Wrath James White and Maurice Broaddus (6 page)

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason,” Samson said. “It must be someone’s plan.”

“So you still believe in God?”

“I never said I didn’t. Who else would you blame for your mother’s death or my parent’s never giving a fuck about me, if He didn’t exist? I just don’t get His sense of humor.”

“Me neither, but then, I’m not a believer.” She wrapped her hands around his, curling his hand into a fist.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“To where? Do you know where the after-hours party is?”

“The only party that matters is the one at my house. Do you want to party with me?” He smiled when he said it. Then he reached out and caressed her cheek with one hand while still holding her other hand. She returned his smile, her eyes already clouding with lust.

“I don’t do drugs or anything anymore. I’ve been clean for almost a year.”

“I’m not offering drugs. I’m offering me.”

“I’m not really into the whole B&D thing either. I don’t really get off on pain.”

“The type of submission I’m talking about doesn’t require whips and chains. I want you to submit your soul to me.”

“My soul?” her face twisted into a scowl and she stepped back from Samson as if he’d slapped her face, “What are you. some born again Christian or something? I told you, I don’t believe in God.”

“I said I wanted you to submit your soul to
me,
not Christ.”

“Well, that does sound kinky.” She smirked at him again, attempting to be coy and seductive.

“I want you to give me your immortal soul. Your soul…” He turned her hand so that the palm rested against his hard pectoral muscles, then began to slide her hand down his chest, over his rippling abs, over his belt buckle, to the thick swell of his cock bulging through his jeans. “…for my flesh.”

Her hand trembled as he slid it back up his body, over the striated muscles beneath his silk shirt and up to his pursed lips. He kissed each finger, then released her hand and let it fall back to her side. The woman took a deep breath to calm herself. Still, her voice shook when she spoke.

“That’s…that’s a pretty high price. Are you worth it?”

“It’s not so high a price for an atheist. If you don’t believe in God, then what do you need a soul for? This should be a bargain for you…and yes, I am worth it.”

He winked at her and licked his lips, looking her up and down.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be the one offering me your soul to sleep with me?”

“Sex is easy to come by. You are beautiful, but beauty in a woman is expected. It’s not so terribly remarkable. Just look around this club. There are beautiful women everywhere. I could pull ten girls a night out of this club every bit as lovely as you. How about you? How many men like me could you pull out of this club?”

She took a head-to-toe appraisal. “Okay, so there aren’t a lot of men as fine as you. But is that worth my soul?”

“Come with me and find out.”

13

Samson was amazed at how easy this was. He had expected to meet far more resistance. Were he still a devout Christian he would have found it offensive how easy it was to talk a woman out of her soul. Samson lifted the woman off the bed as he continued to thrust deep inside of her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Most of her weight was supported by Samson’s hands cupping her buttocks as he slid her up and down his body, her clitoris rubbing against his washboard stomach even as his erection swelled within her. Her legs suddenly tightened around his waist. She whipped her head back and screamed. Her body began to buck and thrash as the first of many orgasms ripped through her like a hurricane.

“Who’s your God now?”

“You are! You Are! My soul to keep,” she said as he settled her back down onto the bed and began kissing his way down her body, still slick with their combined sweat. “My soul is yours to keep forever.”

Once again Samson marveled at how little the human soul was worth to those who possessed it. He could only hope it would be worth more to Him.

14

Samuel wondered when exactly his childhood died. When was that precise moment? When did he lose—without mourning—his ability to look about creation with a sense of awe and mystery? To have his soul astonished and eyes light up with glee because the world was rife with the amazing and unexpected? To be able to believe in miracles? That was what he longed for—to truly encounter the miraculous.

Samuel, for all of his talk about community, led a solitary existence. The sheets of his bed were pulled taut with a meticulous crispness. A chair rested under a free-standing light; he hated reading in bed because the words slurred together in a pool of slush as he drifted to sleep. A television set faced the chair on the opposite side of the room, but he had long ago lost the remote and never thought it worth the effort to cross the room to turn it on. To call it a life would be to infuse his world with color and vibrance often found wanting. No, he chose his gray, contemplative way, a monk’s solitude as if balancing some scales only he saw. Making up for Samson’s life. Foolishness, he knew. God didn’t work that way—leave Karma to the Buddhists.

“O God, by the life, death and resurrection of Your only begotten Son, You purchased for us the rewards of eternal life; grant, we beseech You, that while meditating on these mysteries…we may imitate what they contain and obtain what they promise. Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.”

This morning, the walk from his chambers to the main vestibule proved especially long. The days of gothic architecture were a thing of the past, but Samuel couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for the shadows and arches that stretched within cavernous cathedrals. A call to glory made terrifying, he thought. Our Lady of Mount Carmel, though quite cavernous, was bright and cheery. A fountain spurted mildly in the lobby beneath a statue of Mary. The lights were too brilliant and somehow off-putting. He knew before he took his seat in the confessional that he would regret getting up this morning.

“I did it again, Sammy.”

“Samson?”

“I met a woman at the club. She was so lost, so alone. After we made love she told me all about how she’d grown up without a father, how her mother had only been fifteen when she gave birth to her so she’d been raised mostly by her grandmother. She told me about getting pregnant herself when she was fourteen and having an abortion and how it still plagues her when she thinks about how old her child would have been if it had been born. She cries every year on what would have been her child’s birthday. She was young and didn’t know anything about life and she’d been taken advantage of by a much older man. That’s when she stopped believing in God. I guess the guy was very active in the church and no one believed her when she told them that he was the father of her child. Her grandmother slapped her for it. Still, with all the animosity she had built up inside her toward the church and God, she had the hardest time signing the contract when it came down to it. She even cried after she signed it.”

“You’ve got to stop this, Samson. You need to think about your own soul for a minute.”

“I’ve known that I was going to hell for a long time, Samuel. I’ve broken commandments God hadn’t thought about giving us. There’s no hope for me.”

“I know that you think you’ve wasted your life, but look at all you’ve accomplished, how successful and famous you are.”

“If I die it won’t matter. The world won’t stop spinning.”

“It will matter to me. Don’t you care if you live or die? Is your life that bad? That…empty?” Samuel touched the screen that separated them in the confines of the booth.

“I care, Bro. Believe me, I care. But I also care about you.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing or why, but intentions don’t count. Caring doesn’t count. How you live is what counts. Did you really think you’re life’s purpose was to protect me?”

“You’re all I’ve got, Samuel. All we have is each other.”

“Then why take the one decent thing in your life and strip it of all meaning? Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve stood for...this goes against all of it. You have so much anger inside you. You define yourself by your mind and your body; you trust yourself too much, have too much faith in who you are. You’ve gotten by on your looks and your charm and it’s pretty much gotten you everything you wanted out of life, but you are still hurting. You use sex to cover your pain and self-loathing, to be a balm on the emptiness of your life. I think that’s how you see God: He’s just another irresponsible father who refuses to follow through on His responsibilities.”

“Well, isn’t He? How many times have you prayed to Him to cure you? How many times did we pray for Dad not to beat us? How many children are praying right now while they starve or die of diseases or neglect or abuse? Isn’t God just like our father who art on earth? Hasn’t he ignored us the exact same goddamned way? But then Dad didn’t ignore you did he? He only ignored me. He loved you.”

“See? Things always come back to Dad.”

“Fuck Dad! If he doesn’t love me then I don’t love him either. I’m over all that childhood shit. I’m talking about you and me.”

“I know. You have all of this distrust and anger and then God has the nerve to take away your best friend.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly what He’s fucking doing. God doesn’t give a fuck about either one of us. He didn’t stop you from getting sick and He hasn’t stopped me from...”

“From what?”

“Nothing. It’s too late for me.”

“Jesus forgives, Samson. He forgives us all. I don’t believe in pat answers to difficult questions. I wrestle with my faith every day. But, this isn’t about me, it’s about you. It’s always been about you. Your needs. Your redemption.”

“I don’t want His forgiveness. Not for me anyway. He should be asking for my forgiveness. I just want Him to stop punishing you for my sins.”

“Is that what you think? You think this is all happening to me just to punish you?”

“I’ve got to go, Sammy.”

“Is that what you think?”

The door to the confessional opened and Samson rose to leave.

“I love you, Bro.”

“Wait! What about your penance?”

“Save it. There is no penance for me.”

The door to the confessional closed. Minutes later, it opened again and the next parishioner shuffled in.

“Bless me father for I have sinned…”

Haven’t we all.
Samuel thought as tears welled up in his eyes.
Haven’t we all.

15

“Can I take your coat?” Samson held out his hands. Bare-chested and shoeless, wearing only a pair of jeans, his body glistened in the light of the bright moon. Tara brushed past him with a knowing linger of her weight against him. She slipped from her thin jacket in a fluid motion. She reeked of alcohol and stale smoke, reporting promptly from her interrupted evening at Requiem for his booty call. “Here, I’ll take your purse, too, if you’d like.”

“My, aren’t we being the complete gentleman?”

“You make it sound as if I’m usually not a gentleman.”

“I’ll let you know when I want you gentle.”

“Goes with the spirit of the evening. If I gave you my belt, would that make you happy?”

“Well, let’s just say I plan on putting it to good use later.”

“Promises, promises.”

Tara’s long black hair had been pulled into a loose ponytail, highlighting her dove-like eyes and practiced smile. Her electric blue satin camisole bobbed merrily with each step, matching the bounce of her freed breasts. A black leather miniskirt showcased her toasted almond complexion. Samson led her to his spacious living room. Haunting, tuneless strains of hip-hop influenced jazz emanated as dull beats from his speakers. Spartan by design as well as necessity, the unadorned walls held a bleakness about them. With no knickknacks along his shelves, the room was impersonal. Cold.

Only a picture of him and Samuel, in much younger and happier days, rested on the mantle above the faux fireplace next to a stand with a Japanese Samurai sword and two other smaller swords. Tara immediately gravitated to it, running her fingers over the swords. She removed the bushido blade from the stand and ran the sharpened edge over her tongue, bathing the cold steel with her saliva. The very tip cut into her tongue and her blood ran down the blade. She began to dance with it, a striptease, sliding the blade across her breasts, over her belly, down between her legs, leaving trails of her own blood and saliva.