Read Online Holy Ghost Girl by Donna M. Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donna M. Johnson
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sitting close to us murmured, “Lord, Lord, Lord.”
Brother Terrell glanced up, and then looked down at his Bible as if nothing were amiss.
“Turn with me to Second Corinthians, chapter four, verse eight: ‘We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed . . .’ ”
Around and around the cars drove, maybe twenty, maybe more, high beams glaring. When they finally came to a stop, they left their lights on, pointing toward us. After a minute or two, people turned toward the front in their chairs and opened their Bibles. They tried to focus on Brother Terrell, tried to take in the encouragement he plucked from the scripture, but the car lights beamed a steady stream of anxiety our way.
“We need to keep our minds on God tonight, people, no matter what the devil throws at us.”
Pam and I asked Betty Ann what was going on. She put her finger to her lips and told us to pay attention as she always did. Her hands worked the handkerchief she held beneath her swollen pregnant belly, twisting it back and forth until it was the shape of a dog bone. She asked Pam if she knew where Randall might be. Pam raised her eyebrows and arranged her face in the self-righteous expression we wore when we referred to the morally and spiritually inferior. “Mama, there’s just no telling.”
As she scanned the audience for her brother, the prim look on her face turned to shock. I followed the line of her raised arm and pointed finger. Twenty, fifty, a hundred figures in long white robes materialized along the perimeter of the tent. Black eyeholes gaped out of tall, pointed heads. Backlit by the headlights, the apparitions billowed and glowed like angels of destruction, or one of the hybrid creatures that roamed the end of time in the Book of Revelation. The hair on my legs and arms stood up. The end of time. The moon would turn to blood. Stars would fall, trumpets would sound, and the veil between heaven and Earth would be rent. I wanted my mother. She sat behind the organ, hand over her mouth. All around us, people turned and whispered. Pam worked herself into the crevice between her mother’s arm and body. Betty Ann bounced Gary on her lap until he started to cry, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She whispered, “Where’s Randall? Where’s Randall?” Her eyes rolled across the tent looking for a blue checked shirt.
Brother Terrell called to us from the platform. “Please, let’s keep our minds on worshipping God here tonight. Don’t let the devil scare you. That’s what he wants to do, scare you.”
The devil. That explained why the adults were so scared. I shut my eyes tight and pled the blood of Jesus in silence, the way the adults did when Brother Terrell cast out demons.
“The blood of Jesus, the blood of Jesus, the blood of Jesus. I plead the blood of Jesus.”
I opened my eyes. Lines of black people shuffled down the sawdust aisles. The woman who sat in front of us pulled three kids, two little boys and a girl of about ten, off the pallet she had spread for them. She shook out the quilt and folded it in half, bringing one end under her chin and holding the other in her long outstretched arm; the edges matched just so, her movements slow and meticulous. She repeated the process and handed the quilt to the girl. Her daughter, that’s her daughter. She pulled a creased paper bag from her purse, placed the jar of water and the saltines the boys had snacked on earlier into the sack and handed it to her daughter. Her right arm settled on the girl’s shoulders as her left hand snapped shut around the wrists of the boys. They joined the exodus. Some said angels led the people safely through the white robes. Others said the Klan never intended to hurt us; they only meant to scare us. If that were so, they only partially succeeded. The woman and her children did not seem frightened, and neither did the others who left the tent
Brother Terrell glanced up, and then looked down at his Bible as if nothing were amiss.
“Turn with me to Second Corinthians, chapter four, verse eight: ‘We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed . . .’ ”
Around and around the cars drove, maybe twenty, maybe more, high beams glaring. When they finally came to a stop, they left their lights on, pointing toward us. After a minute or two, people turned toward the front in their chairs and opened their Bibles. They tried to focus on Brother Terrell, tried to take in the encouragement he plucked from the scripture, but the car lights beamed a steady stream of anxiety our way.
“We need to keep our minds on God tonight, people, no matter what the devil throws at us.”
Pam and I asked Betty Ann what was going on. She put her finger to her lips and told us to pay attention as she always did. Her hands worked the handkerchief she held beneath her swollen pregnant belly, twisting it back and forth until it was the shape of a dog bone. She asked Pam if she knew where Randall might be. Pam raised her eyebrows and arranged her face in the self-righteous expression we wore when we referred to the morally and spiritually inferior. “Mama, there’s just no telling.”
As she scanned the audience for her brother, the prim look on her face turned to shock. I followed the line of her raised arm and pointed finger. Twenty, fifty, a hundred figures in long white robes materialized along the perimeter of the tent. Black eyeholes gaped out of tall, pointed heads. Backlit by the headlights, the apparitions billowed and glowed like angels of destruction, or one of the hybrid creatures that roamed the end of time in the Book of Revelation. The hair on my legs and arms stood up. The end of time. The moon would turn to blood. Stars would fall, trumpets would sound, and the veil between heaven and Earth would be rent. I wanted my mother. She sat behind the organ, hand over her mouth. All around us, people turned and whispered. Pam worked herself into the crevice between her mother’s arm and body. Betty Ann bounced Gary on her lap until he started to cry, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She whispered, “Where’s Randall? Where’s Randall?” Her eyes rolled across the tent looking for a blue checked shirt.
Brother Terrell called to us from the platform. “Please, let’s keep our minds on worshipping God here tonight. Don’t let the devil scare you. That’s what he wants to do, scare you.”
The devil. That explained why the adults were so scared. I shut my eyes tight and pled the blood of Jesus in silence, the way the adults did when Brother Terrell cast out demons.
“The blood of Jesus, the blood of Jesus, the blood of Jesus. I plead the blood of Jesus.”
I opened my eyes. Lines of black people shuffled down the sawdust aisles. The woman who sat in front of us pulled three kids, two little boys and a girl of about ten, off the pallet she had spread for them. She shook out the quilt and folded it in half, bringing one end under her chin and holding the other in her long outstretched arm; the edges matched just so, her movements slow and meticulous. She repeated the process and handed the quilt to the girl. Her daughter, that’s her daughter. She pulled a creased paper bag from her purse, placed the jar of water and the saltines the boys had snacked on earlier into the sack and handed it to her daughter. Her right arm settled on the girl’s shoulders as her left hand snapped shut around the wrists of the boys. They joined the exodus. Some said angels led the people safely through the white robes. Others said the Klan never intended to hurt us; they only meant to scare us. If that were so, they only partially succeeded. The woman and her children did not seem frightened, and neither did the others who left the tent
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