The Devil Made Me Do It Page 5

  Esther jumped up with her wallet in her hand and ran to the altar. She was the first there, and the church clapped for her enthusiasm, but when she opened her wallet, it was bone dry. Esther looked around, stricken with humiliation. She was so busy making sure her face was not bruised, she had forgotten Roger had taken all her money.

  When she turned to run out of the sanctuary, Evangelist Graham blocked her path.

  He pulled her to him by her arm and hugged her tenderly.

  He prophesied to her. “My daughter, be not ashamed for God is with you. You have sowed through your faith. Although the storm in your life rages and the weight of its rain is heavy, God loves you, and He has never left you nor forsaken you. He wants you to know that your inner light shines brightly. Hold on, sister, daybreak is coming.”

  As the words hit her, Esther slumped in his arms and wept for proof of God’s love. She walked down the aisle and was touched and patted by those who called to her. “Keep your head up, baby,” “God loves you,” “Blessings to you, sister.” Each word restored a little of her back to herself. God was truly awesome. Esther felt renewed.

  Later, she entered the church’s parking lot and inhaled the crisp night air. She was lighthearted, and her worries were miles away, probably sitting in some bar. She laughed freely with fellow church members as they strolled toward their cars. She was parked farther away, so she waved good-bye and turned down an isolated row.

  Strained bursts of air filled the night as she huffed through the short hike, her stride purposeful. The earlier friendly banter was now fading background noise against an eerie silence that settled against the waning moon. Fog was moving in.

  Due to a busted parking lot floodlight, she walked into an area of midnight ink. Her clicking heels resounded on the uneven cement, and she vowed to give an offering to the building fund on Sunday. The darkness and silence seemed unnatural. Hadn’t people just laughed and talked along the rows? Something was off, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Now, her ears . . . or was it her imagination picked up a slight rustling? She tried to quiet her heavy breathing to hear better, but she ended up coughing. The rapid beating of her heart soon slowed when she saw her car’s silhouette; it’s chrome gleamed invitingly.

  “Safety,” she whispered and leaned forward, a sprinter at the finish line. Her hand and key extended, she clicked the door lock and her headlights illuminated the area. Her erratic heart settled, anticipating the feel of flesh touching metal, pure relief.

  The first blow slammed into the back of her head. Stunned, she fell. Polyester and cotton blend slid and rode her upper thighs as she fought for balance, but settled for her hands landing on solid ground. Breathless, she was shoved from behind, her thigh scrapping the cement, leaving bits of skin mingled among the pebbles. Yanked from behind, Esther shrieked as a vicious punch was delivered to the small of her back, shooting paralyzing agony throughout her body.

  Through pain-induced haze, she could smell the alcohol reeking from her assailant. Battered, she whimpered, “No money. Please . . . stop.” Anticipating the next blow, her hands rose in defense mode. Her fingers spread, she sneaked a look at her assailant. Her eyes widened with discovery.

  The reed-thin form hovered over her as he dragged her across the ground. “Didn’t I tell you not to come here tonight? Get up and get in the car. I’m driving you home.”

  Roger’s towering body appeared ominous against the dark sky. He gritted his teeth as he yanked open the car door and shoved her inside.

  Esther trembled in dread. Roger’s face was contorted in rage, veins pulsed in his neck as he snorted air. After slapping her earlier in the evening, and now this, Esther was terrified. She snuck a glimpse at him as he peeled out of the parking lot and sped down the road. Speechless and sore, her head ached, making it impossible for her to think.

  She winced at the tenderness when she clenched and unclenched her hands. “Sorry . . . after . . . you . . . left, I thought—”

  “Who paid you to think? That’s what’s wrong now. You think your degree and your manager’s job make you my boss. You’re not. I got tatted tonight. Should’ve done it a long time ago instead of listening to you saying it’s ungodly. Everybody has one, but your frumpy butt. And everybody ain’t going to hell.”

  Esther looked at Roger’s right biceps, but it was covered with a bandage. He flipped on loud gangster rap, and they rode quiet for the next several minutes as Roger careened around corners and ran through red lights. “Oh, Jesus, he gon’ kill me,” she moaned low.

  When Roger zoomed into their driveway, she breathed a sigh of relief that they arrived in one piece. Her relief, however, was short-lived. What would happen to her behind their closed door? This man was beyond her scope of knowledge, an anomaly. He was dangerous.

  She sat trembling with her fingers laced and strove to focus on Evangelist Graham’s message. Esther spread her feet and pressed them into the car’s carpet. Roger came around to her side of the car, swung the door open, and pulled. But Esther dug her feet in and held on to the seat.

  “Doggone your big butt. Shoot, you weigh a ton. Get out of the car,” he panted, tugging.

  Esther stared straight-ahead, looking neither right nor left, tears clouding her vision.

  “I said get out,” he repeatedly punched her shoulder.

  Esther cowered from the blows, longing to fight back, but holding on to God, and the car seat for dear life. Eyes squeezed tight, she prayed. Minutes passed as Roger hurled insults like Mohammed Ali and his butterfly jab. Esther’s thigh throbbed, and her emotions heightened at every scathing remark.

  Hope dwindling, she heard tires screeching and a dark blue sedan barreled up the street.

  Roger looked past her and cursed. She turned in time to see her father leaping out of the moving car. Her mother slammed on the brakes and threw the car in park.

  “Fool, are you crazy putting your hands on my daughter?” he thundered, storming over to Roger, a Louis slugger baseball bat swinging in his hand. Her mother tore out of the car clutching his arm. “Woman are you crazy? Let go of me, so I can whip this punk’s butt!”

  “Honey, please,” her mother implored. Whirling to Esther, she asked. “You okay?”

  She nodded, then collapsed. “Daddy—” He enfolded her in his arms and tenderly wiped away her tears.

  Screeching tires drew their attention and a second car rolled into her driveway, lurching to a stop. Phyllis and Esther’s, brother-in-law, Charles, raced out of their car, donned in pajamas, covered by robes. He ran to confront Roger, and Phyllis made a beeline for Esther. She put her arms protectively around her little sister. Overwhelmed, Esther burst out wailing in relief on Phyllis’s shoulder.

  Phyllis’s focus narrowed to Esther’s tearstained face, “Hit him, Charles . . . hit him. Beat that—”

  “Phyllis!” their mother interrupted, shaking her head against her making matters worse.

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry,” mumbled Phyllis. In adolescent fashion, she mean mugged Roger behind her mother’s back.

  Esther watched Roger. His face dazed, he gulped in air. She could actually see him straining to think, but as usual, the alcohol he consumed trapped him in a fog.

  Roger backed up, keeping his eyes on the men. He looked prepared to make a run for it.

  Esther’s father charged headfirst. “Where you going, boy? You man enough to hit my child? Well, now, you face me.”

  Roger pulled himself to his full lanky height and squared his rounded shoulders. “Esther is always defying me. I asked her to stay home and tend to her duties as my wife. She at that church too much.”

  Mr. Wiley scratched his head in disbelief. “Boy, you’re trying my patience. Here you are talking about wifely duties when you have never been a husband. I’ve just come to the conclusion that you are beyond ignorant. Now, I’m not going to stand out here and continue to give a show to your neighbors. My daughter is going into that house, packing her bag, and coming home with me and her mama.” Wo
und up, he continued his angry rant. “Talking about she at church too much. I told her mother, Esther should have never married a CME member.”

  Roger’s eyes bucked in confusion. “Mr. Wiley, my people are AME, not CME.”

  “No, fool, you a member of the Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Easter denomination. Holiday churchgoing heathen. Get out of my face.” Hickman Wiley gestured to Esther. “Pumpkin, go and pack a bag. Once he put his hands on you, he stamped you ‘return to sender.’”

  Startled, she surreptitiously looked at Roger.

  He gestured with his hands stretched out. “Please stay here with me. This is where you belong. Things got a little out of hand, but this is our business, and we need to work it out.”

  Esther stiffened as he hugged her, her body bruised and sore. Roger exhaled, triumphantly looking over her shoulder, he smirked. As they parted, Roger opened his mouth to speak, but Esther placed her finger over his lips. “Good-bye, I’m through.”

  She limped up the stairs with Phyllis close on her heels. As soon as Phyllis closed the door, she grabbed her sister in a bear hug.

  “Uh-uh, that hurts, and I can’t breathe,” Esther muffled.

  Phyllis loosened her hold and leaned away. “Yes, you can. You haven’t breathed in a long time. Come on, take a great big gulp of air.”

  Esther did as she was instructed, holding her stomach as she inhaled deeply.

  “Feel that?”

  “Yes,” Esther sighed.

  “Know what it is?” Phyllis continued in cheerleader style.

  “Freedom,” Esther crowed.

  “Now, my sister, be ye not entangled again,” Phyllis sang in an evangelical voice. “Just give the word, and we’re off to the hospital and filing a domestic violence charge. You know Daddy may force you to do it anyway.”

  Esther nodded, moving with renewed fervor down the hallway. Phyllis followed. “Girl, stop. I need to take a picture of any injuries you may have with my phone.” Esther rolled her eyes and pulled her sleeve up to show her bruised shoulder. Phyllis snarled as she snapped pictures from several angles and continued revealing the earlier evening. “When Sister Edmonds called Mama and told her what she saw Roger do to you in the church parking lot, I thought she was going to have a heart attack.” She then turned her phone for Esther to see the pictures. “It’s not as bad as I thought. Drunk can’t throw a punch.”

  Esther ignored her sister’s last statement. “So, that’s how y’all found out.” She rubbed her shoulder as they entered her bedroom. She didn’t show Phyllis her scrapped and bruised thigh or the back of her head which throbbed. She just wanted to go and leave all this behind her. But if Roger ever hit her again, she would bury him under the jail.

  “Yea, while Daddy was getting dressed, Mama was calling me. As you can see, I wouldn’t let Charles take the time to put clothes on. I felt this was a come as you are party.” Phyllis gestured to the pajamas and robe ensemble she was wearing.

  Esther opened the closet door, then pulled out several dresser drawers. “You start in the closet, and I’ll pack up what I need from here.”

  “I’m on it.” Phyllis tugged a black suit from the assortment and showed it to her sister. “Not this, you need something to say, ‘I’m back.’ Let me pull some new-attitude clothes for you.”

  “Anything that will help me move forward, I’m for.” Esther secretly rubbed her sore side.

  Phyllis rifled through the closet. “Umm . . . Esther?”

  “Yes?” She rummaged in her dresser drawers.

  Phyllis’s lips trembled. “Baby, you don’t have any new-attitude clothing.”

  “Nothing?” Esther froze, a nightgown in her hand.

  “Just this old gold blouse,” she held it out. “Everything else you got from the Flying Nun.”

  Esther was dumbfounded. She used to love clothes. She took the blouse out of her sister’s hand and silent tears fell. Her energy and freedom now snatched away.

  Phyllis looked alarmed at Esther’s mood shift. The spirit of depression was a sneak. It made a person think it was just coming to visit and before they knew it, letters went out, telling the world that it had taken up permanent residence in a new home.

  She took Esther’s hands in hers and began to pray, “Merciful Father, we come humbly before you. We are in pain, Lord. We ask for your healing and your mercy. I come in your Son Jesus’ name against the spirit of depression and oppression. I thank you that as we speak, you are straightening crooked roads. We have come to a fork in our journey and need your direction and guidance to travel the road that is your will. We don’t want to miss a step, because we don’t want to miss you. I thank you, Lord, for being in our midst. Bring us peace that surpasses all our understanding. We surrender all, everything, to you. Amen.”

  Esther felt a sweet spirit of peace. She hugged her sister, who could be a walking contradiction—critical controller and loving protector.

  “Thanks, I do appreciate you.”

  Phyllis sniffed and waved away her little sister’s comments. “You make a decent salary. We’ll just go shopping tomorrow and buy you some more clothes. As a matter of fact, I feel a shopping spree coming on,” her voice ending upbeat. She blinked away her tears.

  Esther used her nightgown to wipe her eyes. Her sister didn’t get sentimental often, and when she did, she usually backpedaled when she realized she was being mushy. Esther went down the hall to the bathroom to pack her toiletries.

  Phyllis followed talking. “I hesitate to bring this up, but I think that the path you’re on started with Sheri’s death and Deborah’s abandonment. You marrying Roger and trying to save him is just a symptom of a much-larger disease. Girl, I still don’t believe that you ever really loved Roger. Who could but God?”

  “So tell me what you really feel,” Esther muttered as she shoved toiletries in her overnight bag.

  Phyllis put one hand on her hip and another to point out Esther’s transgressions. “Oh, I’m just warming up. What have you done about your misery? You joined church committees. Let me count them all.... You’re on the Daughters of the Vine committee, the usher board, the Missionaries of Hope, the pastor’s strategic planning committee, and you got the nerve to be the part-time church administrator. Shoot, girl, the last I heard, you even volunteered to be head of the volunteers. Just how miserable have you been? Boo, anyone that busy is running from something . . . usually themselves.” She ended with a snap of her fingers.

  Esther blew her hair out of her eyes and grimaced. “Thank you for your considerable opinion of my life. If you don’t mind I’m a little tired and sore. I’m about ready to get out of here.” Esther began moving through rooms, lifting her suitcases and handing some to Phyllis. “Dang, Sis, couldn’t you, just for once have kept your mouth shut?”

  Phyllis nodded and packed. There was a quiet lull in their conversation, and Esther doggedly pressed her lips closed.

  “I guess I let my tongue speak before my brain was engaged. Tonight wasn’t the time to say all of that. If Mama wasn’t outside guarding Roger from Daddy, she’d have known the right thing to say. I’m sorry.”

  Esther didn’t pause in her packing. “We’re good. I can only muster the strength to be angry at one person a day. This is Roger’s day.”

  Phyllis dragged the suitcase and bag to the front door. Esther was close behind. She paused at the open door; the tasteful furnishings, color coordination of drapes, wall covering and carpet attested to the time she had taken to make this house a home. She’d learned that home was about the people, not the building. This was a beautiful prison with invisible bars; it had kept love out and her pain in.

  When she descended the stairs, she passed Roger. He ignored her and leaped up the steps two at a time. She looked over her shoulder and saw him enter the house and slam the door. The sound echoed in her heart, and she knew that the door to her heart would never open for him again.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wiley came and placed their arms around her shoulders. “Let’s ha
ve a word of prayer,” he said.

  The extended Wiley family held hands in the front yard.

  “Well,” Phyllis whispered to her husband, “I’m glad this isn’t our neighborhood. I hope her neighbors don’t think we’re out here doing voodoo.”

  “Shush.”

  Esther adjusted the visor as the morning sun glared through the moving truck window. A caravan of cars followed the truck down Rosedale Lane. Late into the night, Esther and her family talked. It was agreed that it was best to move her out of her house today.

  In the past four years, Roger had gone through her money, her friends, and finally, her patience. They tried private counseling, but Roger walked out. They scheduled Christian counseling with Reverend Gregory, and Roger never showed up.

  The slap woke her up, and the punch sealed their fate. Roger was a bully, the “boo!” leftover from a child’s fear of things that go bump in the night. She was cutting her losses before she woke up dead.

  The caravan stopped, and everyone piled out of their vehicles. Her cousin Tony jumped out; large, menacing, and chiseled from his recent prison workouts. “Okay, cuz, you’re the boss. Just tell us what needs to go and what stays.” As an afterthought, he said, “I hope that fool tries to stop us.” He cracked his neck and punched his fist into his hand.

  Esther shook her head. Tony and his siblings were the family’s holdouts for salvation. “Tony, don’t start any mess up in here. We’re getting my things, and then we’re leaving.”

  Esther’s parents had an important meeting and couldn’t back out at such short notice. She missed their calming hand.

  Phyllis marched up. “Tony, as much as I would like to see Roger’s tail whipped, we are under direct orders from Mama—no fighting. And, bro, you know you on probation . . .”

  The group began to get organized; unpacking boxes and labeling them by room. As they chatted and laughed, the front door opened. Roger’s clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them. The five o’clock stubble on his face showed signs of gray. He barked, “What are all of you people doing in my front yard?”