The Devil Take the Blues--Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Beatrice

The next morning, golden bars of light streamed through the window and gently woke me up, but as soon as my eyes opened, my very first thought was to somehow get to New Orleans. I suddenly knew what I had to do. The Axeman. Of course. He was the one murdering people at random. He was the one terrorizing the entire Mississippi delta. Agnes didn’t have enemies. She was too sweet. Too pure. Too good. Who else but a madman would want to kill Agnes? Who else but someone already hell bent on killing people? All I needed was to find the Axeman, then I could save Agnes, and even other people. If he were behind thick, iron bars, he wouldn’t harm another soul. My town would be safe. No one else would need die.

?If the Axeman was doing all his killing in the city of sin, then that’s where I needed to be to find him. I would allow that it didn’t comfort me that I was seeking out a madman murderer, but I only had seven weeks—really more like six and a half now—to find him and…

Well, I wasn’t quite sure if I would have the gumption to kill him myself. I couldn’t think that far. I could only concentrate on the next tiny step, and that was finding transportation. New Orleans was the better part of fifty miles away, and I had never learned how to drive, being that I could walk from one end to Azoma to the other in less than a day, and I never had reason to go elsewhere.

My best bet was to try and convince Frank to drive me, but I doubted that he would be inclined to do so, being as that would help me further my plans to extricate myself from the deal.

A rooster crowed nearby—roosters were always crowing at any time of day in Azoma; you only had to walk five minutes before you heard one screeching its head off in any given yard. It sounded as though it came from the direction of Frank’s cabin.

To my utter and complete surprise, Frank had driven Angelo back to his property last night, and Angelo walked inside the small cabin that lay about a hundred yards off the main property. The knowledge that Angelo was staying just a stone’s throw from me sat heavily. In any other life, I would walk over to say hello, to sit a spell on the porch, as neighbors did in Azoma, but that was a life we didn’t inhabit. I had to content myself with imagining him waking up and making breakfast, him shaving, him changing clothes, plucking the strings on his guitar or blowing life into a harmonica.

Not that I should imagine any of that. Agnes needed me more than Angelo; in fact, Angelo didn’t need me at all.

I changed into a soft cotton dress, pulled on socks and shoes, ran a brush through my hair and cinched a braid right quick. From the porcelain basin, I splashed some water that was already lukewarm on my face, but it did perk me up some. I still wasn’t used to staying in a house that didn’t feel right, didn’t smell right. Even Pecan stayed hidden under the bed; I had fetched her the day after the wedding, but she was as accustomed to change as I was and wouldn’t budge from her spot, even if I tempted her with food.

I opened the door of the bedroom, and the smell and crackle of bacon grease greeted me, which somewhat stumped me, since I didn’t know if the Devil truly had a hankering to eat or what his culinary proclivities would be if he did. I walked down slowly, gathering my thoughts as to what exactly I would say to Frank.

Frank had his back turned to me, but when he heard me approach, he turned around. “Good morning,” he said.

“Mornin’”

He turned back around and scooped some bacon onto a plate where it lay next to some scrambled eggs. He handed me a china plate with a fork that only had three tines.?

“I’ll take the eggs. I don’t eat bacon.”

“Don’t tell me you’re like those who wandered the desert for forty days and subsisted on bread from the sky.”

“What reason does it matter if I am?” I accepted the plate and sat down at the long table. A bunch of fresh sunflowers graced the table.?

“Better for one’s heart anyway, I suppose,” he said. “It’s a wonder any of you live past forty around here.”

To his credit, the eggs were quite good. I sipped some orange juice, gathering my courage to ask him about New Orleans. I opened my mouth to ask him about driving me.

But Frank leaned back in his chair and said, “I have a need to drive to New Orleans today to drop off the record that Angelo and I made yesterday. The company will eat it up, I know, and I’m sure they will accept more artists from me soon. Besides, I have a few errands to run in New Orleans.”

My face remained impassive as I continued to eat. “I’m not sure I can spare a day to traipse around the Big Easy with you. If I am to find my sister’s killer, I can’t waste time running errands.”

“Come now, Wife, it will be fun. We’ll see a moving picture after.”

“Doesn’t the Devil have better things to do than watch false stories on a huge screen?”

“On the contrary. I love indulging in human affairs. Besides, last night you gave me the faintest hope that, deep in that bottomless pit you call a heart, you might possess some vague stirring of affection for me.” Something skittered across my flesh when he said that. For good or ill, I could not tell.

“The only stirring I have is indigestion.”

“So much the better. We can stop at a pharmacy on the way. I do love a good soda.”

“Fine.”

We left the house and walked to Frank’s car. As Frank and I drove out of town, I felt slightly dizzy at the sight of trees and fields zooming toward and away from us. My grandmother had always looked at “the machine” with extreme distrust. The wheels ate up the miles between us and the next nearest city.

As the distance from Azoma increased, something grew lighter and lighter in my chest. A weight I did not realize had been there was lifted, and I felt that I could join the birds in their bright blue sky. The wind from the rolled-down windows tossled my hair, the sun felt good on my face, and the smell of a barbecue drifted over the cotton fields. The day was new, and so was my hope.

We heard the city before we reached it. Snazzy saxophones and thundering trombones poured out of river barges. Horns honked through the streets. In every street, there seemed to be a joint playing music, whether the lively tunes of a nickelodeon piano or some two-bit player on a corner. We pulled into one such street corner, in a parking area. Carriages with their horses click-clacked on the cobblestones, and prostitutes called out from their iron-wrought balconies. Frank cut off the engine.

“And now?” I asked.

“And now, we wait,” he replied.

Well then. As soon as I saw an opportunity, I would slip away and try to find…well, I didn’t even know what I looked for. Now that I was in the city, I realized how foolish I was; it wasn’t as though the Axeman would just volunteer to reveal himself.

Frank pulled out his small pouch of hemp and began rolling a cigarette. When he had finished, he lighted it, the end glowing, a dark cherry. He inhaled, and on the exhale, I held out my hand.

Wordless, but with a semi-cocked eyebrow, he handed it to me. I inhaled, savoring the flavor of the sweet smoke, watching the curling tendrils rise around us. I passed him back the cigarette, and our fingers touched; the back of my head tingled.

Perhaps it was the smoke; perhaps it was the long drive, with no chattering between us that opened up hidden doors. Perhaps it was the feeling of being as free as the smoke on the wind, but I finally asked all the burning questions within me.

“Is there a God?” It shot out of me like a bullet. Was there any sense to this? Was there any meaning at all?

“There are Beings. A few claim the title.” Smoke curled around his fingers. He gave my reaching fingers the cigarette.

“Are you really the Devil, then? Or are you just some supernatural being?”

Frank looked me in the eye, and I swear I saw longing. “I am what I am. Nothing more or less.”

I inhaled quickly. The cheat.

“Why are you here?”

“It seems mighty unfair that I get all the good questions. Let’s share. I’ll answer yours if you answer mine. A question for a question.”

He paused. I nodded once.

“Why do you avoid the river?”

Water in my chest. Head going under. Can’t breathe.

I took another long pull on the cigarette. “I hate getting wet. Almost as much as I hate waiting in a car for nothing to happen.”

“Now who’s the liar,” he said softly but not maliciously. “Very well. I will answer truthfully. One of us in this car should.” He flicked the burnt end out of the car. “Ashes to ashes. Now then.” He turned to me. “I am a wanderer. I roam in search of beauty, and this planet has as many magnificent and beautiful places in one hunk of suspended rock than in much of the universe. There are wonders that I never tire of seeing and never will. I am always in search of the next beautiful thing.”

He could keep on looking then.

“My turn,” he said. “What is your favorite song?”

I looked out the window at the bustling city street.

“Don’t have one.”

“You are an iron-clad box concealed within a bank vault. This is going to be a very difficult marriage if you are a hater of music.”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, it’s…I mean, I don’t have one because I can’t possible choose.” I gestured out the window. “Does a bee have a favorite flower? Can I pick my favorite bluebonnet? Does the sky have a favorite sunset?”

Frank remained quiet.

But the song grew in my heart. It swelled and softened, expanded and finally lifted from my throat.

?

I’ll fly away oh glory

I’ll fly away

When I die, hallelujah by and by

I’ll fly away

?

I stopped singing, suddenly conscious of Frank’s eyes on me.

“So…is there really a Hell?”

Frank then broke his gaze with mine and looked out the windshield. He seemed to be seeing something far away and up close at the same time.

“People make their own hell,” he said. “They trap themselves and can’t escape. They think that whatever they have is enough, even when it robs them of their own life. Humans are the best at devising their own perdition.”

That was not a straightforward answer and did not really address my question. My annoyance was pricked.

“Do you torture people?”

“Not unless it’s with my tongue.” His grin was unbearable.

“What happens after we die?”

“That would ruin the surprise.”

Infuriating reptile!

“So you don’t know anything?”

“I only know as much as you, love. The only difference is that I know I can move things without touching them and that that car will crash into that one right…now.”

Tires suddenly squealed and a horrid crunch of metal split the air.

I near jumped out of my skin, then experienced that horrible spread of fear through my body as the initial shock settled, then slowly wound its way through my limbs.

People began shouting, then began to gather around the wreckage. Heads popped out of windows, and a police siren wailed.

Unable to tear my eyes away from the crowd, I watched as they pulled a man from the car that collided with another. They laid the body on the ground, and then, as if they were one being, the crowd stepped back from it, as they realized that he was dead.

I whipped my head back to Frank. “Did you do that?”

He started the car. “Not directly. Now, onto the next errand.”

We drove slowly out of the lot, almost as though Frank were savoring each moment.

As we drove down the streets, we passed by curling wrought iron, colorful houses, and hanging Spanish moss. Children reached with sticky hands toward a man selling ice cream scoops, passing them out in small, tin cups. A Negro man in a suit and a fedora hat stepped carefully into the street to cross it, bearing his weight on a polished cane. Ladies with cropped hair, a shocking, new fashion strolled arm in arm with some who even wore getups in pants. Pants!

“No wonder you’re here,” I mumbled.

“Morals change, and thus the definition of evil. Get with the times, woman.”

We slowly drove down the street, and as we did, Frank motioned to a white man, walking down the sidewalk. He was rather handsome even if he looked for all the world like a damn carpetbagger.

“See him? He’s going to die,” said Frank.

“By your hand?”

“No.” Frank turned a corner and dappled sunlight filtered in through the windows. Huge oak trees overshadowed the road with their outstretched branches. “Poison. He deserves it, though. He’s going to give poor Emily a nasty venereal disease.” He paused, cast a glance sideways to me. “Which reminds me, I need to give her a rose.”

I sniffed. “Your trite attempts at inciting jealousy are transparent.”

“Not half so much as your ill-concealed curiosity.”

I leaned back in the leather seat, feeling the breeze through the open window. After a time, we pulled up to a small, brightly painted house with an iron gate around a humble yard. Frank parked the car.

“You aren’t going to cause any more sudden explosions or death, are you?”

“No, and besides I didn’t cause anything.” He tucked one piece of hair behind my head. “I was right; running errands with you is far more entertaining than going it alone. However, it’s probably best if you stay in the car.”

With that, he hopped out and walked toward the house. Without even pausing to knock, Frank stepped inside. After a few minutes, he exited, smiling to himself. When he was halfway down the sidewalk, a woman in a servant’s clothes burst out of the door and screamed, “Help! He’s lost his mind!” A man toddled out in a shirt and underpants and nothing else. The woman yanked him back inside.

“Why did you do that?” I demanded. “You really are evil, aren’t you?”

Frank looked affronted. “I’m a messenger. That’s how I was created. But that is my last errand.”

“That’s what you meant by errands? Why?” I demanded.

“Why do I run errands?” asked Frank, “You see, it all started when I made the first deal with a man named Job. He said—”

“No, why does it happen at all? Why does evil happen?”

“You think I know just because I vibrate at a higher frequency. You think I know because humans have pinned their actions on me since time immemorial.”

“Hazard. A guess.” I was in no mood for Frank’s games. His ambiguous meanings.

“Maybe there’s a balance. Maybe all it really comes down to is separation. You humans think that you’re so separate from everything and every event. Death. Disease. Those aren’t evil, those are natural.”

I became so angry I could hardly even spit. “So pain is natural? Pain is good?” I flung my arm out at the city. “You can’t possibly tell me that this is a good thing.”

“Pain is pain. Life is life. Death is death. You imagine yourselves so special that you could not possibly be related to anything else. When, in fact, you’re all connected. You just want to separate yourselves. Think!”?

I didn’t understand, which made me angrier. It was all well and good for Frank to say these things. He wasn’t human. Did he even feel? Did he know what it was like to watch people suffer, to be helpless to do anything about it? If he had been here when my grandmother wasted away from old age, too addled to remember any of us, too weak to even lift a spoon to her own mouth, would he have been so cavalier about pain?

I doubted it.

I couldn’t see a reason for pain; couldn’t see a reason for evil. Sure, the preachers in my town talked of Original Sin, but that placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of women. One bite from a fruit, and humans were cursed to live in abject misery forever? Seemed like a rotten, harsh, and unfair punishment to me.

Sometimes I thought that all arguments for why pain and evil had to exist to me were just trying to justify what could not, could never be, justified. There was no nobility in suffering. And in many ways, I thought that any justification of pain was simply the willful ignoring of the greatest lesson in fear that any of us would ever learn—death. We quibbled over whether pain had any meaning to distract ourselves from the ever-present knowledge that all humans were destined to die.

That was the only truth I saw.

But maybe…maybe something in Frank’s words held a grain of sense. What he had said about separation. We were all lonely all of the time because we came up with an endless number of ways to create an illusory separation. Humans against devils; Americans versus Germans; white folks versus black folks; on an on.

We said nothing as we continued to drive around the city, the Mississippi River snaking its way through the world on our right. We pulled over parallel next to a derelict building, and Frank darted in as quick as you please.

As I sat in the car, a sign in a polished window caught my eye:

“Mysterious Ouija Board!”

And beneath it in smaller lettering:

“Ask it a question and OUIJA will answer it. Lots of fun and just the thing for parties or to while away the long evenings. Price: $1.50.”

Another sign that swung above the door touted incense, roots, Indian herbs, oils, spices, and candles. I did not know how long Frank would be, so I made haste in stepping out of the car and walking inside.

The interior of the shop was—if you can believe it—more crammed with items than my own general shop, but these were of an entirely different nature. Beads, African masks, candles of every color (including black), pictures of saints, statues of nubile African women, small leather bags, jars of roots, powders, and other herbs, bolts of cloth, ribbons, tiny dolls with leering faces, blue glass beads with an eye fixed in the center, skulls, and crosses were so tightly packed that I barely had room to walk. The whole place smelled of exotic incense, leather, and wax.

“Hello?” I called.

A Black woman with a turban around her head stood at the front. “I am closed for palm readings today,” she said. Her voice was rich with the lyrical tones of New Orleans, the French much stronger than we had in some parts of Azoma.

“That’s all right—your sign out front says you have a talking board that will answer questions.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How does it work?”

“Same way everything in here works—the spirits.”

“But how do I ask?”

She motioned with one bracelet-laden hand and walked to the front. She plucked up a board. It had the alphabet stamped across it, plus numbers 0-10, with strange symbols in the corners: a hand with an eye in the palm, the moon and sun at either top corner, and an hourglass on the bottom left. A small, heart-shaped piece of wood with a small, hollow circle cut out of the middle sat on top of it.

“You and another person lay your fingers on the planchette and ask the spirits any question you want. They will guide the planchette and give you the answer. It will move to the letters and spell it out. Ask simple questions, for they are easily confused.”

“And it really works?”

“You are asking if magic really works. Of course, it works. It worked for me when I put a hex a banker when he refused me a loan because I was not born white, even though I have been here for over twenty years. I placed a bag in his car and boom—he falls ill and near dies. Or the time that my cousin was set to marry, and she found out that her man was doing her wrong. One incantation and he cut ties with the hussy forever, but my cousin came to her senses and married someone better. It works.”

If I had had any sense, I would have tried this before calling on Frank, but I did not know such a thing existed. I could ask it what the Axeman’s name was, where he lived, how to find him. The board would tell me. It would spell out the answer. If I had heard ghosts and spirits all my life, then I would use them. If they wanted to talk to me so badly, then I would let them.

“Then I’ll take it.”

The woman extended her hand, and I placed a bill and two quarters into her soft palm. “Good luck,” she added.

When I emerged from the store, Frank waited by the car, leaning against it. Whistling to himself, he stopped when he saw me. “There you are.” He eyed the board. “I see you’ve developed a strategy.”

“Sell your record?”

“Indeed. One of many. Now, about this moving picture. I think you’ll find it’s really quite something.”

“I’ve seen moving pictures before.”

“None like this.”

I did not trust the grin on his face, but I climbed back into the car in any case.

After he started the engine, we turned a corner and drove down main street, heading out of the city. A Negro boy stood at the junction of two streets, playing a guitar, with his case open. A few pennies and a lonely nickel littered the bottom. “And what have we here...”

Frank pulled over to the side. He turned to me and said, “Stay here. This will be quick.” Getting out of the car, he called out, “Robert! Still at those scales, I see. I have a proposition for you.”

My stomach turned. I was not sure why Frank had the perverse pleasure in parading his conquests in front of me. Perhaps to remind me of my perdition, or perhaps he was infernally bored. I wondered how eternity started to feel, after a few thousand millennia. Did you go insane? Was there anything like stability or lucidity in Frank, after all this time?

I got out of the car. Frank had his hand on the boy’s shoulder and talked a stream of words into his ear.

Frank glanced up when he saw me. “Ah, Robert, I’d like you to meet my darling and intractable wife. Some would even say obstinate.”

The boy named Robert looked at me and tipped his hat forward. “Ma’am,” he said, glancing from me to Frank.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“This fine musician is playing glorious music for a sparse audience. He has the natural talent for great things. I’m simply letting our friend Robert know that there is a way that he can…speed up the process to attain the audience size a musical savant like he deserves.” A wolfish grin spread across his face.

Suddenly, I realized what Frank meant. After the horror of the spectacle in the home of the elderly gentleman, I could not take any more of Frank’s games, of his arbitrary temptations.

My eyes narrowed. Stepping between Robert and Frank, I whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

“Now, now, Robert is man enough to make his own decisions, right now?”

The poor boy looked at us like we both belonged in an asylum. “I—I don’t right know exactly what you mean, sir.”

“All the more reason to explain. You see—”

“No.” God, the word felt good on my lips. “He’s just a boy. Not a man. A boy.” I strove to find some way to get Frank to capitulate. “He’s not even old enough to vote.”

“Can he even vote? Sometimes I forget which backward century I’ve fallen into.”

Taking a deep breath, I turned my chin ever so slightly to Robert and said, “May I see your guitar?”

Robert hesitated a moment, then handed it over.

“Thank you.”

I turned on my heel and walked over to his guitar case and gently laid the guitar inside. I threw a few dollar bills into the case before slamming it shut. Picking it up, I walked back over to Robert, thrust it into his chest and hissed, “Get out of here. Don’t talk to this man, again. Ever.”

Robert glanced one final time at us before running off.

Frank only shook his head slowly at me. “Fine. I’ll return in seven years.”

Not for the first time, I wondered what I had truly got myself into.

*

The cinema was a beacon of light in the dark city. While cars honked and belched their dense, black fog into the night sky, horses clip-clopped down the pavement, and thieves went prowling through the alleyways, the cinema was a lighthouse in a wine-dark sea. When we arrived, Frank took my hand to escort me out. He had insisted that we stop at a dress store so I could wear something a little snazzier than a cotton dress, and I emerged in a dark emerald silk getup that flared at the bottom, but made me feel like one of the starlets I would see tonight on the silver screen.??

In truth, I was curious to see the cinema. In my youth, I had seen the vaudeville center that my grandfather had worked at, but I was forbidden from seeing any of the shows. I didn’t want to anyway, not after seeing my grandfather and what he did; it had always put the taste of dirt in my mouth at seeing one.

However, this building was like a palace and concert hall combined. The doors opened to crystal chandeliers dripping with light, marble floors and columns, and a grand staircase lined with plush, velvet carpet. Gold gilded the bannister, the crown molding along the walls, and the doorways, leading to an art galleries and billiard rooms, where we could stroll, admiring paintings and sculpture before the show. I had never been inside a building where the air was artificially cooler, and when it caressed my face, I thought that this might be what heaven felt like.

Patrons were dressed as though going to a grand ball. Women had strings of pearls dipping down to their waists and men had their hair slicked back, as shiny as their patent leather shoes.?

As the usher bedecked in a scarlet vest and white cuffs led us to our seats, I could not help but admire the immense dome towering above us, showing a heavenly vista of fluffy clouds and cherubs blowing trumpets. I sank into the seats, loving the soft cushion beneath me.

The red, velvet curtain began to rise and the lights in the theater began to dim, signaling the commencement of the show. I leaned over to Frank and whispered, “What is the picture this evening?”

“Something about birthing a nation. It sounds supremely boring, a history flick, but it is all the rage right now. I believe your brother-in-law paid handsomely to have this movie run as a 10th anniversary special.”

The images against the screen began to flicker to life, and the magic began.

Although I wished it hadn’t.

The moving picture was astounding; it was breathtaking. It used music to breathe life into people who couldn’t talk. Whole vistas showed the excitement of battle, the jubilation of victory, the terror of defeat. It was dreamlike in its intensity; I felt the audience of four thousand souls being swayed and hypnotized by the wonder of captured images on film.?

But the pictures themselves churned my stomach.

Girls throwing themselves off cliffs to smash into rocks, to avoid marriage to a man in horrid black makeup. A cross, drenched in blood, burning, sending black ash high into the sky. Hooded men in white robes galloping into town.

As we drove home, my mind revolted around the images burning against my retinas. The image of the body of the man who had proposed marriage replayed over and over in the projector of my mind. A deep cavern of grief overflowed for the man I wanted. The man who I could never love. Not if I didn’t want him to die.

“Darling, they loved the record,” said Frank, interrupting my thoughts. “They want me to find another band, whip-quick, which means I have to recruit those from the town populace.” His eyes sparkled as if he had just enjoyed seeing the carnage in the theater. Maybe he had.

“Which means…?”

“Another party, of course. My aim is to bring these unscrupulous folk together, whether they like it or not, and the best—and perhaps only—way to do that is through music and revelry. Mostly music.”

Wonderful. The Devil was a socialite.

“Why didn’t you pick some place like New York or New Orleans? Surely there are better places to throw parties than Azoma.”

We pulled up to the house, and he killed the engine. “It’s usually the small towns where I have the most fun. Two weeks—prepare yourself.”