The Exorsistah

by Claudia Mair Burney

  I pressed the crucifix to my lips, still feeling so embarrassed about the kiss comment. I thought as I kissed Jesus how I was gonna have to do a whole lotta kissing Him to get my mind off Francis.

  We went all the way through to the Apostles Creed. And then we got to the part I wasn’t sure about. The Hail Mary stuff.

  Either he saw my discomfort or he anticipated it. “Catholics don’t worship her.”

  “Then what’s up with all the Mary stuff?”

  “Did Elizabeth, John the Baptist’s mother, worship her?”

  “No.”

  “The words right after ‘Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee’ are hers. It’s Luke 1:42, right after John the Baptist worshipped Jesus right in his mother’s womb. The Bible tells us Elizabeth said, ‘Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.’” His eyes shone with excitement. “Emme, when we pray that, we’re quoting the Scripture.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “Nobody is going to try to convert you. Our team is an ecumenical group. It’s only a few of us, but we’re from all over in our church experience. Mother Nicole is Eastern Orthodox. Father Rivera is Roman Catholic. Dr. Michael Black is Anglican, and Dr. Stormie Jaynes is a Pentecostal. We don’t do the same things on Sunday mornings, but we have this in common. We all worship Jesus. We can all say the Creed confidently.”

  “I still don’t know about all this.”

  “Look, Emme. I’m not the ecumenical poster boy. I’m like you. More than you know. I came to this ministry wanting to have no part of it. Not trusting people who might believe a little differently than me. And definitely not sure about Father Miguel. But I was won over by the love in the group. We’re all genuinely concerned about the people we are helping.”

  I considered that. I’d dealt with demons most of my life, but hadn’t actually helped people. Not really.

  “Emme, you won’t be able to do this work with us if you have some serious issues with me or Father Miguel showing Jesus’ mama some love. We don’t worship her. At all. But you’ll hear her name called in an exorcism—hers and a bunch of other saints. We use the Roman ritual. You’ll hear Father Miguel asking a list of saints to intercede for him. It’s called the Litany of Saints. He calls on all that’s holy, Emme, in a battle against all that’s unholy. We use holy water. Blessed salt. Anointed oil. And the prayers of the saints and Jesus’ holy mother, Mary. Because she is holy, Emme. To put it in Pentecostal terms, she accepted Christ as her personal savior before anybody else did. You can’t be more personal than pregnant with Him. Nobody on Earth received Him more than she did.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “The demons can’t stand His mama. For obvious reasons.”

  “Okay. I’ll trust you on that. I’m down wit’ her, but I ain’t gon’ worship her.”

  Again, his laugh that’s almost as yummy as Penny Pop’s cobbler. “Good. Don’t worship anyone but God.”

  After a few moments I asked what I’d been avoiding thinking about. “Can you get possessed going to a Catholic church?”

  He sighed the way he usually does. “Is that a trick question?”

  “No.”

  “You left a Catholic church before dinner. Are you now riddled with demons?”

  “No. And don’t be all sarcastic. I’m serious.”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  Jamilla.

  “I’m tryna find out more about Catholic stuff. I got the leanings.” But I sho’ wasn’t gon’ lean on him again.

  He saw right through me like I was made of glass, but didn’t press me. “You’re a trip, Em. You know that, don’t you?”

  “My mama used to call me Em.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  The way I shrugged my shoulders was kinda noncommittal. But in truth, it did. Some parts of my mama I wanted to keep between us.

  He didn’t seem to mind. “How ’bout I call you something else for short?”

  “What?”

  “I can call you X.”

  “X?”

  “Yeah. That can be short for Exorsistah.” And then he cracked up. “It sounds mysterious. Like some spy stuff.”

  “Or some Nation of Islam stuff. People are gonna think I lost my natural mind and turned into a Pentecostal-Nation-of-Islam-Exorsistah spy with Catholic leanings.”

  He rewarded me with the laughter that still took my breath away, and I thought, Yeah. This is cool. I could get with making him laugh. For a long time.

  He ventured to touch my hand. Just a quick rub, and then he rested his hand on his thigh. “X isn’t just short for exorsistah. X is the symbol for a kiss, and it’s the Greek letter Chi, which was the abbreviated name for Christ in ancient Christian art. Folks got all knotted up when people started saying X-mas. They don’t know their history, or they’d see the significance. You’re a Christ-girl. His follower. His Emme. So when I call you X, it’ll be my way of honoring Christ in you.”

  “And a way of givin’ me a lil’ kiss that won’t get us in trouble?”

  “Yeah. That, too.”

  God knew we needed to stop talking about kissing. It might help if we got up out of that small space, too.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I said.

  “I got a better idea. Let’s go shopping to get you some clothes before the mall closes.”

  “You sure?”

  “I betta. You’ll be in my underwear drawer soon, and I’ll look up and tomorrow morning you’re wearin’ my boxer shorts.”

  “I ain’t about to wear your draws, Francis.”

  “I don’t trust you. I’m taking you to get your own draws.”

  “Can I eat my pork and peach cobbler first?”

  He took the spoon and fed me the first bite. Ate right after me without flinching. I started thinking maybe that kiss might happen before I knew it.

  Francis decided to take me to Fairlane Town Center. Man, I hadn’t been to Fairlane in a minute. It was so weird, shooting down Michigan Avenue to Evergreen, remembering the Michigan Smart Bus—number 200—I used to take when I needed to get away. I could never buy nothing. I rode so I could get away from my mama hearing stuff that wasn’t there, and maybe stuff that was. When I had foster parents in Inkster, sometimes they would let me hook up with Jamilla, and we’d catch the bus together. She was always as broke as me, so we dreamed instead of shopped. We’d go through all the department stores, imagining what life was gon’ be like once we got older. We sho’ didn’t see no boyfriend that would lure her into some kind of demon trap, or me not having no boyfriend at all—and not sure I wanted one.

  Unless it was someone like Francis. I blushed again, my inside showing itself a traitor.

  I watched the scenery fly by while Francis talked up his work as a studio musician. He told me how he spent countless hours in a studio a few miles away. He’d have probably been at the studio now if I wasn’t around.

  “Don’t let me keep you from doin’ your stuff, especially if you ’bout to spend hard-earned money on me.”

  “The studio ain’t goin’ nowhere. I wanna do this for you.”

  “Exactly how do you make enough to hook me up so much? I didn’t think most musicians made much money.”

  “I play with more than one band, work like a dog, and I sell beats and studio time and help other artists prepare their demos. And the DJing is tight. You should come to one of my gigs sometime.”

  “I think I will.”

  “When you grow up, that is.”

  I smacked his arm. “Shut up, boy.”

  He put on some bumpin’ music, and I recognized his bass line, even though I hadn’t heard anything but what he played for me at the house.

  “That’s what you were playing earlier!”

  “Yeah. Nice with the rest of the arrangement, huh?”

  It sho’ was. “What’s this band?”

  “That’s The Monk Funk Experience. It’s the only Christian band I play with.”

&nbs
p; “What are the rest?”

  “Jazz band. Rock band.”

  “Which do you like the most?”

  “MFE! What else?”

  He probably struggled financially more than I thought. I ain’t never heard of no Monk Funk Experience, even if they did sound cool.

  “I’ll just get two cheap outfits. Okay? And I’ll pay you back later.”

  He cracked up and turned on some Jill Scott. “Dang, girl. I let you hear one of my bands and you decide I can’t afford you. I know we’re whack, but you coulda pretended to like us.”

  “I do! I …” Then I realized he was messing with me. “You are so stupid.”

  “Let me take care of you.”

  Brotha caught me by surprise with that one. Ray’s face came to my head. He took care of me, all right. No, he wanted me to take care of him. Now Francis talkin’ the same thing.

  “I don’t need that,” I said softly.

  He took a quick look at me and turned his attention back to the road. “Aren’t you tired of that outfit?” he said. I was glad he didn’t challenge me.

  “What do you think?” I said, pretend-pouting. “It’s what I had on yesterday. And today. And maybe even tomorrow. But I can deal wit’ it.”

  “You were in my drawers, weren’t you?”

  I didn’t deny it. “You’re changin’ the subject.”

  “See! That’s why I’m taking you shopping. First you get in my drawers, then you’ll be in my draws.”

  We laughed together, then got quiet. Finally he spoke.

  “I’m a soldier, Emme. I dig wearing black all the time. But you’re a flower. And that’s not a bad thing.”

  “I’m a flower?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “I sho’ don’t feel like no flower. What I am? A dandelion? Something nobody wants in their yard.”

  “Nah. You’re a …” He thought for a moment. “You’re a black prince pansy. Ever see one of those?”

  “You know the names of flowers?”

  “I know that one.”

  The ‘black prince’ thing got my attention. “I’ve never seen a black prince pansy.”

  “They’re pretty amazing. Like you. They’ve got these purple-black flowers, and the center is straight-up golden, Emme. Like a sun inside those black petals. They’re dramatic. I don’t care what flowers they’re next to—calla lilies, roses. Your eyes go right to that dark, sensual beauty.”

  “I don’t feel beautiful, Francis.”

  “We gon’ take care of that.”

  Somehow, I felt like he was talking about more than shopping for a couple outfits.

  We parked in Fairlane’s lot and headed into the mall. I thought he might take my hand and go “black prince” on me, and I’d be a big enough pansy to hold hands like a schoolgirl with him. Truth was, I was starting to like his touch, even if it made me a little nervous. I ain’t know what to think about him. What to do, or even to feel. I mean dang. We just met!

  We entered the mall through Sears. Lord knows I was not tryna see the softer side of Sears. I almost threw my hands up and raised the roof when we walked right through it. As if he could read my mind, brotha took me right into Forever 21.

  “How did you know I wanna shop here?”

  “I pray seven times a day. I’m insightful, girl. Plus, the cats in the bands I play in be complaining about their ladies spending all their money shopping at Forever 21. Those sistahs come to the studio or the gigs wearing those same baby-doll shirts like the one you got on.”

  “You sure you ain’t remembering that ‘woman’ I remind you of?”

  “She wouldn’t dress like that.”

  I ain’t wanna think about her. Or what she wore. I needed to chill with that madness.

  Even though I enjoyed shopping and was very grateful to Francis, I still felt heavy in my heart—about Francis doing so much for me, but more than that, about Jamilla. I wanted to talk to him about her, without giving up too much info. Yet.

  While I was picking out a couple pairs of pants in Forever 21, I asked him a question. “Do you think something could happen if I went to a Santeria church? Just to check it out?”

  He sighed. Waited. Sighed again. “Why can’t you torture me with questions like, ‘Does this make me look fat?’ I got to have the sistah about to give me a heart attack because she wants to explore Santeria. If you think you saw some stuff in Walgreens …”

  “So you think it’s dangerous?”

  “Emme. I don’t want to call a people’s religion dangerous. I’m black, and I’m Latino, and both those ethnic groups practice it. Africans created Santeria almost straight off the boat in slave times because they were forced into being Roman Catholic. But I’ma be straight with you. I ain’t with that. I take my Christianity orthodox. That’s with a little ‘o,’ not a big ‘O’ like Mother Nicole is Orthodox.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is Santeria ain’t orthodox. By its nature, it’s not. I don’t particularly have a problem with slave religion, Emme. They did the best they could without a whole lot to work with. Some of them found the very essence of Christianity and were saints! Real saints! But others …”

  “What do they do? How can I find out how it works?”

  He leaned into the rack. “Emme. I know you’re up to something. Don’t try to go to a Santeria church. They’re usually secretive anyway.”

  “For real? Secretive how?”

  “You only get invited if you’re initiated. Plus, they practice divination. There are four hundred or so deities they worship, but sixteen are the big dogs. They seek possession by these deities—the Orishas. Those gods, to them, are like the Holy Spirit is to us.”

  I didn’t think Jamilla would ask a strange, and maybe not-so-holy, spirit to possess her. I couldn’t imagine it.

  Francis went on. “When an Orisha possesses somebody, the person can exhibit … powers. Knowledge of the future. Even the attributes of the Orisha that’s supposed to be possessing them.”

  “You mean the way a Christian can, by the Holy Spirit, manifest a Word of knowledge, or speak in tongues, or have the fruit of the Spirit?”

  “Yeah. But we ain’t talking the same gods as they are. Yo, that thing in the Creed? ‘I believe in One God the Father, Maker of heaven and earth, and in His Son Jesus Christ, the only begotten, and in the Holy Spirit, who proceedeth from the Father’? That’s what I’m talking about. One God in three persons. The Holy Trinity. Not the Orishas.”

  We dropped the serious talk as I picked out two outfits with two extra shirts, but he wouldn’t have it. He made me buy seven complete outfits, and some extra shirts.

  We made a quick dash to Victoria’s Secret, which he refused to go into. I got some jammies and underwear with the quickness, so I wouldn’t have to wear his draws.

  When I got out of there he said, “Let’s go to Macy’s.”

  “Francis, I got enough. I didn’t even have this much stuff at Kiki’s house.”

  “You need kicks.”

  “Let’s go to Footlocker then. We don’t have to get kicks at Macy’s.”

  “Stop arguing, girl. Be a pansy.”

  “Okay, black prince.”

  He held my bags, and I pelted him with more questions about the work. These, he answered graciously. I knew he could tell I was warming up to the idea, so he didn’t discourage the questions.

  “Do you think if I concentrate really hard I can make something happen with this thing you call my gift?”

  He tilted his head and gazed at me, thoughtfully. “I don’t know, X. Do you think you can?”

  I shrugged. “I never tried to on purpose. Seeing demons isn’t necessarily fun.”

  “I can’t even imagine, Emme. It’s amazing to me.”

  Francis led me straight to Macy’s shoe department. My Timbs were still straight, so I didn’t need anything like that. I looked at some Nikes.

  “Nope,” he said. “No Nikes.”

  “No sneaks?�
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  “Not tonight.”

  So I headed over to the heels. I didn’t have a skirt, but maybe he wanted me to get some church shoes or something. “You want me to get dress shoes?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You better get some diva boots.”

  I laughed nervously. “What?”

  “Kick-butt diva boots. Prada. Stiletto heels.”

  “I prefer a kitten heel.”

  “That ain’t what you said in Walgreens. I distinctly remember you wished for a heel you could put through a devil’s head. Can’t do that with no kitten heel. Kitten heels ain’t threatening.”

  “You said I couldn’t hurt a demon with high heels.”

  He grinned at me, “Yeah, but a brotha can dream.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. This fool was about to make my dream come true. “Are you sure?”

  “You better hurry. Store closes in ten minutes.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck. Oops. Shouldn’t have done that. He was more than a little receptive to my burst of joyful appreciation. His arms went to my waist again, and we stood there staring at each other.

  I lost my natural mind. I wanted to kiss him with everything in me. I even lifted my face to his to do it, my heart going a gazillion beats a minute. I stopped just short of his lips.

  He hadn’t moved to meet me.

  My face burned with embarrassment. The worse part was I knew he wanted to. I was in his arms, and it was almost like we were praying together. I felt him wanting that kiss the same way I did. Like I had his gift. But he didn’t move.

  I released him. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah. Uh. You probably shouldn’t do that again.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  I swallowed hard. And speaking of Africa. My heart had slowed down, but now it beat like a talking drum, telling me what was developing between Francis and me was going way too fast.

  It was as if he read my thoughts.

  “We’ll just slow our roll. Get your Prada on, so we can get out of here.”

  Now I felt all weird, like I didn’t want to feel obligated to him. “I don’t need you buying me anything like this.”