Church Folk - Michele Andrea Bowen [117]
Saphronia didn't say a word. She just adjusted her purse on her shoulders and put her hands on her hips, with a stubborn "you ain't nobody" look on her face, because he was the one doing wrong, not her.
That look sent Marcel into such a fit of rage that he slapped Saphronia down to the floor. Her face was burning, and she could taste the metallic flavor of blood when she ran her tongue across her lip. She sat up on the floor, with her head spinning and Marcel standing over her, holding his hand, which was throbbing with pain and beginning to swell.
"I asked you a question, Saphronia. You'd better tell me something and you better tell me something now!" he yelled.
"And what if I don't?" she said defiantly. "You can beat my butt good if you want to, but you can't make me talk!"
He snatched her up off the floor and grabbed her by the hair, but the wig came off in his hand. That made him even madder. He reached down and, this time, grabbed a fat handful of her real hair, pulling her head back so far it made her neck hurt.
"Okay, you siddity bitch. You had better start talking right now. Because if you don't, I'll put my foot so far up your behind, you'll know what my shoe polish tastes like."
The word bitch rang in her ears, and it was that evil word that gave her strength she didn't even know she had. She pulled her purse off her shoulder and swung it around, hitting Marcel upside his head so hard that he crumpled over on his side and fell on the floor.
"I am not telling you anything, you low-down, dirty pimp."
Marcel was in shock, the impact of her words hitting him harder than the blow upside his head. He said, voice sounding a shade higher because of the sheer impossibility of this situation, "What did you just say to me, Saphronia?"
"I said," she answered evenly, "that you are a low-down, dirty pimp who blasphemes the name of minister and is a disgrace to the Gospel United Church."
"Who the hell do you think you are talking to?"
"You, Marcel DeMarcus Brown. I am talking to you! And I know this one thing, you had better quit cursing at me or else—"
"Or else what?" he said nastily, making it clear by the look on his face that he didn't think she was capable of doing anything worth worrying about.
Saphronia stood there filled with rage for a few moments and then said, "Or else this," as she raised her foot and kicked him square in the behind. Before he had a chance to respond, she raised her foot and kicked him again and again. And, when those kicks didn't satisfy her, she jumped on top of him and began to beat him with her purse, hitting him anywhere she thought would hurt. Tears were rushing down her face as she sat on top of Marcel, beating him with every ounce of her strength.
"For the past year I put up with your low-down, cheating self, just walking around acting like I deserved all of that crap you shoveled my way. And Negro, despite all that you have done, you have never even apologized to me. You hear me, Marcel? Never! Well," she said, as she grabbed his collar and stared right into his face, "I didn't deserve one iota of the crap you heaped on me and I'm not taking it off of you anymore."
Marcel was speechless. Rarely had anyone had the nerve to confront him on anything. And now his fiancée, a little country girl from Mississippi, was screaming in his face. He tried to shove her off him and give her a taste of the butt-whipping he thought she deserved, but as soon as he moved, she grabbed him by the ears, pinned him down, and began banging his head on the bare wooden floor so hard he saw double. All he could do was pray she would stop, and when he felt like he was about to pass out, started hollering for help.
Laymond Johnson and Cleotis Clayton ran into the room with pistols in their hands. They looked around for a robber and were shocked to see a woman sitting on top of Marcel, beating the living daylights out of him.
Cleotis, who didn't like Marcel, put his gun back in his shoulder holster and then just stood there watching. Laymond, out