" at the end, which isn't really the end but only a warning that a PS is to follow, though she never writes the PS. Instead, she just keeps going, writing sentence after sentence about how "insensitive" we are, how we never "include" her in anything, how we have a "family and finances and don't have to make it on our own."

In the past, these eruptions felt like vomit. They'd seep through the phone or over the cyber wires and all you could do was wipe yourself off and then scrub yourself clean in a hot bath. In the past, responding to the vomit seemed important. Explain yourself. Engage in conversation. Be rational. Try to reason. Remind her that you love her too, but nothing she is feeling really comes from you.

But that strategy soon revealed itself futile. First, you couldn't get a word in edge-wise. There wasn't even a breath for "hey," or "Can I" or "Just one moment." Instead, you cradled the phone in the crook of your neck and said "uh-huh" or "okay" or "umm," and after awhile your grunts weren't even well-timed and she never noticed. She just kept talking and blaming and spewing.

Sometimes she'd even cry, but even after that, she'd giggle as if it were all a joke or as if she'd said something funny only you weren't really listening so you missed the joke and before you could ask, "What did I miss?" she'd cry again and get angry.

Did you know, that if you're really good at it, you can hear fists tighten over the phone? We could hear hers. If we listened carefully, we could hear them like a 7 year old, balled up and white, demanding the world change and address the crisis of the moment.

That's it, of course. You never know when the crisis will occur. You never know if it's something you said or something you didn't say so you throw the dice and make a wager -- speak up or don't speak up.

Roll the lucky seven.

Or lose the shirt off your back.

In between the eruptions is dormancy. Beautiful sunny days sparkling off her peaks and valleys. She calls and sounds reasonable. She sounds grounded and solid as if she's really worked things out, has found her center, is ready to learn from her past mistakes and move forward.

Or she emails and you see pictures of puppies dressed like humans or cats splayed out with big fat bellies waiting to be rubbed. At the bottom of every email a row of dancing smiley faces, kicking up their heels in unison. Like call girls in a chorus line.

And then the volcano erupts. You ask a question and pages or hours of response come flying your way. You dodge. You take cover. You wait for the debris to fall, the lava to harden or roll past in red hot streams.

Where before you responded, now you realize there is no point. Active volcanoes erupt. That's what they do. There's no avoiding it or trying to put a stopper in it. There's no monitoring the seismic activity since it's all over the map and never once changes course dramatically enough to provide you with a solid warning.

You can live your life just waiting for the explosion or you could just ignore it, let it pass and live your life without fear or resentment or in any kind of hateful anticipation.

This takes vigilance and patience. When others see the blow, they want you to react. They say, "Does this happen often?" or "Is she crazy?" or "By god, what in the hell just happened?" But you must not react because that's like tickling the rattle of a giant snake. That's like daring the volcano to explode, to wipe you out with ash or lava or a big, flat boulder -- a projectile flung by the force of the eruption.

Instead, you gather up the virgins in your neighborhood. You dress them regally with flowers in their hair. You annoint them with holy water. Then you toss them into the fire. A sacrifice, hoping this will calm the volcano.

And then you wait.

For the next email or phone call or maybe even the next visit.

They'll be no eruption then.

So you hope.

But even if there is, you just duck your head, cover your forearms over your neck, crouch down low and wait.

Soon, all will be normal again. The dead virgins, the wake of destruction will go unnoticed.

And you can once again live in peace.