“Dulcey Talks to God” is a short story, published in More Bridges: The 2007 San Francisco Writers Conference Anthology.
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“You don’t talk to nobody. You get in the store, get the bottle, you drive back here.”
“Yes’m.”
“You don’t talk to nobody. I don’t want no trouble.”
“No’m. Can I–”
“Shut up.”
“Yes’m.”
Dulcey took the keys from the hand of the glow-in-the-dark Jesus statue on the shelf by the front door. Twelve dollars and eighteen cents was in her pocket. Mama knew exactly how much the bottle would cost. She opened the door and then shut it quick behind her so the rain wouldn’t come in the front door. Her shirt was plastered to her before she went two steps.
The door screeched as she slid onto what was left of the front seat of the Chevy. She stuck the key in and jerked twice right, once left, the only way the engine would turn over and quick-jumped the clutch so the engine caught before it died, and so the mud wouldn’t swamp the wheels.
“God,” Dulcey whispered as she swung onto the road. The only time Dulcey could talk to God alone was when Mama let her drive the car, like when it was raining real bad. Otherwise, Mama was always there. When Mama was there, she was the only one who got to talk to God, though mostly it was Mama telling God what to do.
“God,” Dulcey said a little louder. She chewed her lip and ground the car into third gear. When you didn’t have the chance to talk to someone that often, it was hard to know what to say.
“God,” Dulcey began again. She couldn’t ask for God to smite Mama, though Mama demanded that kind of thing of God all the time. Smiting wasn’t seemly, especially when you were talking about your own mother. She rolled her tongue against the inside of her lip. Maybe she shouldn’t have started the conversation if she didn’t plan it out ahead of time. What if God got tired of waiting on the other end of the line and hung up on her? She gripped the steering wheel hard as the bad wheel slid off the edge of the wet asphalt. The Praying Jesus Hands hanging from the rearview mirror rocked back and forth.
Dulcey smiled. Everything did happen for a purpose. The skid made the Praying Jesus Hands swing into view and that reminded her of what those TV preachers always said, “Lay it in the lap of the Lord.”
Well, that was a start.
“God, I don’t know what to do.” She waited a moment, in case God was ready to tell her exactly what to do without needing further explanation.
“God, I’m twenty-three years old today. It’s my birthday. Now, I’m not asking for a present or anything, Mama gave me a pair of socks. But I’m twenty-three and time just seems to be running on, but nothing changes.”
Talking out loud helped some. Dulcey liked being able to string more than two sentences together without interruption. Her shoulders eased. The car stayed on the road, and Dulcey figured it was a sign to go on.
“I’m not one of your better creations, God, I know that. I’m lacking. But you know that cause Mama tells you so every day. My knees are sore from the kneeling, but I’m not complaining, God. I just want to talk to you myself.”
The rain was beating so hard on the windshield she could hardly hear herself, let alone any other voice. Was she getting through? The liquor store was only a block away now.
“God!” She yelled. “Are you there? That’s all I want to know, are you there?”
“Youwn.”
A crackling noise filled the car. Dulcey glanced at the radio. It hadn’t worked in years. It was black, as always, not a flicker of light.
“God?” Dulcey cried again. Is that you? Are you finally talking to me?
“Ye -sssss.”
The green light of the radio face flickered. There was no burning bush, but God had fixed the radio so he could talk to her. God was talking to her.
“Oh, God, it’s so good to hear your voice! I knew you were there, I knew–”
Dulcey shut her mouth. She was going on like Mama always said she did, not giving God a chance to get a word in edgewise.
“Sto -o”
“What god?” Dulcey whispered.
“Op.”
Dulcey pulled over to the side of the road. The rain was a curtain between her and the road, the rain was a blanket between her and the cold, the rain was God falling all around her.
“Tell me, God, please tell me, what should I do? I wish I could leave, I wish I could. But I can’t, I can’t barely take care of Mama, let alone myself, I can’t. I can’t!”
“Mworrrrr.”
“God?” Dulcey called.
“Mwoorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”
God was growling at her.
“Are you mad at me, God?”
A noise came from the dashboard, scratching, digging, hissing, like the claws of Satan were trying to get her. Growls thundered so fearsome and strong Dulcey cowered, her head on the steering wheel.
“God, oh God, oh God, oh God,” Dulcey sobbed. “I’m sorry, God, I didn’t mean to bother you, I-”
Amber eyes flashed from the well of driver’s side, amber eyes in tawny fur – wet, bedraggled, muddied fur.
“Why!” Dulcey raised her head. The cat shook itself and leapt onto Dulcey’s lap, pushing its nose on her cheeks. “Cat, you are soaking! How’d you get here? You musta crawled in the engine to get outa the rain, poor thing. Let’s get you warm.”
Dulcey bundled the cat under her t-shirt. The cat purred. Dulcey looked at the dark screen of the radio. God must have had to go talk to someone else, he wasn’t there anymore. “God, I got to go now too, got to get this poor little cat outta the rain,” she said, then added, “I appreciate you trying to get through to me, though, I do.”Thanks for trying to get through to me, though.”
She started the car again and drove slow so as not to worry the cat until she pulled into the liquor store parking lot. She pushed open the car door and got out, holding the cat tight against her stomach to keep it out of the rain until she got inside.
“Honey, what you got there? The woman behind the counter said.
Don’t talk to nobody, her mother’s voice said.
Dulcey ducked her head.
“Why it’s a cat,” the woman said, “Poor thing, looks cold and wet. Wait a minute.” She pulled a towel from the side of the bar. “Here you go, honey.”
Dulcey took the towel from the lady.
“Thank you.” she said.
Don’t talk to nobody! Her mother screamed in her head.
Dulcey started brushing the cat’s fur with her fingers. The cat purred louder.
“He yours?” the woman asked.
Dulcey shook her head no.
“Looks like he is now,” the woman laughed, “Look at him. Why, he knows who’ll take care of him. You doing a good job, honey. I never heard so loud a purr. You take him home now. He won’t eat much.”
Dulcey looked up. Take him home? Mama would kill the cat if Dulcey took him home. The cat blinked at her. Mwwor, it said in God’s voice.
“You take care of him now.”
Dulcey looked the lady right in the eye. “Thank you,” she said slowly. “I will. I’ll take care of him.”
“Did you want something, honey?” the woman asked.
“No,” Dulcey said, twelve dollars and eighteen cents of liquor-turned-into-gas money burning in her pocket, “I don’t. Unless I can get a cup of water for the road?”
“Sure, honey,” the woman said, “You got a long way to go?”
“Yes’m,” Dulcey said.
The woman looked at the cat and then back at Dulcey.
“You going to be OK?”
“Yes’m.”
About Deborah Auten
