Transcontinental (43 page)

“What about her brother? Clayvon can’t even see her?”

“No. You should have considered that before your little dalliance.”

It was
his
fault Jemisha was gone. How could he tell that to Clayvon? And what about Jill? He couldn’t see her anymore, for her own safety. His relationship with Jemisha had been relatively innocent; who knew what they’d do if they found out he and Jill had kissed.
 

“So unless you’d like to be transferred somewhere as well, I suggest you keep your head down and your mouth shut, young man.” He motioned to Bishop Wood. “Give him the bracelet.”

With a sigh, the Bishop produced from his coat pocket one half of a pair of handcuffs painted red, then latched it tightly onto Leroy’s wrist.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s a disciplinary bracelet. For those who step out of line.”

“Now get to work,” Pastor Mercer sneered.

The Bishop opened the door and ushered him out.

The massive wooden door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

It took Leroy ten minutes to gather the will to join the congregation in the cafeteria. Fidgeting with the cuff on his wrist as he entered, Leroy shot Clayvon a wayward glance, but he was engaged in conversation and didn’t notice.

Since he was late, the lunch line was empty when he arrived. As he passed through, sullenly choosing the food he wanted, the lunch ladies looked at him with bemusement. When he got to Mama Sarena, he found out why.

“Sorry baby, but you know the deal. You get the bracelet, you don’t eat.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “I can’t eat?”

“According to the Bishop, no. You must’ve sinned, somehow.”

“Like, I can’t eat breakfast?”

“Or lunch, or dinner. That’s just the rules. Seems to work, too.”

She took his tray.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Since I like ya, take this.” She set a biscuit on the counter, then turned away. “Just keep those lips zipped.”

Leroy walked toward his table in disbelief, and a knot in his stomach over the prospect of talking to Clayvon. He briefly considered sitting at another table, maybe with Jill, but then his friends would know something was up, and he didn’t want to drag Jill into his mess. He had to just get it over with.

The seat across from Clayvon was serendipitously vacant, so he sat.

“Where you been?” Clayvon asked.

“Look, uh… I’m just gonna say it. Pastor Mercer told me they transferred Jemisha to some other facility or something like that.” Leroy couldn’t look at him. “She— She’s not coming back. I’m sorry.”

The others went silent. Clayvon just stared.

“Hell naw,” said Rashaun.

“Can they do that?” asked Darius.

“Of course they can,” Whatson said. “They can do whatever they want.” The boys glared at him. “Look, I know it’s hard to take, but it’s the truth.”

A frown spoiled Sherman’s face. “I’m gonna miss her.”

Leroy expected Clayvon to blow up, but he was calm. “First Ma, now they got her, too.” He looked at Leroy’s wrist. “Got the cuff, huh.”

“Snuck into the Bishop’s office to ask about her. Pastor wasn’t happy.”

“Rough. Take my food. Ain’t hungry.” He slid the tray across the table, then left the room. Leroy moved to follow, but Whatson grabbed his shoulder and said “Let him go. Give him some time.”

Leroy looked down at the food, trapped in a full body cast of guilt. Despite his turmoil, his stomach growled, and he ate, hiding his marked wrist.

* * *

Later that day, Leroy saw two adults escorting Clayvon through the halls of SpiritWood with a bracelet same as his. He never saw it, but Leroy heard from friends and acquaintances that Clayvon had gone back to the dorm and literally torn his sheets and mattress to shreds in a rage.

Leroy was bored in the field that day without his friend, his guilty conscience the only company. He took his anger out on the dirt, chopping and slicing, rubbing his palms raw and inflaming his shoulders.

Clayvon wasn’t at dinner that night. Starving after a hard day of physical therapy, Leroy ate his friends’ leftovers, then broke off from the group and headed to the dorm, skipping bible study. God hadn’t done much for him, lately, and Leroy had lost interest.

He stopped outside the dorm when he heard a soft sobbing. He didn’t want to barge in and embarrass whoever it was, although he had a feeling he knew, but after a minute, he decided it was worse to eavesdrop, and walked inside.

Clayvon pretended to be asleep as soon as the door opened. Leroy crept past his bed, trying not to look, but he did. He saw Clayvon’s arm hanging over the side of the bed, handcuffed to one of the legs. Leroy stopped in his tracks, and said “Hey, you okay?”

No response.

After a minute of silence, Leroy laid in his bed, staring at the bottom of the top bunk, a sight he’d grown very familiar with. The wooden slats that supported the mattress reminded him of railroad tracks, and he got an intense urge to leave SpiritWood that very moment, hop the nearest train and just go anywhere. It was so strong he sat up in bed, breathing heavily. He could almost hear the train’s horn piercing his thoughts, soothing his weary soul.

* * *

The rest of the week passed with the speed of a three-legged turtle. Clayvon’s spirit was sapped, just as Jemisha’s had been. It wasn’t until then that Leroy noticed how much they looked alike. He couldn’t even imagine the pain of having a sibling taken away.

Clayvon’s despondence seemed to drag everybody else down, and the dynamic of the group was skewed without Jemisha. Conversation was rare and sparse, and nobody joked, nobody riffed, ribbed, or poked fun. Leroy couldn’t wait to leave the cafeteria each day, and was sure the others felt the same.

As the days passed, his discontent grew. He wasn’t himself at SpiritWood; he was putting on a front, one that was fast disintegrating. He felt imprisoned. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the wooden slats under the top bunk, and itched to get away. But how could he escape a prison?

Sunday came, and Leroy readied himself to be the butt of another humiliating event, but he was pulled from line on his way to church. Carl took him down a hall to a gold door with the phrase ‘Seek, and you will find,’ emblazoned in thick black lettering.

Carl stuck a key in the hole and twisted, then opened the door and gestured for Leroy to enter. Inside was a tiny room with another door.

“Go on in,” Carl said. “They’re waiting.”

Leroy stepped inside, then heard the door shut behind him. The door in front of him opened, and Pastor Mercer appeared in the gap.

Smiling, he said “Welcome, Marcus. Join us.”

The room was bare, but for a padded mat covering the floor and walls. He kneeled amongst the dozen or so women and children doing the same, then looked to the Pastor for further instruction.

“Now we can get started,” he said, clasping his hands. “For those of you who are new to this — not you, Tasha,” he grinned, pointing to a rotund woman, “we call it seeking, or tarrying. See, contrary to popular belief, baptism in the Holy Ghost is not a figurative phenomenon; it is a tangible, physical experience, more powerful, more profound than anything you have ever beheld, I guarantee that. It does not come easy. But it is
not
optional. We’ll spend as long as it takes today to get you all infilled, but if you need more time — I’m looking at you, Tasha — we will continue next week. That said, the sooner you are saved, the sooner we can all leave and get some grub.”

Two men at the front of the room, one with a drum and one with a tambourine, began to beat out a tight polyrhythm. Speaking over the noise, Pastor said “Would anybody like to lead the group?”

Tasha and another woman raised their hands, and the Pastor picked the other woman. “Chantel, come on up here.”

The old woman struggled to get up, then in a hurried waddle joined the Pastor and the musicians. Despite her age and frailty, the skinny woman began to hop and dance with an energy Leroy couldn’t believe.

“Remember,” shouted the Pastor, “let your tongues go!”

Gradually, the rest of the seekers joined the action in their own way—swaying back and forth, mumbling to themselves, clapping with the beat. Leroy, transfixed on his knees, didn’t know what to do. When the Pastor’s eyes landed on him, he leaned forward and touched his forehead and palms to the mat as if he was praying. Beside him a woman repeatedly sang “Hallelujah, hallelujah!”

He kept his head down as long as he could. The drum beat seemed to seep into his bones, making him restless.

“The Holy Ghost is not present,” hollered the Pastor. “Repent!”

Leroy looked up. Chantel was still bouncing around the front of the room. The musicians had their eyes closed and heads lolled, but the beat was immaculate. He checked Tasha, who glanced around nervously, wobbling back and forth. The younger boy beside him looked entranced, staring at the ground. Then, Leroy saw the Pastor wearing a gaze harder than diamond.

“Beg for Him!” he bellowed, his glasses perched in front of his beady eyes, wide and intense and trained directly on Leroy.

Mouth agape, Leroy looked to the Pastor and gave his head the slightest shake in an attempt to impart that he didn’t understand.

But Pastor Mercer said it again, louder: “Beg for His mercy!”

The boy next to him, head down, said “please, God, please!”

“Fill me with light, Lord!” Chantel spun, waiving her arms. “I’ve waited so long,” she cried, her voice breaking. “I’ve waited so long!”

The woman to his other side was still singing “Hallelujah,” but it’d turned into anguished wailing. Others muttered and hummed and chanted. The sounds disturbed Leroy, sending a shudder through him.

“YOU!” Pastor Mercer shouted, pointing at him. “Beg for His holy forgiveness, lest you be cast into the fires of hell for eternity!”

The child next to him sobbed, his tears falling to the mat, hunched over as if he was going to vomit. “I’m sorry! Please!”

Leroy was nearly on the verge of breaking down, himself, when the wailing of the woman next to him swelled. He turned and saw her doubled back, laying on her legs in what looked like a very painful position. She belted out a powerful note for nearly thirty seconds as she convulsed from head to toe. Her eyes darted and blinked wildly, just like Ant’s had in Leroy’s dream. And, just like in the dream, he wanted badly to look away, but he couldn’t. Her cheeks twitched, her mouth opened and closed and formed bizarre sounds, and her frazzled hair quivered as her body shook. He watched, shaken.

As the others took notice of the woman, the tone in the room changed entirely. People with fresh tear tracks on their faces gathered around her, clapping and cheering. The child beside Leroy observed with a wet post-cry stare, clearly happy to have some of the pressure off him. The drums grew louder and faster as the men pounded harder and harder. He could see red welts along the tambourine player’s palm, but if the man even noticed, he couldn’t tell.

Jumping, shouting, they circled the woman, and she let out a hair-raising shriek so horrifying Leroy jammed a finger in each ear. The shriek turned into a jumble of nonsensical sounds and quasi-words that electrified the other seekers, but were enough to give Leroy nightmares, even through plugged ears.

“Feel it,
feel
Him flowing through you, sister!” said the Pastor, who stood before her, his hands and eyes pointed to the heavens as the music intensified. “The Lord has chosen dear Bettina to join his flock, today!”

Chantel fell to her knees. “Why not me?” she drawled, spit dripping from her crackled lips. “What did I do?!” She pounded the mat.

This was too much to handle. Leroy’s mind was shot; he couldn’t even form a thought. All he could do was take in the incredible, awful sideshow playing out before his eyes, and hope poor Bettina’s health wasn’t in jeopardy.

Amid the chaos, Pastor Mercer turned to him with a twisted you’re-next grin and a fire in his eyes that seemed anything but holy.

* * *

Every cell in Leroy’s body was weary by the time Pastor let them go to dinner. Two others—an old man and a child—had found the Holy Ghost in equally freakish displays of speaking in tongues, ululation, and body spasms, and each time the rest of the seekers cheered them on like they were athletes making great plays. He had tried his best. What else could he do for the eight hours they’d held him? Still, he’d come up short. He’d felt many things—confusion, repulsion, humiliation—but not the Holy Ghost.

By the disconcerted look on his friends’ faces when he arrived in the cafeteria, it seemed they knew where he’d been, which made the situation that much more embarrassing. Starving, he filled a plate and took a seat with a huff.

Clayvon picked at his food, head hanging low.

“Seeking, huh?” Darius said, crunching on toast. “Told ya it sucks.”

“It does not!” cried Sherman.

“I assume you didn’t find what you were looking for?” Whatson asked.

“I found plenty. Like I found out I’m scared of Pastor Mercer.”

“He’s certainly good at what he does,” Whatson agreed.

“Hey, how you been?” Leroy asked Clayvon.