James Marlon - John Crow's Devil

Day was for discipline; night, chaos. Day was for white gloves and skirts below the knee, night was for goat blood on black skin. Day was for stiff lips and Bible verse; night was for an orgy of one with a green banana as her incubus. Then came the Apostle and she saw Jesus in his face, but a serpent below his belt. There, in his crotch that bulged when he sat down, legs uncrossed as they always were, to show her the shift key on the typewriter. Two Lucindas collided at the junction of his crucifix, nesting in hairy skin, pointing to the bold red tip of his circumcision. She could no longer tell day from night.

So Lucinda whipped herself to sleep. Jesuits did this in Kingston, she had heard from a church sister. She imagined seven priests all in a row, whipping their bloody backs while staring at their hardened penises. They would whip until blood flowed like tributaries and their erections shrank in shame. She deserved no less for being a whore in the way she thinketh. Lucinda had known the Apostle just as surely as Ham had known his father Noah in the Bible. She became both at once. A drunken Noah, staggering naked in his tent, knocking over food and drink and crashing on cushions, spread wide for nature to see. She could see a body hardened by obedience, giving nothing to age, pissing and farting with that magnificence that men had when they did not care. Lucinda blinked and became Ham, his dark son, who slipped in the tent and was blinded by magnificence as well. She became father and son at once, shuddering through drunken blindness at the father’s sudden pleasure, shaking with fear and sin as the son took his father in his mouth. Lust came to her when most unwelcome and shattered the wall she had constructed between her two selves. It was the damn blood. That cursed time of the month that played out in wetness, pain, and bloat; that stirred a frenzy deep inside her pinker self. Twice in her thoughts he had made her burn bright with his own flame, as red as his books. Jesuits did this. She wanted to be good. No more Night Lucinda. She would whip darkness out in the name of Jesus. In the closet it waited; the black snake, the belt reserved for disobedient Sunday school children. She took her blouse off and stared at her weakness in the mirror, at her breasts, one drooped slightly lower than the other. She saw his wings, the demon of her sin waiting to rip her legs open. Consuming fire. She pleaded the blood of Jesus and swung the belt over her left shoulder. The leather tore through soft skin like a massa’s whip. Lucinda shook, tears fell, and she looked at herself again. Now for resolve. She beat out the Lucinda that could not serve the Apostle with purity, swinging the belt over the right shoulder, then left, then right, then left, then right again. And again and again and again until there was nothing but leather slicing through the air pungent with flesh and blood. The mirror spoke her shame in a chant until there was nothing left between her and it but light.

Dressed in two shirts and torn cloths wrapped up, down, and crossway over her back, Lucinda went to church. That she had appointed herself secretary was neither questioned nor challenged. Her first duty was to dispose of the multitude of cakes that came daily from every widow, spinster, and daughter who had reached consenting age. It was good that a man not marry. That’s what the Bible said. Even better for an Apostle. There was no need for the distraction of a wife; all he needed in a woman he had in … She trembled, yearning and fearing the end of her own thought. The office needed cleaning. She began by putting his red books on the shelf.

“Lucinda?”

“AAAH!”

“You reach here before me? I starting to wonder about you, you know. Maybe you’re coveting my job. I didn’t startle you, did I?”

“No! No, Pastor, I mean, Apostle.”

“I’m pulling your leg, Lucinda. But still …” He went over to his desk. “We have to do something about that constant slip of yours.”

“Slip? It a show?”

“Excuse me?”

“Me never mean to sin with this short frock.”

“Slip of the tongue, child.”

“Oh! Me did know that, Pastor, I mean, Apostle.”

“See, I caught you again. There you go, calling me Pastor. Do you miss Pastor Bligh?”

“No baba! Me miss him like me miss seven plague of Egypt in me panty. Lawks, sorry, Apostle.”

He waved her off.

“Him is a abomination before the Lord. Him is—” she started.

“Still a child of God and God loves him as much as he loves you. God gave you permission to rebuke him?”

“Jes—” He covered her mouth quickly. She smelt the soap on his fingers and did not think it strange. When he let go she could taste his salt on her lips.

“Y — I—we — ye—”

“Wasn’t exactly a shining moment, y’know, Lucinda. Driving a man of God out of the church. That was one cup that I prayed would pass. Look at me. Even a fallen man of God is still a man of God, y’know, Lucinda. He’s still my brother. If we were all so perfect why would we need the Son of God? Lucinda, maybe Bligh needs Him more now than ever and instead of driving him out we should be greeting him with a holy kiss. I mean, doesn’t Second Corinthians say that after we expel the immoral brother we must welcome him back or risk the Devil’s will be done?”

“I don’t, I don’t understand.”

“Shhh. Don’t work your head about it too much. The Lord has forgiven me and as His faithful servant, I have forgiven Pastor Bligh. You know where he is?”

“Yes, Apostle.”

“Send him a message for me. Tell him that Apostle York says that he can come back.”

By five o’clock, fat amber clouds had shaded trees orange, a shock before nightfall. Dampness and drip gave the weekday the stamp of Sunday. Evening rain made a day forget herself, but never her purpose. Rain did the same for people, frightening them to cover or freeing them to expose, but never allowing them to forget their purpose. This damn blasted rain was holding her back. And yet this could not wait until tomorrow. Nothing he said could ever wait. Lucinda was to tell the Widow Greenfield that the Pastor would be allowed back into church, but only to worship. She must be told tonight. Delay was disease. The only cure for procrastination was purpose. She covered her head with newspaper and ran down to the end of Brillo Road.

As she came up to the crossroads, Lucinda saw the Widow’s house, its sole front window flickering with dim light. But as she stepped and splashed in the road’s center, a multitude of black wings, a hundred or a thousand, burst out in a thunderous flutter. She was blind in the darkness, but when the wings flapped, the air shook. Demon-sized crows. Man-sized demons. They shrieked and spun with the wind. Lucinda screamed and heard her voice vanish in the vortex. She would be sucked up in the swirling darkness. Lucinda shut her eyes tight and hummed a hymn. She opened them slowly to see them gone and the rain weakened to a drizzle. She ran to the house.

“Mrs. Greenfield? Mrs. Greenfield?” She listened for a flutter. Her last knock swung through empty space. The Widow had opened the door. “Mrs. Greenfield.”

“Kiss me raas. What you doin here?”

“Mrs. Greenfield, I—”

“You goin stay outside and get wet up or you comin inside?”

“Me never did plan to, but—”

“Suit yourself.”

“Mrs. Greenfield—”

“Make me ask you something,” the Widow interrupted in that tone the Rum Preacher knew. “You see any Mr. Greenfield here?”

“Well … ah … no.”

“Then why the backfoot you calling me Mrs. Greenfield? You forget say me know you long time? Long before you get high and mighty like God love you special.”