Holy Ghost Girl

by Donna M. Johnson

  “Let’s move straight to prayer tonight. We ask you, Father, to hide us behind the cross. Cover us with your blood, Jesus. Deliver us from our enemies. Pray with me, people. There’s an evil gathering against us. God is our only defense.”

  Brother Terrell walked away from the pulpit and fell to his knees in the middle of the platform, rocking back and forth. “Oh God. Oh . . . oh God. . . . Throw up a hedge, Lord. Protect us from the powers of the enemy.”

  The ministers on the platform knelt at their seats. My mother knelt beside the organ stool. Across the audience, people slipped from their chairs onto their knees and began to plead with God for protection. Betty Ann told Pam and me to bow our heads and pray, and she, too, began to keen.

  “Oooooooooooooh God . . . Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy. Oooooooooooooh God . . .”

  Brother Terrell paced the platform and exhorted us to call out. People all around us entered into what we called travail, a weeping and mourning that came when the worst had happened or was about to happen. In travail we experienced the emotion of the situation, wrestled with it in prayer, and believed we could change it. It was as if we could sense the onset of some evil, could hear its heartbeat as it approached, but could not see or name it. The woman kneeling next to me prayed aloud and with her eyes open wide. Her lips exposed her teeth in a weird half grin, half grimace. She made a strange highpitched sound.

  “Neh, neh, neh, neh, neh, neh, neh.”

  A collective wail rose from the congregation. We didn’t know what we needed protection from at that point, but when Brother Terrell told us the enemy threatened us, we believed him. The wailing went on for about forty-five minutes, reached a crescendo, softened, and died away. By the time we took our seats again, it was dark outside.

  Brother Terrell flipped open his Bible just as a long line of cars began to turn from the highway onto the tent grounds. Usually when people arrived late, they switched their lights off to avoid creating a distraction, but these cars kept their lights on, and instead of parking, they circled the tent. Betty Ann’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as she watched them. People turned and stared over their shoulders. A black woman sitting close to us murmured, “Lord, Lord, Lord.”

  Brother Terrell glanced up, and then looked down at his Bible as if nothing were amiss.

  “Turn with me to Second Corinthians, chapter four, verse eight: ‘We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed . . .’ ”

  Around and around the cars drove, maybe twenty, maybe more, high beams glaring. When they finally came to a stop, they left their lights on, pointing toward us. After a minute or two, people turned toward the front in their chairs and opened their Bibles. They tried to focus on Brother Terrell, tried to take in the encouragement he plucked from the scripture, but the car lights beamed a steady stream of anxiety our way.

  “We need to keep our minds on God tonight, people, no matter what the devil throws at us.”

  Pam and I asked Betty Ann what was going on. She put her finger to her lips and told us to pay attention as she always did. Her hands worked the handkerchief she held beneath her swollen pregnant belly, twisting it back and forth until it was the shape of a dog bone. She asked Pam if she knew where Randall might be. Pam raised her eyebrows and arranged her face in the self-righteous expression we wore when we referred to the morally and spiritually inferior. “Mama, there’s just no telling.”

  As she scanned the audience for her brother, the prim look on her face turned to shock. I followed the line of her raised arm and pointed finger. Twenty, fifty, a hundred figures in long white robes materialized along the perimeter of the tent. Black eyeholes gaped out of tall, pointed heads. Backlit by the headlights, the apparitions billowed and glowed like angels of destruction, or one of the hybrid creatures that roamed the end of time in the Book of Revelation. The hair on my legs and arms stood up. The end of time. The moon would turn to blood. Stars would fall, trumpets would sound, and the veil between heaven and Earth would be rent. I wanted my mother. She sat behind the organ, hand over her mouth. All around us, people turned and whispered. Pam worked herself into the crevice between her mother’s arm and body. Betty Ann bounced Gary on her lap until he started to cry, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  She whispered, “Where’s Randall? Where’s Randall?” Her eyes rolled across the tent looking for a blue checked shirt.

  Brother Terrell called to us from the platform. “Please, let’s keep our minds on worshipping God here tonight. Don’t let the devil scare you. That’s what he wants to do, scare you.”

  The devil. That explained why the adults were so scared. I shut my eyes tight and pled the blood of Jesus in silence, the way the adults did when Brother Terrell cast out demons.

  “The blood of Jesus, the blood of Jesus, the blood of Jesus. I plead the blood of Jesus.”

  I opened my eyes. Lines of black people shuffled down the sawdust aisles. The woman who sat in front of us pulled three kids, two little boys and a girl of about ten, off the pallet she had spread for them. She shook out the quilt and folded it in half, bringing one end under her chin and holding the other in her long outstretched arm; the edges matched just so, her movements slow and meticulous. She repeated the process and handed the quilt to the girl. Her daughter, that’s her daughter. She pulled a creased paper bag from her purse, placed the jar of water and the saltines the boys had snacked on earlier into the sack and handed it to her daughter. Her right arm settled on the girl’s shoulders as her left hand snapped shut around the wrists of the boys. They joined the exodus. Some said angels led the people safely through the white robes. Others said the Klan never intended to hurt us; they only meant to scare us. If that were so, they only partially succeeded. The woman and her children did not seem frightened, and neither did the others who left the tent that night. Bone-weary, but not afraid.

  Those of us who remained were scared to death. A smattering of whites sat twisted in their seats, staring out at the robed figures. The crowd in Bossier City had been about half that of other towns, and now with a third of the audience leaving, the tent was almost empty. Quiet, too, except for the sigh of bodies in motion and the shuffling of feet on the ground. A woman a few rows ahead of us licked her lips constantly. A few men and women caught one another’s eyes and raised their brows, as if to ask, “What now?” Everyone looked ready to leave, if only they didn’t have to pass through those white robes. Several of the devils stood behind and to the side of where we sat. I cut my eyes toward them, and noticed for the first time the pant legs and shoes, regular men’s shoes, beneath the hems of their robes.

  Up on the platform, Brother Terrell tried again to regain his audience. “Let’s focus our attention on the Lord. A time is coming in this country when God’s people will worship without fear. Amen?”

  A dry cough and the whimper of a child were his only answers.

  He tried again. “I said there is coming a time when the powers of this world will fade away and God’s kingdom will last forever. The lion and the lamb will lay down together. Amen?”

  Not a single amen floated up.

  “Don’t lay down and die on me tonight. I said there is coming a time when the devil will be defeated once and for all! Now, can I get a real amen?”

  A lone voice called out of the silence. “CERTAINLY!”

  The shout came from the other side of the tent. Brother Terrell put his hand to his eyes and peered through the spotlights.

  “Well, that’s not an amen, but bless God, I’ll take it. When the devil wins one battle you got to believe there will be another battle, one you can win with God’s help. Amen?”

  “CERTAINLY!”

  Brother Terrell paced the platform and his words picked up speed as he moved. “You got to fast and pray until you’ve put on the whole armor of God. Then you got to go back out and win the next battle. Because there will be a next one and a next one until righteousnes
s triumphs over evil, hallelujah.”

  He took out his handkerchief and mopped the sweat off his brow.

  “Ain’t that right?”

  “CERTAINLY!”

  Brother Terrell started to laugh.

  “Well, Certainly, whoever you are, come on up here. I want to get a good look at a man who ain’t afraid to speak up when the devil is looking him in the face.”

  A small man stood up on the left side of the tent and walked toward Brother Terrell. He wore a plaid sports jacket, dark pants, and a white shirt, all of which were at least two sizes too big. His short gray hair stuck up like pinfeathers. Brother Terrell left the platform and met him in front of the prayer ramp with his hand outstretched. He grabbed the little man around the shoulders and began to drag him back and forth in front of the audience. Certainly’s jacket flapped around him as they walked. People began to turn from the white robes and back toward Brother Terrell.

  “Bless God, they’s some people will stand with you no matter who or what is standing against you . . . ain’t that right?”

  The man blanched when Brother Terrell stuck the microphone in his face.

  “Yes, sir, I . . . I . . . guess that’s right.”

  “They’s some people won’t back down when the devil takes a pitchfork after ’em. Ain’t that right too?”

  “Yes, sir, Brother Terrell.” Certainly seemed to grow more confident with each step.

  “Some people when you ask ’em to say amen, they don’t just say amen. They say . . .” Brother Terrell turned toward the man beside him. “What was it you said?”

  The man hesitated, then took the microphone, leaned back as far as he could, and whipped his body forward as the word shot out of his mouth. “CERTAINLY!”

  “Look, saints. Look, Brother Certainly. I b’lieve you scared the devils. I b’lieve they’ve turned tail and run.”

  We turned in our chairs. The white robes were stomping back to their cars and the cars were backing up and pulling away, the glare of their headlights finally receding. Brother Terrell ran up and down the aisles, dragging Certainly by the hand.

  “We may not have won the battle tonight, but we didn’t lose it either. God protected us with his shield.”

  Brother Terrell urged us to have courage, to have faith, to hold on. He told us that our brothers and sisters would be back, that we would raise our hands and pray together again. That God was still in his heaven, still in charge, and that in the end, we would be the victors. People wanted to believe him. They clapped their hands because they knew that’s what they were supposed to do. They said amen and hallelujah, but their voices fell flat. Brother Terrell took his white handkerchief out of his breast pocket and mopped his face.

  “You know what we need tonight? We need a victory march. Sister Johnson, play us a victory march.”

  My mother played the opening notes of “When the Saints Go Marching In” and Brother Terrell pounded out the rhythm with his fist and sang.

  Oh when the saints go marching in

  Oh when the saints go marching in,

  Oh, Lord, we want to be in that number . . .

  The ministers on the platform marched down the prayer ramp and queued up behind Brother Terrell. They shot one another quick, nervous looks as if they were on their way to a firing squad. Brother Terrell seemed determined not to notice how sick at heart everyone felt. As they proceeded down the aisle and around the tent, he pumped his arms and legs and grinned like a maniac. He marched with his hand in the air. He beat the tambourine double-time. He danced with his hand on his hip, stepping back, then shuffling forward. He spoke in tongues: “Lama bahia ma so may oh me la bahandala.” He acted as if the hosts of heaven had paid us a visit instead of a bunch of men wrapped in bedsheets. When he passed our section, Betty Ann, Pam, Gary, and I joined him. My mother left the organ and marched with us. Oh, Lord, we wanted to be in that number, but mostly we didn’t want Brother Terrell to march alone.

  The crowd did not respond. Whether from fear of the Klan returning to the tent or of waking later that night to the sound of breaking glass and a cross burning, they remained in their seats. Brother Terrell would not give up.

  When the Klan is dead and gone

  When the Ku Klux Klan is gone

  Oh, Lord, we want to be in that number . . .

  Maybe people began to feel sorry for Brother Terrell or maybe they realized there was something to dancing like a madman in the face of fear and adversity. On about the second or third turn around the tent, a few folks from each section joined us. We were fifty, then one hundred, five hundred, a thousand, maybe more. Sometimes we tripped over a tentpole or a rope, but we picked ourselves up and marched on. Betty Ann spotted Randall leaning against a curtain pole and grabbed him by the ear. She pulled him into line and pushed him along in front of her round, swaying stomach. We marched until our legs grew heavy. We smiled until our faces hurt. We sang until our voices overwhelmed the dread inside us. Finally, Brother Terrell, my mother, and other members of the team made their way back to the platform and the rest of us drifted back to our seats. Mama took her seat at the Hammond and began to play a slow, soft hymn. From the platform, Brother Terrell urged people not to let fear keep them away.

  “Don’t be afraid to come back. We’ll be here three times a day tomorrow and every day for the next few weeks. Now hug your neighbor around the neck and tell ’em you’ll see ’em here tomorrow.”

  Once the crowd cleared, Brother Terrell gathered the evangelistic team together behind the platform and asked everyone to stay and pray for a few hours. “We haven’t seen the end of this. I feel like they’ll be back, and we need to make sure we have what it takes to stand firm.”

  The four of us kids fell asleep on a pallet of quilts in front of the altar and were awakened by yelling. Randall jumped up. Pam and I moved slower. Unsure for a moment whether I was dreaming or awake, I watched a group of adults across the tent pull into a tight little circle, scatter apart, then collide one against the other, hard, harder, in a fierce, weird dance. Randall called, “Daddy. Look out!” Brother Terrell turned and threw up his bad arm to shield his face just as a wooden folding chair wielded by a short bald man crashed over him. He howled like a cat with his tail on fire. Mama came up behind the man attacking Brother Terrell and brought another chair down over his head, then turned and ran. Go, Mama. Go. Go. The man tried to catch her but was brought down by two tent men. The women screamed and screamed. A police car drove up, lights flashing, and two lawmen got out and waded into the fray, threatening to take everyone to jail. The voices grew quiet and the bodies drifted together again, softly this time. I spotted Mama, chin thrust out, hands moving like birds as she talked to the policemen. Brother Terrell and the tent men told us later they recognized the faces of the three men who had shown up earlier that night among the attackers.

  The black people stayed away from the next day’s services. Brother Terrell asked everyone to remain in prayer for the safety of those who had been driven out by hatred. I thought of the three kids I had watched pack up and leave the night before.

  Please let them be okay. Please let them be okay. Please.

  That evening as the sun flamed out in the windows of the old Fords, Chevys, and Buicks that rimmed the field, the black portion of our congregation gathered in little groups just outside the tent and stood throughout the service. Their numbers increased throughout the week, even as the white audience dwindled.

  The Klan did not come back in uniform, but we found several anonymous letters on our porch. The writer of one threatened to cut the unborn baby from Betty Ann’s body if we didn’t leave town. Brother Terrell ended the revival early. He told what was left of the congregation that he wasn’t tucking his tail between his legs and running from the devil. He cast our retreat as a victory of sorts. “It may look like we’ve lost the battle, but we haven’t. We stood up to the devil. We showed him we’re not afraid. There is coming a time when those who hide behind the sheets will be spat upo
n as the scourge of the earth. There’s coming a time when people of all colors will worship together in spirit and in truth, and that’s thus saith the Lord.”

  Until the dawn of that Edenic age, there would be a new seating arrangement: blacks on one side of the tent, whites on the other, with a sawdust aisle in between. It was for the safety of the congregation, the evangelistic team, and his family. He began every revival with an announcement of the segregated sections.

  “They threatened to cut the baby out of Sister Terrell’s stomach. They’d do it too. Y’all know who I’m talkin’ about.” Blacks and whites nodded. “Now before we move on in the service, I want those of you who are white to cross the aisle and hug the necks of your brothers and sisters. Tell ’em Jesus loves them and you do too.” That, at least, we could do.

  Chapter Six

  THE END WAS ALWAYS UPON US AND THE SITUATION ALWAYS DIRE. THE revival in Bossier City just upped the ante. Unable to recoup the thousands he had spent on the revival, Brother Terrell left Bossier City owing everyone in town, plus the monthly equipment payments and staff salaries. It all added up to what Brother Terrell called his financial burden, and it got worse with each revival. If we didn’t raise a certain amount of money, we would lose the tent or the eighteen-wheeler or the sound system. Millions would die and go to hell. Their blood would be on our hands. Meanwhile, we had our own blood to worry about. As tensions increased in the South, the three-foot-wide aisle that divided black from white did not satisfy the more violent racists. Brother Terrell was beaten a few more times. One story has cops looking on as one thug holds Brother Terrell and another slugs away. Harassment by local officials increased. Our speakers were always too loud, the aisles in the tent too narrow, and the electrical system not quite up to code. Everything about us disturbed the peace. Authorities threatened to charge Brother Terrell with practicing medicine without a license, a tool that had been used before against faithhealing evangelists. One set of cops dropped all pretense and said they were taking him to jail for preaching to a mixed-race crowd. Brother Terrell grinned and held out his wrists to be handcuffed. “Last I heard that wasn’t illegal, but at least you boys are honest,” he said.