The devil stopped in the doorway, said something he couldn't hear, then took a few more steps. The minister had said to Marcus, "When you die, you'll wish you could kill your spirit, too, because it's going to suffer for ever and ever and ever, you murdering bastard!"
Marcus' throat twisted, and he sputtered in a strangled hiss, "No, please."
The devil, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, said, "Be quiet."
And so he was.
"B
e quiet," Tonya said to the man in the corner. He was hard to see, hard to imagine. Jimbo had said the man was weak and couldn't hurt her.
He better not, she thought. Or I'll kick him in the nuts.
"Don't just stand there, seduce him," whispered Jimbo. "Bring him out where I can see and take off your clothes. Spread your things and get him going. Damn, this is going to be something!"
Tonya said, "Come out here, let me see you." She clenched her fists at the ready. "Slide over here into the light."
"S
lide over here into the light," the devil said. On his butt, dragging against the rough of the floor, Marcus went. He kept his head down, his knees up. He didn't want to see the face of death.
"Lay down."
Marcus lay on his back. He wondered if, in the moment of death, there would be at least a second of peace. He closed his eyes. The devil said, "Open your eyes." He did.
The devil knelt beside him. It was a she-devil. Her face wasn't clear, but her hair was golden, catching the light from behind her. She had on guard's clothes. Like the wolf in sheep's clothing, the devil came in disguise. A thief in the night. She would strike him now, and claw out his open eyes before she sucked his life away and then spit his worthless spirit into damnation.
A hand reached out and touched him on the face. It was warm, not icy cold or firebrand hot. Marcus waited. She took her hand away, stood, and stepped out of the clothes. There was no tail, no scales. Only smooth skin.
Marcus' heart picked up a new rhythm, one
he'd not felt before. "What…?" he asked.
"They did cut off your fingers, didn't they?"
"
Yeah. Captain took them. And now you're gonna take the rest of me?" Marcus heard the doom in his own words. The devil would chop him up and then put him back together so he could burn alive forever.
"That's pretty shitty," said the devil. “Doin’ that to some person.”
Marcus blinked. What had she said?
H
ow can I do this? Tonya thought. He's fucked up big time. He's ugly and he ain't got all his fingers. Shit.
She could feel Jimbo's steady, horny gaze on her back. She could feel her own insides recoiling at the idea of this con's naked, stinking flesh against her own. Slowly, she knelt again and put his hand on her breast. He was so cold and thin it was as if she was trying to fuck a dead man. Touching him was the worst thing so far Jimbo had made her do.
"Seduce him," growled Jimbo.
Her voice was pine cone dry as she said, "Hey, honey, I'm going to take you to heaven."
S
he'd said heaven.
Before he could think more she was touching him, pulling his hand up from his chest and placing it on her breast. His breath caught and the hairs on his arms went erect. His penis, which he had covered with the spoon, did likewise.
No, it’s a lie!
He jerked his hand away and sat up, thrusting the spoon in her direction to keep her
from touching him again. It sounded as if she swore quietly, then she reached out again. "Don't you want to go to heaven with me?"
"The minister said I was going to hell!" Marcus screamed.
She sighed and rubbed her face. She said, "Let me touch you." Her hand went to Marcus' crotch and she caught his penis with warm fingers. She began to rub and tug gently. "Come on, honey. I'm your angel today."
Marcus didn't resist. He watched her as she aroused him. Her eyes were visible this close, and they were beautiful eyes.
She had said angel. She had said heaven. Heaven.
Oh, God. She meant it.
He dropped the spoon onto the floor.
Oh my God. Am I forgiven?
H
is smell was the worst. But she told herself not to think about it. Get it done, get it over and get out of this place.
She let go of the penis and folded herself around the thin, stinking convict, her lips rolled in so she wouldn't inadvertently try to kiss his fouled mouth and rotting teeth. Her hands, less critical than eye or nose, explored the ravaged territory of his body. He was indeed young, no older than she was. On his chin was a growth of long, prickly hair; on his head filthy, limp hair that came at least to his shoulders. His cheekbones were prominent, and his shoulders narrow. There was no hair on his chest, and his heartbeat could be felt through the skin.
"I'm your angel," she said. "Let's go to heaven." She rolled onto her back, pulling the thin man with her. He tried to resist, but he was light, like a featherless bird. He said something she couldn't understand, and she said, "Yeah, honey, that's right." Her legs opened and she found the penis once more, now hard as a stick, and guided it into her slit. She felt his face come down on her right, and he said, clearly, "Am I forgiven?"
"What?" she asked.
The man was crying now, even as his hips began to pump. "Am I forgiven?"
She opened her eyes. Over the man's head she saw Jimbo, hands on hips, clearly disappointed with this pathetic show of lust. Then she looked at the man, whose face was turned to the floor, his bony hand beneath his nose. A drop was on his nose and it was shaking.
She, in turn, began to tremble. "Sure. Sure you are, honey.”
He sighed, a sound soft and gentle and full of rapture.
T
he angel said he was forgiven.
God had sent her, and he was forgiven. The minister was wrong. Marcus was not damned to eternal fire. Oh, God, he thought.
He held the angel, he loved her and praised her. It was over. It was done. He was no longer despised. He was no longer hated.
She loved him in return, touching him with her unearthly warmth, healing him with her divine breath.
He came inside her, humbled and grateful. "Bless you, angel," he said. "Thank you. Thank you for saving me."
There was a long pause. Then she said, "You're welcome." Then she stood up, looked at him a moment longer, and left the cell. The door shut, and it was dark again.
"T
hat sure wasn't much," said Jimbo as he locked the door and turned on Tonya. "What the fuck was that, anyway? A game of patty-cake? That was as sexy as a junior high school dance.”
"Fuck you, asshole," said Tonya, her words stammered, caught on her tongue but spit out before they could change their mind.
Jimbo's eyes widened. One hand went up as if to strike her. "What the hell did you say?"
Tonya said, "I said…I said fuck you. I'm through with your games."
Jimbo shoved her and she landed on her butt on the hall floor. But she
didn't take her gaze from him, and with growing anger she said, "You ain't gonna treat me like shit no more."
"I treat you like I want, bitch!"
"I'm not a bitch."
Jimbo laughed. "You're a bitch of the worst kind. You're a mindless, stupid, buck-tooth bitch."
"No." Tonya took a hissing breath through her teeth. She said, "I'm…I’m an angel."
Jimbo eyes rolled up and his head followed, angling back on his neck, his mouth dropping
open. A howl of glee came out. "Angel? What the fuck are you talking about? I ought to crush your skull for talking trash like that! Goddamn, did that guy screw with your head
or something?" Suddenly, he grabbed her by the throat and hauled her up. She clawed at his fingers.
"Did he screw with your head!?"
Tonya let herself go limp. She gasped, "No. It ain't nothing. I'm kidding, just spoutin' off. Sorry."
Jimbo glared at her then loosened his hand. "What'd you say?"
"I said I'm kidding. You kid with me. I thought it'd be funny. It wasn't. Sorry. Let's get out of this place. I'm cold."
"You best be sorry. I ought to beat the devil out of you when I get you back to my place. I just might, you slut. What was that shit, that angel talk?"
"It wasn’t nothing."
Jimbo grabbed her arm, gave it a painful tweak then let go. The two moved down the hail and climbed the steps to the main floor, leaving the dark solitary cells behind.
Tonya thought, I'm an angel.
"Bitch," muttered Jimbo.
I'm good, she thought. I don't deserve Jimbo's shit.
Jimbo pushed Tonya through the door at the top of the steps and locked it. The keys jingled haughtily. "Put the damn hat back on," he said. "Pull it low like before, you whore.”
She did.
As they walked through the corridors, Jimbo dragging her, pissed off more than she'd ever seen him, Tonya watched for the best moment to shout and yell that she was being kidnapped. Wouldn't old Jimbo be shocked at that, and wouldn't his smart mouth be silenced when Captain Harner came to help her, an innocent female in the hands of an ego-crazed guard? Wouldn't Jimbo be surprised to find himself handcuffed and taken away? Maybe to have a digit whacked off by the trash-hater? Maybe to have a little time down in a solitary cell himself?
Wouldn't the pussy-licking ACLU look pretty good to him by then?
M
arcus found the spoon and a corner. He slid down, wedged himself deep into it, and said his prayers. Then he dragged the sharp spoon handle across both wrists and waited as the blood and warmth and life drained away, the weight of himself flowing away and lightening him for the flight to heaven.
T
he mockingbird was singing, and it was morning. The bird was alone, but close by in a shrub, and its song was forceful and clear. From somewhere beyond the roof of the tool-shed, the baleful medley crossed the yard. It drifted in the stifling summer air and entered the tiny attic window where the flies and the gnats and the smoke came in.
Anna knew the song belonged to a mockingbird. Very long ago, her mother had told her of a bird that knew how to sing many different tunes. A bird that could change its melody in a heartbeat. This was a survival skill for the bird, and it flourished. Anna remembered her mother's story clearly, although she could no longer remember her mother's face.
As the bird sang to the sun, Anna and all Greta's other friends sat in the sooty dust in a circle on the attic floor. They wore dirty, sleeveless summer tops and matching short pants, but they sweated just the same. Greta's mother had sewn the clothes for the friends, a large set for Joseph, who was fifteen and the tallest, a small set for Margarette, who was nine, and sizes in between for the others. Anna was twelve, William ten, and Susanne eleven. No one in the circle spoke because they didn't have permission to speak.
It was time for class.
Greta sat on a short-legged chair. She had her fingers linked about her knees, causing the hem of her pretty pink dress to hike up around her ankles, revealing pink embroidered socks. Her blond hair was curled about her chin. She smiled at her friends as she looked them over. She had an elegant smile. No living soul, regardless of race or class, could have seen that smile and not said it was elegant. The dimples on the smooth cheeks, the gentle parting of lips over perfect teeth. Greta gave the smile to the friends frequently, and it made their blood run cold.
"Good morning, children," Greta said.
"In unison, the friends said, "Good morning.
Greta tilted her head and licked her upper lip with a slow motion of her tongue. Anna thought Greta must have had a teacher once who had used that very gesture. Greta was enamored of the adults in her life—her relatives, her parents' acquaintances. Sometimes she talked to the friends at great length about the adults she knew: her father's coworkers, her mother's dressmaker, her grandmother and her uncle Geoff. Greta's eyes danced, and her hands were dramatic understudies to her lively voice. When Greta talked this way, Anna would nod as if she were listening while throwing all her concentration to the sounds of the birds outside the window. She knew the other friends did what they could so they would not have to listen either. To hear of family, to think of family was to open wounds that would never heal.
"Joseph," Greta said.
Anna felt her own body draw up in unison with Joseph's.
"I see that your hair's grown long. How could you come to class like that? You look such the ruffian, like a boy from the ghetto."