The Devil Take the Blues--Chapter 17

The Devil Take the Blues--Chapter 17

Beatrice

On Sunday, we were all gathered at the river’s edge, just where it converged with the swamp. The water crawled by, almost at a standstill. Just like time in Azoma. Just like how time would hide things beneath it, like a gator waiting just beneath the surface to grab you and pull you under. Another week gone in the beat of a mosquito’s wing.

The preacher wore white robes, just like everyone else who was to be baptized that morning. Afterward, they would all go home, burn their fingers and tongues on fried chicken, collard greens, and cornbread, then drop peanuts into glass bottles of coke for dessert.

The river was muddy; I couldn’t see the bottom. Mosquitos hovered on the surface. At this juncture, the water crawled by. Frank stood with Agnes and Tim farther up the bank.

The sun burned down on my head, even in mid-September. I almost couldn’t believe that I had never gotten baptized before. But Mama had died when we were young, and Daddy had never really cared much. He hadn’t cared much about anything after the Great War.

Why would a god, who supposedly loved his children allow them to die? Why did He make my daddy drink and forget about us? Why did he take my mother, strike her with sickness, then snatch her up? God hadn’t needed my mother, I had. Maybe that was why I had never been baptized before; I went to church because it was what you did, and there was no questioning it. The watchful gaze of neighbors and shop customers scrutinized when and how often you went to church, how loudly you sang, which pew you sat in, and how righteous your prayers were. I was cut off from a God who murdered his own child.

When Frank had come, I hadn’t wanted to believe. But he was flesh and blood, something I could see, someone who I could really speak to. God had not done that for me.

“Now you all know that we are saved by the blood of the Lamb, who was slain for our sins. We are washed clean in His precious, holy blood.”

The preacher called Agnes’ name, and she walked down to the river’s edge. She turned to me and asked, “Are you coming?”

But I only shook my head. I wanted to bolt, to flee into the safety of the woods, to not let the water touch me. What if I slipped? What if that blackness swallowed me again? What if it was bound to swallow me eventually, and no matter what I did, it would always get me?

My mind wandered to a memory and picked it up like someone examining an engagement ring at a jewelry store. My sister and I would come down to the river every day to play during the summer. The sweet susurrus of the river called to me like a siren, and I heeded that cry. Every morning, I’d sneak into her room, if I did not sleep in her bed, just after the sun had spilled over the rim of the earth to jostle her awake. Her golden hair would be splayed over the pillow, radiating outward like the rays of the sun. Her mouth would be slightly open, her breath stinking with the early morning like slightly curdled milk, but it was a smell I loved, because it was hers. Sometimes, you can love a person so much that you love even their bad smells.

I’d shake her awake, rude, as small children often are, and she’d pack us a lunch of spam and mayonnaise sandwiches. We’d always go down to the same area near the river, where it was calm and flowed gently, with lots of trees for shade. Every morning, before she went to work as a seamstress, our mother would come in to our rooms and say, “Now Beatrice, don’t you go down to the river.”

“Yes ma’am,” I’d reply, falling back asleep.

And every day we’d go to the river. Our mother knew of course that we had, by the way our hair matted, our burnt red noses and shoulders, and river smell clinging to our souls. If God did not want us to play in the river, he should not have placed it so close to our house.

One day we decided to do something different. We wanted to explore a bit downstream, to a new place we had never been. The river did not seem to be too much faster here, until we stepped in. As I waded, I felt the insistent pull of the water, like it was insisting that I go further, further, further. When I set my foot on some rocks at the bottom, they shifted. I slipped.

Fascinating how one little movement can send your whole body tumbling. A fraction of an inch from the treacherous rocks was enough to pull me under. The current raced faster beneath than we anticipated, and it pulled me quickly from my sister. Water rushed over my head. Rocks jutted up and stabbed my back as I tumbled downstream. Panic rushed into me as quickly as the water.

I slammed into deep, heavy roots of a tree hugging the shore. I was still a few feet from the shore, as the roots were long. My sister had had the good sense to jump out of the river and run down the shore, to cut off my journey. I clung to the roots, unwilling to let go, the current gripping me like a vise. My sister shouted for me to use the root to pull myself to shore.

I couldn’t. I was too paralyzed by fear, by panic to think beyond keeping myself alive for the next moment.

My sister waded into the water, stepping carefully but quickly. When she reached me, I lunged from the roots to her. But my fear possessed my body, threw it out of my control. I grabbed onto my sister, pulling her down, as I tried to gasp the air above. Some tiny voice whispered to me that this was my sister, that I should not be trying to kill my sister. But I wasn’t. Some evil demon had come to rest in my bones at that moment and turn my body against me. Agnes pushed me away, then clung to the roots as she held out her hand to me, this time keeping one hand firmly grasping the tree. She pulled me to the shore, and I scrambled out.

We both lay on the grass for a few moments, Agnes panting and me vomiting water. When the fear edged away a little bit and the demon had said goodbye and left his calling card by the front table, I started to cry. As Agnes pulled me close to her, I cried harder. She thought it was the relief of being alive, but I was crying because I was ashamed. I was shamed that I had tried to pull my own sister under the water—all in the innocence of saving myself.

Now as I looked at the river, it wasn’t shame I felt but wonder. I felt in awe of the way time flowed and changed everything. I could still feel the dark pull of the water, the absolute certainty that I was going to die, but it had been tempered, transformed. Now staring at the river, I did not fear death so much as a strong curiosity. Because I had come so close, it was easy now to imagine going one step further. Crossing the threshold and never returning. Passing, fleeting thoughts, like clouds over the sun.

“And do you Agnes, proclaim your faith in our Heavenly Father, who has cleansed you from your sins?”

“I do.”

“Then by the power of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you my sister, dead to this world—” The preacher lowered her into the water.

Getting baptized would not make a difference to my soul. Water was just water. Wasn’t it?

“And raised again to a new life.”

A new life. How many of us want it? How many of us never seize the opportunity to take it?

I watched while Agnes waded out of the water and climbed up the bank. Someone held a towel for her and she dried her hair.

“How do you feel?” asked Frank.

“Disappointed,” I admitted. “You’re still here.”

“You wound me. Come, let’s get you dried off, and we can swap ghost stories. I’ve heard you all have some that’ll raise the flesh on the dead.”

We walked on a little ways, until I spied someone reading a newspaper. He was an elder of the church, his trousers held up with some twine, and he smoked a pipe.

“Axman kills again!” screamed the headline. 

I stopped. “May I read that?” I asked. 

“Shore.”

I thanked him and took it. My eyes scanned the pages. 

“Hell, 1924

Esteemed Mortal:

They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.

When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.

If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.

Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.

Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is: I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it out on that specific Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe. 

Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fantasy.

-The Axeman

 

I jerked my head up. Looked at Frank. 

“What?” he asked. 

I had to be very, very careful. Inclining my head, I walked away from the crowds, where no one could hear us.

“Beatrice, could you please stop looking at me like I am personally responsible for the Holocaus—mass murder?” said Frank.

“Someone who likes jazz music with a penchant for causing death,” I hissed. “Who else do I know who loves jazz? Who is obsessed—unnaturally so?” I raised the newspaper, so he could read the letter. “Who has already caused death and destruction?”

“It is always—”

“Indirect. So you say. I know better now.”

His eyes scanned the page, then he laughed. “You can’t possibly think that I’m the Axeman?”

I nodded. “You make trips to New Orleans. While I’m at the store, you could be doing God knows what. I feel like such an idiot. Who was it that caused car crashes and old men to turn crazy? Who calls themselves Francis and comes from the bowels of the underworld? Who is hell bent on causing as much misery on Earth as possible?”

Frank shrugged. “The late archduke of Austria?”

“Why is everything a joke to you?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” He stood up. “But I will not kill your sister. I will not kill Agnes.”

That stopped me right on the tracks, just like John Henry dropping from a heart attack. Frank claimed he never lied. I filed his words away to inspect later for any twist he could possibly give them.

“Chere, it even says right here that I’m the inspiration for this madman’s homicidal fantasies. I’m not the Axeman.”

I shook my head. “I’ll have you thrown in jail. Where you can’t touch or hurt anyone. Directly or indirectly.”

*

Frank

 “I want to thank everyone for coming out in support of these new Christian souls,” said the Pastor Dixon. “And don’t y’all forget that the city election is coming up. Tim Stevenson has done a fine job of being a deacon of this church, and I know that he will do this city good. He’s a man of God, upholds American values, and eschews all manner of sin and vice. I cannot tell you who to vote for, but I know that the Holy Spirit will guide each and every one of you to make the right choice.”

Perhaps everyone was too busy clapping to notice that when Tim and the good Pastor shook hands, a bill was exchanged. Humans are quite terrible at noticing details, except for when it suits them.

Just like Beatrice. Good lord, bird, how many details did I have to give to make it obvious? How many did she miss along the way? I would have been offended at her accusing me of being the Axeman, but grief does strange things to people. Plus, I adored her too much.

Tim left to no doubt make his rounds among the flock of the pastor’s sheep, earning votes the Southern way. But I was surprised to find that Agnes did not go with him; she was so deep in his pocket that it was a wonder she didn’t tuck his shirt in for him or wipe his mouth after he ate.

“Pastor Dixon, may I have a word?” said Agnes. She was now in a clean dress, but her hair was still wet.

Although they were yards away, I could hear every word. Beatrice was deep into reading the letter of the charlatan, so I stood, enjoying the sunshine on my face, and the thrum of sinners all around me.

“Certainly, Mrs. Stevenson.”

Her face was the perfect shade of pale for the people of this town—just white enough to be considered high class, but not so much to suggest illness. “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

Agnes rubbed her neck with her delicate, long fingers. “I was wondering what to do if a man had…ill treated his wife. Should she…separate herself from him?”

What? Separate?

Now this was interesting. Agnes was not who I believed she was. I would applaud her, take her under my wing. I could not make her see what an abject—well, I shall not insult Tim, as it would offend any comparison I might make of him. But if she finally realized of her own accord how it behooved her to leave, well then, I could offer my support.

“Hm…I would first ask if the wife did anything to merit a punishment, for a God-fearing man would only show discipline with his wife if she had been in error in some way.” He looked at Agnes. “Since you are but a new Christian, having just been baptized, you may not know much about the faith.”

“Well…I grew up reading The Good Book, you see, and I’ve always tried to apply it to my life.”

“Ah, but what is your experience without the living incarnation of The Holy Spirit living inside you?” He shook his head ruefully. “Even so, you must be familiar with that holy verse, ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church.’”

Agnes gazed at the ground, as if longing for it to swallow her. “Yes, that is certainly true.”

“Well then. Looks like you have your answer. If your husband has offended you in some way, ask the Lord for forgiveness. Let that holy forgiveness flow through you, as the Holy Spirit does.”

“Of course. Thank you, Pastor Dixon.”

He patted her shoulder. “Thank you for being a dedicated member of the flock. You know what a sin it is to separate a family. Divorced women are a moral fire alarm.”

“Of course. How foolish of me to even consider such a notion.”

At that moment, her husband approached. “I appreciate your kind words today, Pastor Dixon. I must invite you and your lovely wife to dinner to show you my proper thanks.”

Dixon peered at Tim. “Indeed. We have much to discuss. Actually, Dolly has been hounding me to have you over. Why don’t you and the Mrs. here come by tomorrow afternoon? We can talk about your recruits to the cause.” His voice grew hard at the end.

I did not trust humans or hope that they would change on their own. I could see Agnes’s resolve drying up as quickly as dirt dried in the mid-day sun around here.

One suggestion from a half-bald man who lined his pocketbook with the congregants’ dollars and she stays!

I sympathized with this woman; I really did. No one deserved to die no more or less than any other; death came equally for all one way or another. But I did lament that her fate was sealed to die so young. Surely with enough time she could develop into something with a spine? Or if not courage, at least good, common sense. 

How quickly I forgot that humans were content to never change, to keep their heads firmly tucked under their wings, hiding their eyes.

Don’t they know that change comes, whether they like it or not?




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