I bet velvet Jesus got exhausted watching our high school shenanigans with booze and boys at Helen’s unsupervised mansion in Larchmont.

Years after college graduation I saw Velvet Jesus again on the night of Helen’s wedding I was helping her out of her dress she was struggling with due to the eighty pearl buttons down her back after several sweaty minutes she yanked it off her head popping some of them then splayed with relief on the cold tile floor like an overheated dog in August.

We laughed and laughed being inebriated from the reception as she balled up the dress
and tossed it under the sink like a sack of used motel sheets put on her dirty Keds and rejoined her new husband and guests.

I liked one of the groomsmen so Helen told me to go for it so I did which led to us making out at the edge of her bed in low light with the door open so spontaneous and sexy I thought in my hiked up tuxedo dress until I saw a shadow over his shoulder outside the door in the hallway.

It was like a horror movie but the bad kind in which you feel like you’re gonna shit your pants because there was Helen’s mother still as a statue of the Blessed Virgin in a church garden on Easter Sunday standing below velvet Jesus on the wall and leaning into the framed Son of God for support both of them staring at me with a mixture of sadness and disgust.

I leapt off my eligible bachelor like I was on fire for the Lord and deep throated curse words as Catholic shame took over then raced down the stairs seeking protection within the coven of my beloved friends.

Now as an adult working in Catholic education I have a different perspective perhaps the look on Jesus’ face wasn’t disgust over my wickedness but was more akin to compassionate understanding for a young adult under construction.

I never saw Velvet Jesus again because Helen and her husband moved to Connecticut to conduct themselves as adults whereas I remained a work in progress for some time but every once in while my fingers long to touch that hung Jesus to feel the firmness of His support like Helen’s mother did years before when she prayed every day to her velvet Savior for her daughter and her hell-raising friends.

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