The Devil Made Me Do It (3 page)

 

 

Ears that were supernaturally attuned could hear the sound of a symphony of hissing. Eyes adjusted to the spirit realm could pick up the faint shadows of several long, slithering bodies writhing together in a dance of pernicious victory. The lead one circled the group and shook his head at this emotional display. The young ones always celebrated victory much too early, he thought. As he slithered away from his minions' celebration, he began to orchestrate his next steps, knowing his mission was not half done.

“Did you pack everything?” Deborah turned in an erratic circle. “Take her posters off the wall. Especially the one that says, ‘
This place would die without me.
'” Distress painted her face with strokes of cold blue pain and red streaks of anger. Her head hung low, she squeezed and pulled on her hair until spots laid bare.

Esther pressed to focus through her haze of heartache. It tore her down this front-row view of Deborah's metamorphosis from warrior woman to manic basket case. Her uncombed hair, last presentable at Sheri's funeral two weeks ago, had tuffs of coarse hair scattered around the carpet. Deborah's beautiful crown of glory, matted and knotted with random spots, lay bare. She cringed at her friend's self-mutilation.

“Honey, you're pulling your hair out again.”

“Don't need it, stop talking.... Go away.” Dry, ashy hands pulled her hair even harder, and mumbling, she circled the room, and then disappeared down the hall.

Esther wanted to scream and run away. She was out of answers; nothing worked. The night Sheri died only Esther came home from the hospital. Her Deborah remained in Sheri's room, clutching their friend, demanding she rise. The Deborah who walked next to her out of the hospital, got in the car, and came into their room was a stranger. She was once the tough girl, the take-no-prisoners one of the trio. But, every day, she unraveled a little more, alternating between coherent and incoherent speech. It was like watching a horror show and knowing that the boogeyman was around the corner, but nobody could hear you scream; go back. This Deborah scared her.

She wouldn't get help, wouldn't let anyone in their room, wouldn't talk to anyone on the phone. Esther called Deborah's mother, but she was in denial and only said to give her more time. She even pulled out her textbooks looking for answers, but she hadn't really paid attention in class. Her real courses were to take place her junior and senior year.

Esther turned and tripped over a milk crate. Their room was a mess. Mrs. Fields asked them to pack all of Sheri's belongings and ship them home. The strain of touching and going through her cherished items brought Esther to her knees and Deborah to her tipping point.

Esther unfolded a worn creased sheet of paper; one of the gifts Sheri left for all of them.

Esther folded the letter and placed it in her drawer. Sheri's sin was now her burden. She was failing at Sheri's request she take care of Deborah. She just didn't understand how she thought her life was easy.

Frustrated, she kicked a shoe across the room. “Are we struggling enough now for you, Sheri?” she shouted.

Esther stood before the mirror, her reflection grim.
Who are you?
Yes, she could be overbearing. But, had she made Sheri afraid to be herself? Was her way the only way? And, what secrets did Sheri take to the grave? Esther's frustration mounted. There were too many questions and too few answers.

Esther's self-examination was painful. She turned from the mirror and continued to pack Sheri's belongings. On her side of their dorm room, a poster with a picture of a big juicy burger read, “This is not Burger King. . . . You cannot have it your way.” With sadness, she sighed, “Still trying to rule, still trying to be Cinderella.”

One of her best friends was gone, and she didn't have a clue how to help the other one. Esther reflected back that it was Deborah who went to check on Sheri. She was busy basking in the adoration of Briggs. She was disgusted with herself. And though she knew it made no sense, somehow she also blamed Briggs.

Esther pushed the top of the clothes down and mashed them into the box. “This sista gotta change. I need to be more like Christ. Stop all this ‘me' foolishness. I'm gon' pull a Vanna and buy a vowel, get me a clue.”

 

 

Seven torturous days later, the early-morning sun streamed into Esther's window through the cheap regulation blinds hung in every dorm. She had not spoken to Briggs in over three weeks. She did not count the brief hug she accepted from him at the funeral. She understood she wasn't being fair, but somehow, it didn't matter. Her heart was bruised enough. The dorm room was now her alternate universe. Her energy was sapped, and she ignored the situation as alternate universes will allow you to do.

She exhaled; drained. “Goodness, maybe he'll just fade away.” She couldn't feel; she was numb.

She wasn't a heathen; she tried to pray, but she became distracted by a thought or a sound. Sometimes when she prayed, her mind wouldn't stop racing so that she could hear Him. Her mother left prayers on her answering machine, but Elizabeth Wiley had no idea what was going on. If she knew, she'd pull Esther out of school and bring her home. Esther looked toward Deborah's closed bedroom door. If that happened, what would happen to her?

Esther was soul searching. She blamed herself for Sheri's suicide. A real friend would have known something was wrong. What signs did she miss while she was hugged up with Briggs? When was the last time she had spent quality time with either of her best friends?

And, she was—get a shovel, dig the body up, and kill her again—angry at Sheri. What gave her the right to decide life was too hard? It was hard for everybody. Nobody went through life singing “Kumbaya.”

Angry tears dripped down her cheeks. “Lord, I wish Sheri had used a comma instead of a period to fix her life.”

 

 

The emotional day had crept into night. It was warm for October, and a breeze filtered through the cracked window. Outside Esther's dorm room, the campus was peaceful. Behind closed doors, tempers clashed.

Deborah yanked her suitcase off the floor and stormed past Esther. “You can't talk me out of it, stop trying. I can't stay here; I can't do this anymore.”

Esther caught Deborah's sleeve as she passed. She gasped when Deborah pushed her back and jerked away. “Okay, you're upset. Girl, help me understand. How can you just move away?” In turmoil, Esther beat her chest with her fist. “I know Sheri's gone, but I'm here. . . . Please don't do this.”

Tears rained down Esther's red, splotchy face. Deborah stood stoic, her knuckles purplish, clutched around the handle of her suitcase. She faced the door, her left hand tight around the doorknob. She shook the door in agitation. “I can't help you understand. I can't get you to feel what I feel. But, today I'm clear. The voices are quiet, and I don't know for how long.” Deborah's head spun toward Esther. Her stance was rigid and determined. Her eyes drifted up and down Esther and flashed arctic heat. She then exploded and spittle flew. “I'm not going to go crazy. I've tossed and turned to the image of her death, voices tormenting me night and day. Her lifeless body swinging in every nightmare. It's been three weeks, and there's no relief. Nothing, and no one, can help. I've gotta get outta here.”

The door's slam vibrated through Esther's heart; she was alone.

 

 

The next day, all of Sheri's belongings were shipped. Esther had completed something, and she felt a sense of accomplishment. Last night, she made her own plans. She only needed to tie up a few loose ends, like the insistent knock at her door.

Her eye pressed against the peephole. She counted the number of times Briggs knocked on the door as she watched him pace her hallway. He appeared determined
.
Esther threw open the door just as Briggs's fist was raised to knock again.

He folded his arms and gave her a granite-hard glare, “Thank you for answering the door.”

Esther stepped back, her voice subdued. “You're welcome, come on in.”

Briggs's stride was fidgety, foreign to his usual smooth gait. His voice strained, his hands pushed deep into his pants pockets, and he seemed to struggle for control. “Esther, I haven't seen you since the funeral, and even then you wouldn't talk to me. Will you talk to me now?”

Esther pointed, indicating Briggs should sit. She sat opposite him in her desk chair. To strengthen her resolve, she mirrored his entrance by crossing her arms and portraying a cold countenance. It was a difficult act. His presence transmitted reminders of love-filled days. His muscular biceps attached to the arms that once held her tight. His two lips the focus of many of her prayers to God, to keep her holy. Then his eyes swollen and bloodshot berated her conscience.

Esther's resolve was melting. She chewed on her bottom lip and sat on her hands. “What would you like to talk about, Briggs?”

Briggs's voice cracked, and his cleft chin jutted out. “You're kidding, right? One minute we're in love and we're planning a future. The next thing I know, you walk out of the gymnasium and my life without a word. Esther, do you have any idea how I feel? No. Do you care?”

Esther rocked back and forth. “What do you want from me, Briggs, an apology? I'm sorry. I'm sorry you weren't first on my list when I lost my best friend. I'm sorry you weren't second on my list when my other best friend lost her friggin' mind.” Her lips trembled, and her composure slipped. “You weren't on the list, Briggs. Everything is not about you.”

Briggs jumped to his feet. “That's what you think? I'm selfish and don't care? Sheri was my friend too. Did you remember that when you were making decisions for our lives?” In a sudden fit of passion, Briggs swung double-fisted air punches to an imaginary foe, moving back and forth until winded; afterward he bent over with his hands on his knees breathing heavy with exertion.

“You're making me . . . look, I can't do this anymore. My mistake was thinking that if we talked we could get through this, but I can see it's already a wrap. I'm gon' step.”

Esther waved her hand in the air at his antics. “What was that, Briggs? I'm sorry, but I didn't ask you here. I haven't even answered your calls.” In the face of his defeat and her guilt, her voice shrieked for both their pain. “Don't you get it? I can't do this!”

Briggs moved forward and invaded her personal space. “You're going to throw us away and not even fight for us?” He paused, desperation and hope battling in his eyes. Esther remained silent; and his eyes dulled with pain. They were over. His body stretched, his chest inflated with false bravado. “This how you gon' play it? Girl, there is a line forming to get at me. You better recognize my worth.”

Esther walked around Briggs. She strode across the room and flung open the door. “Here you are, still talking.” She opened and closed her hand in talking gestures.

“That was real nice, Esther.” Briggs's eyes clouded, and he brushed past her without another glance. His long legs carried him out of her room and halfway down the hallway in record time.

Numb, she watched him walk away. One fragile step into her room, and she collapsed on the floor. She was all cried out, so she lay prone and grieved. After a time, she crawled to her bed and pulled her packed suitcase from under it. She wrestled, gaining her composure. On shaky legs, she carried her suitcase out the door.

She had intended to make a clean getaway and avoid drama. She'd had enough of dramatic exits. Esther was going home. Her grief had recently taught her to take only those memories light enough to carry.

2000

 

The deep baritone voice of Esther's pastor resonated throughout the sanctuary. “I tell you, my brethren, it was not unusual that the bush burned. Many bushes burned during that time. That was the nature of things. We know about nature, don't we, children?”

Reverend Gregory, pastor of Love Zion Church, marched across the floor. His tone encouraged the congregation to lean forward. “Now hear me well, the miracle . . . was that the bush was not consumed! You ever been in a fire? Yes, you have. We all have. Some of us were consumed by what we went through. It changed you, so that you were no longer you. Ya got consumed. You quit talking to people, got hateful, stopped coming to church, you know who I'm talking to. Now, when God's fire washes over you, we as saints need ta hold on through the purifying stage. If you do, it's going to bring forth a new you. The fire didn't consume you, my beloved, it just refined you. God is awesome, church,” he exclaimed as he mopped the sweat from his face.

The drummer beat his drums with fierce precision as Esther jumped to her feet and two-stepped an amen. She waved her church bulletin in the air. The usher was out of insurance agency fans or she would have used one of those instead. She didn't play with funeral home fans; she wasn't fanning death around. Esther let loose with the power of air-filled lungs, “Glory!”

She sat, crossed her feet at her ankles, and readjusted her dress around her curvy hips. Her shoulder-length hair was healthy and bounced with each sway of her head.

She was a beautiful woman who turned heads as she sashayed down the lane. In her twenties, men used to call out to her as she bounced down the street to the lyrics of the Commodores' “Brick House” playing in her head. But, at thirty-one, she was at the mercy of a society that redefined people once they gained weight. She was more than accustomed to the comments about her pretty face. She was raised well, and it showed in her acknowledgment of their compliments by her gentle smile and soft reply of, “Thank you.”

Esther stood with the congregation as Reverend Gregory gave the benediction. She looked around the sanctuary and spotted Mother Reed. Well, in reality, she spotted her hat with its wide brim and long purple plumes. She was waving her hands in the air and giving praise. Esther spoke to people in general as she made her way over to her.

“How are you this fine Sunday morning?” Esther hugged Mother Reed's waif-like body.

“Chile, I'm glad to be in the land of the living. Thank you for all your help during my Anthony's heart attack and funeral. You a good girl, and God gon' bless ya. This I know,” Mother Reed rubbed Esther's hands.

“You know I'd do anything for you. I'll be by to see you later on this week.”

Mother Reed shook her head no. “Don't spend all your time with an old woman. Get you some nice young man and live a little.”

“Now, Mother, you know I've been there and done that and all I got out of it was the heartache I brought back.” Esther had a twinkle of mischief in her golden eyes.

In a solemn no-nonsense voice, Mother Reed said, “I needs to tell you something. But first, I've got to speak to Reverend Gregory. I'll meet you over in the vestibule.”

“I'll be there.” The twinkle faded from her eyes. As she watched her walk away she moaned, “Now what?”

 

 

Ten minutes later Mother Reed returned. Her wisdom shone from well used eyes as she made mental notes of Esther's weight of pain. She pulled Esther over, and they sat down on the worn wooden bench that the ushers used in the back of the sanctuary.

“Esther, look at me real hard. Look at this tired face. Do you see the lines? Honey, eventually black do crack. Now, I have lived long and well. You knew Mr. Anthony; he was a good man, and I was married to him for pert near forty years. I'm eighty years old. You do the math. Uh-huh, that's right, I was forty years old when we married. Chile, I was thirty-nine when we met, and I loved him for forty-one years. I plan to keep on loving him until the day I cross over; and then we gon' keep on loving each other in our mansion in heaven. Love don't stop 'cause you ain't with the person. What's sowed, nurtured, and given care will bloom continually.”

She watched Esther look down at her hands and pick at her nails. “Guess you thinking you were only checking on an old woman and not looking for a lecture.” Mother Reed cupped Esther's face. “I'm trying to share something important with you, honey. Life treated me hard. I was in an abusive first marriage, and did you know I have a son? He was a year old the last time I saw him. But, I pray for him every day. I call them prayers on deposit. Don't know when he'll need them, but they'll be there to bring him through. My first husband took him from me. Sweetheart, for ten years I lived in pain. I had no man, no child, and no home.”

Mother Reed closed her eyes as she spoke of long ago. “The day I came into this church, I was thirty years old. I walked up to the altar, laid it, and cried my heart out. Bishop Dawkins, he's gone on to glory now, God rest his soul, took one look at me and took me up to his office. It was on a Saturday, and he was preparing for that Sunday's sermon. When he talked to me, he opened my eyes, and God opened my heart. Later, I met Anthony in the same pew I sit in today. Esther, I know you don't like to talk about your past. But Love Zion is a small church, and we all know it anyway.”

Esther looked startled when she heard this.

“Now, don't get upset. People were talking in love, chile. Nobody wants to see ya in pain. Esther, he took your pride and money. But he couldn't take your soul. That you had to give to him. Let it go, baby. Be the bush that is set on fire, but not consumed. You don' let that man kill you. All that's left is the burying. I want you to stay with me in the land of the living.” Mother Reed looked at the blank expression on Esther's face. “Well,” she continued, “I done preached you twice today. I better get on home. Don't come by this Saturday. Go use your day off to do something fun for yourself,” she admonished, rising from the wooden bench. “Bye, baby.” She kissed Esther's cheek and tottered off slowly on her cane.

Esther gathered her purse, journal, and Bible and hurried out of the church.