Kiss of Noir (13 page)

Sayan parked the car and we approached the tent. I could hear Brother Otis in full throat.

“And the doctors said she couldn’t be healed. And the surgeons said there was nothing they could do.”

A chorus of amens floated out and coated my face.

“And I said, Lord!” Brother Otis shouted.

“Oh yes, Lord,” several women replied.

“I said, Lord, I know you’re not finished with this woman on earth. I know she has more work to do for you right here, Jesus,
right here
!”

“Praise God!”

“Bless Jesus!”

“So I prayed and I prayed and I fasted and I prayed some more. And it gave me strength.”

“Yes, Father.”

“It gave me the strength I needed to use the Powah and Glory a God to
HEAL THAT WOMAN
!”

Half the audience jumped to their feet and clapped.

“Yes, that woman was healed and she is right here. Come forward, sister.”

A stout woman stood, wearing a tight blue dress and wobbled up to the stage on her black pumps.

“There is such a thing as miracles, isn’t there, sister?” Brother Otis held the microphone to her perspiring face.

“Praise Jesus, yes, there is, Brother Otis, and I thank you and my family thanks you because without you and Jesus, I wouldn’t be here today.”

“Yes, miracles do happen. And sometimes God lets us see the miracles.”

Sayan and I had stopped at the edge of the tent.

“Come on,” Sayan whispered fiercely.

“No, you go ahead and save me a seat. I want to take it all in…slowly.”

Sayan scowled at me.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be along. The devil won’t swipe me to hell out here.”

“Because he’s already got you,” Sayan hissed and walked up an aisle in search of two empty chairs.

I turned away and walked to the edge of the field where Brother Otis’s passionate exhortations were more comfortable. I extracted a sweet cigarette. Cigarettes didn’t have to preach and scream. Their gospel was right inside their skins. If you were quiet when you smoked one, it would tell you everything. I flicked my thumbnail over a match head and sucked on the cigarette. A man in a tight, mismatched suit disengaged himself from the knot of men and began walking toward me.

Ah, a fellow smoker. I grinned, smoke making my eyes squint. I felt for my tobacco pouch. Did I have enough smokes to spare? For this guy would surely bum one. All the years I begged cigs, I figured I owed everyone who asked.

The man looked me up and down. I said nothing, just enjoying my voluptuous smoke, thinking how nice it would be if the smoke were shaped like a big juicy woman.

“Uh, sir? Ma’am?
Whatever
…uh, there’s no smoking here.”

“Fuck off, pal.”

“And no cursing either. I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

I thought of Sayan and how this would break the fragile bonds we had carefully created. “Oh, come on,” I pleaded with a winning smile. “How about if I step over this rope and into the street? Then I’m off the property.”

“Well.” The man glanced at his buddies who were watching. “Fine. But if you smoke again, you’re out.”

“It’s a deal.” I swung my long legs over the rope and stepped off the curb. It wasn’t the first time I had debased myself for tobacco and it wouldn’t be the last. I stood in the street, leaning away from cars as they passed. It was mostly revival traffic, so I got a good many glares.

I watched the sun set. It was particularly lurid because it framed the circus tent of Brother Otis. I heard his shouts muted by distance and I smoked as the sun slipped lower and turned the sky from blue to golden to orange to crimson, staining the sky pink and purple like egg dye poured into water as dire warnings against sin rose in the air.

The delicious smell of wood smoke and sweet, fresh hay overcame even my cigarette smoke. Underneath that were the more diluted smells of trampled grass and hot dust. My throat was parched. I could use a gin and tonic to strip my mouth clean.

I thought it was ridiculous that the revival wouldn’t allow smoking, cursing, or drinking. If they added those enticements, the attendance and money would multiply. Weren’t those people most in need of saving? Not these saintly holy people who had the Bible memorized and hit the church every time the doors opened. What a funny world, I mused as I ground out my third cigarette. Sayan must be mad as a wet hen by now, but I needed to approach this thing at my own pace. I hoped Jesus was keeping Sayan entertained. I made sure to pick up my butts. I didn’t want to soil Ellis’s suit, so I just held them as I ambled toward the tent.

The sun was sinking into the horizon, soon to leave me here in the darkness with Brother Otis. To the south, I saw thunderheads. The cicadas were screaming about something, probably trying to drown out the revival. The tent itself was the biggest I had ever seen. And on the supporting poles, fluorescent lights were mounted lengthwise. There were hundreds of hard wooden folding chairs set up and hay thrown down over the swampy areas. In the center there were large sections of carpet in different colors for Brother Otis to tread on. Behind the carpet was a stage elevated six feet, so all could see, and it had a metal stairway pushed up to the edge. On the stage were a podium for Brother Otis and a band consisting of an organ with a massive woman at the helm, a guitar and a tired-looking brother fussing with the strings, and a feisty female drummer with bright eyes, ready to punctuate anything Brother Otis said.

Brother Otis was marching on the carpet, ranting about Revelations and the bloody war soon to come.

I ignored him as I circled the perimeter of the tent warily. The sound of cicadas buzzing in my ears was a comforting counterpoint to Brother Otis’s hammering Christianity. The air grew denser as it darkened, becoming wet and thick in my nose.

“Rain’s coming,” I heard one woman murmur as I walked past their backs.

I stopped to watch a group of children, all in their Sunday best, running past, yelling. Girls and boys all in a messy tumble together. I appraised the crowd. They were all dressed so fine. I checked out the men to see how I compared and then dismissed them. I concentrated on the women.

How lovely they all were. Old and young having strutted in to get God in their brightest colors and nicest shoes. The gathering as a whole reminded me of a fan of peacock feathers or a flock of tropical birds. Rich yellow, creamy orange, bright red, deep blue, dazzling teal, emerald green, royal purple, dark cherry maroon, and crisp white. And shoes and pocketbooks and gloves to match. Then there were the hats! Crowns for Jesus’s royalty. There was every shape and size of hat and all trimmed to go to Glory. Fur and feathers and lace and netting and sequins and flowers and fruit and beads. I shook my head, full of love for women. Love for black women and their fierce pride. And an ineffable dignity that nothing can kill.

All this holiness made my groin stir. Just the presence of The Spirit and all this female flesh devoutly off-limits made me go breathless. “I need something to drink,” I muttered, continuing to stroll.

Women held cardboard fans that Brother Otis had passed out and the audience was a symphony of rhythmic fanning. It was a beautiful silent song as the women struggled to cool their faces while remaining attentive to the Word.

Pungent wet sawdust and hay let me know I was close to concessions. A rusty meat smoker sat in the grass, wisps of fragrance trickling from its lopsided chimney. I reached the table where volunteers sat, flattened and greasy with heat.

“Yes, sir?” one asked.

I looked at what was there. Hard, crumbly loaves of bread, warm grape juice, tepid water in paper cones, and sweaty cups of cloudy lemonade.

“Got any Q?” I eyed the smoker.

“Naw, that was this afternoon. For lunch,” the volunteer said.

“Huh, now ain’t that some—” I stopped and amended, “Something. I’ll take water.”

“Here you go. Just put your love offering into that box.” The volunteer pointed to a cardboard box with a slot cut into it. I could see it was stuffed with bills. I added a dollar and moved away to lean against a pole and watch the show.

I was sipping my water, trying to shut out Brother Otis when a woman stood and walked toward the concessions table.

“Oh my, oh my,” I said, gulping my water and crushing the cup.

“Lemonade please,” the woman said in a syrupy sweet accent. Her dress was frilly and lacy and blinding white. It was tight in all the right places. I checked out the rear view. The woman’s dress hung just right, skimming her generous bottom with enough suggestion to make my fingers twitch. The woman’s hat was wide and white and it curved down over one eye.

“I’ll get that,” I said, sidling up behind the woman and reaching to slide a fiver into the box.

The woman’s one visible eye was round with surprise. “Much obliged.” She held her cup with both hands.

“My pleasure.” I turned on The Smile that I would never forget how to do.

The woman started to return to her seat but I barely touched her on the elbow and she stopped.

“Why don’t you rest back here for a minute? Take the air. I heard a rumor of a breeze.”

The woman smiled, her cheeks dimpling deep. “Well, all right.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the woman listening intently to Brother Otis, but I felt the air between us vibrate.

Oh, to fuck a holy woman! I imagined the unplucked splendor, the virginal sweetness. First, I would have to chase her, because I loved the chase. Instead of fantasizing about endless gallant courting, I saw the woman running and I, strong and swift and sure, gaining until I finally clasped her in my arms. She would struggle with all her soft strength.

But I was inexorable. I held fast. I could feel her heart beating rapidly, like a bird’s.

“Easy, easy,” I soothed. “Just relax into me.”

“No, I can’t! I won’t!” She renewed her futile struggling.

My hot breath on her neck stilled her for a moment. I gathered her closer and laid my lips on that innocent cinnamon skin, just below her ear. We were joined forever now. She whimpered, going limp.

“That’s it,” I said. “Nothing to get upset about. Just going to teach you some Latin.” I lowered my mouth to her collarbone.

“I don’t want to learn Latin. Hebrew teaches me all I need to know!” She shoved at me, trying to dislodge my grip. I held on, meeting every thrust of hers with my own. Our thighs rubbed together. I bent her backward, achieving victory for a moment. I held her, off balance, dangling above the ground.

“I want you, and you’re going to give it all up to me, understand?”

She swallowed, her eyes wide and untried. She said nothing. I pulled her upright and tight again, savoring her big curves and mountains and valleys and roads that led to eternity.

“God is my Father, Jesus is my master—” she chanted.

“I am your master tonight.” I placed my open mouth slowly over hers. Our breath mingled. “I will be your Jesus tonight,” I whispered to her lips. She was still and then cautious as she responded to my kiss. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“This is wrong,” she moaned.

“Then why does it feel so right?” I panted, eager to devour and plunder.

“Because you’re the devil and you’re tempting me.”

I ran my hands up her waist to her breasts. I could see the sweet nipples straining against the Sunday best dress.

“God made our bodies, right? And they’re made to feel pleasure. So I’m tempting you with heaven because that’s exactly where I’ll take you.”

She frowned, stiffening. I tightened my hold and kissed the pulse in the hollow of her throat. A small coo escaped her lips.

“You won’t have to do a thing,” I said. “Just let me give to you.”

“No.” She twisted and pushed. But her eyes were hungry. And curious.

I laughed, pinning her hands behind her back. Her breasts were thrust out. I savored the sight. “You want me, don’t you?” I growled into her curls.

“That doesn’t matter,” she answered.

“Oh, but it does.” I grinned, still gripping her wrists with one hand. With the other, I stroked one of her nipples through her dress. “You want me to whisper to you all the wonderful things I’ll do?” I continued. She was silent, hypnotized. “All the sweet, dirty shit we’ll do all night?” I kissed her cheek. Her breath was quick. I let go of her wrists but she didn’t move. I petted both plump breasts, enjoying my power. I pinched her nipples, rolling them between my thumbs and forefingers. “This is just the start. I can make you feel good everywhere,” I said, then bent and bit her nipples. She squeaked, but it was the right kind. The submissive kind.

“I will turn your body inside out,” I added.

“No,” she whispered.

“By that, you mean yes, don’t you?” I asked, pinching harder.

She nodded.

“Then you’ll tell me no all night, right?”

“No.”

“That’s a good start.” I knocked her hat off and kissed her violently. She kissed back, sometimes moaning “no” into my mouth. I popped the buttons on her demure dress. “Yell it. Shout no!” I said.