“Would you say that if you knew it meant letting them all die? Carmichael. Your mama. Every good brother and sister. Every child. But not just them, the whole dream we’ve been working toward. Nothing’s been the same since you left.”
Vern had always imagined everything carrying on once she’d gone. “Carmichael’s fifteen. Same age you were when you left. He never said it out loud, but he did always wonder why you didn’t take him with you. Of course, there’s no chance of that now. God’s disciple instructed me to tighten security.”
“God’s disciple? You mean Ollie? It’s the government, Sherman. Come on.”
“Very little hope Carmichael can leave,” he said, ignoring Vern’s words. “Brother Richard and Brother Jerome sit around the compound perimeters with rifles. Did you know that? That’s the rules since you left. I once heard Carmichael ask your mama this: If there had been men with guns willing to fire on Vern that night, do you think she’d still have gone?” said Sherman.
Vern let go of Sherman and collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted. “Do you want to know what he said next? I bet she would have. It’s just like that song you’re always playing, Mam. ‘Before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave, and go home to my Lord and be free.’”
Vern could hear Carmichael’s voice. Another haunting: an echo of Sherman’s own memory.
Is it weak of me that I’d rather be a slave than be free? I don’t want to die, Vern heard him say. She wanted to see him but could not.
“You want to know who my successor was going to be?” Reverend Sherman asked, mocking her, baiting her with tidbits about the life she’d left behind. He was trading on her caring about the people at Cainland despite all they’d done to her in the form of not doing anything at all to fight Sherman.
“Brother Freddy was set to take over leadership. You don’t know him. He came in right after you left. A true believer. He even volunteered to preach sometimes. Everybody was surprised a newcomer would get that honor, but they stopped wondering when they heard him up on the pulpit. Now, his sermons weren’t as good as mine, but folks liked to listen to what he had to say.”
The way Reverend Sherman talked, he was always mid-sermon, even in quiet conversations like these. He couldn’t turn off his proselytizing. “Brother Freddy is someone with true vision. He talked about how the white man had corrupted the earth past redemption, and our only chance to make the world the God of Cain wanted is to rebuild somewhere new, in the next life, on the next plane of existence.”
Vern covered her ears, desperate to shut him up, but his voice was in her head. She was the one who’d resurrected him. “Brother Freddy sees something in Carmichael. He’s even helping him do some self-study courses through a local community college. As I’m sure you remember, your mama has demons when it comes to the drink. It’s good that Carmichael has someone solid looking after him, showing him how to be a man. He’s too soft. Womanly. I’ve wondered at times if he has been cursed with an affliction similar to yours.”
Tears rolled out of the sockets of Vern’s eyes. “Shut up. Please,” she said.
“You never wanted to hear the truth, girl.”
In Vern’s book, there was no greater sin than crying in front of Reverend Sherman, but it poured out of her.
“Are you really dead?” she asked.
Sherman looked surprised. “Of course I am. I’d’ve thought you would have figured it out by now. Cancer,” he said. “The Blessed Acres of Cain are blessed. The God of Cain lives in the ground there, and when one of us dies, he takes our memories and spreads them across his body.”
Vern felt the sting of fresh tears before fully processing his words. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, but more tears fell. If someone had to die for their memories to become hauntings, that meant Lucy was gone. Dead somewhere, and alone.
“You never used to be much of a crier,” said Sherman. The taunting in his voice killed her.
She stood up and spit in his face. “I’ve had enough,” she said, her voice wobbling as tears graduated to sobs. “Get out, you disgusting, selfish, pathetic man.”
Her words had no impact. Egotism kept him steady. “And go where? I’m in your head, Vern. I live here now.”
That was no different than before. Sherman had been an occupant of her psyche for years, since she was a girl. His words, his influence, his touch—the memory of them haunted as much as the visions. “I won’t let you destroy me,” she said. “And even if somehow you broke me, it’d still always be you who was the broken one. I defeat you just by me being me, and you being you.”