Lucinda went inside her house and shut the door tight. She lit a candle, but when the shadows began to dance before her, blew it out. At church, Clarence had shut the door in her face, hitting her nose. Lucinda was furious. She had the Apostle first. She prepared the way. She was his John the Baptist, Clarence was merely a Magdalene with a penis. She was disturbed to see them together. His beauty matched the Apostle’s and they looked like brothers, partners, or angels joined at the hip. She thought that there must have been something in her that now displeased him or made this man please him more. Day Lucinda whispered about her smell. How had she not smelt herself before? The aroma that tainted her. The smell of tea that he knew she drank. What did he want? He asked her to be pious, then he asked her to speak chants. He wanted her for God, he wanted her for Sasa, now he didn’t want her at all. He held her close, but gave her no secrets. She was still his helper, but felt outside his purpose. Perhaps he wanted beauty, which she did not have. He held her at bay like a cherished but smelly thing.
But she would enter his most holy place; Lucinda was determined. She would tear down the curtains as red as the bold red tip of his—no, she would not think of such things. The Apostle wanted a different kind of worship. Something Clarence seemed to understand already. No matter. She would do better than that pretty but stupid man who could never do arithmetic. She would get rid of the smell.
Vinegar. The sour jars that kept lizard skins and dog paws. She threw them away but the smell remained. She came to realize that the smell was a presence that was everywhere. In the flame of the candle she relit. In the soft sound of dew falling, the shrill cries of cicadas, and the little lights of fireflies dancing around her like tiny stars. The presence was in her secrets. The presence knew that even in day there was night in her heart that was black as tar.
“Me don’t know how it happen, Apostle,” Lucinda said. “One minute me cooking the dinner, next thing me know, whoom! Fire bursting out from everywhere!”
“Fire bursting out from everywhere. I see.”
“Is all me could a do fi save meself. Is the Devil.”
“I’m sure.”
“Me don’t have nowhere to live now.”
“But that’s not true, Lucinda. The fire didn’t burn down the house. I hear that the walls are still standing.”
“But me can’t go back there. Everything burn up. Me no even have no bed to rest me tired body.”
“I’m sure there’s a friend more than willing.”
“Me no have no friend. Everybody jealous o me. Oh Lord, see me dying trial. Is woe deh pon me. How me going to make it through, woi, Puppa Je—”
“Lucinda, enough! I will instruct the people.”
“You have a bedroom up in the steeple.”
“What? In the steeple? How do you know this? I’ve never heard about a room? Clarence, you know about this?”
“No. Plus, even if one up there, it must be full of dirt and cobweb.”
She noticed that he did not say “Apostle” or “sir” after “no.”
“No, it did clean,” she said. “Me did clean it before you come.”
They stood in silence as the Apostle made up his mind. She looked at Clarence and felt victory. He went over to the Apostle by the window and whispered. She saw their shoulders touch. “Alright, Lucinda, you can have the room until you sort out your business.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered. She wanted to glare at Clarence, but his back was to her as he said something quietly to the Apostle again.
Midnight had come, but she could not sleep. She was higher now, higher than everybody in the village. From her window she could see everything. The dirty rooftops stained by fallen mangos. The lonely orange light in the Widow’s window, the very end of Brillo Road, and behind her, the Apostle’s quarters. She had watched all night. Clarence did not leave.