by Weston Ochse
It was as if the young man had somehow infected the old woman.
“Leave me the fuck alone old man. I’m sick and tired of you pimping for that illiterate slut and her ill-conceived idiot child,” she said gesturing towards the figure of Mary and the baby Jesus.
The Padre placed his hand upon her forehead and began praying. The remaining ensemble of terrified men and women went to their knees and joined him, their chant filling the church with hopefulness and the power of their love.
Within moments, Carmelita’s bestial features transformed into the well-remembered visage of the kindly old woman that she was. The feeling of unease left as vomit spewed from her mouth. Carmelita struggled to her feet, a look of embarrassment, stilling the people around her and keeping them from speaking. She rushed across the chancel and into the sacristy, sobbing.
“This service is over,” said the Padre as he stood up and mopped his sweaty brow with a sleeve of his robe.
There was a sadness in his eyes that would remain there for six more days.
* * *
A residue of evil seemed to coat the church of The Sanctified Virgin, a thin film upon the walls and floor that none could see but all could feel. Carmelita wouldn’t speak of the episode and every time Simon had tried to brook the topic, she’d shushed him and left the room. It bothered her terribly. She’d thought herself devout and immune to anything the devil could throw her way. Her possession, and by this point everyone was calling it that, had left her haunted by the prospect of evil, and she transformed her anger to cleaning, cleansing, removing any piece of unwanted filth. The flagstones shone with her angry efforts, every nook and cranny cleaned and recleaned, her rags wiping, dispelling Satan.
On Saturday they got the call that they’d all been secretly expecting.
Simon and the Padre arrived near sunset. It was a one-room house, common with most of the population of Nuevo Laredo. The outside was sun-dried mud daubed between two-by-fours. Gregorio and Juanita Lopez lived within and until this day, had been happy for it. By day it was a barber shop, the chairs and accoutrements of the job littering the living room. By night, the chairs were pushed away, the brushes and combs and scissors were placed in boxes, and an old bed was unfolded for the Mother and her twenty-year-old son.
Simon remembered the conversation he’d had with the Padre on Wednesday, sitting over a bottle of tequila, both of them in need of understanding and a good drunk. By candlelight, sitting around an old wooden card table in the basement, they’d drained half the bottle in measured shots as if each were charging themselves for a conversation.
“Padre?” Simon began then stopped. He slung another ounce of determination down his throat. “Padre? When I was in the desert I saw something I didn’t understand. I saw people who knew God. No that’s not right. I saw people who believed, they truly believed. And until that moment, I never really believed.”
“Do you believe now?” asked the old man.
“You’d think I’d say yes after Sunday, but I’m from a different tradition. My father is a psychologist. I know that he’d tell me something that made sense. I know he’d be able to explain it all away.”
The Padre watched Simon closely as the young man shifted in his chair. “How would he explain it?”
“Well, you won’t say it. Hell, I don’t even want to say it, but damn, I mean it was possession. Right? And then some kind of hip-pocket exorcism. That’s what it was, right? Something straight out of William Peter Blatty. I saw the way their eyes rolled back and the green bile, the character change and the language, like they were fighting back or something.”
Simon threw back another shot and glanced around for the pack of cigarettes he’d quit smoking a year ago. He sighed and shook his head. “My father. My lovely father. Yeah, he would have diagnosed it right away. Something like, ‘Most, if not all cases of alleged demonic possession,’ began Simon in his best educated voice, ‘involve people with brain disorders such as schizophrenia or Tourette’s syndrome. These victims of the genetic lottery evidence behavior such as foaming at the mouth, speaking in tongues, projectile vomiting and spinning of the head ala Linda Blair.’”
“He could be right,” said the Padre.
“What are you trying to say? That what we saw never happened? Are you saying you can’t explain it?”
The Padre stared hard into Simon’s eyes for a moment, his anger close the surface. Recognizing the heat of his own emotions, he looked away into a dark corner of the room and smiled. “I know you’ve been searching for something, an understanding, perhaps. But the one thing you must understand my boy is that God is unfathomable. That is his nature. He can’t be understood.”
“Bull,” said Simon. “I just can’t accept that. It’s out there. I know it. I want to worship. I want to understand, but how can you worship something you don’t understand?” he asked.
“Faith. Pure Faith.”
Simon snorted, spilling tequila. He watched as the liquid darkened the table, mingling with the other wet halos from the bottle and glasses, distorting them. “What is that? What does that mean? Do you know what faith is? It’s a word, something created by people who were unable to define something so they gave it a name and said you have to believe it.”
The Padre’s years had been showing since Sunday. Until then he’d worn them well, but now the creases wore shadows. “Some of us have the faith. Sure, you can call it a word. You can call it a false belief. You can even call us stupid for believing in it. In all honesty, we don’t really care. Some of us believe and that’s that.”
Simon leaned back hard. “Padre,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t mean to question your belief. I was only speaking of my own faith…or lack thereof.”
“Don’t you think I know that? Do you think I’m stupid? I have the faith. It’s you who’re on this quest to find what can only be found in here,” said the Padre, jabbing his finger hard at Simon’s chest.
Simon rocked back dumbstruck at the ferociousness of the Padre’s gaze. Yet, was he right? Was it all semantics? Was it merely that his mind couldn’t construct a suitable template for a belief in the unseen? He respected the old man so much, especially after Sunday. He’d been so sure and calm. He’d cured the infected. He’d evicted the evil. But how?
“I’m sorry, Simon. I’ve had too much to drink. I’ve become reckless. At this point, I think bed is the answer.” The Padre stood and twisted, looking for the stairs, but his impetus sent him crashing back onto the chair, chagrin on his face.
“Padre. I didn’t mean to…I mean, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No” said the Padre, his face softening. “You were right to speak your mind. It is what separates us from the animals. The ability to reason. To argue.”
“You know, sometimes I wish I were an animal. Something that doesn’t worry so much, doesn’t care.”
The Padre stood, determination on his face as he sought to control his rubbery legs. He placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder.
“No. We need people like you to keep us honest. To make us explain God. We like you, Simon, because you remind us of who we used to be.”
Simon stared at his glass of tequila and felt the words set in. Even after watching an exorcism, he still didn’t believe. He doubted he ever would.
But that had been before they’d received the summons on Saturday.
The inside of the small adobe home smelled of hair tonic, sweat, burritos and heated sand. The grandma reached out to embrace him. She smelled the same, but more earthen as if she was the house.
“Madre de Dios, welcome to our home,” she said simply.
Their reply was cut off by a shriek. The Padre and Simon spun towards the sound as the young Gregorio hurled himself at the circle of neighbors. All farmers, their strong arms kept the young man from hurting them and himself.
Gregorio’s eyes were slick with a white film. His legs and arms quivered and crashed against invisible objects. Great spools of drool wrapped themselve
s around his face, droplets escaping as his head twisted and shook.
The farmers seemed afraid to hurt the young man, their faces radical masks of concern in the half-light that filtered through the stained clear plastic of the windows. Each time the young man rushed forward, dust from the fields plumed from the farmer’s shirts. They were almost ready to bolt. The insanity of the young man was nothing like a horse, deranged by the heat, or a dog in the midst of rabid frenzy. This was a human insanity demonstrated by a person they all knew and loved—one who was now frothing at the mouth, shouting obscenities and grabbing at his flailing member that had sprouted free from his pants.
The Padre disengaged himself from the grasping hands of the old woman and hurried to the circle. He pushed aside the strong men and entered like a matador, both wary and confident, faith in himself and his God as his armor. He held his crucifix high and spent his prayers around it, using it as a focus for his faith, willing power through the tortured frame of the small carved Christ.
“I exorcise you unclean spirit in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Come out and leave this servant of God, dear Gregorio. Accursed and damned spirit hear the command of God himself, he who walked upon the sea and extended his right hand to Peter as he was sinking, just as I am extending my hand to you.”
A wad of spittle hit the Padre’s cheek and slid across his lips. He continued unfazed. “Never dare, accursed devil, to violate the sign of the holy cross which we place upon Gregorio’s forehead. Through Christ our Lord.”
At the word cross, the Padre stepped forward to Gregorio who was beginning to gasp heavily, his back bowed and his arms hanging loose. The Padre began to repeat his words, his voice finding the tone as he placed the wooden symbol upon the young man’s forehead. Then suddenly he reeled as a fist found his face, propelling him backward into the arms of two farmers. Gregorio launched himself at the Padre, and before he could be beaten away, the old man’s face bled red.
One of the farmers waded in with his fists, no longer complacent, no longer as concerned for Gregorio’s well-being. He struck the youth’s face, repelling the demon-forged temper back and back until Gregorio fell hard to the kitchen tile where he scrambled like an upended crab.
Simon, who’d been stilled by the scene, found himself and slipped within the circle. He reached down and felt the Padre’s neck, bruises already rising in a purple-black mosaic. With a rush of relief, he found a pulse. Untucking his t-shirt, he ripped away a strip. Gently, he cleared the blood away from the old man’s eyes. They were already beginning to swell, dark circles turning black. Simon breathed every prayer he knew—from the artillery prayer of the Gulf War to the Lord’s Prayer of his youth. Finally, the man’s eyes fluttered. His chest heaved. Simon tried to speak but couldn’t. The Padre returned Simon’s gaze and held up the small symbol of God with slow hand.
Simon directed the men to take care of the Padre as he took up the crucifix, holding it out in front of him, his arms straight and trembling. He stood, glaring and angry. His left hand opened and closed at his side, ready for a simple minute of strangulation if salvation failed.
“Get back asshole!” screamed Simon into the now empty kitchen.
While he’d been busy with the Padre, the youth had moved. But where? The home was so tiny. There was virtually nothing to the kitchen other than a closed door, a scarred ceramic sink, an old refrigerator, cabinets and a pantry partially hidden by a dirty linen sheet, brown gray from thousands of cigarettes.
Simon approached the pantry slowly. He glanced back as fear began to insinuate and soften his steely rage.
The circle of men were watching.
The grandma was watching.
The Padre was watching.
Simon held his breath, concentrating on the cross, hoping that his half-faith was enough to provide it the power the Padre had so easily wielded. He reached out and swept aside the curtain. The back wall was covered with hand-made pine shelves filled with cans, sacks and boxes of food. Drawing his eyes upward, Simon spied Gregorio squatting upon the top shelf between boxes of Count Chockula and Frankenberry cereals.
Simon brought up the crucifix, punching it towards the youth’s face. He felt resistance, as if the air was harder. He redoubled his effort and pressed forward until he felt the knuckles of his hand and the wood of the cross intersect with skin. Gregorio’s mouth opened and a funnel of rancid bile glanced off Simon’s outstretched arm and on to the floor.
“I exorcise you, unclean spirit in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Come out and leave this servant of God!”
Simon tried hard to remember the words the Padre had spoken only moments before. He struggled for the next lines, but they were unnecessary. Gregorio’s body spasmed then slowly tilted forward, until he fell into Simon’s arms like an overgrown ragdoll. Simon carried the boy into the main room and lay him down beside the Padre.
Simon stared nervously around at the faces of the men and the youth and the Padre and the grandma. He wondered where the spirit had gone to now.
* * *
Ooltewah, Tennessee
Bernie was in his head.
Live.
“No,” replied Maxom.
I said, live, dammit.
“No. I wanna die.”
Listen nigger. Are you going to make my death meaningless? I said live!
“Go away, Bernie.”
Nigger. Nigger. Nigger.
If it hadn’t hurt so much, Maxom would have smiled. He remembered the interrogation training and how they’d tried to make him mad. They’d told him his mother sucked huge white dicks. They’d told him he’d been bred from apes. They’d called him nigger. They’d expected him to get angry, but Bernie had already broken him of that particular habit.
When he’d joined the Army, any one of those phrases would have sent him into a murderous frenzy. But he’d been around the block a few times since then; he’d been around Bernie. Maxom could tell when people wanted to get a rise out of him. Fayetteville, North Carolina in the 1960s was no place for a black man to be. He’d gotten ass-kickings severe enough to leave him in the hospital. The problem with the white boys was that there were so damned many of them. He’d learned to pick his fights after that, leaving the Army boys alone, but kicking civilian ass whenever the chance presented itself.
Bernie finally tired of bailing him out of jail. Friend or not, things had to change. The big Norwegian had tied him to his bunk and spent two days calling him every derogative name invented—Spear Chucker, Porch Monkey, Shit Man, Lawn Jockey. He’d insulted his mother, going into incredible detail of how he’d fuck her, a hundred positions, his mother loving every one. Even though they were friends, Maxom had made the bed jump and quake with rage, the words quickly becoming an agonizing, never-ending parade of hatred.
After two days, he’d been cured. They were merely words. Words cast by ignorant people. Words that meant nothing. The biggest lesson of all—Words ain’t bullets.
Towards the end of their training, they’d been captured and held—practice for what could happen when they went to Vietnam. His captors were delighted he was black. They thought it would be too easy. They believed his race had provided them the edge. He was the only member of the team who didn’t break.
And now Bernie was in his mind calling him Nigger. Not to remind him of the hatred. Not because the dead man was spiteful. No, the only reason Bernie showed up was to remind Maxom of the amount of shit he could take. This was nothing. He was a Special Force’s warrior. A fucking piece of cake.
And he’d eat it.
Maxom allowed the old Mung tribesman to feed him, his broken lips chapping at the chopsticks, the tasteless rice filling his mouth until he salivated and could swallow.
The old Mung was a lot like Bernie.
Not in size. Where Bernie was immense, the Mung was tiny, his stature that of a child. No, they were alike because of the friendly indifference both of them showed Maxom. Each o
f them in their own way cared. It was just that they couldn’t always show it.
Even with Maxom’s pathetic language skills, he’d heard the VC Major tell the village that the Black American could not be removed and was to be left alone.
But the Mung had ignored the command. Maxom remembered the first brush of the old man’s mind, shortly after Maxom had decided that he’d had enough. He’d given up and was willing himself to die. He’d seen Bernie’s death and knew that he was next.
As he began descending into the comfortable pain-free darkness of death, he felt his mind touched by something. An image of a meal came into internal focus so perfect that Maxom begged to smell it. No sooner did he wish that, within seconds, a phantom aroma assaulted him. He’d begged to taste and his tongue basked in the tartness of cranberry sauce and the sweet succulence of the turkey, fried okra and buttered hominy. He tasted the green beans and the pieces of bacon his mother tossed the salad with.
When his eyes had snapped open and he’d realized it was just another break with reality, he’d screamed with frustration, his cries sending flocks of crows from the tribe’s fields as he’d performed his task as scarecrow to the world. He only stopped screaming when he saw the Mung smiling—the secret smile of one who knew a great secret and was willing to share. Somehow, Maxom understood that he wasn’t going crazy. He suddenly knew it had been the little man who had given him this gift.
Then day after day he’d begun witnessing miracles.
It had started when the VC had reentered the mountain village. In the evenings, they’d gather around him and drink fermented goat’s milk. Punching him, kicking him. Seeing how high they could pee upon his body. He was their morale builder. The great Special Force’s soldier captured and put in his place.
