Holy Ghost Girl (12 page)

The women who sat around me fidgeted and shifted in their seats. Brother Terrell didn’t mince words. He preached the Word and he preached it like it was a double-edged sword. It hurt sometimes, but they came to hear the truth and that’s what he gave them. Besides, he was really talking about women like Sister Corinne two rows back. She had been looking a little like the world lately, hadn’t she? Brother Terrell dropped the falsetto and laughed. They laughed with him, relieved, a bit more at ease. They met one another’s eyes and shook their heads. That Brother Terrell. He was something, wasn’t he?

An electronic screech shot through the speakers as Brother Terrell grabbed the microphone again and began to yell directly into it. “Pretty soon there’s nothing wrong with anything and the flesh has got you. It’s the
flesh
you gotta watch out for.”

His body trembled and the tremble grew stronger until he shook all over. He was gripped by a power that would not let him go. It arched his back and propelled him across the platform. Its voice tore through him and came out as a loud rasp. “It’s the flesh you got to deny, mortify, crucify. If you don’t, you’re worth nothing. I said you’re worth nothing to God. Did you hear me? You may as well be fed to the dogs.”

He reached the edge of the platform and teetered there as if about to tumble into a ravine. Before Brother Cotton could reach him, he jumped onto the prayer ramp and ran up and down, screaming, “Harlots! Hussies! Jezebels!” His face turned red and the veins on his neck popped out. “You women who wear your pants so tight a man can see your crack.”

He stopped suddenly and faced the audience straight-on. “You women who tempt the men of God to lust, and cause them to forget their calling. The wrath of the Almighty will fall upon your heads and there won’t be enough of you left for the dogs to eat.”

He pulled a folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his brow again, and threw it onto the sawdust. A man and a woman dived for it, scrambling to grab hold of its miracle-working powers. The man came up with the cloth, holding it stretched out above his head like a prize, one end in each hand. The woman shrugged and turned to go back to her seat.

“Wait a minute, ma’am. Here you go. Here’s another one.” Brother Terrell took a second handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and threw it to her. She caught it and walked back to her chair bucking at the waist, waving the cloth in front of her.

 

 

The evangelistic team huddled around Brother Terrell after the service that night, congratulating him on a powerful sermon. He leaned against the outside railing of the prayer ramp. He always left the platform exhausted, but lately he could barely stand at the end of a service. He fingered his keys in his pockets and stared past us. “I can feel the powers of the enemy. He’s trying, he’s gathering against us. I feel it . . . in my soul. The devil, he’s, uh, he’s getting ready to test us.” He paused and fidgeted. “Something big . . . I don’t know what. Remember what Jesus said about the demons, that some, uh, some respond only to prayer and fasting. We got to . . . you know, we need to be ready.” Everyone waited for him to say more, something about how to get ready, maybe, but he was finished.

Mama spoke first. “Brother Terrell, we want to stand with you.”

“Thank you, Sister Johnson. Those of you who are able, it would be good if you stay and pray with me.”

The praying lasted a long time that night. Voices lowed, “Ooooooooh God. Oooooooh God.” In the dim after-hours lighting, shadowy figures glided up and down the sawdust aisles and around the periphery of the darkened tent. I watched the thin smudge of my mother move across the tent. She threaded her way through rows of chairs and disappeared in the twilight that lay beyond the reach of the light and just this side of the night.

I woke to Mama’s hands under my shoulders, pulling me up. My body felt thick and heavy as a tree stump. “Is it the middle of the night?” I always wanted to wake up in the middle of the night. No answer.

“I’m worried he’s gonna fast hisself to death.” My mother’s voice sounded strained, higher than usual.

Brother Cotton nodded. “I don’t know how he’s standing up under the stress. The churches are pulling back on their support, the Klan threatening him night and day. The crowds aren’t what they should be. He’s carrying the burden for a lost and dying world by himself.”

Dockery sat up suddenly. “Has anyone
seen
Brother Terrell in the last hour or so?” After the altercation with the Klan and the threats and beatings, Dockery made sure someone stayed with Brother Terrell at all times when he was at the tent.

Brother Cotton cleared his throat. “He left a little while ago.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He said he needed to take Sarah back to her room. Said he wouldn’t be gone long.”

My mother’s lips pursed, then relaxed. She exhaled through her nostrils and they flared, the way they did when she was mad. Betty Ann sat stiff-backed, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. She placed her gaze someplace beyond us. Sarah, tall and thin with long soft hair that flipped on the ends. She worked in Brother Terrell’s office in Greenville, South Carolina, scheduling crusades, opening mail, and taking out checks and money orders to put them in the bank. She smiled at Pam and me like we were her special friends. When we played grown-ups, Pam always got to be Sarah. I picked up one of the stick ladies I had dropped when I fell asleep and twirled her between my fingers. Her Kleenex dress floated through the air. Pretty.

 

 

“Mama, what is lust?” She whirled around from the kitchen sink. Soapsuds drooled from her hands onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Where did you hear that word?”

“I heard it in church. Brother Terrell talked about it the other night. You know, the night he took Sarah home.”

She looked down at the puddle of suds on the floor. “I might have known you’d be paying attention at that moment.” She tossed a dish towel to me and turned back to the sink.

“Wipe that up.”

I wiped up the suds and handed the towel back to her. “Do men lust after you?”

Her back stiffened. “Donna Marie, did anyone ever tell you that children are to be seen and not heard?

“But . . .” I dropped the subject. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Of course.”

“Pam’s prettier.”

“Pretty is as pretty does.”

“What does that mean?”

Mama dried her hands, turned around, and put her hands on my shoulders. “It means how you treat people matters more than how you look.” She cupped my chin, tried to run her fingers through my hair, and ran into a nest of tangles. I gritted my teeth.

“You’re supposed to brush your hair occasionally.”

“I do brush it, occasionally.”

“When’s the last time you washed it?”

I didn’t want to get caught lying. “A few days ago.”

“Come on, let’s pretty you up a little.”

“But . . . you said . . .” My arms and legs went heavy with dread.

“This will be fun.”

It was not fun. First Mama put me in the tub and tried to scrub the skin off my arms, legs, neck, and even my ears. “Why do you rub so hard?”

“Because you don’t use soap when you bathe yourself. Now close your eyes and let’s wash your hair.”

I looked up at the ceiling and shut my eyes tight. Mama laid her hand on my forehead to keep the shampoo from running into my eyes. It didn’t work. “It’s burning. It’s burning.” I jerked my head up and thrashed my legs. More shampoo ran into my eyes.

“No, no. Please, no.”

With one hand under my head and the other pushing down on my chest, she held me under the faucet.

“Don’t. Don’t.” The water ran over my forehead and into my nose. I gasped for breath and swallowed a mouthful of water. “I’m drowning. Let me up. Please.”

By the time she helped me out of the tub, we were exhausted. We still had to comb the tangles out of my hair, roll the slippery strands onto the pink sponge rollers, and sit around and wait for the curls to dry. I had to be careful how I played (no chase, no bungled cartwheel attempts), careful how I turned my head (not too fast), and careful how I sat (no rolling my head from side to side on the back of the couch). By the end of the afternoon, I was exhausted.

“Donna Marie, hold still.” Mama sat on the side of the bed and I stood in front of her. She emphasized each word with a little jerk on the pink sponge curlers she pulled from my hair.

“It hurts.”

Mama wrapped each curl around her finger and shellacked it with hair spray. My hair felt hard and prickly against my neck.

“Now hold your arms up and let’s get your petticoat on.”

“But it itches.”

“Hold your arms up.”

I thrust my lip out and my hands into the air. The petticoat pricked my skin as it fell over my shoulders and around my waist.

“Now, step into your dress.”

I stomped into the dress she held open at my feet. She pulled it up, fastened the buttons on the back, and tied the sash.

“Put these on.” She handed me a pair of white ruffled socks and my church shoes, black patent-leather Mary Janes.

“Try not to scuff your shoes tonight. Now, let me see you.”

I locked my knees and held my arms away from me. She cupped my chin and studied my face. “You are just as pretty as Pam Terrell. In fact, you’re pretty as Marilyn Monroe.”

“Who?”

“Marilyn Monroe. Go ask the ministers if you aren’t just as pretty as Marilyn Monroe.”

I skipped into the living room, ready to show myself off. Brother Terrell and Brother Cotton sat on the edge of the couch, deep in conversation. Children did not interrupt adults, especially preachers. My face burned and my heart pounded. I stood in front of the men and without explanation pitched myself up on my toes and began to whirl.

I heard the soft tapping of my patent leather shoes on the floor. One more twirl. Faster. My dress and petticoat flew up; a show of lacy panties. I came to a stop in front of Brother Cotton and looked him in the eye.

“Do you think I’m pretty?

He pursed his lips and whistled. “Very pretty.”

I lowered my eyes and smoothed the skirt of my dress. “Pretty as Marilyn Monroe?”

His big hands encircled my waist. He looked me up and down and turned me around. “Honey, you are prettier, much prettier than Marilyn Monroe. Don’t forget it.”

“Thank you, Brother Cotton. I won’t forget. But who
is
Marilyn Monroe?”

“Nobody you need to know. Now, go play.”

“Tell me, please.”

Brother Terrell cut me off. “We got business to discuss. Now go on back to your mama.”

Brother Cotton slapped my bottom, end of discussion. I flounced from the room. Maybe I did look pretty. I ran to the bathroom, climbed on the side of the tub, balanced on the sink, and stretched to see my reflection in the mirror. Bangs lay pasted on my forehead in thin, sweaty strands. The rest of my hair was separated into ugly little dishwater-blond sausages. All that primping and I looked worse. I walked outside and kicked at a tree.

EVERY DAY THERE WAS A LITTLE LESS OF BROTHER TERRELL. CHEEKBONES rose like canyon rims from the planes of his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed exposed and lurid above the pit at the base of his throat. A glimpse of him ambling to the bathroom in his T-shirt and pajama bottoms featured a clavicle that ran like a rail over the sinkhole of his chest. A boneyard of a man. What once were muscles had thinned to curtains of skin that hung from the sticks of his arms. I passed him in the hallway and shifted my eyes as he slunk by, his shoulder pressed against the paneled wall for support. I could not bear to look at him directly. His frailty encompassed a growing desperation that embarrassed me. He was naked in his need, and it was terrible to witness. He said he was fasting to hear from God, but it was the world after which he seemed to hunger. His eyes, round and swollen, slipped over every person, every object in the room, searching, searching, searching. It was as if he found himself locked outside life and looked for a way back in. On occasion he gathered the four of us kids close, Pam and Randall nestled under each arm, Gary crowding in. I pulled away, unable to laugh and snuggle and hold my hand out for the silver dollar he offered, terrified by his vulnerability.

The house we had rented in Birmingham, Alabama, was still and quiet. Without the perpetual hum of Brother Terrell in motion, everything slowed down. The adults talked in worried, hushed voices, always about Brother Terrell. Had he eaten? Had he tried? Oh my God, what if he dies? The women made soups: vegetable, chicken noodle, beef stew.

Betty Ann nagged. “You’ve got to eat something. You’re gonna kill yourself. It’s hard on the kids. Please. Eat. Just try.”

At the beginning of the fast he joked and told her to get thee behind me, Satan, but three months later the pleas for him to eat came from every direction, and he gave in and took a few spoonfuls of soup. His stomach rejected it. He drank broth, but that, too, came back up. He drank water and Sprite through a straw to keep from drinking too much at once and throwing it back up. His eyes bounced like pinballs. He was afraid. He wanted to eat, but couldn’t, and the more he wanted to eat, the more he tried to eat, the harder it became for the rest of us to put food in our mouths.

Late one afternoon, Pam, Randall, Gary, and I sat in the white painted kitchen around a square table covered in pink, blue, and red flowered oilcloth, about to dig in to plates of hamburger meat and tomato sauce ladled over piles of macaroni. Goulash, we called it, and it was my favorite. I loaded the first bite into my mouth just as Brother Terrell shuffled around the corner into the kitchen, his twenty-eightyear-old body frail and stooped as an old man’s. The meat frying and the sweet tang of the tomato sauce had lured him from the back bedroom where he lay resting before the evening service.