vituperation

Holy Roller

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Later that afternoon, after a lunch of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, the Reverend retired to the living room to pray and meditate. Brenda cleared the dirty dishes from the table and put them in the sink to soak. She dried her hands on her apron, sent the children outside to play, and walked to the doorway of the room where James was praying.

“James,” she said, “we have to talk.”

His eyes opened. “I’m talking to the Lord right now, dear.”

“Tell the Lord to wait, this is important,” she said, her anger suddenly bubbling up.

He looked stricken. “Don’t talk that way, Brenda. The Lord hates a malicious tongue.”

“I want a divorce.”

“What?” he asked, his eyes widening with surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve changed, James. You’re not the man I married, and I can’t take it any more. You don’t care about me or the children, all you care about now is your God!”

“Forgive her, Lord, she doesn’t know what she’s saying,” he said to the ceiling. “Satan has you in his grasp, Brenda, I can sense his evil presence. Come pray with me, and let’s free your spirit from his bondage.”

“No, James. Satan doesn’t have me, and I’m not possessed. I can’t stand what you’ve become any more. God can go to hell and take you with him, for all I care!”

She turned to leave, and James launched himself toward her. He crashed into her back, and they tumbled together into the family room, sliding across the slick wood floor and slamming into the television stand. The stand crumpled, and the TV fell to the floor in a shower of bric-a-brac. The tube exploded with a dull whump and glass sprayed from it like confetti from a party favor. One small piece nicked Brenda’s face and she cried out.

They lay there together for a second in a position similar to the one made popular by missionaries, James on top. A trickle of blood ran down Brenda’s cheek and she realized she felt the hardness of James’ erect penis pushing against her thigh. He’s enjoying this, she thought dimly.

He wrapped his hands around her throat and choked her. She bucked and twisted, her feet drumming on the floor. Her thrashing had no effect at all, if anything he squeezed even harder. She pawed uselessly at his hands, trying to pry them loose.

“Praise Jesus,” James cried, lifting his eyes to the heavens, “I’ve got the devil by the tail, and I’m not letting go!” He lifted her head a little and cracked it into the floor, as if to punctuate the point.

Her hands fell to either side, the right one brushing against something with a vaguely familiar feel. She realized it was the statuette that had been sitting on top of the television, and clutched at it wildly. How she hated the thing when James gave it to her for their ninth anniversary. It was Jesus, kneeling by a large stone in the garden of Gethsemane and praying for His father to please let this cup pass from Him. Jesus and the stone were made from crushed pecan shells according to the gold label on the bottom, then painted and mounted on a slab of mahogany.

In a single instant, however, her hatred transformed into unconditional love, because the horrid thing easily weighed two pounds. She swung it upward with all her might into the side of James’ head. His glasses shattered, driving splinters of glass into his right eye. With a scream he rolled off her, the contents of his ruptured eyeball sliding wetly down his face.

“Heal me, Lord,” James moaned, but God was apparently busy elsewhere.

Brenda sat up and looked around. Dark motes swam languidly in her vision. James was beside her, rocking back and forth with both hands cupped over his right eye. That side of his face was starting to swell and darken, and blood ran from his ear. There was a large splat of clear gelid material on the front of his shirt. She thought crazily of Bill Murray in Ghostbusters saying, “He slimed me,” and laughed hoarsely. The effort hurt her throat.

She climbed to her feet, but before she could move away James shot out one hand, lightning fast, and clamped it around her right ankle. She raised the hand still holding the Jesus statue and brought it down squarely on the top of his head as hard as she could. There was a dull crunch and he let go of her ankle. He looked up at her, a bright bubble of blood swelling under one nostril.

“Jeeeee—” he said, and fell back. His good eye was still open, staring up at her.

She went to the kitchen and called 911.

There was an investigation into the Reverend’s death but the homicide detectives—sent down from Mount Sterling because Landsburg didn’t have a police department, only a Sheriff and two deputies—decided not to file charges, declaring it a clear case of self-defense. Brenda Alexander closed her dead husband’s retirement account and used the money to move back to Nashville, not even waiting for the small house in Landsburg to sell first.

Within two weeks she found a job at a clothing store, and by the time she had lived in Nashville for six months she was dating. A year after James’ death, she got engaged to a nice man she met while grocery shopping. The wedding was planned for the following June, and they wanted to do it in Las Vegas, perhaps by an Elvis impersonator. The children, who loved the new man almost as much as they had loved their father before Jeffery’s death, thought the idea of a wedding with Elvis presiding was the funniest thing ever.

There were times, usually late at night, when Brenda thought of James. Sometimes he entered her dreams, but in those he was the old James, not the new and improved version who had attacked her. Mostly, though, her sleep was dreamless and her days filled with thoughts of her new fiancé.

Brenda climbed out of the bathtub, dried herself with a fluffy blue towel, and put on her nightgown. Work had been rough—inventory—and her legs and back ached. The hot bath was wondrous, and she was relaxed and invigorated.
She put the children to bed and retired to her bedroom, where she read until her eyes grew heavy with sleep. Turning off the light, she lay on her side and settled in for the night. She slept soundly until the crunch of breaking glass from the front of the house woke her.

Her eyes flew open in the darkness, and she strained to hear any more sounds, heart pounding. A voice drifted through the doorway of her bedroom.

“Jesus loves me, this I know,” it sang. The words sounded like they were bubbling up through thick black water. “For the Bible tells me so…”

Brenda sat up, wishing she owned a gun. She grabbed the phone at the side of the bed and dialed 911.

“Little ones to him belong.” Closer now, just down the hall.

“911, do you have an emergency?” a voice said from the phone pressed to her ear.

“Someone’s in my house!” she hissed, “please send the police!”

“They are weak but he is strong.”

Closer still, outside the bedroom door.

“Are you located at 247 Preston Street?” the woman on the phone asked.

“Yes,” Brenda said, “hurry!”

The door swung open like an enormous mouth, and a shape limned in the glow from the kitchen stepped into the room. The smell reached her first, dark and meaty, reminding her of the time she had accidentally left a pack of hamburger in the trunk of her car in the middle of July.

“Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me,” the shape sang, shuffling toward her.

“I’m dispatching a car now, ma’am. Please try to stay calm.”

“Yes, Jesus loves me!” She could hear it wheezing, a labored and rattling inhalation with each line of the song.

“Ma’am?” asked the tinny voice on the phone. Brenda could make no sound.

The shape turned on the bedside lamp, and in the harsh light she saw her late husband. His skin was mottled, glistening wetly. A fuzz of moss grew up the right side of his face, and his burial clothes were soaked with some vile liquid.

“The Bible tells me so!” he sang. Plump maggots tumbled from his open mouth and pattered like rain on the comforter. His eye glittered, sparkling from within with some ancient knowledge, and he licked his cracked black lips lasciviously.

“Resurrected, praise Jesus,” he said, and stroked her face with one rotting finger.