The Devil's Beating His Wife (12 page)

I didn't think she would allow me to avoid the question again. "I couldn't leave you there. I don't know what my brother and his friends have in mind."

"Killing and raping folk it seems. But why did you help me?"

My mouth went dry as I thought of everything that I longed to say. The words tickled at my tongue. Emotion swelled in my chest, and I wanted to blurt out the truth. "It wouldn't have been right." I grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dining room. She stumbled over an overturned chair, and I steadied her by placing my arm around her waist. When we entered the living room, I pushed her towards the couch, but she stopped in front of it.

"I'm not sitting there."

"Why not?"

"I just ain't." She looked up at me. It was too dark to make out her expression, but I could sense the stubbornness. We stood facing each other, breathing hard with unease.

I was compelled to touch her. My hand rose and hovered near her jaw. Slowly, I moved closer to her face and brushed my fingers against her skin. Though she was still and silent, she was much warmer and softer than I'd ever imagined. My thumb traced over her cheekbone, and I lowered my forehead to rest it against hers.

Her hand wrapped around my wrist and we stood there for a moment, finally touching. Then she reached down and pressed something against my stomach. I followed the curve of her arm and felt my pistol in her hand. She had taken it from my truck.

"Get away from me," she whispered.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I know why you brought me here. You think that I'm too dumb to figure it out."

I shook my head in denial. "I brought you here for the night. So we could be safe."

She raised the gun, and for the second time that night, I was staring down the barrel of a gun. "You're just like those animals on the street. Chasing after black folk. Stalking them. Terrorizing them."

"That's not true. I wouldn—"

"I see how you look at me. I know what you think when you look at me. You ain't gonna touch me, do you hear me?"

I took a step towards her and she pulled back the hammer of the gun. "Spicey."

"You killed my brother."

"That was Carver."

"You were there that night. I saw you. You were with them. You might not have tightened the noose around his neck, but you stood there and did nothing."

"What could I have done?"

"Stopped them!"

I never considered whether or not I could have stopped them. Those rejects had been set on harming that boy. I don't think my words would have changed anything. "I couldn't have stopped them."

"You didn't even try."

She was right. I didn't. There was nothing I could do to erase that night from our minds, but maybe I could create a path towards our future. I rubbed my sweaty palms down the legs of my jeans. I licked my dry lips. "I love you. I've always loved you."

Her mouth fell open. For a moment, I thought that my words had struck a chord in her. But she cocked her head to the side and her mouth formed the most disturbing of words. "I hate you. I've always hated you."

I moved towards her and grabbed the arm. Yanking the gun towards the ceiling, I thought that I would be able to pull it from her grasp. Instead, she pulled the trigger. Chunks of plaster fell over us and we tumbled to the ground. I didn't want to hurt her, but I needed to get the gun away. She fought me and grasped for the gun. My hand tightened around it as I began pulling it from her grasp. In the struggle, my finger connected with the trigger, discharging a bullet.

She jerked and fell back, clutching her stomach. A red spot formed and expanded over her white dress. Her breathing was rapid and panicked.

"No. No. No," I chanted as I pressed my hand over the wound. She pushed at me, but I pressed harder. "Don't fight me. Not now." I pulled the shirt from my back and covered the wound. Blood poured. She began to wheeze and I realized the bullet must have hit her lung. "Oh, God, baby."

Her eyes filled with dread as she realized what was happening. She coughed, sputtering up blood. I wiped it away with my thumb and cradled her in my arms. "I didn't mean to," I said. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so very sorry. Spicey."

She gasped her last breaths. We stared into each other's eyes. I watched as the light in hers faded.

Tears poured over my cheeks as I held my love in my arms. Her warm, sticky blood was slick against my skin. Leaning over her, I placed my lips lightly across hers. It was our first and only kiss.

I took the gun from her limp hand and pressed it under my jaw. Then I pulled the—

CHAPTER SIX

June 13, 1970, Laurens County

That damned, crazy cracker went and killed me.

I felt so very outraged. So incredibly angry.

I watched him cradling my body as his tears flowed and merged with the blood streaming from my mouth. Then he turned the gun on himself, pulled the trigger, and shot the back of his head off. I will never forget the splattering sound as his brains struck the shiny surface of that ugly mirror. I even staggered back, fearing the bold red mess would stain my white dress.

Was it only moments ago that I felt the blood pumping from the wound in my stomach? Did the coppery smell of blood still linger in the room? Had it just happened?

No. That couldn't be right.

The intense flash of pain still lingered in my mind because it had been so crippling. Life-ending. I slid my fingers under my dress and scraped at my skin, expecting to feel slick wetness gushing out between my fingers. But there was no pain now. No blood.

Our bodies were long gone. Days after he killed me, people came to the house, searching for him. Not for me. Not for the poor woman he snatched up off of the streets. Not a one of them gave a damn about me, of course.

How long ago was that? Why was I still here?

I think years might have passed.

If I was honest with myself—and I had nothing else but my honesty—through a haze of hatred and bitterness, I had noticed the revolving crescendo of crickets marking the beginning and ending of nights. Through the window, I had witnessed the sunlight fade and grow as the seasons changed. I cheered when the leaves began to blossom. I marveled when they were in full bloom. I mourned when they, too, died.

It had to be years. I just wasn't sure how many.

There had been no visitors. No curious individuals stopping by to gawk at the site of my murder. This place had been known for being haunted before, so I reckon people were too afraid to enter and risk finding themselves one of the ghosts. That was actually true, now that I thought about it. It certainly had been my fate.

There wasn't much I could be sure of. Many unanswered questions churned in my sleepless mind. Why did I die? Why was I still here, and with him?

It was all a lie. Those things called Heaven and Hell. No such places existed. I might have thought they were just as segregated as any other place, shutting me out because of the color of my skin. But there stood Baxter, just as segregated as I was. The great hero. My murderer.

We were proof that Heaven and Hell were one big old lie.

Now that I think on it, maybe the afterlife wasn't the lie. Maybe the big false pretense was the life we all reveled in. We spend so many years trying to live, avoiding death, but it comes eventually. It always does. Sometimes earlier than we'd like.

I had wanted to live to a ripe old age. A woman so old that I had only two or three hairs left on my head and absolutely no teeth in my mouth. My skin wrinkled and lacking the luster of youth. That's how I envisioned my time ending. As an old woman breathing her last breath. Painlessly. Peacefully.

Instead, I had died on a dirty floor with a gaping wound in my stomach. My last breath hadn't been painless. It certainly hadn't been peaceful.

I should really have tried to stop these dark thoughts. Then again, I ain't had much else to do but sit and think. As I stewed and raged about my circumstances, or lack of them, Baxter carried on as if we were both still alive. His mouth flapped nonstop. His movements blurred as he whipped from one room to another.

I hated him.

In life, Baxter had wanted to be my protector, but he had failed to protect the one thing I treasured the most. Not my heart. Hell, not even my life.

He had destroyed my family.

Baxter always had a soft spot for me. And I admit, there were times in my youth when I exploited that spot for my advantage. Whereas Baxter had been sweet and foolish in his love for me, his brother, Carver, had been vengeful and hate-filled. In front of Baxter, Carver acted like he tolerated my existence. When Baxter left the room or turned his back, Carver would dig his fingers into my arm or leg, piercing my skin. At first I had kept it all quiet, but when my body was riddled with claw marks and the stinging pain was too much to tolerate, I finally confided in Baxter. I told him that his brother enjoyed torturing me.

Baxter had told me that he would talk to Carver. I figured the petty slights would end. Instead, they grew bolder and more vicious. Carver would grab my hair and yank it while calling me all types of foul names. He loved calling me an animal, something worse than a dog. The glowing hatred in his eyes had frightened me. When I spoke to Baxter again about his brother's behavior, he had said, "That's just Carver."

His words had been dismissive and his eyes distant as he shrugged off my fear. Even while Baxter turned his puppy-love filled eyes on me, I would turn away, knowing his brother was watching and remembering every small encounter between us. I stopped telling him what Carver did to me.

That was the first time he failed me. He never intervened to stop his brother. Baxter not acting on it was like giving his silent approval.

The second time he failed me was when he didn't fight for me. When his parents learned of his infatuation with me, it wasn't Baxter who received the burden of their disapproval. He received a stern talking to, I imagine. But me? His parents had forced my mother to send me away to some school up north. As if they needed to remove the temptation from their saintly son's presence.

Mama tried to convince me that it was a blessing in disguise. She'd said I would meet better folk and better chances. That wasn't the case. At that school, I had been an outsider. The ignorant backwoods Negro from the small town. I was dark skinned with coarse hair, while my classmates had been all light-skinned with fine features and fine hair. I learned to speak well and count my numbers, but it meant nothing in the end. After graduation, I was forced to return to Allentown to help care for Mama.

The third time Baxter failed me was when he went away to boot camp, leaving me and my family behind at the mercy of his family. Not really his mama or daddy, but that evil brother of his. I had warned Baxter that Carver was tainted. That his twisted leg was an indication of his twisted soul. He hadn't believed. He probably still didn't believe me, even though he had watched his brother murder mine. That had been his final failure.

There were no more failures after that. He just simply murdered me. Now he watched me.

I hated him. I hated his whole damned family. The Bennett boys had been responsible—no, they had murdered—the only children of the Harrell family. My entire generation had been wiped away by those two golden haired boys. One now sat near me while the other likely continued living and carrying on without a care.

There was yet another lie. Justice. A nice little story that only white folk enjoyed.

That man sat on that ugly couch staring at me through the hole in the wall. The back of his head, completely whole, reflected in that hideous mirror. I could see my own reflection, even though I was hiding in the small back bedroom.

He sat quietly and still. The corners of his full lips were relaxed. His long blunt fingers rested on top of his knees. His dark blue eyes were even more lively in death.

His daddy had been the one to discover our bodies. He had stumbled across the scene, a handkerchief pressed against his mouth to block the smell of rot. Then his mama had sucked in every ounce of air from the nooks to the crannies. She'd opened her mouth and let loose a long piercing wail that had sent the animals—the ones under the floorboards—scampering away.

Those animals. A few of them had come across our bodies just a day after the murder. They had nibbled on him while leaving me pretty much alone. I guess that was some kind of solace. Well, for me, at least. His people didn't feel the same way. His daddy had raged at his son's missing fingers and torn off lips.

I was surprised when they had carried out both of our bodies. I don't know what happened to mine, but I'd bet he had a pretty nice funeral. Maybe they just dumped me on the side of the road? But they were Christian folk, so maybe they took me back to my mama.

Oh, Mama. Every time I thought about her, my chest would tighten. Maybe not a real tightening, but what I remembered fear to feel like. Had she survived that night? Lord forgive me, but I prayed that she had died that night so she didn't have to outlive both of her children.

Yes, I prayed. I still prayed even though I seemed to be resigned to Hell. "Lord, please strike him dead," I mumbled as I pressed my hands together and lifted my face towards the ceiling. "Dead dead. Not this partial dead thing. I want him all the way dead."

Baxter pushed himself off the couch and walked towards the door. "You know, Spicey, I think I've figured out a way to leave this place."

Out of all the things he could have said, the dead man said the one thing guaranteed to get my attention. It wasn't the first time he had said those words. It likely wouldn't be the last, neither.

That damn fool had tried many, many times to leave this place. None of them tries had been successful.

The first time, he had simply walked out onto the porch and stepped down the stairs. Then his body had faded away and the next thing I knew, he reformed back on the floor where his dead body had been.