The Devil Made Me Do It (10 page)

“Whew, I believe that's the enemy's oldest trick. Keep us in the dark, and we get so used to it that the light hurts our eyes, so we avoid it.”

“You know you right. Talk to me now,” Briggs quipped and did a two-step of his own.

“Right now, we done made the adversary so mad with just this conversation. I bet his imps are paying a heavy price for failing to keep you in the dark,” Mother added with glee.

She placed the pork chops in the frying pan and sat down at the table. “Now, go on, Briggs, let's get it all on the table. Don't leave nothing out 'cause Mother got all night. You know what? Call the reverend and excuse yourself from this evening's meeting. God got work for us tonight.”

“All right. This was a long time coming. I need to do this for me and for my ministry.” Briggs made his call and returned. “Now, Mother Reed, where was I?”

The cold, dank, darkness of the cement was slimy from the writhing bodies squirming to and fro. The only alleviation from the blackness was spurts of flames that sizzled as they hit the cold pavement. Noises of agony and shrieks of pain were moaned out in a constant flow heard echoing throughout the tunnel-like area. During the spurts of flame, splatters of blood could be seen on the walls and floors as sounds of whipping ricocheted off the walls.

“You are nothing, you rotting filthy beasts; imbeciles, all of you. Sent to do a job, yet you fail time and time again. How did this happen? Speak, you dung!” The Leader's long solid form raised itself up over the writhing bodies, and venom dripped from his fangs.

“But, Leader,” they hissed, “we have done all you asked us. It's that woman; time and time again, she has thwarted us. When will her illness take over?”

They moaned as one, as the invisible licks continued to flail against their scales.

“Do not question me, imps! Do what you are told,” The Leader bellowed. “If you fail him again, you will be moved back into the Lake of Fire.”

“We will not fail you, Leader,” they chorused. “We will go to the Roger creature. He is malleable.”

“Then go and wreck havoc,” he commanded as they scurried away into the evening.

Roger stretched and sat up in his small rusted iron bed. His sagging mattress gave as he stood up in the dingy, fetid room. His back was sore from lying in a dip in the mattress, and he bent his long, lanky form forward and touched the tips of his fingers to the floor before he straightened and rubbed his face. He could feel the stubble of the spotty beard under his hand. He had once been a handsome man. Now, alcohol, drugs, and hard living had beaten out paths on his face. He shuffled over to his window and looked out into the night. It was dark, but his neighbors liked it that way. Most, like him, were just getting up. He wandered over to his dresser and counted the loose change and crumpled dollars lying there. Taking a swig of the lukewarm forty-ounce beer, he tried to think of who he could hit up for a few bills to tide him over.

“I hate this place; it stinks in here!” he complained as he fell back on his bed. His drink sloshed against him, his rumpled sheet, and the wall as he growled out his annoyance. In his tantrum, the bed frame clanged against the wall, and his neighbor banged back.

“Mother of God—shut up in there! Some of us work for a living,” a voice shouted through the paper-thin walls.

The once beautiful Victorian home had long ago been turned into a rooming house, with each decade seeing each room shrink smaller and smaller. Roger couldn't be choosy. He had to live where he could afford to. He remembered when he lived well and his home was the envy of all his friends.

“Phony fools,” he groused as he chugged down what was left of his beer.

His mind took the turn it always did when thinking about the past. Sweat ran down his face as he rolled over and banged the ancient heat register. He then pulled his stained T-shirt from over his head, and threw it on the floor with the rest of his discarded clothing. The little room was always too hot or too cold.

“Esther . . . ,” he repeated obsessively. His vision of all the things he could do to her, to make her pay, swam through his head. Every year since the divorce he fell deeper into poverty, and his anger and rage grew.

“You shouldn't have left me, Esther,” he groused as he turned the bottle up to his lips, and then swore when he realized the bottle was empty. He tossed it into the corner and stared into empty space. As he lay back with his arms behind his head, his arm serpent tattoo faded in and out, illuminated periodically by the neon cross from the building across the street.

Mindless, he swung his arms, fighting invisible demons. His head exploded in small, tiny shards as he held on and tried not to go over the edge. He could feel small licks of pain swirling all around him, and Esther's name reverberated in his mind. In exhaustion, he soon felt himself letting go as he drifted into total darkness.

The small window continued to shine periodic glimpses of light through the torn shade. As his eyes followed the light, they landed on the old building across the street, with its neon cross and the words “Jesus Saves” flickering brightly below it.

 

 

Imp Two stood against the wall clapping in glee.
“
The thoughts you sent were brilliant. He blames everyone for his problems. I love this guy.”

Imp One stood over Roger's bed looking for flaws in his plan. “He is simple, but his drug and alcohol abuse make him unreliable.”

“Look at him . . . Even full grown demons would find him ugly.” Imp Two climbed onto the bed and lay across from Roger, making faces at him.

Imp One watched irritated with Imp Two's antics. This is who he was assigned to work with, and The Leader expected brilliance! “You are a nitwit. You are a pea brain. You are an imbecile,” he hissed.

Imp Two jumped from the bed. “But . . . I thought we were getting along so well. The Leader hates us both. We can be a team; Batman and Robin, the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

Imp One spoke as he slithered through the wall. “Beauty and the Beast. Beast, visit our ace in the hole, Monica. We need her on board. This plan cannot fail.”

Imp Two frowned. “I wouldn't be the beast, you would be the beast. I am beautiful.”

Imp Two's feelings were hurt, and he slithered out the wall opposite Imp One. He lifted into the air, his anger not derailing his assignment. He was still headed south to Monica, and her ultimate destruction.

 

 

Monica stretched and looked at the clock. She sauntered into the bathroom, trailing her see-through, chiffon peignoir behind her. Her milk chocolate skin glowed from its life of pampering, and its supple silkiness was satin to the touch, comparable to the ribbon along a newborn baby's blanket. Her luxurious mane of dark hair flowed like the Congo River in the deepest jungle of Africa, and it dipped and waved, ending midway down her back. She bent forward, shook her hair, and twisted and pinned the tresses atop her head. She was vain about her hair. It was a part of her heritage from her Jamaican Pentecostal great-grandmother. It had never been cut, only trimmed. Once, during a cancer campaign, Briggs had suggested she cut it. She quaked with resentment just thinking about it. “He's such a fool.”

As she stepped into the shower, a pale hand closed over her upper arm. “Hey, you sneaking out on me, again?” a cultured Southern voice asked.

“Sugar, it's two in the morning. How does it look me creeping in at all hours of the night?” she reached, pulling shower gel from the shelf.

Randall took it from her and squeezed some onto a sponge. “I care about you. It's late, he's not in town; stay. Please, Monica. You just told me you may be moving out of town for a while. I love you. How am I supposed to handle that?”

He threw down the sponge and grabbed her around her waist. He turned them toward the mirror that was fogged by the shower's hot water. He wiped the mirror clear. Revealed was a couple whose faces touched as their eyes showed passion never before experienced by either of them. Nothing else mattered; not race, their marriages, or their backgrounds. The love they felt they found was all that mattered to them.

“Randall, I told you, I stalled him. I demanded an expensive place to live. Believe me, with his tight pockets that will take a while. In the meantime, you need to handle the problems in your own life. Namely, your wife and children.”

She rubbed her hand down the side of his face to minimize her scolding. His was a handsome face, aristocratic in its bearing. He was a man of means, and it showed.

Randall caressed Monica's hand and held it to his lips. His lips trailed over her face and down her neck, where he slowly kissed on her bare shoulder. His hands traveled over her as he pulled her closer. “Enough talk,” he growled.

Monica's eyes drifted shut as they backed out of the room and fell onto the king-size bed. The running shower's steam joined the combustible heat the couple made as heinous dark shadows danced in frenzied orchestration against the backdrop of a fading night.

Briggs was home. His time with Mother Reed was well spent. He was feeling unburdened, his yoke destroyed of past indiscretions. He wanted to talk to Monica, guilt free. He phoned her, but she didn't pick up.

Briggs left her a voice mail. “Hi, baby, it's around ten o'clock. Sorry, I missed you. I just wanted to hear your voice. Call me. I love you, bye.”

After his shower, Briggs placed his cell phone next to his pillow and lay down. He knew he had early-morning meetings, but he didn't want to miss Monica's call.

 

 

Light streamed through a crack in Briggs's bedroom curtains, his hand fumbled around in an effort to locate the ringing phone. He clutched the cell and flipped it open. “Hello?” he asked groggily.

“Hello, hello,” came the resounding answer.

“Monica? What time is it?” he asked as he sat up in his bed and pulled back the cover.

“I don't know. It's early,” she said defensively.

“I'm sorry, honey. I looked for you to call me last night, that's all.” Briggs struggled to get up.

Monica's voice cracked across the airwaves. “So . . . do you want to talk to me or not? I've been so alone lately that I needed to get out of the house. I went to the movies. Do you mind?”

Briggs didn't like the direction of the conversation. His heart moved to redirect it. “Sweetheart, I want to talk to you. Last night, I had a powerful time with God. All due to one of our Love Zion members. Wait 'til you meet her; she's so anointed.”

Monica smacked her lips into the phone. “Her? I'm here alone and you're off spending time with female members of the church? You know in my modeling days I was always the belle of the ball; now I'm just the ball and chain.”

“You could never be anyone's ball and chain. Monica, she's eighty years old, and you know me better than that. Come on, honey, let's not fight. There's been too much of that. Did you get my message? I miss you,” Briggs said turning on the charm.

Monica huffed. “Since when?”

Briggs turned up the heat. “Every day, sweetheart. Think you can arrange to come up for the weekend? We can do something fun, just the two of us.”

Monica resisted being agreeable. “No, Briggs, I can't just leave things here to come there and hold your hand. I'm busy packing and trying to find the right replacements on all the committees I chair.”

Briggs was wearing himself out just to have a decent phone conversation. “I understand you're busy. It was just a suggestion, but if we're ever going to turn our marriage around, it will take the two of us to do it.”

“Everything is not on your schedule, Briggs. Work on you. Oh yeah, have a blessed day.” Monica slammed down the phone.

Briggs scratched the morning new growth on his chin, slammed the pillow with his fist, and flopped back down on the bed. “What did I say?”

Monica looked down at the phone. “Blast it!”

She leaned back in the kitchen chair and considered her options. Randall had been insistent last night about bringing her home and meeting her today to pick up her car. In a moment of weakness, she had agreed, and now she worried about someone seeing them together. It was bad enough that she had to walk down to the corner to meet him. She had the added dilemma of how to hide one of the most powerful movers and shakers in Atlanta. And, people still recognized her, even though they had the nerve to walk right up to her and ask her where she'd been—as though she owed the little nobodies an answer. Now, Briggs was changing their dynamics and being nice. It made her feel guilty and nervous.

She needed to remain cautious. After their first couple of meetings in public, Randall had moved them into a lavish suite at the Ritz Carlton. He was a man of style, and she appreciated the way he treated her. She always arrived and left separately. Except for yesterday, their system worked.

She nibbled on her finger. She hadn't prayed since Briggs left. When he wasn't watching her, she did what she wanted to. Monica grimaced. She asked herself the questions: What if God is real? Will I be punished for my sins?

When she first met Briggs, he was all busted up over some little girl who had left him high and dry in college. The boy was fronting like he wasn't all torn up. But his drunken monologues were all about some chick named Esther. They were never about God.

He was fun, wild, and fine as could be though. She knew his background. She knew he was a world renown televangelist's son, and he came from money. His father's television appearances, movies, books, and tapes had made him wealthy. It was only reasonable to think the son inherited what the father had acquired. At the time, she needed him, or someone like him. She was no longer a teenager, and her constant tantrums and diva attitude had worn thin on the modeling circuit, and her contracts were drying up. All she had left when she met Briggs was her make-believe industry buzz. She saw he was feeling all the attention he got when she was on his arm, so she played it to the max. When she told Briggs she was pregnant, she thought he would do the right thing. When he didn't, she got so mad, she'd slashed the tires to his Honda Accord and broke out his windows. Fool never did realize it was her getting revenge.

Two months later he came running to her apartment asking if he could talk to her about their baby. She was so angry that she told him she had gotten an abortion. His dejected face was all she needed to set her in a good mood. If he wasn't marrying her, a little money to keep her and a baby in her preferred lifestyle was just not making it.

Besides, she had never been pregnant in the first place.