Lovesick (23 page)

Shep did a little dance on the stage, a rapid
tap! tap! tap!
with each foot and then a hop. He reminded her of a young boy on Christmas morning eagerly waiting to unwrap the last toy, his favorite.

“I think Brother Toby has brought us a surprise. Something to show the power of the Lord! Do you want to see it?”

The crowd roared as one. “YES!”

No!
thought Sandra.
I do not want to see this. Not this.
This is not what she had come for—she was elegantly dressed, for God's sake! She wanted the spectacle and the colored lights—the beauty of Shep's voice—the softness of his touch. Snakes were low, vile.

But Shep already had the snake in his hands. It dangled before him—long, fat, slimy. Shep held it up so the audience could see. “This snake could kill me,” he said, “but it won't. And you know why? Because Jesus won't let it!”

“Praise be to Jesus!”

Shep walked to the edge of the stage. Sandra knew that tonight was the night she had been waiting for all week—when Shep would descend into the crowd.

He took his time as he made his way up and down the rows near the stage, stopping, praying with one or another, swaying back and forth with the crowd like a tree momentarily caught by a breeze, distracted; then he would hold the snake high over his head and turn round and round like a whirlwind before setting off again. His golden white light shot at her now like arrows, like lightning. It was too much. She clamped her eyes closed. But she could feel him coming closer. Closer. Closer. Then he was there beside her.

“Sister.”

She lifted her head and opened her eyes. The brightness of Shep shone down upon her. He held the horrible serpent in front of him with his right hand—so long that it almost touched the floor. He extended his left to her as an invitation.

“Is there anything you want tonight, sister?” he asked.

Her throat was dry, parched. Her voice cracked as she tried to speak. “I love you,” she said. “I brought you a letter.” She thrust the envelope out toward him. He took it and in that instant when their hands touched, Sandra knew the snake was watching her. She could feel its cold, dead eyes turn down toward her, searching her thoughts, her heart. It opened its mouth wide so she could see the fine points of its fangs.

“I love you, too,” said Shep as he slipped the note into his pocket.

The snake squirmed in Shep's hands trying to jump free. Sandra heard herself scream; then she fainted.

 

When Sandra came to, she was lying on a cot in a cordoned-off area in the lobby of the auditorium. It had been set up for those who had been overcome during the services and was staffed by two female volunteers, both LPNs. They had taken Sandra's blood pressure, which was low, and when she woke they offered her a can of orange juice and a dry chocolate chip cookie in case her sugar was also below normal. Sandra's head ached, and she could feel a small knot rising on the right side of her forehead. She could taste blood in her mouth, and the inside of her cheek felt like ragged meat where she had gnawed it.

The three of them were alone in the makeshift room, but Sandra could hear people walking by on the other side of the screen. She knew the services were over. She wanted to leave here, Shep might be waiting for her at the motel. The recovery room seemed too small for herself and the two attendants. They sucked up all the air in the room and Sandra was afraid she might faint again. Lying on the cot, looking up at them as they hovered over her, Sandra imagined the women were dirigibles or inflatable floats like the ones in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Sandra figured that the hostesses on the Home Shopping Network would recommend they buy the stretch knit fabrics in sizes L-3X.
For those who don't want to sacrifice fashion sense for comfort!
They wore tags pinned to their blue polyester smock tops that showed both their name and their church affiliation. Betty Church of God of Prophecy spoke first.

“You got a powerful knock on your noggin there,” she said. “You will have a bump there for a while.”

“How are you feeling now?” asked Aurelia Calvary Baptist.

“Woozy,” said Sandra.

“They said the Lord just jumped down and slayed you in the spirit,” said Betty.

“There was a snake. I thought it was going to bite me. It seemed to know me.”

“That was just the Devil trying to get at you when the Spirit was coming on you, honey,” said Betty. “They said you spoke in tongues.”

“I don't remember it,” said Sandra.

“Not important that you remember it,” said Aurelia. “God remembers.”

And so does the snake, thought Sandra.

When Sandra got back to the motel, she discovered she had ripped the hem out of her pants so one leg was frayed like the skin of wounded beast. Her makeup was smeared, and the reflection looking back at her from the mirror was of another woman, another face, distorted, bizarre. Her hair was wild and uncombed, and she had lost one of her earrings. She tried to repair the damage while listening for Shep to arrive. She wanted to take a shower but did not, fearing she might not hear his knock. So she just stripped to her black foundation garments and sponged the sour sweat off her body, which stuck to her like a poultice. When she was done, she put on her best robe—midnight lace—and waited. Finally, sometime after the clock said 3
AM
she fell asleep on top of the covers, propped up by the pillows.

When she slept she dreamed that Shep and the snake were one in the same. That when Shep stood naked in front of her, the snake was where his penis was supposed to be. The snake hissed and curled around her like a boa constrictor, wrapping her from head to toe in its embrace, squeezing so tightly that she felt bones crushing, the breath being squashed in her lungs. Shep smiled his best smile and asked if there was anything she wanted. She tried to ask for help, to tell him that she was dying, but the words that came out were in a language she did not understand.

When she awoke it was daylight. She realized Shep had not come.

Sandra showered, washed her hair, but did not set it or even blow it dry. She left it tangled and clumped to do as it pleased. It seemed futile. She packed her suitcase, the new clothes now dull and drab. She knew she would never wear them again. She thought about the long drive back to her house, which struck her more like a tomb than a home. She did not think she could bear to go back. Then she remembered the gun in her handbag. She got it out, held it, studied it. She thought how painless it would be—like the bump on her head really. Had she felt that when she hit the floor? No. It was only afterward when she woke up that the pain set in. This would be just like that, except there would be no after.

She knew not to take too long, that too much thought would destroy that part of her that was acting on instinct, on impulse. She knew the best way was to simply put the gun in her mouth, like a child sucking its thumb, and pull the trigger. Pointing it at the side of the head was clumsy—often people did not die right away like that if they died at all. She had seen a report on
Hard Copy
where a teenager had survived a gunshot wound to his temple with the bullet still lodged smack in the center of his brain. They had interviewed him. He had trouble coordinating his eyes and his speech was slightly slurred, but he still functioned well enough to show the camera an X-ray. He then pointed to his head, and said, “In there,” like the bullet was a key to a door he had forgotten how to open. No, she reckoned putting the gun to the side of the head was used only for dramatic effect in the movies. Putting it anywhere else except inside the mouth where the shot would lift her brain up through the top of her skull might only result in injury, disfigurement, or disability.

So, that was decided. In the mouth. Quick. One. Two. Three. And then it would be over.

There was a knock at the door. Sandra thought the maids were probably coming to clean the room. She smiled to herself. Just give me a minute and then you'll really have something to clean up.

Two more knocks. Then a voice. “Mrs. Maxwell, are you still there?”

She knew that voice. It was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. It was Shep. Sandra laid the gun gently on top of the dresser and unlocked the door.

There, he stood. Shep Waters. Her Shep.

“Mrs. Maxwell?”

“Yes, I prefer Sandra.” She squinted her eyes against the morning sun. She moved so he blocked the light from her, so that she stood in his shadow. As her eyes readjusted, his silhouette loomed over her, framed against the bright open sky.

“I went to check on you at the infirmary last night after the service,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. But they told me you had left.”

“I wanted to get home. I was expecting someone,” she said.

“How are you feeling now?” She noticed he wasn't wearing his blue slacks and white shirt and necktie. Instead, he had on a pair of old jeans and a pullover shirt that fit him too tight across the chest and around his arms. She could smell a mixture of aftershave and deodorant soap. It was the way Carson would smell when he had just showered and was ready to go to town.

“My head hurts some. Would you like to come in?”

“The Lord must have given you a powerful whack,” he said. “I was afraid you might have a concussion.” She closed the door behind him and slipped the security bolt into place. “I prayed for you last night when I couldn't find you, and then this morning when I was packing up, I found the note you left me.” He pulled the envelope from his back pocket and held it out toward her. The note was creased where it had been folded over and casually stuffed into his pocket. The note she had so carefully crafted, delicately perfumed, sealed with a kiss. She imagined her scent mingled with his just as Mary Magdalene's did with Jesus' when she washed the Lord's grimy feet with her tears, dried them with her hair.

Sandra studied him. Now that he was up close, away from the auditorium, Shep didn't put off any light like before. He seemed oddly human. She wondered if he had brought the snake with him. She thought of her dream and how Shep and the snake were one. She imagined he could have it hidden, wrapped around his waist, or maybe bunched up in his crotch, ready to spring out at her like a Jack in the box.

“I won't keep you,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you were okay. And in the note . . .”

“Yes,” said Sandra, trying to recall what she had said in it.

“You wrote that you wanted to make a donation.”

“A donation,” Sandra repeated.

“You said you had written a check.”

“The note also said one night only. Did you read that part?”

“God's work knows no season, no time,” he said. “And the Lord has put it on your heart to help us. That is what we are here to do, isn't it? Serve the Lord and help each other out? You said you wanted to talk to me about some personal things. What can I do for you, Sister Sandra? What is on your heart? What is it you need?”

Sandra thought of all she longed to tell him. How lonely she had been when Carson had died, how Shep had saved her life, had given her purpose. How she wanted him to take her in his arms, to lay her across the bed, to shower her body with his kisses, to melt into her. Then she remembered the snake. How the snake had been attached to Shep. That instead of caressing her, stroking her, Shep only wanted to feed her to the snake. She picked up the gun from the dresser and pointed it at Shep.

“I know why you've come here,” she said. “God showed me the snake. Showed me how you planned to use it against me. To hurt me.”

“I am not here to hurt you,” he said. She could see that he was lying. She could see the snake twist and turn down his pants leg.

“I need you to take off your pants,” she said.

His face flushed with color. “Sister,” he said, “we shouldn't even joke like that.”

“I'm pointing a gun at you,” she replied. “And I'm not joking. Take off your pants. I want you to show me.”

“I am a married man,” he said. “I have a wife at home in Sumter—we are going to have a baby in four months.”

His voice had lost its confidence, its edge. He sounded like a schoolboy. She was struck how young he had become in the daytime. Shep. With his beautiful wife and bouncing baby on the way. “You should have thought about that before,” she said. “Take your pants off—now.”

“No, ma'am,” he said. “I won't do that. You can keep your money if you want. I am going to leave here. I got the shield of God protecting me. You can't hurt me.” With that, he turned toward the door.

The first bullet blew a chunk off his shoulder and spun him around hard like a puppet on a string. The second bullet hit him just above his left eye and his whole face seemed to crumble behind it, as if it were chasing the bullet to a secret, faraway place. Standing over him as he lay on the floor, Sandra held the gun tightly, hand shaking as she undid his trousers, ready to kill the serpent. But it was not there. She searched frantically for it on her hands and knees throughout the room, but it was no use. The snake had eluded her, escaped.

Sandra picked up the note from where it had fallen and tucked it into her suitcase along with the gun. A thick, gloomy stain spread across the plush pile carpet. She understood if Shep had waited only a few minutes it would have been her blood instead of his. God's hand, however, had intervened, saved her. But for what? If she was ordained to kill the snake, she had failed. The snake was still loose.

Stepping over Shep like she would a pile of soiled, rumpled laundry, Sandra placed the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on the outside knob of the motel room door. No one had even come outside to see what the noise was, probably thought the gunshot only the backfiring of a redneck's car. She walked calmly down the steps—
a single woman with a suitcase, nothing more
—then got into her car and drove away.