Carmen Speaks.

            After all these years, I don’t know if the voice was apart from me or a part of me, nor can I tell you the gender. Its timbre constantly changed. Usually, male, but female when it inserted dirty lyrics into the songs I’d taught the children at Bible school and neutral as tap water when it dredged up deep questions and scriptural inconsistencies. No matter the gender, or how cruel, coaxing and exasperating the message, it was always cultured, and worst of all, sometimes it made sense.

            The Big G wasn’t very nice to Samy, was he? Now, that was one sloppy piece of work. You’re in pain, and I know it. And so does he, sadistic bugger.

            I wouldn’t have said it that way, but I’d been thinking the same thing. Why did Samy have to die? Why couldn’t it have been the conductor?  He was an old man, ready to retire.

            Look, I said I’d tell you everything, but I’ve changed my mind. I can’t delve into this part, not now, maybe not ever. But I can tell you how my days, during that time, would begin and end.

            The voice attacked me in three ways: blasphemies which were beyond embarrassing; doubts I’d never entertained; and what I now call the succotash method. A line from a song or an ad would get stuck in my head, next thing I knew, the simple had become profane. I fought, but it was like a gnat attacking Godzilla. 

            I prayed a lot. I prayed to God, I prayed to Jesus, I prayed to the Holy Ghost, asking him to intervene because the other two weren’t speaking to me. There were no answers, beyond a sense of restraint, which kept me from throwing myself out of an upstairs window. I was on my own, trying to defend a God I was beginning to realize I’d never known, a Santa who threw gifts from afar, uncaring if you were bad or good.

             You’re on the right track. There is no trinity.

            I needed to be around people but was afraid to mix. I didn’t know what would come out of my mouth. A simple question might elicit “I’m better. Thanks for asking,” or “Why don’t you stay out of my personal life, stupid bitch?” 

I solved that problem by keeping my arms crossed and pinching myself before I said anything. Pain kept me focused.

I went back to church once, but that didn’t help. That was before the organ, when we had the upright Lester piano made of light oak, which sat sideways on ground level and to the left of the pulpit. Before the renovation, I could sit and look out over the congregation. That Sunday I played quiet hymns before the actual service, managed to sit through the Sunday greetings and prayer concerns, but as I looked out over the faces, the voice started in: So, you finally made it back. You’ve got more than I thought. Brass ones. Well, I’m not offended. Such nice sheep. Do you know how many actually believe? Some of the old-timers. The rest do what they want. The things I could tell you—oh, all right, if you’re going to get upset, I’ll stop. Actually, I like to hang out in churches, though morgues are better. They’re my trophy rooms. Hey, where are we going? I promise to be good!

I slipped out the side door right in the middle of the offertory. The music resumed as I walked across the lawn. Your grandmother came home and told me that one of the girls in the youth choir had picked up where I left off. Pearl was proud as a peacock because the girl was some kind of second cousin.

“Carmen Amber, what’s wrong with you?” she asked me. “I know Pearl called Andrea as soon as she got home from church. She’ll be the pianist soon.”

I took on other things, such as the high school majorettes, and read to Mrs. Sanders, who, even after her cataract operation, couldn’t see well and never noticed when I flinched because the voice had said something like Jesus Saves Green Stamps! or Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Brain Dead of the Cross! I became active in the Junior Woman’s Club, started cooking for you kids every evening despite the fact that your grandmother had our supper prepared by noon and arranged on the stove top, covered in foil.