Deadly Charm

by Claudia Mair Burney

  I scowled at him. “Thunder Ministries is a virtual laboratory of religious pathology.”

  “If you ask me, you just described all Pentecostals.”

  “Jazz! Your own mother is Pentecostal.”

  “That’s how I know.”

  “Then you might want to keep in mind I didn’t ask you.” I chuckled. “Addie would be very disappointed if she heard you talk about her like that.”

  “I don’t have a problem with Mom. I have a problem with the nutjobs she forced me to endure. You wouldn’t believe! I could tell you stories—”

  “No need. I’ve got my own charismatic tales I could thrill you with, including my glorious appearance on television this morning.”

  “Yeah. You got shot with Sister Lou’s Holy Ghost machine gun.”

  Jazz suffered a similar fate at the hand of Benny Hinn himself. It scarred poor Jazzy for life.

  I sighed. “Are you going to be able to handle her, Jazz?”

  “I’m Joe Friday, baby. Just the facts, ma’am, and I’m out.”

  Or so he said.

  We reached the Rock House and headed inside. The church was bustling with meeting after meeting going on, and a visibly upset Rocky was trying to prepare for dealing with the media and the now high-profile event that would be Zeekie’s funeral.

  After a bit of looking around, we finally found Sister Lou in the sanctuary. She sat, a frail-looking, solitary figure, in the first pew, which my great-grandmother always called “the Holy Ghost pew.” She believed things happened at an altar, and the first row put you right in front of the action. The better for the Holy Ghost to move on you.

  Sister Lou sat with crossed arms, holding herself, and rocking back and forth. The attitude I’d come to hate seemed to have abandoned her. She looked about as intimidating as a five-year-old girl. I shot a look at Jazz. He shrugged his shoulder and gestured for me to speak to her.

  “Sister Lou?”

  Her attitude arrived as soon as she turned and saw it was me calling her name.

  “What you want, gal?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Zeekie.”

  She turned her head away and faced the cross hanging above the pulpit before her. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” She punctuated her scripture quoting with a burst of unknown tongues that, quite frankly, sounded like Klingon. She did look and act like Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation, only she wasn’t as attractive or likable.

  I couldn’t afford to get too close to the Chantilly smell. “I’m trying to figure out exactly how the Lord tooketh away.”

  With a sharp turn of her head, she faced me. “You know ’bout all there is to know.”

  “I just want a few more details.”

  “Why?”

  Sister Lou was definitely a hostile witness.

  I used my calming psychologist voice. “The death of a loved one is hard, Sister Lou, and the death of a child even more so. I’m trying to offer my meager skills to help everyone come to terms with this tragedy. It’s the least I can do.” I meant that sincerely. Mostly.

  “Ain’t no terms to come to.” She turned her attention to Jazz. Looked him up and down, and I can’t say I blamed her.

  She crooked her finger at him. Jazz shook his head no. He slanted his body away from her and crossed his arms. Emotional body armor? Check!

  Sister Lou narrowed her eyes when he didn’t respond to her “come here” gesture. She got up and pointed her claw at him.

  “You ain’t right,” she hissed at Jazz.

  “Ma’am,” Jazz said, tight-jawed. His voice remained steady, as if he were dealing with a mob of angry thugs rather than an old prayer warrior. “We’re inquiring about Zeekie because we’re concerned.”

  She didn’t buy that anymore than the thugs would.

  Again she hissed, moving closer to him. “I can see it all over you.”

  Jazz looked at me. I could tell Sister Lou was about to add another chapter to his book of Pentecostal horror stories. I tried to stand between the two of them, having known this woman’s wrath. My own humiliation at this woman’s hands, now complete after CNN, ensured I had nothing left to lose.

  “Sister Lou,” I said. I tried to get her to back down. With Jazz’s history of Pentecostals giving him the willies, I didn’t know what would happen if he had another spiritual trauma. “Why don’t we just slow down?”

  She seemed to consider what I said. She backed up and returned to the pew where we’d found her when we arrived. Only, rather than sit down, she reached beneath the pew and pulled out a few miracle prosperity oil packets, packaged like convenience condiments at a hot dog stand. She tore one open with her teeth and rubbed it on her hands.

  “Ummm hmm,” she uttered. “I’m gon’ need some reinforcements for this kind. This kind don’t come out but for fasting an’ soaking prayer. I been intercedin’ all mornin’ for him.”

  Goose bumps rippled across my arms. “Awww, shoot.”

  Sister Lou stalked toward us again, speaking in Klingon. “HIja HIgos.” I’m not going to make a case for or against the gift of speaking in other tongues, but honestly! I’m almost sure Worf said that exact thing in the second season of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

  The only thing standing between Jazz and Klingon lady happened to be me, and as soon as she stepped closer, her Chantilly oh-the-toilet hit me.

  Oh, the toilet indeed. I was gonna blow again, and I’d enjoyed too many beautiful services at the Rock House to hurl all over the carpet. I stepped away for environmental protection purposes, leaving Jazz wide open.

  His voice boomed with authority. “Don’t come any closer!”

  Sister Lou got closer.

  He held his arm out to keep her at a distance. “Drop the miracle prosperity oil, lady.”

  “I’m ’bout to anoint you, boy.”

  Jazz backed away, but at an angle that caused him to bump into a pew. Quicker than you could say, “nuqneH,” which is Klingon for “What do you want?” she’d lunged for my husband’s forehead.

  Jazz had just enough time to cry out, “Bell!”

  Klingon tongues of fire rolled effortlessly out of her mouth. She smacked Jazz in the forehead and said, “Name yo’self, you foul demon.”

  “What?” Jazz screeched.

  “You got a sechal demon.”

  “I got a what?”

  Even I didn’t know what that was. I riffled through my limited knowledge of demonology. Sechal…Hmmm. Is that some kind of medieval thing? What could it mean?

  She hissed at Jazz, “You got a sechal demon all over you.”

  I interrupted. “What’s a sechal demon?”

  “A sechal demon. You know what a sechal demon is, hussy!”

  Oh…no…she didn’t…just call me a hussy again. Now, it’s one thing to refer to sistahs as hussies in the privacy of your own thoughts, but it’s quite another to call a sistah out like that. She didn’t know me like that.

  My ghetto roots started showing. “I’m just sayin’, lady, maybe I want to know what it is so I can pray with you.” I figured if I could convince her I was her ally, maybe Jazz could escape while we prayed.

  “Sechal! S-E-X-U-A-ayell!”

  “Ooooh!” I said. “She thinks you have a sexual demon.”

  Jazz looked mortified. “A sexual demon?”

  I tried not to laugh. Really I did.

  Again, Sister Lou seized him. She grabbed his arm with one claw this time, while the other claw rested—if you could call that resting—on top of his head. “Come out in the name of Jesus!” she yelled, as if the sexual demon was hard of hearing. “Come out!”

  Jazz didn’t fall out under the power of God, so she tried to help him. Apparently he’s not used to being slain in the Spirit at his Catholic parish. He resisted. She overpowered him.

  Sister Lou started slinging Jazz around like a Raggedy Andy doll. Poor Jazz’s arms flailed about wildly. Honestly! If
I hadn’t heard it for myself I wouldn’t have dreamed a big, tough guy like Jazz could scream like a girl.

  Her Chantilly didn’t seem to have the same effect on him as it did me. Poor Jazz wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of throwing up. I wondered if we’d be there for hours, Sister Lou jerking Jazz around while he flopped helplessly.

  When I could take it no more I shouted, “Look, a demon!” I pointed to the pulpit area.

  Sister Lou stop slinging Jazz long enough to look behind her. I grabbed Jazz by the hand, and we hightailed it out of there. Thankfully my ankle felt better, and—hey! My ankle felt better.

  When we’d gotten outside, he stopped. He put his hands on his knees and began to hyperventilate. That or he had an asthma attack. His breathing sounded painful. I tried to encourage him.

  “Don’t stop now. She may be behind us.”

  He started gasping for air. “I can’t breathe!” he shouted. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Of course you can breathe. You’re talking. Now, let’s go.”

  Too late. Sister Lou had torn out of the church after us.

  “We’re going to have to make a run for it,” I said, yanking him by the arm. He didn’t even protest about his breathing or my ankle. He let me pull him, running like a girl in his infirmity. I hoped he wouldn’t fall like girls always do in horror movies. I could just see it. Attack of the Holy Klingon Prayer Warriors.

  We made it to the Love Bug, and I clicked the button on my remote opener, swung the passenger-side door open, pushed him inside, and slammed the door. I hurried to the driver’s side, jumped in, shut the door, and locked the car. Sister Lou started pounding on my windshield, miracle prosperity oil in hand. I turned the engine on, thrust the Love Bug in gear, and we sped out of the parking lot practically on two wheels. We didn’t even put on our seat belts until we reached Huron Street.

  “Are you okay, Jazz?” I took a quick look at him. I didn’t think he’d describe himself as “okay.” “Jazzy…”

  I continued down Huron until it changed into Washtenaw, and we headed toward Ypsilanti. Poor Jazz was not just shaken; he was actually shaking. He really did have a pathological fear of Pentecostals.

  A small coffee shop, the Java Joint, was ahead in a strip mall. I wanted to get off the road and see to Jazz.

  It seemed to take forever to get to the mall, and Jazz had truly begun to hyperventilate. “Breathe, honey,” I said over and over.

  I finally got to the coffee shop and parked the Love Bug. I undid my seat belt and took him in my arms. I kept whispering “breathe” to him. The poor baby’s heart felt like it was going to slam out of his chest.

  “I’ve got you,” I said, patting him on his back. I held him for a long time.

  Finally he pulled out of my embrace. “I’m sure you’ll have a big laugh at this.”

  “It’s not funny when you’re terrified, Jazz.”

  “I hate that. I hate the way those people make me feel. Sexual demon! What is that, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Then again, I wasn’t aware of interracial-dating demons, either. They must have been popular in the days of yore when interracial dating was against the law.”

  My attempt at humor fell flat.

  “Does that mean I want to have sex too much? Or that I think about sex too much?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, because you’re not possessed.”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. “I’m not into porn or illicit affairs. And that one time we were together was the only…” He rubbed his hand across his forehead, smearing the spot of olive oil Sister Lou had left. “Maybe I think about making love to you too much.” His eyes searched mine, as if I had the answers to his questions.

  Again he crossed his arms, but it looked like he was giving himself a hug rather than putting on the protective gear. “Sometimes I relive our wedding night. Not…not the Rocky part. Being with you—over and over.” He stole a glance at me and looked away again. “It’s just you I think about that way. I try to keep my mind right.”

  His Tourette’s syndrome returned momentarily. Apparently, to Jazz, cussing was allowed when you have a right mind. Then he shook his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have dwelled on it. Maybe I…”

  “Jazz?” I took his hand in mine. He still wouldn’t look at me. “When we made love, it was singularly one of the best experiences of my life. That time with you was as sacred as being in church.” I tried to think of a way to explain that he would truly relate to. “You know how when you take Communion and you believe it’s truly the blood, body, and divinity of Christ?”

  He nodded, still not looking at me.

  “Our loving was like Communion. You and I were completely one body. I was yours, and you were mine, and we were joined together in this beautiful, mystical way. And you know what?”

  This time he did give me a shy look.

  “I’ve relived that sacred time in my head, too.”

  “You’ve thought about it?”

  “I met you there every day. I longed for you when you were gone, and the only place I had you was in my memories. Sure I thought about it. And it had nothing to do with the devil. What we shared was holy, and it’s perfectly acceptable to God to meditate on good, holy things, as long as they don’t become idols.”

  “I’m not possessed?”

  “No.”

  “But I still think about being with you probably more than I should. What does that mean?”

  “Would you say you thought about it a lot? I mean a whole lot?”

  He nodded, a fearful look etched in his beautiful face. “What if I did?”

  “It would have to be a lot, Jazz, for me to be concerned about it.”

  “What if it were a lot? What does that mean?”

  “I’m afraid to tell you.” I pretended to really be afraid.

  “Bell, you have to tell me so I can get help.”

  “It can’t be helped, Jazz. I’m sorry. I mean, you can change it, but the cost would be prohibitive. And this isn’t something insurance pays for.”

  For a moment he looked hopeful. “What’s wrong with me? I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it.”

  “You sure you want to know? It’s not easy for me to tell you this.”

  He yelled like Samuel L. Jackson. “Just tell me!”

  “If you think about making love to me a lot…”

  He blew air from his cheeks. “What?”

  “It means…”

  “Just spit it out, woman.”

  “It means you’re a man! My man, to be specific.”

  I cracked up, and he couldn’t help himself—he smiled, too. “I’m going to get you, woman.”

  “If you’re thinking about me that often, I guess you are planning to get me.”

  “Will I succeed?”

  “Time will tell,” I said.

  I prayed that time would be as chatty as the church gossip, and that it would get to telling soon. After seeing him naked…

  Real soon.

  chapter thirteen

  AFTER COFFEE—to go—Jazz and I headed back to my apartment. I made sure to let him know not to start flirting again, despite what I had said in the car. We needed to focus. He didn’t seem to mind my “no hanky-panky” rule. I think the idea of a sexual demon still spooked him, and he played extra nice.

  My ankle felt so much better, I insisted on climbing up all those darned steps to get to my apartment myself. Honestly. Management should have free bottled water and a giant bowl of candy on each floor to reward the weary sojourners who make their way up those stairs. Halfway up I said, “Jazz?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think Ezekiel Thunder healed me? I shouldn’t be feeling this good.”

  He groaned, “Baby, baby, baby! Please don’t make me think about that. Please. I’ve had way too much supernatural power of God today.”

  “I don’t think you had any supernatural power of God experiences today.”

  “Whatever! I don’t care. I don’t want
to think about healing and miracles and your spooky friends.”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “I don’t care. Stop talking to me about it!”

  By now we’d reached my floor. “Fine,” I said, letting him guide me with his hand on my back.

  He looked a bit repentant about his harsh tone, stuck my key into the lock, and glanced over at me with kind eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jazz.”

  “Tired?”

  “I’m always tired. I think I’m going through the change.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “What?” I said, my horns sprouting. “Does that bother you? Do you need a younger wife? Maybe one Nikki Thunder’s age, which is, what, twelve?”

  “You’re thirty-five. You’re not going through the change.”

  He turned back to the door, ignoring me. I didn’t feel ready to let go of the issue since my defenses had shot up like bottle rockets and exploded over my head.

  “Older women have something to offer, too,” I said, as if it weren’t me who suggested he wanted a younger woman in the first place.

  He opened the door, put his hand at the small of my back, and guided me inside.

  “Some men prefer older women,” I said in defense of sistahs over thirty-five everywhere. He closed the door behind us and locked the three locks.

  He tossed this little question over his shoulder: “Men like Rocky?”

  No, you wicked, evil man, because even he had gone on to fall in love with Elisa, who is younger than he is.

  But all I said was, “Among others.”

  I could tell he wanted to have a bit of fun with me. I could also tell I wouldn’t have fun with whatever he had in mind.

  He gave me that dazzling smile of his. “Your dance card is full, huh, baby?” He took my coat off and hung both of ours in my closet.

  “I was speaking in general, not about me.”

  “Older men are into you, too. Like Thunder.”

  “He’s not into me. He’s into women. As a whole.”

  “He looked at you like he’s into you, as Amanda Bell Brown.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Maybe we can switch. He can take you, and I’ll take Nikki. Everybody is happy.”