Godhead

by Hansen, Jalex; Alexander, Writing as Jordan

  She leaned her head onto his shoulder for a brief moment, and then bounced away rounding up their little flock of bed knobs and ushering them into the car.

  The sound of the car door closing and the engine turning over was oddly comforting on the night air. I remembered falling asleep in the back seat of my parent’s car, lulled by the rumble of the motor and the darkness, and tired out from a night of listening to grown up conversation.

  I actually smiled to myself, forgetting how far I had come from those moments of comfort.

  “So Isabel…?” Dante interrupted my thoughts, deflating them, like cutting into a fresh loaf of bread too soon.

  “What? They seem very nice.”

  “Umhmm.” His eyes were trained on me unblinking. Below the godhead hummed a little tune.

  “Anything you want to tell me?”

  I was not a good liar. Fear had made me transparent. I settled on a half lie, something that might obscure his vision. “I met him before, the day Julián left.”

  “Yes…”

  “In church. I went to...I don’t know really…maybe to pray I guess…but anyway…he hinted that there were rumors about Julián and well…” I held up my hands helplessly.

  “Is that all?”

  “It was uncomfortable. I think he suspects…something. I’m surprised he came to dinner.” I was trying to figure out how to steer the conversation around to something neutral. “Do you think they’ll really do it…stay and build a Baptist church I mean?”

  Dante said, “Anything could happen.”

  Three days later Pastor Alton was found floating in the river. The women coming down to wash their clothes found him. He had a necklace of bruises, his eyes protruding, his hands reaching out.

  The local authorities did not speculate too much. Word of his church building plans had gotten around, he was a stranger, the locals did not want change, and they did not like being forced to choose loyalties. Everyone got along if no one had to pick sides. They went to church as long as God’s Old Testament violence didn’t rear its head.

  Carol and the children were supposedly ushered away in the middle of the night, bundled with their possessions and their grief onto a plane back to the States.

  I had been used to claim another victim. But nobody asked me. Dante gave me the news in the afternoon after the new plantings shipped direct from Asia had gone into the ground. I gripped the railing and watched the Maya carry away their shovels and spades. The fresh turned earth had interred all secrets of the storm.

  The godhead was keeping up a steady beat now, the throb of drums, and pumping arteries, and bellows.

  “It’s a shame,” Dante said. “I kind of liked the fellow.”

  He had a telephone installed for Christmas, a temptation for me. It was a soothing torture to be able to pick up the phone and call my mother. But I could tell her nothing. He taunted me with that…with salvation so close to my ear. But I would not be responsible for any harm coming to her.

  When he sailed away to plunder more seed money I did not call her at all. I did not want him to be able to say that I had told her too much. He checked the phone bills when he returned.

  While Dante sat in a chair close enough to unplug the phone if I made a misstep, I was aloud to contact her, a prisoner’s one phone call. Mother’s finely tuned senses picked up on my distress, the blank canvas of emotion in my voice. “I’m buying an airplane ticket.” she told me curtly, wounded in the way that mothers are when they know something is wrong that they are not being told. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  “Oh Mom.” I tried to sound disappointed while my heart knocked in my chest. “We’ll be away at that time…No, we can’t reschedule. It’s a very important business trip.”

  Still I spent that week starting at every sound, afraid she saw through me and would show up anyway.

  She called afterwards. “How was your trip?”

  “Oh, fine thank you.”

  “You need to have a baby Isabel. You need something to focus on. I think you’re lonely.” She knew about loneliness.

  “Maybe someday,” I told her. “Right now I have the bananas.”

  “Bananas? Isabel listen to yourself. You know very well that the bananas are taken care of by your employees. You need to take care of yourself. You can come home you know. Frank would love it.”

  I doubted that Frank cared either way, but for that moment the lure of escape was so strong it made me dizzy. “Maybe next year,” I told her.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said and hung up the phone.

  The church did not hire a replacement and so the hall was boarded up awaiting Julián’s return. Occasionally in the grocery store I overheard gossip, that he had been seen in Honduras or maybe Guatemala. That he was living in squalor and ministering to the desperate. His reputation grew as big as his absence. People left flowers on the doorstep of his vacant house.

  I fell into a routine of nothingness, disappearing from myself. As the new plants reached tentatively for the sky Dante decided he wanted more from me. Julián was gone, and he was here, and we had lived long enough as man and wife that we should stop pretending. He came into my room naked underneath a hideously striped terry cloth robe, and mounted my bed and my body with no announcement or solicitation. I lay under him yielding and mute. My acquiescence, gave him an edge. It was so different from his floundering grunts in the face of my passion in the big red bed. It was easy for him to satisfy himself when I did nothing.

  It took me several weeks to realize this, and to turn and reach for him with my mouth and fingers. I tried to summon the heat in my iced emotion, but I couldn’t. I had to pretend to be hungry, to take greedy bites and pull him to me. The first time I did this he went flaccid immediately. He pushed himself off the bed and stalked away. The second night I went into his room and drew him into my mouth while he was sleeping. He inflated and filled me, his hands tangling in my hair, but when he opened his eyes and saw me crouched in the dark, a sinuous panther with his member between my teeth, he softened and lay in between my lips like a second tongue. He pulled himself away gingerly and then hit me with his closed fist. Blood filled my empty mouth.

  “Don’t ever touch me unless I ask you to,” he hissed.

  He did not seek me out again and I tasted triumph.

  After that he left me on my own and the new plants reached adolescence and began to flower.

  I thought I might survive.

  And then I learned that I was pregnant.

  I had felt strange for a while, just a little overfull, a bit stretched and shiny inside, as if I had swallowed too much sea water. I could smell the night blooming flowers so well through my window that I pulled my sheet up over my nose to dilute it. I no longer wanted coffee in the morning; the sun was too bright, the colors red and yellow made me feel nauseous. I felt hot on the outside and cold at the core. When I was certain, I kept the knowledge to myself. I dreamt at night that I gave birth to a boy with a hideous stone head and a hummingbird dagger clutched in his tiny red fist. I hated the thing that had taken me over. It drew at my life force from within, while Dante sucked without, and the godhead pulled my mind taught as a piano wire ready to ping and split.

  It sickened me, this parasite under my heart. But I was afraid to do anything but nurture it.

  As another month passed I discovered that if I talked to it I could not hear the godhead anymore, that the soothing plangent tones of lullabies and sweet nothings drowned out the maddening drone.

  I thought that perhaps this gift had been given to me, as opposed to being something that would be extracted from me. I spent any time I had alone whispering to the tiny flickering heartbeat that I sheltered in my womb.

  I pretended it had been conceived on Julián’s narrow bed on top of the woven blanket. I closed my eyes and imagined myself there, the sunshine streaming through the windows, a pitcher of flowers bright and hot against the glass.

  I knew that somehow I had to leave, to es
cape with this treasure, to steal Dante’s firstborn, a rare and precious artifact snuck out of a looted temple.

  I would have to go before he knew my condition, but that gave me two months still to plan to pilfer what money I found lying around in increments so small he would never notice.

  The first harvest was coming in and he was happy with it, the hundred and fifty acres he had replanted were all bearing fruit in various stages, a shipment would be ready next week and the industrious Mayas were already preparing for it. The new plants were hardy and green, their bracts large and magnificent, their hands of bananas spiraling upward in virile tiers. I knew I could slip away easily now. His guard was down. I told him I wanted to go shopping in the city. I had not seen the new capital. I knew he couldn’t possibly get away, but could I go just for the day, could I buy some new clothes since the banana harvest looked so lucrative?

  He didn’t even hesitate, and gave me extra money for lunch and a list of items we needed on the plantation.

  He was always a better actor than I.

  I walked down to the banana fields that morning to see them one more time, to say goodbye to my father’s dream. I ran my hand down one slender stalk remembering Julián’s hands seeing them this way. The older leaves of the plant looked slightly yellow to me and a bit droopy. I remembered the last time, the wilting tired plants, their vessels choked and gummy. I called the headman over and showed him. His brow furrowed and he sniffed at the plant, called the men around us and pointed it out. They ranged through the fields finding the same symptoms on the other plants, marring their glossy green leaves. The headman came back to me; he had shrunk in stature in the last few minutes. He stood uncertain his bare feet splay on the earth to give him strength.

  “It is the disease again.” It was back.

  “I thought this variety was supposed to be resistant to it.”

  “Resistant, but maybe not immune. We have sprayed what there is for it, we have done everything we should do. For this sickness there is no cure...no more spray. It will spread to all the plants now.”

  Banana anna fo fanna. The godhead sang. Me my mo manna.

  “Just shut up!” I screamed at it.

  The Mayan stepped backwards, glanced up at the stone and started to cross himself, thought the better of it, and stood with his hand poised in front of his throat. The other men stood impassive watching me with guarded eyes.

  I looked him in the eye, dared him to acknowledge that he had heard me scream at the statue. “What if we take down the infected ones…will that stop it?” I asked him.

  “No. This sickness travels fast, it can be carried on someone’s clothes or shoes, or a small breath of air. If some have it all have it. He should not have planted in the same place.”

  I thought of the land he had given the Maya to use, the hundred new acres where bananas had not grown before. Did they know when they chose what they were doing? Did they lean on his assumption of their stupidity to remain above suspicion?

  “When is it safe to replant?”

  He shook his head, did not meet my eyes. “Years and years, decades sometimes.”

  I lowered my voice. “He will ask if you knew this...did you?”

  This time he looked up and into my eyes, and his gaze was deep and warm black, a timeless womb of wisdom. “No ma’am of course not.”

  I nodded. “So we destroy the plantation again...burn them?”

  He looked back at the fields and waved his hand over them condemning them to death. “Burn it. Burn it all to keep it from spreading to other places and then…” he shrugged. “Then you have to plant somewhere else. You can leave.”

  Inside my ribcage a little bird beat its wings. Dante would have to come down here to hear what was happening and while he was out of the house I could get away. I could escape. I would call my mother first to warn her, to keep her safe and then I could fly. He would not even have the car. He would think I had just gone to the city, and by the time he realized what had happened we would all be safe, my parents, and me…and the baby.

  “I will tell him now,” I said.

  The little man grunted and then raised his hand to wave goodbye. “God bless you,” he said.

  I ran back to the house, my shoes in my hand. Up the stairs and into the kitchen, across the living room. He was in the bathroom just coming out. I caught him as he exited zipping his pants.

  “The men want to see you. There’s some problem. I’m off to the city.” It came out one long winded word.

  He caught my arm and held me at a distance looking into my eyes and down to my toes. “What problem?”

  “I don’t know…some sick plants or something.”

  He huffed and let go of my arm. “It’s always something with you and this place. Get to town then...it looks like the idea of getting away agrees with you.”

  I swallowed nervously, concentrated on smoothing my skirt so he could not see my expression. He was headed toward the door.

  “Dante!” I called. “I’ll need the keys.”

  He pulled them from his pocket very slowly, jingled them a moment in his palm, and then tossed them through the air to me. They landed with the weight of a bird in my hand.

  He pursed his lips and stood there a moment as though he meant to say something, but then he closed his mouth and hunched forward like an angry old lady crossing the street, marching out to see what new aggravation my plantation had drummed up.

  I ran to the phone first and tried my mother’s number. The long distance operator was taking forever. I watched the clock as ten minutes passed and knew it was taking too long. I would have to call from the city.

  I set the phone on its cradle and went to my room. I kept a shoebox in the back the closet with the money I had saved, pilfered from Dante’s pockets while he slept, from bureaus and counter tops, and under the table after poker games, and from the recesses of furniture. The money was rumpled and grimy, as dirty as the deeds it had paid for. It was enough for a plane ticket and a meal, but that was all.

  Nested among the stolen bills, lay the hummingbird dagger Dante had gifted to me on the day I discovered the godhead. I had hidden it so that I could not hear her siren call. I had sent myself off to sleep many times with the image of sinking it into the soft folds of Dante’s throat. I was tempted by its sinister beauty. It felt warm and weighty in my hand, vibrating in my palm and singing to my blood. I slid it down along my hip line, secure and accessible beneath my underclothes.

  On my way through the living room I took my father’s picture. I left the frame in the bookshelf and tucked the photograph into my purse.

  I could hear Dante’s raised voice now demanding satisfactory answers from the men. I crept around the door and onto the veranda darting to the back stairs. I did not want to distract him. The god head thumped and bumped sending little warning tremors in my direction, but I did not care. “It’s all yours.” I told it. “The whole murderous place. Have at it.”

  I walked to the car as calmly as I could, trying not to look anxious. I started the engine and crept out of the drive, careful not to churn up the new gravel. It took forever to reach the road, my eyes flicking back and forth between the rearview mirror and the drive in front of me.

  At any second I was sure that Dante would sense my plan, feel it shake the air, taste the temperature of my fear like a reptile. Nothing happened, and then I was on the road headed toward Belmopan, and nothing was stopping me.

  I went as fast as I thought I could safely go, staring straight ahead through the chasm of green forest. There were no breakdowns or washouts, all the trees had been cleared. It was providence.

  I talked to the baby about America, and his grandparents and the clean and structured life he could anticipate there, the order and the safety.

  The city sprang up suddenly in the heart of the canopy, lolling across a valley filled with square buildings and crisscrossed roads. I paid little attention to the sights. It had been three hours since I had left. I stopped for gas
oline and asked the attendant the directions for the airport.

  “Ju drive north ‘til ju nohweh agin and deh de airport es.” He was missing most of his front teeth. “Ef ju get lost, ju jus’ look up at de sky. Look fo planes.”

  I thanked him and headed north, finding the airport without any problem. I parked the car and cleaned out the glove compartment. I locked all the doors and threw the keys in a trash bin at the door to the terminal.

  It was a small airport, a third world airport, one large room full of sticky benches and tired people. A couple vendors listlessly hawked limp offerings. A fan churned in the window its bearings strained tinka tinka tinka. A security officer leaned against the wall dozing, his gun holstered and slung low on his thin hips. Out on the tarmac one plane sat, a small two engine prop probably held together with Elmer’s glue and tinfoil. My ride back to life. The pilot stood outside at the bottom of the steps smoking a cigarette, his epaulets glinting in the sun.

  I inquired about the next flight and was told it would take off within the hour. It was going to Mexico City. I bought my ticket and began to remember how to breathe. Mexico City was ideal. I could go anywhere in the world from there. I found a payphone and fed it a good deal of my hoarded change trying to reach my mother. Each coin a different tone. The operator finally connected us. It rang once… twice… three times… Then a long brown finger reached over my shoulder and disconnected me.

  I turned to find Nacho, his smile toothy and bland. “De boss man say to take ju home.”

  He had his knife clenched furtively in one hand, but he did not need to use it. I was dead already.

  I followed him without protest out to a gray sedan. I sat in the front seat and stared at the cracked dashboard all the way back to the plantation. The dagger sparked and tremored against my thigh, but I did not want to use it now. Nacho was not my quarry.

  It was dark as we came to the road leading to the house, but I could see a red glow on the horizon. It lit the underbellies of the clouds with a wicked light. As we came around the curve I saw meteors of embers stretched and streaking across the ground. Pits of flame erupted here and there shooting sparks into the cocoon of crimson sky. All of the fields had been burnt to the ground right up to the perimeter of the house where the godhead basked in the glimmer.