Charisma
squirmed in the seat from her butt stinging and leaned against the Cadillac
door to get as far as possible from the preacher. She avoided his eyes,
but watched his movements. The preacher tugged the monogrammed cuff of
his left sleeve, then extended his arm over the steering wheel. He snapped
his head to the side to make his neck crack, reminding her of the stepfather
she'd run away from when she thought she was pregnant the first time.
Sweat
spots showed through on the preacher's starched blue shirt from the ten
minutes they'd spent outside the car under a cloudless summer sky. He
kept his eyes straight ahead, but placed his right hand on the worn leather
Bible between them on the white leather seats. She waited silently, watching
the preacher's hand tremble, and wondered if it was from remorse or anger.
Finally,
he cleared his throat. "Ladies don't hitchhike," he said without looking
over at her. "How old are you?"
She
looked at his pristine nails tapping the Bible. A man with a manicure.
She'd never seen a man who cared for the appearance of his hands. His
hair was black and slicked back, not a strand out of place and no hint
of gray.
"I'm eighteen,"
she said, since her birthday was in a month and she'd been saying she
was eighteen for two years anyway.
"I should just put
you out right here," he said.
She watched the
speedometer and saw that he didn't slow down. His lips moved, but no sound
came out. She realized he was praying. "Get thee behind me Satan," he
mumbled, his eyes still ahead.
After two minutes,
she said, "You hurt me you know." She waited, but all he did was grip
the Bible tightly. "It ain't right what you done. I said no. I said I
just wanted a ride home from town. You're a filthy man."
Without looking
he swung his right arm, striking her in the mouth with the back of the
Bible.
"You're the goddamn
devil in this car," she yelled, reaching up to feel her bottom lip swelling
as she huddled against the door. She tasted blood. "What you done was
wrong, and beating on me now don't make it right any more than the way
you put that belt across my ass did. I bet that's the only way you get
excited, ain't it."
He jerked his head
around to look at her, his eyes swollen and red and his look so fierce
she felt her breath catch in her throat. "God will strike you down, you
evil little slut. Don't you use the Lord's name in vain like that in my
car. You're the Devil's temptress that made this happen."
"I didn't want that
goddamn shit you done," she said, lowering her voice. "I told you no.
I never said anything but no."
The car slowed.
She looked down at his feet and noticed his brightly polished black wing
tips. Expensive shoes. Not like her dirty white tennis shoes from Dollar
General.
"I'm stopping right
now and you can get your slutty little self out of my car."
"I wouldn't do that
if I was you. I know who you are preacher. I recognize your voice from
the radio. And I got your tag number right up here," she said softly,
pointing to her temple. "I don't think you want people to know what you
done to me. How you forced me and hurt me. All I wanted was a ride."
She looked out the
window and saw the sunset had formed long red streaks across the flat
Mississippi Delta. The stubby bean fields had been harvested and a foamy
sea of cotton tops was ready for the picker across thousands of acres
on both sides of the road.
She could see the
jaw muscles working on the preacher's face when he looked over at her.
She stared at him as his eyes scanned from her long blond hair, down the
front of her tight tee-shirt and to her thighs, only half covered by the
blue-jean skirt. She felt blood rush to her face as his gaze lingered
on her long dirty fingernails. She closed her fists so her nails didn't
show.
"You ain't the first
man to force me," she said. "That don't make it alright. You got to make
it right."
After another minute
of silence, he asked, "What do you mean make it right?"
"I don't know."
She hesitated. "I got a baby at home and you're a man of the cloth. Why
don't you make sure my baby's got food on the table?"
The
tires made a sound like a crowd roar as the preacher turned into the diner's
gravel parking lot too fast. She jerked the door open and stepped out.
The tires spun gravel backwards for a dozen feet as the car sped out onto
Highway 61.
She walked slowly
into the 61 Diner after watching the car disappear toward Memphis. She
sat at the first booth. The red Formica table was covered in greasy dishes,
wadded napkins and tiny crusts from something fried. She shoved back a
plate smeared with ketchup, a tea glass with bright purple lipstick on
the rim and a green plastic basket that had probably once held a pile
of rolls. The seat was still warm from a large woman in tight black stretch
pants now standing in line to pay.
Charisma leaned
forward with her elbows on the table and put her face in her hands. Within
seconds, a young man slid into the booth across from her and pushed back
long greasy locks of blond hair from his face. "How much did you get,
Char?" he asked in a whisper, looking around. "I really need the Camaro
out of the shop, but they won't let me have it until I pay for that transmission."
"It's four hundred
dollars, but I got to have some of it for groceries and baby food. You
can't be spending it all on that damn car."
