The Devil Made Me Do It

by Colette R. Harrell

  Seven torturous days later, the early-morning sun streamed into Esther’s window through the cheap regulation blinds hung in every dorm. She had not spoken to Briggs in over three weeks. She did not count the brief hug she accepted from him at the funeral. She understood she wasn’t being fair, but somehow, it didn’t matter. Her heart was bruised enough. The dorm room was now her alternate universe. Her energy was sapped, and she ignored the situation as alternate universes will allow you to do.

  She exhaled; drained. “Goodness, maybe he’ll just fade away.” She couldn’t feel; she was numb.

  She wasn’t a heathen; she tried to pray, but she became distracted by a thought or a sound. Sometimes when she prayed, her mind wouldn’t stop racing so that she could hear Him. Her mother left prayers on her answering machine, but Elizabeth Wiley had no idea what was going on. If she knew, she’d pull Esther out of school and bring her home. Esther looked toward Deborah’s closed bedroom door. If that happened, what would happen to her?

  Esther was soul searching. She blamed herself for Sheri’s suicide. A real friend would have known something was wrong. What signs did she miss while she was hugged up with Briggs? When was the last time she had spent quality time with either of her best friends?

  And, she was—get a shovel, dig the body up, and kill her again—angry at Sheri. What gave her the right to decide life was too hard? It was hard for everybody. Nobody went through life singing “Kumbaya.”

  Angry tears dripped down her cheeks. “Lord, I wish Sheri had used a comma instead of a period to fix her life.”

  The emotional day had crept into night. It was warm for October, and a breeze filtered through the cracked window. Outside Esther’s dorm room, the campus was peaceful. Behind closed doors, tempers clashed.

  Deborah yanked her suitcase off the floor and stormed past Esther. “You can’t talk me out of it, stop trying. I can’t stay here; I can’t do this anymore.”

  Esther caught Deborah’s sleeve as she passed. She gasped when Deborah pushed her back and jerked away. “Okay, you’re upset. Girl, help me understand. How can you just move away?” In turmoil, Esther beat her chest with her fist. “I know Sheri’s gone, but I’m here. . . . Please don’t do this.”

  Tears rained down Esther’s red, splotchy face. Deborah stood stoic, her knuckles purplish, clutched around the handle of her suitcase. She faced the door, her left hand tight around the doorknob. She shook the door in agitation. “I can’t help you understand. I can’t get you to feel what I feel. But, today I’m clear. The voices are quiet, and I don’t know for how long.” Deborah’s head spun toward Esther. Her stance was rigid and determined. Her eyes drifted up and down Esther and flashed arctic heat. She then exploded and spittle flew. “I’m not going to go crazy. I’ve tossed and turned to the image of her death, voices tormenting me night and day. Her lifeless body swinging in every nightmare. It’s been three weeks, and there’s no relief. Nothing, and no one, can help. I’ve gotta get outta here.”

  The door’s slam vibrated through Esther’s heart; she was alone.

  The next day, all of Sheri’s belongings were shipped. Esther had completed something, and she felt a sense of accomplishment. Last night, she made her own plans. She only needed to tie up a few loose ends, like the insistent knock at her door.

  Her eye pressed against the peephole. She counted the number of times Briggs knocked on the door as she watched him pace her hallway. He appeared determined. Esther threw open the door just as Briggs’s fist was raised to knock again.

  He folded his arms and gave her a granite-hard glare, “Thank you for answering the door.”

  Esther stepped back, her voice subdued. “You’re welcome, come on in.”

  Briggs’s stride was fidgety, foreign to his usual smooth gait. His voice strained, his hands pushed deep into his pants pockets, and he seemed to struggle for control. “Esther, I haven’t seen you since the funeral, and even then you wouldn’t talk to me. Will you talk to me now?”

  Esther pointed, indicating Briggs should sit. She sat opposite him in her desk chair. To strengthen her resolve, she mirrored his entrance by crossing her arms and portraying a cold countenance. It was a difficult act. His presence transmitted reminders of love-filled days. His muscular biceps attached to the arms that once held her tight. His two lips the focus of many of her prayers to God, to keep her holy. Then his eyes swollen and bloodshot berated her conscience.

  Esther’s resolve was melting. She chewed on her bottom lip and sat on her hands. “What would you like to talk about, Briggs?”

  Briggs’s voice cracked, and his cleft chin jutted out. “You’re kidding, right? One minute we’re in love and we’re planning a future. The next thing I know, you walk out of the gymnasium and my life without a word. Esther, do you have any idea how I feel? No. Do you care?”

  Esther rocked back and forth. “What do you want from me, Briggs, an apology? I’m sorry. I’m sorry you weren’t first on my list when I lost my best friend. I’m sorry you weren’t second on my list when my other best friend lost her friggin’ mind.” Her lips trembled, and her composure slipped. “You weren’t on the list, Briggs. Everything is not about you.”

  Briggs jumped to his feet. “That’s what you think? I’m selfish and don’t care? Sheri was my friend too. Did you remember that when you were making decisions for our lives?” In a sudden fit of passion, Briggs swung double-fisted air punches to an imaginary foe, moving back and forth until winded; afterward he bent over with his hands on his knees breathing heavy with exertion.

  “You’re making me . . . look, I can’t do this anymore. My mistake was thinking that if we talked we could get through this, but I can see it’s already a wrap. I’m gon’ step.”

  Esther waved her hand in the air at his antics. “What was that, Briggs? I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask you here. I haven’t even answered your calls.” In the face of his defeat and her guilt, her voice shrieked for both their pain. “Don’t you get it? I can’t do this!”

  Briggs moved forward and invaded her personal space. “You’re going to throw us away and not even fight for us?” He paused, desperation and hope battling in his eyes. Esther remained silent; and his eyes dulled with pain. They were over. His body stretched, his chest inflated with false bravado. “This how you gon’ play it? Girl, there is a line forming to get at me. You better recognize my worth.”

  Esther walked around Briggs. She strode across the room and flung open the door. “Here you are, still talking.” She opened and closed her hand in talking gestures.

  “That was real nice, Esther.” Briggs’s eyes clouded, and he brushed past her without another glance. His long legs carried him out of her room and halfway down the hallway in record time.

  Numb, she watched him walk away. One fragile step into her room, and she collapsed on the floor. She was all cried out, so she lay prone and grieved. After a time, she crawled to her bed and pulled her packed suitcase from under it. She wrestled, gaining her composure. On shaky legs, she carried her suitcase out the door.

  She had intended to make a clean getaway and avoid drama. She’d had enough of dramatic exits. Esther was going home. Her grief had recently taught her to take only those memories light enough to carry.

  Chapter Four

  2000

  The deep baritone voice of Esther’s pastor resonated throughout the sanctuary. “I tell you, my brethren, it was not unusual that the bush burned. Many bushes burned during that time. That was the nature of things. We know about nature, don’t we, children?”

  Reverend Gregory, pastor of Love Zion Church, marched across the floor. His tone encouraged the congregation to lean forward. “Now hear me well, the miracle . . . was that the bush was not consumed! You ever been in a fire? Yes, you have. We all have. Some of us were consumed by what we went through. It changed you, so that you were no longer you. Ya got consumed. You quit talking to people, got hateful, stopped coming to church, you know who I’m talking to. Now, when God’s fire washes o
ver you, we as saints need ta hold on through the purifying stage. If you do, it’s going to bring forth a new you. The fire didn’t consume you, my beloved, it just refined you. God is awesome, church,” he exclaimed as he mopped the sweat from his face.

  The drummer beat his drums with fierce precision as Esther jumped to her feet and two-stepped an amen. She waved her church bulletin in the air. The usher was out of insurance agency fans or she would have used one of those instead. She didn’t play with funeral home fans; she wasn’t fanning death around. Esther let loose with the power of air-filled lungs, “Glory!”

  She sat, crossed her feet at her ankles, and readjusted her dress around her curvy hips. Her shoulder-length hair was healthy and bounced with each sway of her head.

  She was a beautiful woman who turned heads as she sashayed down the lane. In her twenties, men used to call out to her as she bounced down the street to the lyrics of the Commodores’ “Brick House” playing in her head. But, at thirty-one, she was at the mercy of a society that redefined people once they gained weight. She was more than accustomed to the comments about her pretty face. She was raised well, and it showed in her acknowledgment of their compliments by her gentle smile and soft reply of, “Thank you.”

  Esther stood with the congregation as Reverend Gregory gave the benediction. She looked around the sanctuary and spotted Mother Reed. Well, in reality, she spotted her hat with its wide brim and long purple plumes. She was waving her hands in the air and giving praise. Esther spoke to people in general as she made her way over to her.

  “How are you this fine Sunday morning?” Esther hugged Mother Reed’s waif-like body.

  “Chile, I’m glad to be in the land of the living. Thank you for all your help during my Anthony’s heart attack and funeral. You a good girl, and God gon’ bless ya. This I know,” Mother Reed rubbed Esther’s hands.

  “You know I’d do anything for you. I’ll be by to see you later on this week.”

  Mother Reed shook her head no. “Don’t spend all your time with an old woman. Get you some nice young man and live a little.”

  “Now, Mother, you know I’ve been there and done that and all I got out of it was the heartache I brought back.” Esther had a twinkle of mischief in her golden eyes.

  In a solemn no-nonsense voice, Mother Reed said, “I needs to tell you something. But first, I’ve got to speak to Reverend Gregory. I’ll meet you over in the vestibule.”

  “I’ll be there.” The twinkle faded from her eyes. As she watched her walk away she moaned, “Now what?”

  Ten minutes later Mother Reed returned. Her wisdom shone from well used eyes as she made mental notes of Esther’s weight of pain. She pulled Esther over, and they sat down on the worn wooden bench that the ushers used in the back of the sanctuary.

  “Esther, look at me real hard. Look at this tired face. Do you see the lines? Honey, eventually black do crack. Now, I have lived long and well. You knew Mr. Anthony; he was a good man, and I was married to him for pert near forty years. I’m eighty years old. You do the math. Uh-huh, that’s right, I was forty years old when we married. Chile, I was thirty-nine when we met, and I loved him for forty-one years. I plan to keep on loving him until the day I cross over; and then we gon’ keep on loving each other in our mansion in heaven. Love don’t stop ’cause you ain’t with the person. What’s sowed, nurtured, and given care will bloom continually.”

  She watched Esther look down at her hands and pick at her nails. “Guess you thinking you were only checking on an old woman and not looking for a lecture.” Mother Reed cupped Esther’s face. “I’m trying to share something important with you, honey. Life treated me hard. I was in an abusive first marriage, and did you know I have a son? He was a year old the last time I saw him. But, I pray for him every day. I call them prayers on deposit. Don’t know when he’ll need them, but they’ll be there to bring him through. My first husband took him from me. Sweetheart, for ten years I lived in pain. I had no man, no child, and no home.”

  Mother Reed closed her eyes as she spoke of long ago. “The day I came into this church, I was thirty years old. I walked up to the altar, laid it, and cried my heart out. Bishop Dawkins, he’s gone on to glory now, God rest his soul, took one look at me and took me up to his office. It was on a Saturday, and he was preparing for that Sunday’s sermon. When he talked to me, he opened my eyes, and God opened my heart. Later, I met Anthony in the same pew I sit in today. Esther, I know you don’t like to talk about your past. But Love Zion is a small church, and we all know it anyway.”

  Esther looked startled when she heard this.

  “Now, don’t get upset. People were talking in love, chile. Nobody wants to see ya in pain. Esther, he took your pride and money. But he couldn’t take your soul. That you had to give to him. Let it go, baby. Be the bush that is set on fire, but not consumed. You don’ let that man kill you. All that’s left is the burying. I want you to stay with me in the land of the living.” Mother Reed looked at the blank expression on Esther’s face. “Well,” she continued, “I done preached you twice today. I better get on home. Don’t come by this Saturday. Go use your day off to do something fun for yourself,” she admonished, rising from the wooden bench. “Bye, baby.” She kissed Esther’s cheek and tottered off slowly on her cane.

  Esther gathered her purse, journal, and Bible and hurried out of the church.

  Chapter Five

  Sweat beaded across Esther’s body as the sheets stuck to her plump shapely thighs. She tossed and turned into the night, but the sheets twisted, clung, and rode her wave of sleeplessness. She could not get comfortable. She hadn’t come up with any answers to Mother Reed’s questions. Instead of a peaceful sleep, she was caught up in a Minnie Riperton flashback and was strolling down memory lane.

  Restless, she reached under her bed for her memory box. She riffled through it and dug out two pictures. They represented all that was left of her life with her ex-husband, Roger. One of the pictures portrayed two eager faces, blissful and optimistic on a day beaming with sunshine and promises. It was their beginning . . .

  Esther sat on a bench hypnotized by the flow of the Detroit River. It was like life, not pretty, but it kept flowing, moving, to its rightful place. She had done it, after a three-year delay. She was getting her bachelor’s in social work. Between her job, classes, and church activities she was busy but not fulfilled. She couldn’t even lie; she was alone and lonely. She pushed away thoughts of the love she threw away.

  “If I ever have a chance at happiness again,” she spoke to the still dark water.

  She loved coming to the riverfront. During the week it was peaceful, and she could think without being hassled.

  A honeyed voice tinged with interest interrupted her musing. “Sis, mind if I sit down?”

  Esther squinted through the sun’s glare into liquid pools of pleasure. His eyes were a gray-silver that spoke of an ancestry from other lands. In contrast, his skin reminded her of her favorite Starbucks latte with a dollop of caramel on top. There was a negative; he was tall but too lean for her taste. However, he carried a carefree attitude and a teasing grin that added to the positive side on his balance sheet. Esther looked around at all the vacant benches and knew his game. She uncharacteristically decided to flirt. This had never been her skill, and if nothing else, she could practice.

  Esther batted her eyelashes. “Well, I don’t know. I was enjoying the solitude. Are you guaranteeing me something better?”

  “Well, if I’m not better than nothing at all, I need to kill myself now.” Confident, he began to sit.

  “That’s not even a little funny,” Esther fumed.

  Shocked, he sprang back up. “I beg your pardon. Let me begin again. I’m snapping a few pictures with my new camera. It was a birthday gift from a friend. I’m really a harmless guy who couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet such a lovely lady. My name is Roger.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I never joke about a subject as morbid as death. If you can handle
that, then I’m Esther. Please have a seat. Looking up at you is making me dizzy.”

  “Then we’re even ’cause I got dizzy the moment I saw you.” He jokingly acted out a dizzy spell resulting in a smooth move to sit down next to her.

  Later, Roger bought her an Italian ice. As she enjoyed her lemonade-flavored treat, they strolled along the riverfront and he took pictures of her and passing boats. At one point, he asked a passing stranger to take their picture. At the end of their time together, he wanted her phone number but had to settle for her taking his. Thirsty for attention, she called him the next day and over the next ten months they were inseparable.

  Esther sighed heavily into her pillow. She should have read the signs: his moodiness, folded scraps of paper with numbers in his pockets, and his inability to keep a job. Her newly acquired tolerance had her making excuses for him. She felt that he just needed her steady influence and encouragement. Sheri’s suicide made her second-guess her ability to distinguish fact from fiction; a valiant effort versus a waste of time. She was too naïve to understand that some drowning people will take down the one trying to save them too.

  Esther flipped over onto her stomach and bunched the pillow beneath her. She flung the picture across the room. It landed facedown. Some memories were too painful and regret was a wasteful emotion. She picked up the second snapshot; she kept both pictures for different reasons. The first picture revealed how they got together. The second picture illustrated why the relationship ended; it was cliché and tawdry. Only her fingerprints gripping a photo of herself, tearful, holding her bruised shoulder was unique.

  Soon the night breathed her name, and her lids drifted shut. In slumber, she rolled over on the picture burying it beneath her.