James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

“Jeezus Christ! Him have fits! Him have fits!” said a man beside Bligh as he fell.

“Rahtid,” said another.

“Unu fling this spoon in him mouth quick!” shouted the young bartender. “Bout him want bottle! You know say is a whole o Johnny Walker him one go fi drink?”

“Him still a fits?”

“Is the Devil in him. Me read that in the Bible,” said the man nearest to Bligh, holding onto the spoon that he had shoved in the Pastor’s mouth.

“If you read Bible, me frig with donkey,” came from the end of the bar.

“Me no business a wha,” said the bartender, “Get him out o the place!”

“Me? Me nah touch that deh, baba. You no see that him still having fits? You want him kick one o we?”

“Whoever take him out get the next three drink free,” she said.

“Like is your bar!”

“See it deh! Him stop jerk now. Alright … alright … alright … There. See, him stop shake. Now give me me spoon and get this shithouse out of me bar. Mr. Cee, you and him drag this damn Rum Preacher out!”

“Little girl, you giving plenty order to man who don’t work for you.”

“No, me ordering whichever man want him next three shot of rum for free.”

“Drag him go where?”

“Outside, down the road, straight to Hell, I don’t care. Just take him out o — Jezuss Chrise! Is what so stink? Don’t tell me say the man shit up himself! Take him out! Take him out!”

They dumped him at the gate of Widow Greenfield just as dawn sneaked in under night’s empty cover. The Widow had waited. She grabbed him by the left foot and dragged him into the house. The Widow undressed him clinically, but it would have disturbed him had he been conscious. She was matronly, even aloof. Men were children anyway, only taller.

He had no real sense of what she had done until a day later when he awoke on the dead man’s bed. In the darkness of the room they came — flashes and memories like still shots robbed of context by scattershot recollection. His head bumping across the tiles of the bathroom floor. His shirt being pulled away in one violent swoop. His feet in the air as his pants were pulled off. Him falling to a loud splash in cold water. A quick flash; the Widow rubbing her nose. A roll, a tumble, and a splash in the lilac bathtub. Lavender and soap. Wet cloth on his face, his back, his feet, and scooping between his buttocks. A hazy female. A blurred face. A hand (his?) reaching for her breasts and squeezing out of wonder, like a child. A palm striking him like black lightning. Lavender water. His chest heaving and choking, his back bouncing off blows from her hand as she forced the water out.

She pulled the Pastor out of the tub and dried him with pink towels that smelt of soap.

Bligh woke up to see the sun cast a white glow. Never before had the room been so full of light. The walls that before spoke of evening now spoke of the vast expanse of noonday sky; the lightness of floating or being. The dead wood of the bed seemed to come alive and the carved vines grew real leaves, flowering instead of disappearing at the top. But the light carried no heat or warmth, only the sterility of electric light. Or Heaven’s light.

He had finally done it. He had finally drunk himself to death.

Every man had his own image of Heaven, shaped not by what was read or heard, but feared. His picture, loose vignettes of castles and streets and gowns and teeth all colored white, was not shaped by a dream of Heaven, but a nightmare of Hell drawn by Dante and Jehovah’s Witnesses pamphlets. The nightmare followed Bligh from childhood to manhood undiminished by his growth or knowledge. To him, Hell was not just a lake of fire and blood. Hell was a place where good lives and good intentions were burnt away, robbed forever of purpose or fulfillment. Guilt, on the other hand, was left to roam free and torment. This brought about a sense of ease that even he knew was perverse: If this was Hell then damnation was something he had already lived through. But this was something else.

He knew she would appear, and she did.

Hector. These are the things that must happen to you, whispered a voice that was strange and familiar.

She looked exactly as he expected her to. A child, cherub, fairy tale, or perhaps an old evil. A strange and familiar face. White skin, light brown hair that cascaded to narrow shoulders, and eyes with no pupils. She said nothing, he said nothing, they both knew. These were the things that must happen.

Her hair stirred even though there was no wind. He saw through her eyes to a second face and a millionth; she conjured every man and none in one blink. The girl laughed. An experienced Madonna and a divine child. She went toward him, pursing her lips as if to kiss, but from those lips she blew a hurricane. Dust whipped itself up in a torrent of screams and his world went black.

He woke up without breath. Sleeping on his back, his own spit had choked him. Bligh punched himself in the chest, hacked, and coughed. He rolled over to the side of the bed to spit, but more than spit came. Vomit splattered the floor. His chest heaved with each spasm, punishing him with agony. His legs remained on the bed while the rest of him sunk to the floor. There was a stench and sweetness to the vomit that made him want to vomit more. His chest heaved again, but nothing came.

“Nice, just fantastic.”

The Widow had come in the room to see only his legs on the bed. She grabbed him by the ankles and pulled.

“Where you rolling to, Timbuktu?”

She smelt the vomit and frowned, covering her nose.

“Shithouse. Tell me is not … Oh shithouse! You mother never teach you how fi use bathroom sink?”

“I’m sorr … I’m sorr …”

“Everybody raasclaat sorry, but is not everybody have to clean up people mess. Your God coming soon? Cause if him coming right now I giving him a damn mop! Look at this shit.”

“I’m sorr …”

“I’m sorry too. Sorry I let some friggin drunkard back in me house to vomit it up. Maybe I should give thanks and praises that things never come through you other hole. I goin for the bucket. Try not to vomit til I come back.”

Bligh wiped his mouth. His face was wet from sweat.

Hector. These are the things that must happen to you.

Hector jumped. The voice sounded like a little girl and a man at the same time. God’s voice? He knew the sound but forgot the face. The Widow came back with a bucket and a mop. She cleaned the floor in silence as Bligh lay still in the bed, looking at the ceiling and feeling the weight of his guilt and his hangover.

These are the things that must happen to you.

Evening.

“The bathroom is right through there if you don’t remember,” the Widow said and left. “You hungry?” she shouted from outside his room.

“No,” he replied in a whisper. He was out of breath and perspiring dreadfully. The wetness alarmed him at first, but that went as he drifted into a stupor again. The bed became waves pushing him back and forth. He reached out to grab the bedpost but his hand trembled so wildly that he missed.

“Me say if you hungry?

“Pastor?

“Pastor?

“Shit.”

He had fallen off the bed again. She thought he had passed out, but as she grabbed his shirt to pull him up, he grabbed her hand. His head rolled back and forth as he tried to hold her gaze. “Leave me alone,” he said.

“You sickly. What I going do is—”

“Leave me alone! You, you can’t help me. Leave me alone.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with as much apathy as she could fake, and released him. The Widow swung the door shut and threw the room in complete darkness.

“Jesus,” he said.