Deadly Charm (3 page)

My mouth opened, but apparently my voice had gone on silent retreat. In the absence of protest, I got another laying on of hands. Ezekiel Thunder himself smacked me upside the head.

I stood there stunned.

Again.
Smack!
“Be healed in Jesus' name.”

I wondered if he and Lou had any concept of the idea of
laying
on of hands. Maybe slowly? Maybe gently? But no, he, too, gripped my forehead and pushed me back with enough force to slay me himself if the Holy Spirit didn't. A big, burly man, the catcher, stood at the ready.

I righted myself and kept standing.

Then it dawned on me. I'd gone to Rocky's church so long, I'd forgotten the charismatic rules. I should have been slain in the Spirit at Ezekiel's touch. If I didn't fall down, I'd get delivered all right, to the hospital to get care for a closed head injury.

Talk about not leaving like you came!

Okay, I repent. They didn't hit me that hard.

Finally I leaned back into the catcher guy and let myself fall. A woman standing by draped my already completely covered legs in a piece of silky red cloth.

Ezekiel Thunder gave me a big smile. Or maybe he was smiling for the camera.

I lay there thinking how I would kill Rocky. And how as soon as I got home, I'd find a plot of land and claw the dirt to dig my ex-pastor's grave with my bare hands.

Somewhere off camera a little voice cried, “Hi-eee.”

While the cameras followed Ezekiel Thunder, singing like he was God's troubadour, up to the Plexiglas podium, my attention went to a little guy, a lighter-skinned, preschool version of the man, waving at me from the front row. He nearly stopped my heart with his crooked little smile. There was no doubt. This had to be Little Thunder Boy.

Suddenly I didn't care if I'd been exorcised on camera and left for slain, splayed across the floor of a raggedy gymnasium. The brown-eyed cherub, laughing and gesturing for me to get up, captivated me.

Rocky called it right. I fell in love with Ezekiel Thunder. I just didn't know he'd be the miniature one.

And speaking of Rocky. When I finally made it to my seat next to Rocky and behind Thunder Boy—only sitting next to Rocky so I could get to that baby!—Rocky had the unmitigated gall to say something to me.

“Babe! I didn't know you were
possessed
.”

Following the style of my great-grandmother and namesake, Amanda Bell Brown, I didn't dignify that with an answer.

I smacked him upside his head.

T
HE WOMAN
holding little Baby Thunder in front of us in the “Holy Ghost row” certainly didn't look young enough to be his mother. The honey-colored older black woman, much more elegant than the crazed usher, appeared old enough to be a great-grandmother to the child. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a neat chignon. Her suit, a cream-colored poly blend, sparkled from the intricate beadwork sewn across the trim. She seemed to engage the toddler as needed, but the furrow in her brow and her craned neck indicated a greater interest in the action going on around the child's father.

She didn't even seem to notice when I leaned forward and whispered my name to the captivating baby. “
You
,” I told him, “can call me Bell.” He slapped his chubby hand to his lips and chortled, whipping his head back and forth with baby glee.

I didn't see anyone seated nearby who seemed to have motherly interest in the little boy, so I glanced up at the makeshift stage.

Aha. There, without a doubt, young Madam Thunder sat on a first-lady chair. The huge, ornate, ugly-as-sin monstrosity seemed to coordinate with a similar, equally hideous bigger piece
of furniture next to it. Honestly, a pair of matching electric chairs held more appeal than that set of his-and-her thrones, or whatever they were. The chairs seriously activated my gag reflex, and my mother would have died on the spot if she'd laid eyes on them.

I gazed at Mrs. Thunder. She looked like a teenaged girl, with her flawless café au lait skin. Her auburn hair had been teased to impossible heights—a frightening eighties throwback. I had to admit, she had a figure to die for. She was not turn-your-head beautiful in the face, and I'd seen better makeup on the dead, but the outfit she wore shouted “high maintenance” as earnestly as a roomful of Pentecostals shouted, “Glory.”

She certainly didn't look old enough to be the fallen intern. I doubted if she had even been born yet during that season of Thunder's life. I would have said the man had had a recent, raging midlife crisis, only he'd passed midlife by now. He knew better. The old goat!

I'm sorry, Lord
. I had that whole calling-people-animal-names thing down pat.
All this judgment!
Rocky had assessed me well when he told me I could be a little judgmental.
A little?

I mumbled another lame “Sorry” to God, but I still felt reluctant to release the flurry of criticism storming through my head. Those barbs served as a powerful defense mechanism.

I shot a look at Rocky, now in ardent worship as Thunder's velvet voice rang out, “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.”

I marveled at Rocky and his own faithfulness. He may get a little smart-mouthed, but he never strays from honesty given with a hearty dose of love. He knew what it meant to forgive folks their debts. I could only imagine what Thunder must owe
people, including Rocky, but my former pastor responded to the man as if he were Christ himself—sinless. I sensed not a hint of judgment from Rocky. And I don't think he could have looked more radiant if we'd been at a Billy Graham crusade. He shone like a polished rock—no pun intended—and that brightness of spirit had to be God's love.

Rocky loved him some Jesus, and nothing would diminish that, but he also loved Ezekiel Thunder. And now I'd stumbled once again into his good graces. I stood next to Rocky, debt-free, loved as if that night I broke his heart had never happened.

I raised my head and began singing the hymn of God's faithful love and provision as passionately as Rocky. I forced the skepticism prowling about my head like a wild animal to a dark corner of my soul. Like everyone else in the room, I worshipped God until I felt peace like my great-grandmother's quilt—soft, warm, and comforting—around me. The music quieted. Several people sang softly in what sounded like a heavenly language. I'd been thoroughly trained in the structure of this kind of service. I listened, because it still sounded lovely to me, and it had been a long time since I'd found anything that made me feel like my spirit sang with angels. I willed myself not to go analytical. At least not too much.

How many years had it been since I'd been to a meeting like this? Or sung in what I believed was my own heavenly language? How far had I ventured from the idealistic young Christian woman I used to be before Adam, my former abuser, stripped me of innocence and a good deal of my sense of self?

Oh, it hurt to think of it. I missed the former Bell, the innocent who still believed in miracles and didn't know about the
kind of ugliness and evil that Adam possessed. Evil that could draw you in before you knew what hit you. I missed the girl who believed in the Ezekiel Thunders of the world. Before televangelists fell like a house of cards, while young Bell watched with a frightening blend of horror and shock, wondering if
anything
she
thought
she knew about God was true.

Don't think about it, Bell
.

Tears stung my eyes. My throat tightened. I didn't want to cry again. I knew if I did, big, heaving wails would break the levee holding back the grief over those lost years that I'd contained for too long.

Oh, God. Don't let me fall apart
.

But, man, how I wanted to believe in a God who healed
everybody
who asked, just because they named it and claimed it. I wanted the old-timers who'd left their walkers and crutches on the altar not to realize the next day that they still needed those walkers and crutches after all. I wanted to believe in miracle prosperity oil that would bring abundance and no lack.

I shouldn't have come here
.

A hush fell over the room. In this sacred time, carved out in many charismatic meetings, the faithful listened reverently for a prophecy. A once-familiar eagerness seized me. I wanted God to speak some kindness to me. With a desperation I didn't realize I had, I begged God in my heart for just a whisper. A breath. Anything.

We waited in quiet stillness for the lone voice of the prophet to pierce the silence and give us a word. Instead, a tiny toddler voice filled the room now pregnant with anticipation. “I love you,” the voice said.

Baby Zeekie. My head snapped up. My eyes met the little boy's. He smiled as wide as the sky. “You,” he said, pointing a chubby little finger at me. He laughed, then smacked a kiss on his hand and flung it at me.

 

Schlepping along with Rocky afforded me his VIP status by default, which meant we got to go into the green room—a room that, in fact, had beige walls. It used to be a classroom and still had that weird school smell about it, which nauseated me. Ezekiel Thunder or Sister Lou needed to exorcise me again. I felt a distinct urge to vomit, and surely they'd want to capture that fine moment on tape as proof of my deliverance.

We stood around a few banquet tables covered with white paper tablecloths. The tables nearly buckled under a feast of soul food delights. Everything looked good—well, almost everything—but I wanted something that might settle my stomach.

“Rocky.”

“Yeah, babe?” He cradled my elbow in his hand and drew me closer as he leaned in to hear me.

“I'm feeling sick. I think I'm coming down with something.” For several weeks some kind of stubborn virus had clung to me, never burning itself completely through my immune system to become full-blown.

He gave me a wary glance, sizing me up. “You're not still possessed are you?” He stage-whispered this as if the twenty people in the room could not hear him.

“I'm
not
possessed,” I hissed.

“Well, not
anymore
.”

I wanted to smack him—again. “I wasn't possessed earlier! I've had flulike symptoms for the last few weeks, and—well, she got to me with all that cologne and…” My spidey senses told me Sister Lou lurked nearby. I snapped my mouth shut.

My spidey senses happened to be correct. Sister Lou sauntered up to me with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“Ummmm-hmm.”

Her Chantilly wafted in my direction. I didn't respond. How could I? I had no idea what she meant by “ummmm-hmm,” and if I opened my mouth, more than words might come tumbling out. I started using affirmative self-talk to keep from making a spectacle of myself once again.

You are in control
.

You are fearless
.

You are not going to puke
.

Positive self-talk failed to help me. Nausea washed over me in waves. I stepped closer to the fried chicken for comfort and strength, this time asking God for a little help.

Can you just keep her away from me?

I had to shoot straight with God. I didn't have the energy for grandiose words that wouldn't impress Him anyway.

Chantilly Lou didn't move toward me or follow me. She seemed to fix her attention on Rocky.

Serves him right for bringing me here. Let
him
get delivered
.

Only, she didn't exorcise him. Rocky smiled at her and gave her the puppy eyes. She didn't even get the full blast, and the next thing I knew she'd thrown her head back and was cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West and touching her hair.

Eww!

I picked up a plate and piled on a mound of mashed potatoes and spooned out gravy, trying not to look at Rocky and Wicked. Grabbed a few chicken wings. A piece of corn on the cob, lots of butter. I left the greens because I didn't like the look of the ham hocks floating in too much pot liquor. I stole another look at the terrible two.

Wicked pinched Rocky's cheeks, called him baby, and made his plate. I get interracial-dating and adultery demons cast out, but Rock doesn't. He gets the royal treatment. I tried hard not to be jealous—not that I coveted the affection of the despot prophetess.

“I could use a little tender loving care,” I said aloud to myself. “Well, let me give you some, darlin'.” A sexy voice with a smooth Southern drawl, groomed from many years of working an audience.

I turned. There stood Ezekiel Thunder. He took the plate from my hand, looked at it, and smiled with his pearly white veneers that probably had cost more than the national debt. Like his wife, he had flawless skin, with very few lines to betray his age. He'd colored his hair an unnatural black. Still, I could see why young women fell for him. He could have been a movie star instead of a fiery preacher. He added macaroni and cheese and an anemic-looking three-bean salad to my plate.

“Thank you, Mr. Thunder.” I tried to keep my cool exterior, but his eyes seemed to look into every cell in my body. I couldn't have been more affected if Errol Flynn were standing in front of me.

“Call me Ezekiel,” he said with a wink.

“Okay, Mr. Thunder.”

My mind screamed,
Don't trust him
. I tried to offer him a polite smile, but the war within kept my lips from fully cooperating. The edges curled up, and it may have appeared that I snarled at him. He didn't seem to mind.

“So
you're
Rocky's heart?”

“Rocky's heart is in his chest, sir. I'm his friend.”

“Bell Brown.”

“The name's Amanda.” No way would I let Ezekiel Thunder call me Bell.

“Ow,” he said. “I've heard about your name. You won't let me call you Bell, darlin'?”

“No offense, Mr. Thunder. It's reserved for my inner circle. And don't call me darlin'.”

“Then that's Reverend Thunder to you.” His eyes twinkled with playful mocking.

“I stand corrected,
Reverend
.”

A broad smile spread across his face. “Call me Ezekiel, Bell.” He winked again and sang as he handed me my plate, “
You. Won't. Leave here like you caaaaaaaaame, in Jesus' Naaaaaaaaame
.”

Rocky and Sister Lou walked up to us. I took my plate, stacked higher now thanks to Thunder's generosity. Sister Lou scowled at me, then grinned broadly at Thunder.

I wanted to shove her over to the housing project across the street, but I had a feeling Little Saigon was no match for devil-chasin', sin-hatin', Chantilly-stankin' Lou. Oh well.

I took a few not-so-discreet steps to get as far away from her
as I could without leaving the room or going near other people. I ended up next to the beverages and desserts.

“Punch anyone?” I asked.

“I'll get it, babe,” Rocky said, rushing to my aid.

He filled two cups from a bowl of red punch topped with what looked like orange sherbet. He served Sister Lou first, then me—age before beauty, obviously. He made another go of it and served Thunder and himself.

“Thank you, son,” Thunder said, his voice as smooth as silk. His eyes shifted over to me. “Why don't you sit with me, Bell? I want to get to know the woman who stole my boy's heart.”

“Don't call me Bell. And I'm afraid Elisa's not here tonight.” I said this for both Thunder's and Sister Lou's sake, in case Lou had a mind to cast out adulterous demons again.

Rocky's puppy eyes narrowed at me, no doubt because of my rudeness.
“Babe!”

“Don't call me babe.”

Ezekiel Thunder chuckled. “He told me you always say that, and that he still always calls you babe.”

Honestly! What else had Rocky told him about me?

Thunder took the lead and glided over to one of the banquet tables set up for dining. He gave us a quick glance to make sure we weren't going to go rogue and sit at another table. “Walk this way,” he said.

Rocky literally walked the way he did, imitating the man Three Stooges–style. He turned around and grinned at me. I figured you only live once. Like Rock, I glided over to the table mimicking Thunder. He and Sister Lou seemed oblivious to our fun.

We got to the long table and the three of us sat down, Ezekiel right next to me. Sister Lou initiated our next battle.