The next day at school turned into a detective story. Some lady from Child Welfare asked each student in our class about Cookie. It seems that an investigation was begun after detectives interviewed Mrs. Green and learned of her voices. I guess someone had to pay for the Metro bus getting dented and stained, accidental or not. The lady wanted to know if Cookie appeared distraught or abused in any way. We didn’t notice. She was ashy, if that was the question, not sure if dry skin constitutes abuse. But the Child Welfare lady hung around the school for a week, prompting more theories about Cookie’s mother and Cookie’s death. By the end of the week, things got weird. Mrs. Green showed up at the school campus. Butt-naked.
• • •
Someone once said that too much Jesus could be a bad thing. In the case of cults and fanatics, that’s certainly true. But Adelai Green never for once believed such a thing. She was admittedly a bad Catholic, relegating her faith to the holiday services when her mother came to visit from Port Arthur. She liked music, gospel music in particular, and found herself coasting through Baptist services in South Park, Sunnyside, and Third Ward every Sunday looking for good music. But she was never invited to stay at any particular congregation because she hadn’t renounced her Catholic faith—at least that’s what the church directors said. The real reason was her dancing. She loved to dance. It drew her to Martin Luther’s children and their foot-stomping, tambourine-shaking gospel music. And she’d get the Holy Ghost and take that ghost for a spin. She’d dance. And not shake or jump around with familiar spastic “holy” movements, oh no. She’d slow-dance. And grind. And do the hustle or the bus stop or the dog or the mashed potato or the camel walk or whatever she saw on Soul Train the Saturday before church. Vulgar, yes. She’d shake her ass in church, preferably at the front so the entire congregation could see. Church ladies wrote her off as a coquette, a temptress who intended to lure their dear pastor and upright deacons to the fiery gates of Hell with her suggestive moves. So naturally, she had to move from church to church until finally word had spread and she was banned. When asked who she was dancing with, she’d respond, “The Holy Ghost.” And she believed that.
The Holy Ghost. Mister Holy Ghost, yes, it was a “he,” stood about six feet tall, smooth brown skin, permed and pressed wavy hair lying on his strong shoulders, wearing a yellow leisure suit that zipped up from the crotch to the neck and white platform shoes. And, baby, he could dance. Adelai first saw him at Mt. Calvary Missionary Baptist Church on Cullen Boulevard, sitting in the back pew looking like a dark-skinned Ron O’Neal who’d found Jesus. Initially, Adelai paid him no mind. Then she started dancing and carrying on. Pretty soon she felt someone or something grab her waist. She opened her eyes and saw this Holy Ghost spinning her around and taking the lead with some wild mambo move. She was in Heaven, or so she thought. A week later at another church, he showed up again.
Eventually, she started giving Mister Holy Ghost a ride to church with her. He even picked some of the churches they would visit. At first, she worried that her husband would find out because Mister Holy Ghost wore too much cologne and her mister might smell it in the car. Hai Karate. She mentioned it one time to Mister Holy Ghost, and he laughed. “Aah, girl. You know a nigga gotta have on some smell-good.”
It never struck her as odd that she always picked him up at the Exxon station on MLK and Reed Road or that he always wore the same inappropriate thing to church or that he cursed an awful lot for being the Holy Ghost or that he never ever broke a sweat or that sometimes he’d rub on her thigh while she was driving or that his breath smelled like liquor or that he never used a condom. He only asked her one thing: Do you believe in me? ’Cause if you stop believin’ in me, baby, I will surely die. But you’re the Holy Ghost, she argued while pulling up her panties. Then he grinned and said, “I’m whatever you want me to be.” Right then she knew that she had been giving up pussy to Satan and, baby, she freaked out.
She practically ran to confession and told Father Murdoch the whole thing. Adultery. Blasphemy. All of it. And just as she left the church, good ole Mister Holy Ghost was leaning on her car toking Panama Red while humming a Bobby Womack tune. He asked her for a ride to Harlon’s Bar-B-Que for a rib-tip sandwich. She screamed but he didn’t go anywhere. Hell was busy on Sundays and Heaven was by appointment only. When it’s cold outside, who are you holding?
As time went by, she found him everywhere, asking the same question with a pimp’s grin, “You wanna dance?” She ignored it but he kept asking. If you think you’re lonely now, wait until tonight, girl. He became a downright nuisance, but because of him she returned to her faith. She prayed harder, made Rosary after Rosary until her index finger and thumb had permanent bead-shaped indentions, became a faithful and active member of St. Philip Neri Church to the letter. Ladies Auxiliary of the Knights of Peter Claver. Bingo helper. CCE instructor. She even asked Father Murdoch if she could get baptized again. He said no. First Communion again? No. Confirmation? No. Father Murdoch told her that she had already accepted God and the Catholic faith into her life and didn’t need to go through those rituals again. It was at this point that Father Murdoch called upon Father Hernandez and made a certain request to the archbishop. She was indifferent when Father Murdoch informed her that the exorcism had been approved. She wanted more. She wanted to be closer to God, which is understandable considering she was probably fucking Satan.
INGREDIENTS FOR A BLACK EXORCISM
1 qt. Pink Hair Lotion
2 qt. Caucasian blood, Type O
9 rusty nails
1 black Barbie doll
1 white seven-day candle
1 lb. cornmeal
2 roosters
5 cantaloupes
10 yards of burlap
1 gal. afterbirth from black twins
1/2 gal. Tanqueray gin
7 horseshoes (used)
1 VHS copy of Melvin Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback Baadasssss Song
1 vinyl LP from Son House
1 pork roast (at least 3 lbs.)
1 no. 3 tin washtub
1 large brown paper sack
2 lbs. ground black pepper
5 lbs. saltpeter
Mister Holy Ghost eventually stopped his visits, but he stayed in her head.
Wanna dance?
Believe in me, Adelai. Believe or I’ll die.
Her husband believed she was having a religious awakening, but she was starting to become very annoying. Jesus was in everything. The TV set. The traffic. The food. The clothes. Jesus was alive in everything, she’d say. And she prayed constantly, even when she was having sex with her husband. But the voices remained. She needed help, so she enlisted Cookie to pray with her. Hour-long regimens at the dining room table on their knees. She and her daughter recited Hail Marys over and over with the hope that the Blessed Virgin would quiet her head and forgive her transgressions. She prayed with an open heart and mind, the way she was taught to pray, but it didn’t help ’cause that Holy Ghost cat was a slick, persistent dude. Wanna dance?
One time in a fit of rage and an attempted affront to Mister Holy Ghost, she grabbed her husband and made him dance with her all sexy-like to Marvin Gaye’s “I Want You.” Cookie watched from the dining room table, still on her knees praying and with a smile big as day because she had never seen her parents dance together. And for good measure later that evening, Adelai fucked her husband like it was their wedding night. And for a few weeks, both daughter and husband found a new joy in Adelai, a new burst of life as a family. Adelai was glowing with energy directed toward her husband and Cookie’s prayers. Jesus saves.
But where she succeeded as a wife and lover, she failed as a mother. Cookie just plain forgot to do her homework and Adelai didn’t have the presence of mind to remind her.
At the funeral, Mister Holy Ghost made a surprise appearance and slow-danced with Adelai while the choir sang “Precious Lord.” He palmed her ass the whole time.
And now, a week later, Mrs. Green was standing in f
ront of the church, naked as a jaybird’s whistle with her panties on her head and saluting with a duck-like head movement. I’m not sure how long she was out there or who she was saluting to, but she didn’t move. Soon, our entire class was watching her out of the window. Then the cops showed up and grabbed her just as her bewildered husband arrived. She didn’t acknowledge him as he stormed into the church, where Father Murdoch and two altar boys were doing a walk-through of the Stations of the Cross.
The church was empty but for Father Murdoch and his two altar boys, Tommy Babineaux and Louis Price, eighth graders. In slow, deliberate succession they stopped in front of a small, wooden icon hanging on the wall. They were at No. 6, Veronica wipes the face of Jesus.
“We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you,” Father Murdoch recited.
“Because by Your holy cross You have redeemed the world,” the altar boys responded.
Father Murdoch turned to the empty pews. He liked it when the church was empty because he could hear his voice echo. He coughed, then—
Jesus, suddenly a woman comes out of the crowd. Her name is Veronica. You can see how she cares for you as she takes a cloth and begins to wipe the blood and sweat from your face. She can’t do much, but she offers what little help she can . . .
A stacatto fusillade rattled off in the chapel. We thought it was fireworks, but the Fourth of July was months away. Next thing you know, the entire school was surrounded by police and barricades. Nobody could leave their classroom.
As a child, sometimes I know someone could use a little help and understanding. They may be picked on or teased by others, or just sad or lonely. Sometimes I feel bad that others don’t step in to help, but I don’t help either.
That’s right, a fuckin’ hostage situation at the church. Sister Marie Thérèse immediately went into sixties civil rights protest tactics. We all had to sit on the floor, nobody could stand in order to stay out of any errant line of fire because the church was right across the hallway. Police negotiated through a bullhorn. SWAT shuffled along the hallway taking positions.
As an adult, I notice the needs around me. Sometimes my own family members crave my attention, and I don’t even seem to notice. Sometimes a co-worker, friend, or family member could use help or understanding, but I don’t reach out to help lest I be criticized, or they demand more of me than I’d like to give. My tender Jesus, who didst deign to print Thy sacred face upon the cloth with which Veronica wiped the sweat from off Thy brow, print in my soul deep, I pray Thee, the lasting memory of Thy bitter pains.
Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .
And we were saying a Rosary, then—
One more gunshot for good measure.
It was over. One to the head and the bewildered husband dropped, leaving a splat of blood on the wooden icon of the Sixth Station. Right on Jesus’ already bloody brow.
May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
Later, Adelai was questioned about her husband and his motive. She told them that she’d explained her relationship with Mister Holy Ghost to her husband and he got jealous. Fuckin’ Hai Karate. Be careful how you use it.
We didn’t see the body get taken out. Detectives and SWAT moved quickly, not noticing the small children all around enamored by their shiny guns and shields. School was immediately closed and parents rushed to the scene with fears that their child had been shot. Louis Price took a bullet to the leg. Father Murdoch was skinned on his shoulder. Jesus wept.
We were curtained off in our classroom, and by the time Mother arrived, old Mr. Cecil was pushing the mop bucket to the church to clean up the blood.
Mother was hysterical. I was genuinely freaked-out. When we arrived home I went straight to my room, ignoring the Mickey D’s Happy Meal Mother got for me. I wasn’t hungry. I heard the shots. I knew someone had died, violently. Like the time Bo Duke and Han Solo fought in my tree because Han Solo was making eyes at Princess Leia. She and Bo were dating at the time, hot and heavy. But Han Solo was at a disadvantage because his arms didn’t bend like Bo’s. His knees didn’t bend either, so he couldn’t stoop. Man, Bo beat the shit out of Han Solo and kicked him out of the tree. And sorry-ass Han had to just lie on the ground and watch Bo whisper sweet nothings in Leia’s ear. In fact, he had to stay there all night because I forgot he was on the ground when Mother told me to come in. He must’ve been paralyzed because he was still there the next day.
I sat on the floor drawing pictures of robots and spaceships while my parents argued about keeping me at St. Philip’s. Mother wanted to do something to keep me safe. Two deaths in one week at a church was a bit much. And although those deaths weren’t really connected to any apparent negligence by the school, Mother felt that moving me away would be a good idea. But where? She wanted me in private school but couldn’t afford to send me to any other private school in a safer, affluent neighborhood. Father wasn’t really interested in the conversation nor any increase in tuition. The conversation was over.
“Ti’ John. You okay?” Mother asked at my door, eyes wet from pleading with Father, eyes thankful that I wasn’t shot, eyes angry because we just didn’t make enough money for me to be in a safer environment. She really wanted better for me. And at eight years old I recognized that fact.
“I’m okay, Momma,” I answered with a big smile. That was my thing. Smiles. Always did it and they seemed to warm everybody up.
She closed the door and I went back to drawing, still wishing that I could go on Ricky Street and not really understanding why she hated where we lived.
Father stuck his nose in the door. He was holding his old shoeshine box.
“Ti’ John?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be back later.”
And he left. He was going to shine shoes again.
Sunday morning came quick enough. Mother had decided that it would be a good idea not to go to church. I learned later that attendance was pretty low that Sunday after the killing. So I laid in bed until Father opened the door.
“Get your jeans and boots on. They ropin’ in Angleton,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
four
a reckoning
We were going to the rodeo. Despite all the rigmarole with loading up the horses, saddles, and ice chests in preparation for the trip, the entire experience was exhilarating. During the week he may have spent his days loading shipping containers at the Houston Ship Channel until he was exhausted or chanced his paycheck on the roll of the dice on Stassen Street or the dexterity of his pool cue at Jewel’s Lounge or listened to Mother’s harangues while trying to watch the Astros game, but none of that mattered on Sunday because on Sunday, Father was a bona fide rock star in the black rodeo circuit and nobody questioned that.
We loaded up a palomino named TJ. A beautiful, cream-colored horse that Father had been training for calf roping. Then we loaded in a jumpy quarter horse called Black Jack. That was my horse and part of Father’s blatant attempt to make me a horseman. Black Jack had come off the racetrack and was a bit skittish, prone to take off without any warning. And although I protested about Black Jack being my horse, wanting a kinder, gentler ride, Father was adamant. If he rares up on ya, grab them reins and jerk ’em and tell him to cut it out, he said. Take control of the animal is what he meant. Take control. Don’t get used or run over. Grab the reins. But it didn’t matter. I got thrown off that horse more than I care to mention. And every time I was thrown off, Father would run to me with worry and concern like that day in the flood when I was little. And he’d help me up and tell me not to cry.
“Crying never solved anything, Ti’ John. It only makes you focus on your failure and bad shit. Don’t cry. Focus on how to do things right the next time so that you don’t have to cry. Do you understand what I’m tryin’ to tell ya?” he said.
We rode in his brown Chevy pickup pulling a horse trailer down FM 521 South headed to Angleton, Texas. Cold Schlitz rested in the coffee holder next to my B
ig Red. Charley Pride crooned on the eight-track asking if anybody was going to San Anton’ or Phoenix, Arizona. The AC was on full blast. Driver’s-side window cracked slightly so that my middle name wouldn’t change to Benson & Hedges. A CB radio crackled under the ashtray with random gibberish, a foreign language understood by men who spent long hours on the white line. Father had been a member of that fraternity from time to time, privy to its secret codes and rituals.
“Daddy, you think they gonna let Cookie stay in Heaven?” I asked.
“Who’s Cookie?”
“The girl that got hit by the bus.”
“I imagine.”
“But she ain’t get baptized. Sister Marie Thérèse said you gotta be baptized to go to Heaven.”
He took his time with that one.
“Everybody don’t go to Heaven, Ti’ John,” he answered.
“They go to the hot place?” I asked.
He lit a cigarette.
“I’ma tell you something and you better not repeat it. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Ain’t no such thing as Hell, Ti’ John. That’s just some bullshit them white folks came up with to get people scared,” he answered.
“What about in the Bible?”
“White folks wrote the Bible.” He grabbed the CB receiver. “Breaker one-nine, pushing down 521 South, who got their ears on?”
He joined the precursor of online chat rooms—the CB chat room—effectively ending our discussion on the afterlife.
I stared at passing crops. Green. Brown. Tan. Brown. Green.
“Daddy, look at that,” I said, but he stared straight ahead while getting reports on Smokey in between lurid jokes. He didn’t see it, I thought.
About a hundred feet off FM 521 in a barren field of dirt I noticed a figure on its knees, hunched over. As we got closer I could see it was a man, a dark man in dark clothes wearing a large hat. He saw me staring. I think. I knew it. Just as we passed by, the man stood up, facing my curious eyes, took off his hat, and leaned forward with a deep ceremonious bow. It was friendly, respectful, even regal.
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