The pool parking lot was a field, not unlike the field on which the tent sat, only with large pecan trees that cast a generous shade over the parked cars. Kids and grown-ups lazed against the cars or strolled casually between them, arms and legs long, brown, and naked, chests and bellies forested with thick black hair or smooth as stones. Swimsuits stretched tight over curves that dipped and swelled, a mound of breast here, a crescent of white buttock over there. So much skin. The tent boys dropped their jaws. I knew how they felt. My mother screamed and crossed her arms over her chest if I caught a glimpse of her in a full slip. Gary stared and pointed up into the trees. “Look. Look.”
“It’s a bird,” I said, but my eyes never left the bodies around us.
Doors slammed and Randall, Pam, and John were at the back of the pickup, letting down the tailgate. The seven of us stood there for a moment, feeling exposed and unsure what to do or where to go. The two tent boys shoved their hands as far into their pockets as they would go, hunched their shoulders, and pulled their heads in like turtles. Randall slapped one on his back. “Come on outta there, Lynn. Let’s have some fun.”
“This way, kids.” John led us toward a clump of buildings in the distance.
Uneasiness mounted as we approached the line of kids waiting to enter the pool. Most wore swimsuits, but some were still clothed, in shorts and sleeveless shirts mostly. They turned to look as we joined the line, all of us dressed in what appeared to be our Sunday best.
“Why don’t they mind their own beeswax,” Pam muttered. I shrugged and focused my attention on the ant that crawled into a crack between the light-green cinder-block walls. The girl in front of me leaned one tanned arm against the wall. She threw the other one around her friend. Someone yelled. Someone else laughed. Another ant moved into the crack. Pam pushed me forward until we stood on wet cement looking out at the long pool. Grass and boulders lined the sides. Little boys cannonballed into the water. Teenage girls in twopiece suits rode atop the shoulders of boys and wrestled other girls on other shoulders. Kids walked through the water with their eyes closed and their arms extended in front calling out, “Marco! Polo!” Everyone smiling. Water flying. Bodies glistening. “Marco! Polo!”
John nudged Pam and me toward a small room. “Go get ready in there. Then come on out.” The dressing room was a revelation. I didn’t know where to put my eyes. Naked women sat on benches pulling on or peeling off swimsuits, talking to one another or to their kids.
“And then I told him if he wanted someone to do that, he’d better find a new wife.”
“Wait, Jimmy. Over there. Shelly, come here.”
One of the women smiled at me. I looked down. Pam pulled me into a small stall with a curtain. We unbuttoned each other’s dresses, took off our slips, and put our dresses back on. I took my shoes and socks off. My toes spread in all directions on the damp concrete. With crinolines and shoes in hand we tiptoed out of the dressing room toward the pool. Randall, John, Gary, and the tent boys stood there in their black pants and long-sleeved white shirts holding their shoes, socks, and belts. Randall’s grin took up his entire face. He bounced up and down on his naked feet.
“Come on. Let’s go. Let’s go.”
We placed our shoes and other things on a dry patch of ground and walked over to the white concrete steps. John put Gary on his shoulders and he and Randall ran down the steps into the water, leading with their bellies. They began splashing each other as soon as they hit the pool. Pam told the tent boys to go ahead, and they descended into the water with slow, measured steps, hands white-knuckling the rail.
Randall splashed at them. “Come on, y’all. This ain’t no baptism.” The tent boys assumed a martyred air as the locals retreated toward the sides and the deep end of the pool.
Pam pulled at my hand. “Our turn.” I kept my eyes fastened to her back as we walked down the steps. My ears thrummed. We moved oh so slowly. The water tugged at my legs like quicksand, only cold. I had not expected it to be so cold. Little waves lapped at my knees and thighs. Chill bumps popped up on my arms and legs. Our dresses floated open like flowers around the white stems of our legs as we stepped down into the pool. I didn’t know what to do, so I began to move slowly from right to left, watching my dress trail behind. I looked anywhere, everywhere, except at the kids staring at us.
Randall pointed at me and Pam. “I see your panties, both of you.”
John shushed him. We walked back to the steps, tied the hems of our dresses around our thighs, then waded back in the water. Randall splashed us and we splashed back. The splashing helped us pretend that we didn’t care if people stared at us, didn’t care that we were in a public pool fully clothed, and after a while we really didn’t care. John took Gary off his shoulders and began to swing him through the water, holding him under his arms. Gary laughed so hard he started to cough. The two tent boys hoisted themselves out of the water and sat on the side of the pool, determined to remain apart or unable to overcome their sense of separateness. The rest of us played sharks, pirates, mermaids, even Marco Polo. Pam figured out how to swim underwater and we had contests to see who could hold her breath for the longest time. She won. Groups of local kids gradually made their way back to the shallows and resumed their games. If they ventured too close, we glared and they backed off. Riding in the back of the truck on the way home, I thought about how happy everyone at the pool seemed. They either didn’t know or didn’t care that they were practically naked and on their way to hell.
Chapter Eight
IN HOT SPRINGS, BROTHER TERRELL OPENED THE LITTLE HALF DOOR AT the back of the platform and walked to the center of the stage with his head slightly down, chin tucked in. After weeks of fasting, his shoulders were coat-hanger thin and his shirt billowed about when he moved, almost as if there were no one inside. Every week his black belt snaked a little farther around his waist. Soon it would touch his back. He took the microphone from Brother Cotton and began to speak in the middle of the chorus.
“Y’all ever been tempted? It’s a lonely place to be.”
The singing died away and the crowd sat silent.
“Bathsheba tempted David and he murdered a man. Delilah seduced Samson and destroyed him. Jezebel caused a king and an entire nation to stray with her painted lips and idols.”
Jezebel. The pagan princess who painted her face and seduced the king of Israel into marrying her. Jezebel. Thrown from the castle window and devoured by dogs who left only her skull, hands, and feet. I saw her severed hands lying there in the street, rings stacked on slender fingers that ended in long red nails. The sun reflecting off gold sandals crisscrossing her tiny, unbloodied feet. Her skull rolling to a stop against the curb. She never should have worn all that makeup. I tore the Kleenex Laverne had given me in half and wrapped one piece around each of two small sticks I had fished from the sawdust, glad Pam couldn’t see me making ladies out of sticks and Kleenex.
“Seems like every time a man of God falls, there’s a woman in the picture.”
“That’s right, there is.”
“Uh-huh. Preach it, brother.”
He stumbled and one of the preachers brought him a chair. He sat, reconsidered, and stood again. “You women who set your cap for a preacher better be careful not to end up like Jezebel.”
Brother Terrell moved the folding chair aside and began to walk up and down the platform. His steps grew steadier and his voice stronger as he paced.
“You women like to fix yourselves up to look good. Even you holiness women.” He dropped the microphone and let it hang from the cord around his neck. With one hand on his hip and the other crooked at the arm so that his hand flapped in the air, he pranced forward on his toes, hips swaying. He pitched his voice to falsetto. “Why, I just want to look nice. Nothing wrong with that.” His voice fell back to its normal timbre. “And you smear on a little more of that tinted chapstick.” Again he mimicked a female voice. “It’s flesh-colored. Nothing wrong with that.”
The women who sat arou
nd me fidgeted and shifted in their seats. Brother Terrell didn’t mince words. He preached the Word and he preached it like it was a double-edged sword. It hurt sometimes, but they came to hear the truth and that’s what he gave them. Besides, he was really talking about women like Sister Corinne two rows back. She had been looking a little like the world lately, hadn’t she? Brother Terrell dropped the falsetto and laughed. They laughed with him, relieved, a bit more at ease. They met one another’s eyes and shook their heads. That Brother Terrell. He was something, wasn’t he?
An electronic screech shot through the speakers as Brother Terrell grabbed the microphone again and began to yell directly into it. “Pretty soon there’s nothing wrong with anything and the flesh has got you. It’s the flesh you gotta watch out for.”
His body trembled and the tremble grew stronger until he shook all over. He was gripped by a power that would not let him go. It arched his back and propelled him across the platform. Its voice tore through him and came out as a loud rasp. “It’s the flesh you got to deny, mortify, crucify. If you don’t, you’re worth nothing. I said you’re worth nothing to God. Did you hear me? You may as well be fed to the dogs.”
He reached the edge of the platform and teetered there as if about to tumble into a ravine. Before Brother Cotton could reach him, he jumped onto the prayer ramp and ran up and down, screaming, “Harlots! Hussies! Jezebels!” His face turned red and the veins on his neck popped out. “You women who wear your pants so tight a man can see your crack.”
He stopped suddenly and faced the audience straight-on. “You women who tempt the men of God to lust, and cause them to forget their calling. The wrath of the Almighty will fall upon your heads and there won’t be enough of you left for the dogs to eat.”
He pulled a folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his brow again, and threw it onto the sawdust. A man and a woman dived for it, scrambling to grab hold of its miracle-working powers. The man came up with the cloth, holding it stretched out above his head like a prize, one end in each hand. The woman shrugged and turned to go back to her seat.
“Wait a minute, ma’am. Here you go. Here’s another one.” Brother Terrell took a second handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and threw it to her. She caught it and walked back to her chair bucking at the waist, waving the cloth in front of her.
The evangelistic team huddled around Brother Terrell after the service that night, congratulating him on a powerful sermon. He leaned against the outside railing of the prayer ramp. He always left the platform exhausted, but lately he could barely stand at the end of a service. He fingered his keys in his pockets and stared past us. “I can feel the powers of the enemy. He’s trying, he’s gathering against us. I feel it . . . in my soul. The devil, he’s, uh, he’s getting ready to test us.” He paused and fidgeted. “Something big . . . I don’t know what. Remember what Jesus said about the demons, that some, uh, some respond only to prayer and fasting. We got to . . . you know, we need to be ready.” Everyone waited for him to say more, something about how to get ready, maybe, but he was finished.
Mama spoke first. “Brother Terrell, we want to stand with you.”
“Thank you, Sister Johnson. Those of you who are able, it would be good if you stay and pray with me.”
The praying lasted a long time that night. Voices lowed, “Ooooooooh God. Oooooooh God.” In the dim after-hours lighting, shadowy figures glided up and down the sawdust aisles and around the periphery of the darkened tent. I watched the thin smudge of my mother move across the tent. She threaded her way through rows of chairs and disappeared in the twilight that lay beyond the reach of the light and just this side of the night.
I woke to Mama’s hands under my shoulders, pulling me up. My body felt thick and heavy as a tree stump. “Is it the middle of the night?” I always wanted to wake up in the middle of the night. No answer.
“I’m worried he’s gonna fast hisself to death.” My mother’s voice sounded strained, higher than usual.
Brother Cotton nodded. “I don’t know how he’s standing up under the stress. The churches are pulling back on their support, the Klan threatening him night and day. The crowds aren’t what they should be. He’s carrying the burden for a lost and dying world by himself.”
Dockery sat up suddenly. “Has anyone seen Brother Terrell in the last hour or so?” After the altercation with the Klan and the threats and beatings, Dockery made sure someone stayed with Brother Terrell at all times when he was at the tent.
Brother Cotton cleared his throat. “He left a little while ago.”
“Where’d he go?”
“He said he needed to take Sarah back to her room. Said he wouldn’t be gone long.”
My mother’s lips pursed, then relaxed. She exhaled through her nostrils and they flared, the way they did when she was mad. Betty Ann sat stiff-backed, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. She placed her gaze someplace beyond us. Sarah, tall and thin with long soft hair that flipped on the ends. She worked in Brother Terrell’s office in Greenville, South Carolina, scheduling crusades, opening mail, and taking out checks and money orders to put them in the bank. She smiled at Pam and me like we were her special friends. When we played grown-ups, Pam always got to be Sarah. I picked up one of the stick ladies I had dropped when I fell asleep and twirled her between my fingers. Her Kleenex dress floated through the air. Pretty.
“Mama, what is lust?” She whirled around from the kitchen sink. Soapsuds drooled from her hands onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Where did you hear that word?”
“I heard it in church. Brother Terrell talked about it the other night. You know, the night he took Sarah home.”
She looked down at the puddle of suds on the floor. “I might have known you’d be paying attention at that moment.” She tossed a dish towel to me and turned back to the sink.
“Wipe that up.”
I wiped up the suds and handed the towel back to her. “Do men lust after you?”
Her back stiffened. “Donna Marie, did anyone ever tell you that children are to be seen and not heard?
“But . . .” I dropped the subject. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Of course.”
“Pam’s prettier.”
“Pretty is as pretty does.”
“What does that mean?”
Mama dried her hands, turned around, and put her hands on my shoulders. “It means how you treat people matters more than how you look.” She cupped my chin, tried to run her fingers through my hair, and ran into a nest of tangles. I gritted my teeth.
“You’re supposed to brush your hair occasionally.”
“I do brush it, occasionally.”
“When’s the last time you washed it?”
I didn’t want to get caught lying. “A few days ago.”
“Come on, let’s pretty you up a little.”
“But . . . you said . . .” My arms and legs went heavy with dread.
“This will be fun.”
It was not fun. First Mama put me in the tub and tried to scrub the skin off my arms, legs, neck, and even my ears. “Why do you rub so hard?”
“Because you don’t use soap when you bathe yourself. Now close your eyes and let’s wash your hair.”
I looked up at the ceiling and shut my eyes tight. Mama laid her hand on my forehead to keep the shampoo from running into my eyes. It didn’t work. “It’s burning. It’s burning.” I jerked my head up and thrashed my legs. More shampoo ran into my eyes.
“No, no. Please, no.”
With one hand under my head and the other pushing down on my chest, she held me under the faucet.
“Don’t. Don’t.” The water ran over my forehead and into my nose. I gasped for breath and swallowed a mouthful of water. “I’m drowning. Let me up. Please.”
By the time she helped me out of the tub, we were exhausted. We still had to comb the tangles out of my hair, roll the slippery strands onto the pink sponge roller
s, and sit around and wait for the curls to dry. I had to be careful how I played (no chase, no bungled cartwheel attempts), careful how I turned my head (not too fast), and careful how I sat (no rolling my head from side to side on the back of the couch). By the end of the afternoon, I was exhausted.
“Donna Marie, hold still.” Mama sat on the side of the bed and I stood in front of her. She emphasized each word with a little jerk on the pink sponge curlers she pulled from my hair.
“It hurts.”
Mama wrapped each curl around her finger and shellacked it with hair spray. My hair felt hard and prickly against my neck.
“Now hold your arms up and let’s get your petticoat on.”
“But it itches.”
“Hold your arms up.”
I thrust my lip out and my hands into the air. The petticoat pricked my skin as it fell over my shoulders and around my waist.
“Now, step into your dress.”
I stomped into the dress she held open at my feet. She pulled it up, fastened the buttons on the back, and tied the sash.
“Put these on.” She handed me a pair of white ruffled socks and my church shoes, black patent-leather Mary Janes.
“Try not to scuff your shoes tonight. Now, let me see you.”
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