James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

The Pastor lost track of day and night. There was only darkness and heat. In the room of the dead man he heard nothing but the Widow’s shouts, which sounded like fake echoes from some other wilderness. He had never been this sick before. Usually the depth of his nausea could tell him how long it had been since his last drink. But this was different. Hector could not distinguish past from present or dream from real. He heard his brother cry in Heaven, Why did you betray me?

Bligh staggered out of bed and went over to the room’s sole window. Outside, the sky had the grayness of dusk, but he did not trust what he saw. His hands trembled in both dream and truth, so he gave up on telling one from the other. Wetness ran down his face, armpits, back, and down his legs. He made one step away from the window and almost slid in his puddle. Bligh couldn’t remember when he pissed on himself.

At first he thought demons had attacked him in sleep, but then Bligh realized that he had not slept at all. These were the dreams of the awake, torments of the Devil. He would do anything for a drink, but he could hear his voice inside his body saying no. Was that how God’s voice sounded now? Like his own, but with an authority he had never heard before? Maybe the Apostle was blessing and curse. Maybe Bligh deserved both. He fell on his knees but couldn’t pray. From the window he watched the moon as she mocked him.

He knelt for what seemed like an hour, but he could not really tell. Outside looked like late dusk or early nightfall. He glanced up at the wood planks in the ceiling and something flicked out of view like a tiny whip.

Or a tail.

He looked up again and saw the shadows of their scurry. Coming up and down, left and right, were rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats. Rats on the ceiling that jumped down on the floor.

Hector jumped over them, stepping on one and crushing his squeal. He leapt on the bed and pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling the coldness of his pissed-up pants. Rats loved decay. In the blink of an eye, they covered the bed.

“Jesus Christ! What the raasclaat you screaming bout?”

The Widow had rushed into the room again, expecting the sudden smell of fresh puke. He could see the rats clearly, but could not make out the Widow’s face, only the sharpness of her tongue.

“All around me … all around me.”

“What? What you saying?”

“Them all around me! All around me.”

“What is all around you? Demon? Where? Then plead the blood, you no preacher?”

He jumped and she jumped as well. Her fear was as real as his, even as she tried to cuss her way through it. Hector pulled himself up with the bedpost, swatting rats away from his feet. He stared at the bed, so she looked as well, at the manic folds in the white sheet and the dampness of sweat. At nothing. Then she saw his face.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“All around me! All around …”

She could think of nothing else. The Widow ran out of the room as he began to scream about rats. The Pastor kicked them away from his toes and they would pull back like a wave only to roll in with more. The Widow came back with a glass, climbed on the bed, and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Pastor, get ahold of you damn self!”

“Rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats, rats—”

“Pastor!” Authority cut through illusion. The rats were gone.

“You not seeing no friggin rat! Drink this and cure yourself.” She forced the cup between his lips before he could say no.

Bligh spat the rum out and coughed. “You trying to kill me?” he shouted.

“I trying to save you, you ungrateful sum’bitch! This is the only thing that can save you.”

“That’s what—” he could barely catch his breath. “That’s what killing me.”

“Maybe is the only thing that keeping you. Me know man like you, you know. After a while you stop breathe air that don’t have no liquor stench on it. After a while it’s all you can do, even if it—”

“Killing me. You want it to kill me like it did your husband?”

“What?” she said in a bare whisper. “What?” she asked again, even though she knew she couldn’t bear him saying it twice.

“Nothing. Nothing. I said nothing. Please, go. Leave me alone.”

She left him.

“Mrs. Greenfield?”

“What?”

Bligh pulled the blanket up to his neck and spoke without looking at her. “You have a key for this door?”

“What you think?”

“Then lock the door. Please. Lock the door.”

“You must lick your head. You can’t even piss by yourself and now you want—”

“Please. I’m begging you. Lock the door. And don’t open it no matter what you hear. Please. I’m begging you. Please.”

“Suit yourself, cause you mad as shad. But don’t shit up me sheet.” She slammed the door, leaving Bligh to feel the thickness of darkness.

Not long after he heard the click of the key, his penis grew hard. At the foot of the bed, with her face hidden in wild black hair, was his brother’s wife. She was only a ghost now, with vapor rising from her skin. His brother’s wife was naked and white. She straddled him and he unzipped his pants. Hector closed his eyes and felt the room’s heat between his legs. But when he opened them he saw that she had no face, only a skull and a few teeth. Bligh screamed and the wife disappeared.

“Jesus!” he shouted. “Jesus! Jesus!”

The Widow obeyed the Pastor’s request for a day and a half. She had tried not to care, to not even pass his door, but her heart betrayed her. Mere concern, she told herself; after all, she was not made of stone. Mere concern, no different from what she had for the feeble or the elderly or the wounded or the wretched. Mere concern, she said to herself.

On the evening of the second day, she let herself in the room. The rankness of piss surrounded her. The bed was empty. Under the window, the Pastor snored.

“Oi, Preacher man.

“Pastor.

“Hector!”

Bligh woke up. He pushed himself up by the elbows until sitting on the floor, with his back to the window. The Widow watched him. He knew she had something to say.

“I know what happen to you,” she said, and closed her eyes for several seconds before opening them again. The Widow looked at him directly. “God leave you.”

Women, unevenly split between wife and spinster, old and young, prepubescent and menopausal, filled the front pew. They were caught up in the way he sweated even though three fans spun above. The way he pounded into the podium: two tiny taps followed by a resounding thump whenever he said, “Cut it out! Cut it out! Cut it out!” Maybe it was the coolie blood coursing through him that made his hair seem always wet. Unruly. Moreso, they were caught up in his dance. When the Apostle gave a word, a sweet word, chased by a blast of organ and a chorus of Amens, he would jump and spread his arms wide, shouting, Hallelujah! Sweat would fly from his fingers and kiss the women in the front row who felt blessed indeed. Yet the Apostle seduced men also.

The third Sunday, halfway into praise and worship, the church was shocked into silence. Fourteen feet, unfamiliar to holy floors, stepped nervously into church. The Apostle waved his hand and the organist quickly recovered from his pause as the choir jumped back into the chorus. The Rude Boys, the bad boys of Brillo Road, had come to church. Ungainly and in front was their leader who was dressed in his yellow T-shirt and camouflage green pants. He removed his cap and wooly locks sprung like flowers. Red bobby socks disappeared inside his shock of a shoe. The Apostle was waiting. He stretched his hand and pointed to the empty left side of the second row.