You’re going to want to keep the pain. C’est la nature de l’art.
I’m not going to tell you not to, because you won’t listen to me.
What I will say is don’t carry the burden alone. Don’t keep it secret.
Tell someone you trust.
Someone who will scream at you when you are being stupid.
Someone who loves you, even if screaming is the only way they can show it.
There are three people in the hospital room. A middle-aged white man, a Black Baptist minister and a six-year-old girl in heart failure.
I know the girl has heart failure, because my brother told me. It was the first time he’d asked me for help in years.
I know the minister is Baptist because he’s my brother.
“Blessings Phillipe, it’s good to see you.”
He ignores me and gestures at the man and girl with the King James Bible he always carries. “This is Edmond Simmons and his daughter Allison. Both are beloved members of my congregation.” He then hugs the Bible to his chest and nods at me. “This is...my brother...Cassius Beton.”
I smile at the girl before anything else. She smiles back. Then I extend my left hand to her father. “Mr. Simmons. I’ve had your daughter in my prayers.”
Simmons hesitates and looks at my curled right hand and then at my brother before awkwardly shaking my left hand. “Yes sir. Thank you for that. Every voice raised in prayer is a blessing.”
“What happened to your hand?”
Allison’s voice is breathy and muffled by the oxygen mask she’s wearing. But her eyes are bright and interested.
I look at Simmons and ask, “May I?” He nods almost shyly, so I walk over to Allison’s bedside and settle onto a nearby stool.
I force the palm of my right hand open until she can see the image there, a bundle of dark lightning bolts that looks like an unplugged neon sign. “This is an injury I took from a man who asked that I fix his arm so he could play baseball again.”
Allison examines the lightning for a few seconds and then her eyes dart to my left hand. “You have a picture on your other hand too. I saw it when you shook with Papa.”
I turn over my left palm as well. “Yes, it’s a heart.”
“Is it sick too, like mine?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s strong and healthy.”
“Is that heart for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Mr. Simmons steps to the other side of his daughter’s bed. “Isn’t that the whole reason we’re doing this...whatever this is?”
My brother moves to place a hand on his shoulder, but his eyes are on mine. “Cassius, it’s time to explain what it is you do.”
“Mr. Simmons, I can move things from one person to another. Pain. Health. Life. Other things too.”
I can see Edmond’s mind working. He looks at the heart in my open left palm. Then at the claw that’s my right hand. Then at his daughter and then finally...slowly...back at the claw.
“You mean to give that to my Allison?”
“The damaged hand is the price of a healthy heart. Who pays that price remains to be seen.”
Edmond’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops in horror. “I thought this was a faith healing, not some deal with the devil!” Then to Phillipe. “I’d heard the whispers about your family, but I never thought none of them were true.”
Phillipe’s voice is soothing, but heavy with authority. “Edmond, my brother is not a devil. And I am as certain as my faith in Jesus that God intended Cassius to have this ability.”
“If he ain’t a devil, then why do you look at him like he is?”
My brother starts to say something but then pauses for an uncomfortably long time. His eyes lose their focus on me and drop to the floor in front of him.
“Because any man with this power could easily become one.”
I can see the jolt of panic this sends through Mr. Simmons.
“Edmond.” I wait for the man’s eyes to find my own. “You have questions for me. It’s okay to ask them.”
He nods slowly, his mouth slightly open. Then he decides. “Why... Begging your pardon, but why should I trust you?”
That’s a useful question.
“You shouldn’t trust me, Mr. Simmons.”
This gets my brother’s eyes off the floor.
“Cassius is right, Edmond. This is a decision you must make in communion with God. I will pray with you if you wish.”
Mr. Simmons nods vigorously, relief flooding through his features. He and my brother move close and take each other’s hands, close their eyes and bow their heads slightly.
It is a quiet prayer, devoid of the theatricality so many churches trade in these days. When they are done Phillipe squeezes Edmond’s hands.
Edmond looks at peace for the first time since I entered. “I believe that God wants my daughter to live.”
“I’m glad, Mr. Simmons. But God doesn’t get the final say in this matter. Allison does.”
“Dammit, Cassius!” My brother is immediately livid. “She’s a six-year-old girl. She can’t understand what’s at stake. It’s her father’s responsibility to make this decision.”
“Brother. Everyone in this room has had the opportunity to choose. You chose to ask for my help. I chose to come. Mr. Simmons chose to put his trust in you and in God. Every choice was difficult or painful, but arrived at honestly.”
Mr. Simmons finishes for me. “Everyone chose except for my Allison.”
“Yes, Mr. Simmons. And to choose, you must first understand.”
He barely pauses before he gives me a sharp nod.
“Honey, do you understand what Mr. Beton is offering you?”
Allison turns her head to face me and studies my face for a second. Then she drops her gaze to my hands.
She points at my left hand.
“Heart.”
She then points at my right hand.
“Hurt.”
Then she looks back up at her father.
“How exactly will this work?” It takes an effort for him to get these words out.
I open my left palm so they can see the heart image.
“I will touch your daughter and this tattoo will move from my skin to her skin.”
“And that will fix her heart?”
“I cannot guarantee anything, but it could give her twenty-five more years.”
“That’s thirty-one! College. Maybe a husband. Maybe kids.” Edmond raises his hand in front of his face and his shoulders begin to shudder.
After a few seconds Allison reaches up to tug her father’s other sleeve. “Daddy, I don’t like pink.” When he realizes she’s talking about the tattoo, he summons up a weak smile and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
“Does it have to go on her arm?”
“No. It can go anywhere and be as small as she wants.”
Allison reaches toward my right hand, stopping just short of touching it. “Where does that go?”
“You can take it. Or your father. Or I can keep it.”
My brother’s response is immediate. “You are not the Savior, Cassius. Taking on the suffering of all mankind is not your responsibility.” There is something almost hysterical in his voice.
“It’s not all mankind, Phillipe. It’s one girl.”
“It’s one girl today.”
Edmond says softly. “I can’t ask another to suffer for my daughter.”
“Mr. Simmons, what do you do for work?”
“I’m a handyman.”
“He does maintenance for the church,” Phillipe says. “He is responsible. We’re lucky to have him.”
“It sounds like you are a man who understands responsibility.”
He doesn’t answer. I’ve set two absolutes against each other in his mind, provider versus protector. I can see the conflict raging across his face. It’s a battle Edmond cannot cleanly win.
“I’ll take the hurt,” the little girl says.
Edmond’s eyes snap to his daughter. He begins to speak, but then stops.
“Allison, I won’t give this to you unless I know you understand how it will change your life.”
“How much will it hurt?”
“Pretty bad sometimes. But there is medicine that can help.”
“Will my hand look like yours?”
“Yes.”
“Will it ever get better?”
“Probably not.”
“I won’t be able to play piano.”
“Not like before, no.”
“I just learned how to play Chopsticks.”
“Do you still want the heart?”
She thinks, then she nods one time.
“Yes.”
“Where do you want the tattoos?”
“On my hands, like yours.”
To spare Allison the tedium, I decide to use the Art quickly, even though that means the glow will arrive all at once and take longer to fade.
I tell the three of them to close their eyes, but none of them do.
The glow rushes from my hands and the room instantly goes bright white as Phillipe, Edmond and Allison briefly appear to me as photo-negative ghosts.
Touching Allison’s arm, I will the tattoos to move from my body to hers. First the heart and then the burned-out lightning. I shrink them as I mentally slide the images along her skin to the palms of her hands.
As the lightning tattoo leaves me, my right hand unclenches and Allison’s hand curls inward sharply. I hear her suck in breath under the mask, but that’s all. Brave girl.
I can see both palms, one open wide and the other through a cage of rigid fingers. The heart is vibrant. The lightning has faded slightly in the transfer.
But not that much.
I see awe on Edmond’s face. Maybe he’s decided I’m an angel after all.
I see revulsion on my brother’s.
I am not sure which is worse.
As I’m heading to the hospital entrance, a young boy sitting on a bench next to his mother leaps to his feet and points at me.
“Mom. MOM. That man is glowing!”
The woman doesn’t even look up from her phone.
“Mind your own business, Jamal.”
“But, I want to glow too!”
“I’ll make your backside glow if you don’t SIT DOWN.”
I’m laughing for the first time all day as I push through the entryway, right into an ambush.
Cameras click, voices buzz and fingers point. Above it all a voice cuts through, performing righteous contempt:
“For such people are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.”
Instinctively, I raise my right hand to ward off the flashes. One finger doesn’t straighten as well as the others.
Ink: Flash #3 coming soon