The Jacket

The Jacket

by Ruth Everson

Gladys Nzimande had never stolen anything in her life.

 Her bunion distorted feet, aching in the smart shoes passed on to her by Mrs Taylor, began a slow shuffle dance. She raised her hands in response to Pastor Gregory’s call.

Two thousand voices began to Babel around Gladys. They had been singing for an hour already and now the energy in the huge auditorium was electric with anticipation. Gladys felt a twinge of guilt. She wanted to settle down in one of the white plastic chairs with the sunflowers on the back and pray quietly to the Jesus that she knew. She wanted the familiar comfort of her white and blue church outfit. She wanted the warmth of the friends gathered in her Soweto church. But her Jesus had not helped her. This church, Joanna had told her, was a place where miracles happened every week.

Gladys needed a miracle. Not for herself but for her granddaughter, Ayanda. So this Sunday she had risen quietly at 5:30 and put on her best clothes. She left without waking the girl still sleeping in the bed that they shared in their immaculate home in Chiawello. Gladys was used to the early morning rising. She caught a taxi along the Old Potchefstroom Rd (it was called something else now but Gladys was used to the old name) into town and from town to Bryanston where she worked three days a week for Mrs Taylor, her fat spaniel Abigail and a blue budgie called Peter.

 This morning she had left the taxi at the big rank in Jan Smuts Avenue. She pulled the grey shawl around her shoulders, tried to find space for her toes in the tight shoes and walked the extra two kilometres to the church where the miracles happened. The vendors were out already, shouting to one another from behind tables piled high with oranges, bananas, shoes, watches, blankets and the usual confusion of goods.

Gladys stopped and talked to a woman selling thick polony sandwiches from a plastic bucket. She asked about the church where the miracles happened. Was it true that the man of God there could do these things? The woman, wrapped in a green blanket and sitting on an upturned Dulux tin, had heard that this minister was a powerful man. She had heard of a young girl who got out of her wheelchair and danced. She herself had seen him in a black waBenzi being driven to the church. Would Mama like some food, the services were long and surely it wouldn’t be wise to go such a long time without food? Reluctantly, Gladys shook her head. She had just enough money for the taxi fare home and she was used to the hungry leopard that so often growled in her stomach.

Gladys found the church easily. It was as her old friend Joanna had said: men and women in red and black stood outside waiting to welcome the worshipers. ‘Have you been here before, Mama? No? Jesus welcomes you. Go up the steps. Eish, Mama, your feet look so sore but you can sit down inside.’

At the top of the concrete steps were more ushers to welcome her, this time in white and red. Gladys swallowed her fear – she was here for an important reason. A woman held a book out to her. There was a picture of a man with clouds around him. Gladys liked the picture; he looked like a kind man.

‘We are selling these for only R150.00 today, on special. Look, there is a CD that comes with the book.’ One of the red and white women held the package out to her, smiling. Gladys shook her head, R150 was what Mrs Taylor paid her for a day’s work and Gladys wouldn’t be able to read the book anyway. Ayanda had tried to teach her to read but she had never been able to make sense of the patterns on the page. She could write her name in a slow, awkward semi- cursive and she was proud of that. Sometimes Ayanda scolded her and told her about a man in Cape Town who had started school when he was 84. Surely Granny, who was only 71, could learn to read?

Gladys tightened her shawl around her shoulders and walked through one of the double doors. In front of her was a sea of white plastic chairs. Lights shone on the stage making it yellow then blue then green. In the centre was a pulpit that looked to Gladys as if it was made of glass. Shapes of trees, full size, stood in silhouette along the back of the stage, changing colour under the moving lights. In the centre was a large, white crucifix. She was early but the church was already filling up. She tried to sit near the back so that she could watch and see what to do but a polite young man took her by the arm and guided her towards the front where the seats were being filled by smartly dressed worshippers, most of them carrying bibles.

A choir of women in shiny blue dresses and men in suits with blue ties swayed, singing: ‘My heart is open to be blessed by Your word. Hallelujah! My heart is open to be blessed...’ Around her the crowd began to join in. On the stage a woman in an orange leather jacket, her hair in shoulder-length braids, held a microphone. ‘Jesus knows why you are here this morning. Your heart is open to Him. Stand up. Stand up and sing to Jesus.’

Gladys, who had just slipped her shoes off, felt the crowd rising around her. She pushed her aching feet back into the shoes and stood with everyone else.  An hour later she was still standing, doing a slow shuffle dance, her feet burning. She couldn’t read the words on the big screens but she picked up the repeated phrases and sang with the deep faith carved into her troubled heart.

At last the woman announced the arrival on stage of Pastor Gregory. His voice was deep and rich. He spoke with an accent that Gladys did not recognise. She was familiar with American accents, but this was not quite American. Most evenings were spent with Ayanda in front of Mrs Taylor’s old TV set watching soapies and movies on eTV or SABC 2.

‘Let me hear you now. Lift your hands to the Lord. Thank you, Jesus. Every heart will be touched this morning. Hallelujah. Speak to Jesus, let God hear your prayers this morning. Jesus is waiting to serve you. There is nothing He will not do for you. Are you listening to me? Raise your hands if you are listening to me. Amen.’

She lifted her hands. Next to her a woman in a tight, red skirt was running a marathon of prayer. In front of her a man was vibrating out of control. On the big screen she was alarmed to suddenly see, for a moment, her own familiar, square face, topped by the gold scarf Mrs Taylor had brought her from Egypt. The camera moved away and focused on the writhing body in front of her.

Finally, the choir stopped singing. Pastor Gregory spread his arms as if embracing the congregation and began his sermon. Today the message was about ‘Dominion’. Gladys wasn’t sure what that meant but she listened intently as the white-suited Pastor Gregory strode across the stage, pausing frequently to wipe the perspiration from his face with a neatly folded handkerchief.

‘Isaiah tells us of the manifestation of the Holy Spirit. Yes, the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon you. He is able to change any situation. You will no longer be a timid person. You won’t be afraid of anything. Jesus wants you to stick your neck out. Say, I am anointed!’

Gladys spoke with the congregation: ‘I am anointed!’ She felt the Spirit well up in her heart. Jesus was with her. Perhaps her miracle would happen after all.

‘David smote and slew the lion and the bear. Are you listening to me? David was not timid. You must speak in tongues to get your strength and fast for one day and then the spirit will come upon you. He can take you forward and upward. He will make you a million times better. Samson slew one thousand men just with the jawbone of an ass. The Lord will make you bold and fearless like Samson and David. You will be able to do anything. He makes the unlearned and ignorant man wise. He will heal you. The Spirit will come upon you like a jacket. Ask for that Jacket now. With every eye closed and every head bowed, raise your hand if you want to wear the Spirit of Jesus. Raise your hand if you want to be healed now.’

With the choir singing softly in the background, Gladys felt as if her heart would burst. Tears ran down her cheeks. This man of God would help her. She raised her hand. A white and red suited young man appeared at her side. ‘If you want healing you must come with me. Pastor Gregg can perform miracles if you let him.’

Gladys found herself being led to the side of the church where counsellors were waiting. ‘You must tell them what healing you want,’ said the young man. ‘They will tell you how to make the healing strong.’

‘It is not for me, it is for my granddaughter.’

‘They can help her through you. It is called a proxy. You must just do what they say.’

A woman with a kind face and a smile took Gladys’s work-worn hands in hers. They were smooth and warm against her rough skin. ‘How can Jesus help you?’

‘It is for my granddaughter, Ayanda, that I am here. She has the sickness of the blood. She will die if Jesus doesn’t help her. Her parents are dead already from this sickness. She is all I have.’

The woman held Gladys’s trembling hands tightly in hers. ‘This is a bad sickness and not easy to heal. But it can be done. You must come again next Sunday and you must bring R4 000. That will make the healing strong enough to cure your granddaughter.’

Gladys felt her heart grow tight. Her eyes, blue at the edges with age, gazed in desperation through the squares of her glasses at this angel who offered salvation but at a price that was beyond her wildest dreams.

‘Remember what Pastor Gregory said. The Holy Spirit will make you brave. If you believe in Him, You will find a way. You must put on the jacket of the Holy Spirit’

                                                                *******************************

Gladys didn’t feel the pinching of her shoes on the way home. She knew she had R601.00 in her savings account but where would she find the rest? Mrs Taylor had money but she had always told Gladys that she must not ask for extra money. Gladys must be careful with her money like Mrs Taylor was and then she would have enough. It was Mrs Taylor who had helped her to open the savings account so that she would have money when she was no longer able to work. No, she would have to find another way.

Gladys did not sleep that night. Next to her she felt the hot body of Ayanda who was having one of her night sweats. Gladys fetched a cloth and wiped her face, gently tracing the curve of her eyebrow and wetting the dry lips. She sat on guard next to her beautiful granddaughter as the moon fell towards morning. She was the only one who could help Ayanda. She would not be timid. She would put on the jacket of the Spirit and she would find a way.

Mrs Taylor always asked Gladys how church had been. Mrs Taylor went to the Catholic Church close to her home in Bryanston. God didn’t mind which church you went to as long as you believed and prayed regularly He would be with you. Mrs Taylor had a rosary in every room of her home. She had given one to Gladys. The rosary would protect Gladys just as it protected Mrs Taylor and her home. Mrs Taylor lived on her own since the death of her husband seven years previously and she had never felt unsafe. Her husband and Jesus were both with her in spirit.

Gladys emptied the washing basket, sorting the colours and the hand washing. Once the washing machine was churning she started vacuuming, pressing hard on the spot on the carpet where Abigail always rolled to scratch her back. The dog’s thrashings always made Mrs Taylor laugh: ‘Look, Gladys, she is doing her exercises.’ Gladys would laugh with her but not today. Today her heart was beating faster than Abigail’s bicycling legs. She thought she could hear the sound of it thudding over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. Surely Mrs Taylor would hear and ask her what was wrong.

Gladys made her way slowly through the house, dusting and tidying with even more care than usual. The last room at the end of the passage was the bedroom. Gladys kept her eyes down. The room was full of photographs of Mr Taylor, there was Jean with her husband Derek and the twins, Sammy and Tommy. The room was full of eyes, eyes that loved Mrs Taylor and eyes that followed Gladys as she made the bed.

In his cage, Peter chattered away: ‘Hello. Pretty boy. Hello, Peter.’ He knocked his beak against the mirror hanging in the cage, making the bell underneath it ring. He hopped to the door and began to pull at the bars. Peter had frightened Gladys when she first encountered him. Surely a bird that could talk had a spirit in it? Mrs Taylor reassured her that the bird did not have an evil spirit. Jean had given her the bird not long after Mr Taylor had died and she had called it Peter too. She liked to still be able to say the name. She had said it so often that the bird soon learnt to say it too.

Peter was allowed out of his cage every evening. He would fly to Mrs Taylor and sit on her shoulder, nibbling her ear. When she moved, he would ride her shoulder like an old sailor balancing on the deck of a heaving ship. Sometimes, he would fly to the dressing table mirror, bending over to see himself and peck at the glass. Gladys always cleaned the dressing table last. She picked up the blue and white feathers and the little round bird droppings, leaving only the carved wooden box untouched. Mrs Taylor cleaned that box. Gladys was allowed to dust and move the other jewellery boxes, but not that one. That one was more precious than anything else Mrs Taylor owned. Gladys must never touch that box.

Peter rattled the door of his cage. ‘Naughty boy. Hello.’ Abigail snored and twitched, stretched in a slant of sun. The room seemed full of eyes and noise. Gladys rested her hand on the box. Nothing happened.

She fingered the little gold lock that kept the box closed. It was not a strong lock; it would be easy to break. But not today – Friday. Gladys took a deep breath, picked up the polish and yellow dusters and left Peter rattling at his cage bars.

Gladys had no work on a Thursday. She spent the day as she normally did, cleaning the two tiny rooms in Chiawello, cooking chicken and vegetables on the double plate so that Ayanda would have good food in her ever thinning body. Gladys did not eat or drink, not even water from the enamel jug always kept full on the scrubbed table. Pastor Gregory had said that to fast for a day would make the Holy Spirit come like a jacket upon her. She must also speak in tongues for the jacket to come. Gladys had prayed to her Jesus all week for the tongues to come to her but all she could repeat over and over was her own tongue: ’Nkosi’ngisize, Nkosi’ngisize. Jesus, help me.’

Friday morning. The Old Potchefstroom Road was still dark but alive with movement. Streetlamps pushed a haze of light through the layers of breakfast smoke. Joanna called a greeting across the road but Gladys pretended not to hear. She squeezed herself into a taxi. The door slid shut. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cold fingers across the beads of the rosary Mrs Taylor had given her: ’Nkosi’ngisize, Nkosi’ngisize.’

Abigail greeted Gladys at the door, leaving muddy paw marks on the pink and white housecoat that Mrs Taylor liked her to wear. Gladys did not bend to pat the ruffle of soft blonde top-knot. She went straight to the kitchen, ignoring the bread and strawberry jam left on the kitchen table for her. She was afraid to break her fast in case the Holy Spirit did not come upon her like a jacket. She was timid, just as the Pastor had said, but for this thing today she needed courage.

Gladys sorted the washing, washed the plates left from supper and Mrs Taylor’s cereal dish, still porridge warm. It was seven thirty. At nine, Jean would arrive to take Mrs Taylor out for the morning and the house would be empty until at least two.

Gladys had had a careful conversation with a young man two houses down from hers. She tried not to look at the thick gold chain around his neck or the ring on his little finger that flashed like a robot in the sun. The words had stuck in her throat, tears balanced in her eyes, but eventually she told him what she needed. Granny must not worry. He, Sipho, was not a tsotsi himself, but he knew someone who could help Granny. This man would need to keep some of the money, for helping Granny. Gladys nodded. She showed him the piece of paper that Ayanda had written on for her. She did not explain the reason for the sum to Ayanda, just took the piece of paper, folded it carefully and tucked it into her purse.

R4 000 –

     601

R3 399

‘I do not want any more than this, if there is more, this man can keep it.’

A car hooted outside.

‘I’m going, Gladys. Don’t forget to clean on top of the fridge, it’s full of dust. You know how I hate dust. There are fish fingers in the freezer for lunch and veggies left over from supper.’

The door clicked shut. Gladys listened as a car door opened and then banged shut. The engine revved and then they were gone.

In the sudden silence Gladys heard Peter chattering down the passage. She moved one of the heavy kitchen chairs over to the fridge, put newspaper on the seat so that she would not mark it and climbed up stiffly. Using a damp cloth, she cleaned the top of the fridge until there was not a speck of dust.

Gladys stood in the doorway of the bedroom, a yellow duster, the bottle of furniture polish and a red handled screwdriver from the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinet in her hands. Abigail snuffled around her feet. Peter nibbled at a browning apple core, quiet for once. On the dressing table, the little carved box stood apart from the other jewellery boxes and the bottles of perfume that Mrs Taylor loved.

’Nkosi’ngisize, Nkosi’ngisize.’

Stick your neck out. Do not be timid. Gladys felt the jacket of the Holy Spirit come upon her. God would help her to do this to save Ayanda. God would forgive her for this.

She picked up the box. The screwdriver was awkward in her crooked fingers but she slipped it under the gold lock. The lock didn’t break but the little brass nails holding it in place popped free of the dark wood, the lock dropped with a crack onto the glass top of the dresser. Peter cocked his head, watching.

She opened the box. Inside was a thick, black plastic bag, sealed at the top. She lifted it out carefully and closed the lid. Gladys used the sharp end of the screwdriver to pierce the heavy plastic.  A stream of grey ash-dust spilt onto the glass.

On the lid of the box, the letters carved into the polished wood read: Peter Albert Taylor. 1930-2003.