John Crow's Devil Read online

  “Thirty years. Him blood flowing for thirty years. Oh Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Holy Spirit! Precious Lord! Forgive me! Holy Spirit! Holy Spirit! Take pity on You wicked son!”

  His brother fell over the balcony again. Blood spread across the floor unevenly, looking like a map. Hector had coveted, lied, and stolen from his brother. Then he destroyed him. Back in the dark bedroom, Bligh rolled on the ground and sobbed. His cries grew louder, waking the Widow, who crept up to the door. What she saw took her back to a place when she was a woman. She looked at the man and saw a child, maybe a lamb. Her hardened heart broke and she left him.

  “Father, give me the cup. Father, not my will but Thine be done! Please, Jesus. I ask for the pain. I ask for the death. I asking for the crucifixion. I want to rise, Jesus, I want to rise. I want to rise!”

  Not once in those years since the seminary had he asked for forgiveness. Not once had he felt worthy. Even now he begrudged his brother’s life. His brother’s joy. Fearlessness. Silliness. He hated his brother’s life of choice, where his was one of duty. Bligh could still see himself mounted atop the sister-in-law, his penis the hardened point of his envy. In mere hours he corrupted her, made her lose faith in love and give herself to him, a man becoming a priest. Or so he lied. Honesty rose to the surface as before. She had called him to bed. She had no faith in love to gain or lose. Like Adam, he was led by his serpent and her apple; to break his virginity only to fall into the horrible knowledge of good and evil. After his brother died she disappeared.

  But with the Apostle came Hector’s turn to feel the loss of everything. God’s justice. He loved the Lord but hated Him too. These were the things that must happen, a girl said to him in a dream. But other things stirred in him, things that would never have risen had he not been brought down so low. He never thought much of his life when he had it, but things were different now that he had lost everything. This must be new. Having been driven from the church now made him want the church back. Those whom God loved, God punished, and God had never punished him until now. For thirty years he thought himself no more than a blind spot on God’s backside, dreading yet needing His mighty hand. This was what drove him to drink. How wrong he’d been.

  Hector Bligh, as it is in Heaven so it is on Earth, how long must this be about thee?

  How long must you be your own God? In happiness and in sadness you are still the Lord of your world. It was never whether you were forgiven. The Moon spins around the Earth, the Earth spins around the Sun, the Sun spins around the center of the Universe. And yet none has more significance than a speck, a dot, an ism, no more, no less. How much less are you to the Universe? And yet look at the image in which you were made. What a piece of work are you! Forgiveness happened on the cross, so what right have you to feel the anguish of the major prophets? You ask for life but my gift to you will be blindness.

  Images came with no order or purpose. Children. Darkness. Wings. Black walls that screamed their witness. Crosses swinging from sweaty chests. A withdrawal. The warm spurt of semen. Screams, howls, a wave of purple and white. A face; a brother, a lover, a mirror that falls and shatters. A Judas on the ground, a Jesus swinging from a noose. A little boy bent over. With hair so alive and serpentine locks. Boys blended into girls. Seraphim, cherubim, infant. He knew them. Not their faces, but their sizes, the blackness of their hair and the lightness of their skin. From the dark came a man whose black robes blended with nightfall. He had the height of a man and the face of a child. His robes stirred even though there was no wind. As Bligh rose from the floor, he knew who the man was and why he came.

  Apostle York.

  Pastor Bligh dressed himself in the suit that the Widow had found down by the river and brought back to white. He opened the door to the scent of eggs and frying bacon.

  “Is where you going?”

  “To the church. That man who calls himself Apostle.”

  “You no think that foolish?”

  “God used foolish to confound wise.”

  “Don’t preach to me. The egg getting cold.”

  “I don’t have time to lose. God goin do a wor—”

  “Either way, you have to eat, so God goin just have to damn well wait.”

  “But I—”

  “Look. Don’t make me get stink with you. Egg and bacon not cheap, so you either eat it or me goin throw hot oil straight on you white suit. Think say people get up early to cook breakfast and …” The rest she said with her back to him, but the Pastor was already struck. It was better to say nothing.

  “Eat up. Something tell me say today you goin need to be strong. Real strong.”

  Lucinda was early to work. She knew what she wanted to see, yet told herself that she had no such desire. The memory of whipping made her back burn anew, yet the suffering was imaginary and failed to deny or suppress. She looked through the keyhole and saw black. Surely he was already at work. Lucinda chastised herself. What was she there to see anyway, crouched like a nasty child at the door of her Apostle’s office? She looked through the keyhole again and saw black. But then the black moved and her heart jumped. Black became shadow. Shadow became curve, curve became buttock. The buttock went right and disappeared from view. She shifted right and struck her temple on the doorknob. Ignoring the throb of pain, Lucinda stood by the keyhole for several minutes until she resigned herself to disappointment. She rose and walked straight into his chest.

  “Oh Jes—”

  He grabbed her by the throat, held on firmly but did not squeeze. She recoiled but the move failed in his grip. The Apostle’s eyes opened wide like a child one instant, a judge the next. Lucinda felt her fear threatening to sprinkle down her legs. He held her still by the throat for several seconds and released her, trailing her chin with his fingers. As his index finger touched her lips, he whispered, “Shhhh. Shall we call the Lord’s name in vain? Lucinda, what are you on about?”

  “Y … yuh … yuh …”

  “Did you drop something?”

  “Yuh … yuh … yuh …”

  “Or maybe you’re just sleepwalking? Which one is it?”

  “Ugh … I … bathroom!”

  “Well, dear, don’t let me stop you.”

  Lucinda rushed to the bathroom where she willed herself to vomit. Her back’s burn was real.

  “Lucinda?”

  She jumped. Fear was making her sick. At first he sounded so intimate that she thought he must be inside the room. But the voice came from behind the door.

  “Lucinda, are you okay?”

  “Y-yes, Past—I mean, Apostle.”

  “Feeling sick?”

  “NO—Yes. Sick in some part of me body, sah.”

  “Oh my, I’m sorry to hear that. But, praise God, better to have a sick body than a sick mind, eh?”

  “Yes, Apostle.”

  When he walked away, a presence or a memory came to her, she was not sure which. She recalled a little girl’s body exploding and blood scattering across rocks. She recalled a man and a woman mixing sweat under the cover of ackee leaves. She recalled the smell of the pit toilet and the sound of children, six or sixty, laughing. Lucinda grabbed her belly and retched.

  Sunday jumped to Sunday fast. But the Rum Preacher was ready. On Wednesday he had run to the peak of the hill with no shoes. His heart pumped hard and burst from the solemn shell of three decades. On Thursday he read the Book of Psalms from beginning to end on his knees without break. On Friday he sat beside Daniel in a pit of lions, and on Saturday Jesus retold the Sermon on the Mount for his ears only. Greater than he had faced less, but the Lord had appointed him. Besides, God said that victory came not by power or might.

  The Widow watched all this with cynical bemusement. That was her defense against faith, but still he sparked something in her as well. She did not know what that was, but was sure that she did not want it. The Widow grappled with too many unwelcome things, including more than a little concern for Pastor Hector Bligh.

  “After all Him do to you, you still a pray to
Him. You is the biggest fool in Gibbeah.”

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh—”

  “Away. God must be a Indian giver.”

  He stepped away from her, but she followed. Her tongue was loose.

  “Me just want to know why. Tell the Widow woman why you still down on you knee after all this. You think God can help you? God couldn’t even help Him damn self down cross, how Him fi help one loser like you?”

  “Is not God do this to me. Is me do this to me!”

  “Then God allow it, or Him couldn’t do nothing bout it. Me no understand how you can love anybody with them friggery ways.”

  “Because God is God.”

  “And shit is shit.”

  “Because God is God.”

  “I know who your God is. Him right there in me kitchen cupboard, marked 80 proof. God is a Devil.”

  “What the Hell you want, woman? You think the Almighty is Father Christmas? God is El Shaddai. Him don’t owe you nothing. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!”

  “Me know you not talking bout me husband. Me damn well know you not talking bout me husband.”

  He stepped away, but she followed. He walked faster, deeper into the house, not looking ahead but hearing her stomp behind.

  “Where the bloodclaat you think you a go? Me talkin to you bout you God! Come evangelize to me, no? Come evangelize me.”

  He was surrounded by doors, all closed save one. She was right behind him and her voice pushed him into the room. It smelt of carbolic soap, of cleanliness brought by disinfection and purging. There were seven crucifixes on the wall, all made of wood and all turned upside down. The bed faced the wall and had no sheet or covers, only a striped mattress. The wind slipped through shut, louvered windows and whispered the truth of this room to him. The mirror was turned to face the wall, as were the two paintings and the dresser. Near the door was a print of Jesus, the same that hung on church walls and grocery shops, with his head tilted as if curious, with light bouncing off gentle brown hair and with eyes wet and glimmery below eyebrows raised for pity. The picture was slashed up, down, and crossway and the heart, surrounded by a crown of thorns, was cut out. God had left this place. He knew.

  “Yes, look. Look! Look good. Is that Jesus me pray to now. Jesus that no got no heart. Jesus that no got no soul. My Jesus good fi Him word. Look!”

  “Oh Father who art in Heaven …”

  “Hallowed be His goddamn name.”

  He was cornered, she was wounded.

  “God didn’t put the rum glass in his hand.”

  “Who is you to talk, you is a bigger drunkard them him ever was, but you still living.”

  The Pastor said nothing.

  “God never want me have him so Him take him away,” she continued. “Not that you same one love say? God giveth and taketh away. Why you take him away, eeh? Why you take him away?”

  “Miss Greenfield—”

  “Why you take him away? You have million and million and all me have is one, and you take him away.”

  “Mrs. Greenfield—”

  “You know what me want?”

  “No, Mrs.—”

  “You know what me want, Jesus?”

  “Mary …”

  “Me don’t want to be no widow no more. Me don’t want be no widow. Me want to be a woman. You can give me that, Jesus? Give it to me, Jesus, give it to me, Jesus. Turn me back into woman. Give it to me, Jesus.” She had lifted up her skirt and there were no panties underneath. She moved toward him, her eyes wet with tears and fingers gripping the swept-up skirt tightly. Between her legs was dark, empty. “You can turn me back to a woman? You can turn me back to a woman, Jesus?”

  “Mary Greenfield!”

  “Me have faith, Puppa Jesus. Me know if me touch it, it will heal me.” She grabbed his crotch and squeezed. Hector pushed her off, harder than he intended. The Widow stumbled onto the bed, sobbing.

  “God not giving him back, Mary.”

  He was afraid to step past her. A mission waited outside the door but the Devil had blocked him in. In his spirit her chest was pushing against his, her hand grabbing his penis softly one second, harder the next. This was the Devil’s work and he was no respecter of persons, not even a broken Widow woman. There was nothing to do but stand, his white suit drawing light from the darkness.

  She curled up in shadow, sniffing, wiping her nose and looking down on the ground. “Get out,” she said.

  Now that Sunday mornings had thrown off lethargy for entertainment, the energy was electric. The faithful were here, as were the amused, the riveted, the bitter, and the curious, some not from Gibbeah. Apostle York saw the crowd gather from his window. He sat still with a fire in his eyes. The beard hid the healed sore below his lip, but there were others above and below his belt. They reminded him of what had come and gone and what had not yet come to pass. He knew worse would happen soon, but this was not a morning to dwell on what crept beneath his skin. Lucinda had left the day’s notices on his desk and he saw two little spots of red peeping from her back. York touched his lips with his index finger, silencing his spirit. The organ sounded and raised the first chorus. He reached for his black and red gown.

  They swarmed the front rows like penny stinkers. The rest of the faithful filled out the middle rows, leaving everybody else to the back benches.

  Today he was to speak of many things. He was ready. He told the congregation to turn to the Book of Mark, Chapter Four, verse three.

  Hearken! Behold, there went out a sower to sow: And it came to pass, as he sowed, some fell by the wayside, and the fowls of the air came and devoured it up. And some fell on stony ground.

  There was a commotion outside. The impact hit the church in waves, from outside to in. The Apostle was hit by reverberation. At the front of the church he would be the last to catch the news.

  “DISGRACE!” said the voice. Firm, with an authority that nobody had heard from him before. Pastor Bligh stood gleaming at the foot of the church’s steps. His left hand held an open Bible and his right pointed to the steeple. The few who had come to church when he was Pastor were astonished to hear the man shout, yet there he was, bellowing like a risen spirit.

  Inside, the Apostle did not know what was taking place. “Church, settle down. Let’s not have any distractions.

  And some fell on stony ground, where it had not much Earth; and immediately—

  “ABOMINATION!”

  The Apostle heard a war cry. Anger was an emotion he cursed. Bemusement was better, amusement was better than that.

  “Looks like somebody escape from Bellevue in God’s good morning. Now what is the world coming to, church? Let’s get back to the scripture and let the Lord have mercy on that poor soul.

  And immediately it sprang up, because it had no depth of Earth: But when the sun was up, it—

  “ANTICHRIST!”

  The Apostle’s own three words had returned to curse him. The book fell from his hand.

  “Who the Hell is that?”

  Rumor would spread that his eyes went red. Lucinda was already ahead of him, and she returned, hopping and skipping like an imp with a secret.

  “Is Pastor Bligh! Is Pastor Bligh!”

  Hector Bligh held his ground as the sun baked his back. He felt what he thought was youth, but was the disappearance of twenty-two years of burden. People had a way of carrying afflictions like possessions, thinking suffering was the evidence of life. But the Holy Spirit had made him new. It had revitalized his moribund body with purpose and promise. Maybe he was overextending like Icarus, but his hand felt greater than the wind and mightier than the sun. He would stand in the middle of the road and not be moved. They came out to meet him, Lucinda first, followed by The Five, Clarence, and finally, the Apostle York.

  “Well, you too ugly to be any woman’s son so what should we call you? The Prodigal Bastard?” the Apostle said.

  “I can think of a couple names for you,” returned Bligh.

  “Really now.
But look at you, eh? Maybe I should have my congregation’s arse’s flogged. I mean, look at what it did for you.”

  “I know your ways. I know you.”

  “You don’t say. Couple days ago you didn’t even know yourself. But let me remind you, because you’ve gone from drunk to deluded. You, Hector Bligh, are a stupid old man. You’re a failure, you’re a drunkard, and you’re the mess that never turned into a message. Now you’re rising up like you were dead for three days, but do mankind a favor, Bligh. Do Gibbeah a favor. Stay down. You hear me? Stay down on the ground. It’s the only place you’re fit for. Just go back where you came from and have a good sleep. Speaking of sleeping, how is the Widow? Does she have you under heavy manners?”

  The crowd laughed in uneven rhythm. Some had never felt tension so tight.

  “Bligh. Bligh, stop embarrassing yourself. Stop embarrassing the God you serve. He forgives you. I forgive you. In good time Gibbeah will forgive you. And you know what? I’m sure somewhere deep down in Hell even your brother forgives you. Did he trip, did something he saw push him over, who can tell these days?”

  No sound came from the crowd.

  “God was there, Bligh. God was there the day your brother died. It must have felt really—what’s the word I’m looking for? What, what, what. Noooo, not that one, no that’s too … no … I know! I know the word you would use. Heavenly. Le petit mort. The little death. Must be something for a man to see his preacher brother mounting his wife like a dog bucking a bitch. You see this man?” York shouted. He was circling Bligh as he spoke. “Everybody in Kingston knows this man! Everybody know the destruction this man unleash from his pants! Everybody know about you and the in-law!”