Read Online John Crow's Devil by Marlon James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marlon James
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she did not see. Lucinda spun around; shocked and embarrassed that time had passed and left her with him. She could have carried herself out in the wave of those who left during altar call, even though not many did these days. Instead she was alone with him. He sat one pew ahead with his back to her and his unruly hair glistening like a thousand tiny eyes.
“Lucinda, I think we need to clear a certain matter up. What you might have thought you saw.”
“Y—yes, Pas—I mean, Apos …” She stared at the floor.
“Lucinda? Lucinda,” he said for a second time, disappointed with her unease. “Lucinda, pastors change their clothes in the office all the time. I know what it might have looked like, but it was all innocent, trust me. You might find it foolish, even funny. Here it is: I was changing clothes in my office and there I was, just as how God made me, and you know God, he’s no respecter of persons. I mean, come now, how many times has the Holy Spirit given you a revelation on the toilet? Nothing wrong with that, God is God. Anyway, there I was, about to put my clothes on, when BAM! God just give me a word so powerful that I nearly wet myself. Well, I had to drop to my knees and give Him ten Hallelujahs on the spot! Like I said in today’s message, when God opens you eyes, He wants you to do it now! You hearing me, Lucinda? You can never keep God waiting.”
“Yes, Apostle.”
“So I drop to my knees thanking God, and it was then, right when I got back on my feet, that you saw me. That is that.” He turned around and faced her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes sah.”
“You forgive me?”
“Apostle?”
“Forgive. It’s an old custom. Usually happens after somebody says they’re sorry.”
“Yes sah.”
“You don’t look forgiving.”
“Apostle?”
“Forgiving look. You know, with a smile. What is it going to take to get a smile out of you? Are you ticklish? Maybe I should call down one of God’s angels to tickle you?”
She laughed a little girl’s laugh.
“Aha! Look at that. Nothing like a smile to wake up a beautiful face. This means we’re still friends. Good. And Lucinda, I promise I’ll leave my changing to the bathroom from now on.”
Before she was thirteen, Lucinda’s mother had beaten her in two. She gave the two halves names, Day Lucinda and Night Lucinda. Her mother was the same, a church-going sister on some days, a spell-casting obeah woman and whore on others. In time the woman came undone, and to survive her, or at least to prevent whipping, Lucinda would split in two to placate her mother. There was Day Lucinda, when her mother felt pious, who spoke about Sunday school and friends she did not have. There was Night Lucinda, who helped her mother find the callaloo plant; not the one everybody ate, but the special callaloo to make tea for fellowship-ping with darkness. When her mother would beat her savagely, which was often, Day Lucinda would hide bruises under a demure calico dress and a taut heart. When her mother lost her way, which was often, Night Lucinda would steal her cat’s teeth, lizard skins, beads, and knotted cords and speak to the Sasa in secret. Lucinda carried her two selves into adult-hood with ease, using both to empower herself over other women. But then came the Apostle.
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
“Lucinda, I think we need to clear a certain matter up. What you might have thought you saw.”
“Y—yes, Pas—I mean, Apos …” She stared at the floor.
“Lucinda? Lucinda,” he said for a second time, disappointed with her unease. “Lucinda, pastors change their clothes in the office all the time. I know what it might have looked like, but it was all innocent, trust me. You might find it foolish, even funny. Here it is: I was changing clothes in my office and there I was, just as how God made me, and you know God, he’s no respecter of persons. I mean, come now, how many times has the Holy Spirit given you a revelation on the toilet? Nothing wrong with that, God is God. Anyway, there I was, about to put my clothes on, when BAM! God just give me a word so powerful that I nearly wet myself. Well, I had to drop to my knees and give Him ten Hallelujahs on the spot! Like I said in today’s message, when God opens you eyes, He wants you to do it now! You hearing me, Lucinda? You can never keep God waiting.”
“Yes, Apostle.”
“So I drop to my knees thanking God, and it was then, right when I got back on my feet, that you saw me. That is that.” He turned around and faced her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes sah.”
“You forgive me?”
“Apostle?”
“Forgive. It’s an old custom. Usually happens after somebody says they’re sorry.”
“Yes sah.”
“You don’t look forgiving.”
“Apostle?”
“Forgiving look. You know, with a smile. What is it going to take to get a smile out of you? Are you ticklish? Maybe I should call down one of God’s angels to tickle you?”
She laughed a little girl’s laugh.
“Aha! Look at that. Nothing like a smile to wake up a beautiful face. This means we’re still friends. Good. And Lucinda, I promise I’ll leave my changing to the bathroom from now on.”
Before she was thirteen, Lucinda’s mother had beaten her in two. She gave the two halves names, Day Lucinda and Night Lucinda. Her mother was the same, a church-going sister on some days, a spell-casting obeah woman and whore on others. In time the woman came undone, and to survive her, or at least to prevent whipping, Lucinda would split in two to placate her mother. There was Day Lucinda, when her mother felt pious, who spoke about Sunday school and friends she did not have. There was Night Lucinda, who helped her mother find the callaloo plant; not the one everybody ate, but the special callaloo to make tea for fellowship-ping with darkness. When her mother would beat her savagely, which was often, Day Lucinda would hide bruises under a demure calico dress and a taut heart. When her mother lost her way, which was often, Night Lucinda would steal her cat’s teeth, lizard skins, beads, and knotted cords and speak to the Sasa in secret. Lucinda carried her two selves into adult-hood with ease, using both to empower herself over other women. But then came the Apostle.
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