If Anyone Hears My Voice

Marjorie Tilner’s skirt strained at the seams of the beige fabric. She had her right leg pulled up, as much as the knee-length pencil skirt would allow, and pressed hard against the smallish dresser in her bedroom, her black high heel slipping free as she rocked the ball of her foot for leverage. Both her arms were raised, the left one pulling down as the right pushed upward until---

The bobby pin slid into place, locking in the same instant that Marjorie finished the count in her head. Forty-two pins circled her crown, pulling her hair up at the root while fixing the straw hat that, as she saw it, perfectly completed the jacketed ensemble she had donned in order to send her praises up to God. The mirror atop her dresser reflected the sweating brow of Jesus, peering upward in agony. Although born and raised a Baptist, Marjorie had always liked the Catholic iconography and had chosen a particularly heartfelt rendition of Christ’s crucifixion to hang above her bed. The sweat and blood trickling down from His crown of thorns had always served to remind her of the real struggles one could face. She pulled a tissue from its box and dabbed at her forehead, careful to avoid smudging her mascara onto her pale foundation. She pursed her lips, checking for the fourteenth time the fluidity of the markings left by her lip liner.

“Do you not know that your body is a temple,” she said, wiping a bit of smudged lipstick from the corner of her mouth. “Therefore honor God with your body.” She added the “First Corinthians Six” impulsively, like a spelling bee champion repeating the word at the end of the round.

There’s a fine line between painting a pleasing portrait for the Lord and looking like a painted up trollop—Marjorie’s mother had told her so many years back—and many years back Marjorie had come close to crossing that line herself. Now though, she had the subtleness necessary to stave off the hellfires down pat. She wore only a trace amount of pale blue, almost gray, eye shadow now, and always that color since Pastor Latwell had complimented the shade. Her lips, too, were always rubbed with a coral tone because Latwell had once told her it “looked nice.” Pastor Latwell was the most righteous man Marjorie had ever known. He understood what pleased God. Marjorie knew she was right to listen to Latwell if she wanted to get into Heaven. He could show her the path.

A noise from outside pulled Marjorie’s head from the clouds, and she hurried out to the black sedan idling in her driveway, smiling at Regina Johnson who was sitting in the driver’s seat, and pulling her front door to without bothering to lock it. Marjorie and Regina had been friends since grade school and had sat together in the third row orchestra side pew since their mothers had let them sit away from the family during the sermon. It was comforting to both of them, almost part of the ritual of worship.

“I’m sorry, Betha,” Marjorie called out as she neared the car and noticed the woman propped up in the passenger seat. “I need to ride in the front. I get car sick if I’m sitting in the back, and besides which there is not nearly enough room back there for my hat.”

Marjorie stopped to preen for a moment so both women could take in the ensemble she’d put together as she waited for Betha to pull herself out of the vehicle to switch seats. Betha barely even looked at Marjorie as she began to twist her girth towards the door. She seemed to lose her breath as she pushed at the handle to get the door open, and Marjorie wondered what it was that made Regina such a bleeding heart when it came to Betha Randolph. Betha wasn’t much of a talker. She obviously had no sense of self-control when it came to the steakhouse buffet. She wore tennis shoes, most times, or even sometimes slippers into the House of the Lord. And her husband was a no good lay-about. The rumors clothes-lining around town about him were enough to make Satan himself go a deeper shade of red.

Marjorie tapped her foot against the dusty gravel of her driveway, still waiting for Betha to get herself up and out of her seat. She sighed audibly, checking the gold watch at her wrist before crossing her arms.

“We don’t have all day, Betha. If Pastor Latwell has already started in on his sermon…”

“Oh, hush now, Marjie,” Regina playfully scolded from behind the wheel. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Betha stepped to open the rear door as Marjorie slid gracefully into the front passenger seat, sliding the seat back to give herself room to stretch her legs forward a bit. Betha stared at the space remaining in the back for a moment before trying to push her way in.

“Be a dear, Betha, and don’t push so much on my seat while you’re entering Regina’s vehicle. You’ll cause sags in the upholstery. And be sure not to crinkle the brim of my new hat. My new hat which, might I say, was quite pricey, and that I’m surprised neither one of you ladies has commented on, Regina.”

“It’s a lovely hat. I was there when you bought it.”

“I know that, but this is the first time you’ve seen it on me with the full outfit. It makes quite the difference. Lets the Lord know I consider His house with enough respect and dignity not to stroll in wearing sweat pants from the Dollar Depot. You all in, Betha? Make sure you pull the door closed tight.”

As they drove, Marjorie tried to keep her head as straight as possible. She was angled with her back slightly toward her door, leaning forward in the direction of the steering wheel so as to give the brim of her hat enough breadth. She kept her eyes trained forward on Regina’s hands clasping the wheel at ten and two so she wouldn’t have to see Betha’s peach excuse-for-a-dress that clung to her body disproportionately, or the smug look in Regina’s eye each time her new half carat engagement ring glinted in the Sunday morning sunlight.

“Betha, on Tuesday Marjie and I are meeting with a caterer who’s coming over from Valdosta to sample cakes. You want to join us?”

“Of course she does.”

Marjorie spoke for Betha, attempting to clip the conversation on the upcoming nuptials as short as possible. Maid of Honor or not, she just could not summon the excitement she felt she should have for the occasion. Perhaps it was the strain the bobby pins were placing on her hairline. She could feel the tension rising at her temples and rubbed there to force it to subside. Or was it that Regina’s ring was just as garish and disproportionate as Betha’s clothes? The way the ring tilted toward first one side and then the other, to rest on her pinky for a moment and then shift its girth to her middle finger and then back again, never resting, a pendulum clicking back and forth, counting the days down, in Marjorie’s eyes was not all that different from the swishing of synthetic fabric Betha was wrapped with in the sedan’s rear bench seat. Her garments always clung more to her backside than her hips, more to her stomach than her breasts, leaving wispy, unfulfilled swatches around her shoulders with nothing better to do than sag and wrinkle, shifting in formation with Betha’s every breath or spasm. Betha’s clothes and now Regina’s ring reminded Marjorie of all the false beauty in the world. They showed Marjorie just how the Devil himself was creeping into reality everyday, even now, even in her own life, shifting the grandeur of God’s great creations only slightly, just enough to get a toe in the door. Enough pushes in and Satan could appear, could capture a heart wholly with no one ever the wiser. If Marjorie was not careful, he would take Regina right out from under her.

“Can you believe it?” Regina was saying. “In less than four weeks I’ll be Mrs. Patrick Drake!”
“It---”
“It will be a beautiful wedding,” Marjorie spoke up, raising her voice above what must have been the seat straining beneath Betha mixed with the exasperated sigh of the pressure Betha’s girth placed on her lungs. “Your world is finally becoming right in the eyes of the Lord.”
“Speaking of being in His eyes, Marjie. Pat wants to start sitting with us during the sermons. He thinks… We think it’s appropriate to do so before the actual wedding, to let Jesus know we’re serious about this union. He’s giving us this last week as a sort of Church bachelorette party, and then next week will join us.”
“How lovely.”
“You’re not upset by this, are you, Marjie? He is going to be my husband, you know.”
“Why ever would I be upset by this?” Marjorie’s voiced flittered an octave higher than usual. “You always seem to be bringing new folks into the fold with us. It’s just an honor to be there with them as they receive the glory of our God.”

Pastor Latwell perched at the top of the cement steps leading into the sanctuary of the church. He grasped his Bible firmly in his left hand, touching it gently with his right before and after each extension out to shake the hand of his congregation. His smile seemed warm and genuine. His hair was perfectly combed, barely giving away the thinning spot at his crown.

“Greetings, Miss Tilner, Miss Johnson,” Pastor Latwell welcomed the women as they ascended the steps. “Mrs. Randolph, it is a pleasure to have you join us this fine Sunday. Will your husband be joining us today?”
“Doubtful,” Marjorie scoffed, taking Pastor Latwell’s hand into her own. “We are just so pleased to be here to hear you impart the Word unto us.”

The pastor squeezed Marjorie’s hand for what she perceived to be a few seconds longer than he spent with the others in the congregation. His eyes warmed her palms, and she worried her countenance would betray her. She could feel the onslaught of her mortal sin coursing through her body in the moments of the handshake, threatening to take over. She smiled at her resilience in ending the grasp.

As they neared the front of the sanctuary, Marjorie stopped cold. She gripped tightly at Regina’s arm. Betha stood awkwardly behind them, shifting her weight from foot to foot and if uncomfortable standing before the wooden crucifix nailed above the pulpit.

“It’s okay, Marjie,” Regina assured her. “We’ll just take the pew behind them.”

Marjorie’s body seemed to her to be moving on autopilot as she slid onto the red fabric cushion of the oak bench. Her eyes stayed trained on the family that sat before them. The drops of sweat on the man’s neck appalled her, how they pooled there and soaked into the collar of his white button-up. The woman’s gold hoop earrings dangled all-together too low, threatening each time she moved her head to catch onto the shoulder pads of her navy blue skirt suit. And the children… Two of them, jostling around in their seats, kicking their feet against the hymnals that adorned to back of the pew in front of them, no doubt irritating the tranquility of the deacons sat there, the men too attuned with the light of the Lord to say anything to the hoodlums interrupting their sanctity.

“That is our pew,” Marjorie insisted, assuring the emphasis she placed on “our” did not go unnoticed by Betha. “We have worshipped from that position for now on twelve years.”
“Oh, come now, Marjie. They are new here. We should be neighborly and not make a fuss.”
“All the more reason to let them know. We don’t want to lose our seats entirely to these late-to-worshippers.” She turned pointedly to Betha. “If we’d arrived just a bit earlier, I imagine that all of this could have been avoided.”

The congregation rose to their feet to begin the service with a staid rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” As the song progressed, Marjorie leaned forward to place her lips near the woman’s ear. Marjorie was pretty sure she was the matriarch of the family, standing there gurgling what she probably thought was a soulful rendition of God’s hymn, but Marjorie saw simply as forced and show-y. She could smell the woman’s skin cream, surprised at how quickly it filled the air around her. She’d been around black people before—as a child in school, or even now at the grocery store—but she’d never felt the air around her so fully immersed in the scent of their hair, of their skin. It was making her dizzy.

She wanted to tell the woman that she was in her seat, as a courtesy for next time, should they come back to the church. She needed to tell her that, but the fragrance was intoxicating. She tightened her jaw, wondering how to rectify raising her voice to God with not breathing. She recoiled from the smell, but it seemed to follow her back into her own pew. It was filling the holy air of the church, its earthly aroma ripening. The congregation around her, the choir behind the pulpit, no one noticed her pain. The persistent morning sun beamed through the high, colored panes of glass as if unaware of the darkness overtaking the sanctified ground. Marjorie was overwhelmed. Her eyes watered, and her vision became obscured by the demons writhing with the hum of the hymn.

The light struck the diamond on Regina’s left hand, blinding Marjorie even after she closed her eyes in an attempt to regain composure. Her temples strained at the pull of her hat. She breathed deeply and again the sweet scent of tea tree oil and coconut filled her nostrils. Her knees weakened. The forty-two pins circling her consciousness like a crown of thorns ripped her hair at the root, clawed her skin in tiny, unceremonious gestures. She no longer felt safe. Insects hissed at her from the walls. Snakes crawled through the aisles, nesting beside the spare Bibles and Hymnals the church provided alongside the back of the oak pews.

“Marjorie doesn’t look good, Regina.”

Betha’s overt drawl pounded at Marjorie’s temples. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she fell backwards onto the cushion of the pew. As she landed, her head snapped backwards. The nape of her neck collided with the rounded curve of the pew-back. She felt the straw brim of her hat crush as she slid down, jostling the pins she’d so carefully placed and sending an agonizing fire through her body as they wrenched loose and sprung upwards into the dimming, putrid air.

She heard a communal gasp. The angels looking on from the apex of the sanctuary shielded their eyes in horror, unable to descend into the hellish force that took over the congregation, surrounding Marjorie, centering in on her. She willed stigmata; even though she was not Catholic, she wanted some sign to show her purity, to fight back the beasts of darkness intent on devouring her. Her thoughts cried out to Jesus, cried out her piety, her belief, her righteousness. She prayed to the Savoir.

Pastor Latwell appeared above her. His radiant light fought off the darkness that was encroaching on them, and he gingerly removed the remaining pins from Marjorie’s hair and placed her hat gently aside. He leaned toward her trembling face and put his lips on hers. She closed her eyes and he breathed his life into her, imbuing her lungs with the light and grace that only the Almighty could give. The warmth spread through her body, filled her heart and pushed electricity through her limbs, resuscitating her. His breath moved in and out of her, merged with hers. Pastor Latwell gave her direct access to the Holy Spirit. It moved through her, made her want to speak in tongues.

Marjorie’s arms flew upward, wrapping around Pastor Latwell’s shoulders, pulling his head closer to hers. Together they could fight off the darkness and the demons that were overwhelming their sanctuary. Together they could bring the Word of God back into the world. She felt him writhe above her. It made her want him more. She held his lips to hers, willing to be consumed. The din of the congregation began to burrow back through her consciousness. She heard the gasps, the revolt of those who could not understand the glory unfolding before them.

Pastor Latwell’s palms found her shoulders, massaging them. She heard a deep rumble coming from his chest, a muffled assurance as his tongue attempted to work within the passion of their kiss. He seemed to be pushing away from her. He wanted to cry out his love. But Marjorie wasn’t ready yet to let go. She needed this. Needed his light. His breath was coming sharper now, betraying the even pace he had begun with. His tongue darted wildly as he attempted the guttural syllables of desire.

“Marjie,” Regina’s voice sounded loudly to her right. “You fainted, dear. You stopped breathing. Doctor Johnson, the new guest in our congregation, is giving you mouth to mouth. You need to let him go.”

Marjorie opened her eyes. She stared upwards into the face of the Devil. His black skin beaded with sweat, his eyes filled with terror and vileness and locked on hers. Marjorie bit down hard on his tongue. She gagged as her mouth filled with his blood. The blood of Lucifer. Her teeth began to grind against themselves. She had severed the serpent’s forked tongue. No longer could he lure women with his deceptions to dance nude under the light of the moon. No longer could he persuade sin from the fruits of God’s Knowledge. She choked on the blood, on the slimy dance of the Devil’s flesh. In its final act, she thought, if Satan’s tongue should smother my voice, at least I know I have stolen the song from his teeth.

The angels huddled at the apex of the sanctuary opened their wings. They brought forward their trumpets. Marjorie knew they were welcoming her into the light that began to fill her vision. She knew she would soon be home. Marjorie saw a new Heaven and a new Earth for the first Earth and Heaven had passed away.