Last Sunday, the Devil came over for dinner after his sermon. Momma prepared the whole refrigerator: jerk chicken, rice and peas, steamed cabbage, salmon…She even bought cake! She only does that on special occasions, like holidays or when somebody dies—it brings out her best.
The Devil likes to get real close to Momma. Always says that the Lord has blessed her hands for “service,” then winks and hugs her tight, even though he has a wife and daughters. He smirks at me over her shoulder, his lips dark and fat, his eyes glinting scarlet.
Momma will laugh and tell me to go play outside. She never does this when he isn’t around. When the Devil’s gone, she’s serious. There’s no playing or smiling or akekeke-ing; it’s just business and constant cleaning of the kitchen, bathroom, everything. I won’t see her again until it’s time for him to leave, when she’s sweaty and tuckered, like she had just finished wrestling or got back from a trip to his ninth circle.
The Devil drives a vintage Dodge truck with flashy red paint and a ram hood ornament. He never parks in our driveway, always down the street. It reminds me of when Daddy used to visit. After the divorce, before the accident.
At church I sit next to the Devil’s two daughters: Mary and Eve, sisters that look the same but are opposite. Mary’s prissy and prim like a princess, and Eve’s just rough, like a schoolyard fight. They’re both pale and they remind me of the twins from The Shining. Daddy and I watched it when I first slept over at his basement apartment. I had nightmares for weeks.
The Devil’s wife asks for help cleaning his office but phrases it like a question where the yes isn’t optional. “Spick and span!” she says, ushering us in. I’m given a duster to exorcise the furniture: desk, chair, cabinets, drawers—I touch none of it. Instead, I stare at the bookshelf, at a wooden frame trapping a picture of the Devil and his family. Wife, twins, and of course, him and his bright, red eyes. They sear into the lens, frozen, like a deer in headlights, except there’s no startle or panic, no fear. Just awareness. The Devil stares back like he’s in the room with us, like he was never absent. His wife asks why I’m not dusting. I point to the picture. She says it’s just the flash.
The next time I see the Devil is when I’m walking home from school. He pulls up next to me, truck speakers blaring, tires rolling slow, cigarette in hand, and asks if I need a ride. I shake my head, then he looks ticked with his scrunched brow and burning cheeks. He asks again, commanding this time, like there was never a choice. I say no and turn the corner. He turns, too. I walk faster. The truck speeds up. I rush through the nearest corner store door, the bell jingling above, and slam it shut.
“Ay!” shouts the clerk, an elderly auntie from the neighborhood. Her hair’s tied up and she’s wearing thick, wooden beads.
“Sorry!” I say, still clutching the door. When it’s clear, I breathe easier. I savor the air, the city, the sudden scents, the freedom of those strolling peacefully, and then I get home and choke. In our driveway, next to the Devil and his truck, Momma waits for me. She calls me inside.
For my tenth birthday I’m getting baptized. I have no say. No choice. It’s Momma’s way or nothing. If Daddy was here, he’d be against it. He’d fight, curse, rebel, all of it. But he’s not. It’s just me.
Momma says the Devil will do it this Sunday, before the sermon.
I shake my head. I don’t want it. I don’t want it!
Momma raises her hand and I flinch. She dares me to speak again.
“It’s for the best,” she says before banishing me to my room.
That night when I dream, I hope to see Daddy somewhere pleasant, but instead I recreate the accident. Late on the Belt Parkway, cars cut traffic. Daddy drives safe—both hands on the wheel. There’s a fast-moving truck—red. A sudden lane switch. Daddy swerves, skids, crashes. My eyes jerk open with tears.
When Sunday comes, the church is full. I sit next to the twins, and today they have questions:
You’ve never been baptized?
Weren’t you born Christian?
Are you afraid of water?
Do you think God loves you?
“Are you ready?” the Devil’s wife asks finally, then escorts me to the front of the sanctuary where the Devil awaits in his crimson garb, fabric ancient and covered in gold regalia.
The Devil preaches to the pews, words of the gospel flowing from his blackened lips. Attendees rock in their seats, anxious to receive His message, His blessing, for he is the closest one to Him. Across the room I see Momma on a bench: eyes closed, hands held high, muttering. She wasn’t always a believer.
The Devil takes my arm and leads me behind the sanctuary, through a private room and to the baptistery where I’ll be made his first example. He makes me remove my shoes before wading into the water—the feet are the most unclean.
“You will be reborn,” he says, tongue slick with venom, and he floats me on my back. A crucifix hangs on the wall above; from the angle it‘s upside down, unholy. The Devil leans over me, blocking it, and his front is all shadow. “All will be cleansed.”
At that moment, as the Devil strokes my arm, I imagine a different ending: Daddy’s car smashes through the baptistery wall, misses me, and flattens the Devil red. The Devil’s eyes, those damned eyes, are squashed alongside the rest of him, and Daddy, the most heavenly man on this earth, Christ becometh, scoops me into his arms and hugs me, kisses me, forever. Wouldn’t that be better?
About the Author:
Jaylan Devin Thompson (@itsjaylantho) is a writer from Queens, NY, and an MFA candidate at Queens College. His work has appeared in the Colored Lens Magazine and the City College of New York’s Promethean.
Photo by Pascal Bullan on Unsplash