Bad Girls of the Bible Part 17

Let the redeemed of the LORD say this....

Let them give thanks to the LORD for his unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for men. Psalm 107:2,8 Faith that's demonstrated is remembered.

James chose Rahab as a good example of someone who walked her talk, who put feet to her spoken faith. We can go to Bible studies, sing praise songs, and warm the pews of a church six times a week, but if no one ever says of us, "You would not believe what this woman did because of her love for G.o.d!" then it's time for us to open the doors of our hearts and see what brave thing G.o.d might be asking us to do.

As the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without deeds is dead. James 2:26

Good Girl Thoughts Worth Considering

1. Are there any Rahabs in your life, women with a past who need to know they are loved by G.o.d no matter what their history? Do you believe they are forgiven, completely? How might you communicate that to them?

2. Do you ever find yourself judging such women, avoiding their company, or viewing them as distasteful? What are some ways you can push past your prejudice?

3. If you identify with Rahab in some way, what names have you been called-or have you called yourself-because of your past? Do those labels still have the power to wound you? What steps do you need to take to be set free from your past? How might you "hang out your red cord" and let others know the truth about your past-and your hope for the future?

4. Is it possible that Rahab didn't truly acknowledge G.o.d but instead told these men what they wanted to hear so they would spare her life? What clues in her behavior point to true faith-not falsehood-in action?

5. Why did the Lord destroy Jericho? And why, of the thousands of people who lived there, was Rahab the only one who heard the Lord's voice calling her out of sin?

6. One of the themes of this story in Joshua is obedience. Point out all the ways various people were obedient...and disobedient.

7. Of Rahab's many good qualities, which one impresses you most? Who in your circle of friends demonstrates that same virtue, and how has she done so?

8. What's the most important lesson you've learned from the ultimately redemptive story of Rahab the harlot?

8.

FRIENDS IN.

LOW PLACES.

The rooster may crow,

but the hen delivers the goods.

ANN RICHARDS.

Not again, Abe! Jasmine rolled her eyes for no one's benefit but her own. Her husband was up to his usual tricks, staring across Dumaine Street as if the pale blue stucco building, festooned in ironwork, would suddenly sprout letters spelling his name-instead of his neighbor's-over the arched doorway.

Booth, the carved tiles declared. Not Kingsbury, as Abe so fervently desired.

Jasmine snapped her magazine open to another page, then another, barely scanning the headlines. How long had her husband pined over that decrepit house and its overgrown courtyard garden anyway? As if it mattered whether he owned that particular property or not. As if he needed more real estate.

Abe Kingsbury already held the deeds to dozens of buildings in the Vieux Carre, including most of the historic houses on this block. Not to mention garden houses on Royal, Toulouse, Chartres, and the Bourbon Street properties, her personal favorites. Business was booming at every location-readings, herbs and oils, candles, gris-gris bags.

Why Nate's house? Jasmine tossed her head, sending her long earrings on a spirited jig. Did they really need another project?

She knew the truth of it: Every man has a weakness. For Abe, it was buildings, land developments, deals. For her father, it'd been power, control, and growing his empire to the glory of the Loa, the spirits of Vodun.

"Do whatever it takes," her father had drilled into her. What it took was a wedding where love was incidental to the bargain. When she and Abe tied the knot years ago, it wasn't a marriage-it was a merger.

Jasmine rose from her perch on the desk chair and tossed her magazine aside to stretch her cramped arms. Her bracelets jangled toward her wrists as she studied her husband's inert form, his body draped in an awkward pose across the divan, his sullen expression wiping away any memories of his handsome youth. A once-luscious plate of sliced fruit sat near him, untouched, already starting to decay in the sultry August heat.

"Eat something, Abe." Honestly, the man could be so childish. "Why don't you tell me what the problem is?" She already knew; it was merely a habit they'd fallen into over the years. Abe found something to complain about; she found some way to fix it.

His words were a low-pitched whine. "Nate Booth won't sell me his property."

"Oh, Abe!" She couldn't keep the irritation out of her voice. Instead of the strong, decisive leader she longed for in a husband, she'd settled for pleasing her father and marrying the man of his dreams-a landowner with connections but no backbone. "Why don't you march over there and make him an offer he wouldn't think of turning down?"

"Already did." Abe rolled over to face her, propping his head on a meaty fist, his eyes full of misery. "Offered him one of my nicest houses. Or a market basket full of cash. His choice."

To think the man fancies himself a real-estate magnate! She pointed her eyebrows toward the ceiling. "And what did Nate say?"

"He said no deal, not for any amount of money." Abe's head collapsed on a pile of faded silk pillows. "He insists the house has been in his family for generations. Nate won't budge."

Jasmine felt the heat rising to her cheeks, felt her stomach knotting as she struggled to keep her anger in check instead of verbally slapping her weak-willed husband silly.

When had Abe become such a wimp?

When did you become such a witch?

The truth only sharpened her tongue and dulled her conscience further. "I'll handle things from here, Abe." Her strident tone filled the small study, dimly lit by a scattering of scented candles. "You'll have your stucco house and vine-choked garden; I can promise you that."

Nate Booth's place on Dumaine was just another ornate relic from another era. Except...except a new temple closer to home would be nice. Yes. A handy spot for greeting her adoring public, the ones who'd crowned her Queen of the Quarter two decades ago. A new hounfour, a place for worship and ritual, mere feet from her doorstep. Yes!

Some of the less enlightened thought Vodun was all her idea, a religion of her own making, instead of an ancient practice she'd imported from her father's people. Who could have imagined how entertaining it would turn out to be, watching Hollywood fill the screen with scary images of voodoo dolls and stickpins and heads on stakes? All of which missed the point.

Gaining her father's approval, making him proud of her-that had been the point long ago. Gaining the favor of the spirits, the Loa-that was the point now. Her religion gave her power-over Abe, over everyone. Ceremonies, sacrifices, whatever was required, Mambo Jasmine knew how to manipulate the Loa and get what she wanted.

Once upon a time she'd tried to convince herself she wanted Abe Kingsbury. And she'd gotten him too, for better or for worse.

At the moment it was definitely worse.

She stepped through the doorway, her patterned gown swirling around her ankles, then turned to fix a pointed gaze on the man who'd neither moved nor responded. "Our neighbor doesn't understand the sort of force he's up against here, husband of mine." But he will. Oh, he will! Her days of pleasing and appeasing were over. She'd finally learned that whatever she wanted she had to get for herself.

Jasmine was on the phone moments later. "You still have the ear of that parish official who oversees real estate, do you not?" She heard the man at the other end of the line grunt his affirmative answer. "Good. Here's what I need you and Henri to do for me." She outlined her simple but foolproof plan-when Abe was involved, it had to be foolproof.

"I need the deed to Nate Booth's house and a duplicate set of papers prepared for me to sign." With Abe's forged signature, naturally. The less the man knew, the faster things went. "Once the new deed is back in the proper file drawer at the courthouse, we'll put a t.i.tle search in motion, and the rest is...ah, beignets and cafe au lait, no?" She laughed, imagining the look on her neighbor's face when he sat in the street, evicted from his own home. "Very good then," she sang out. "Keep me informed, as always."

Dropping the receiver in place, she breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Mambo Jasmine might not be welcome among any of the social clubs of New Orleans, but she had connections of her own that served her well. Her circle of friends didn't organize fancy b.a.l.l.s with royal courts like the krewes did, but her people had push, pull, and a dagger or two well-hidden in their vests.

Within days the papers were in her hands, perfect duplicates of the originals, requiring only Abe's signature to seal the fate of the blue stucco house and its current occupant. She tested her fountain pen on sc.r.a.p paper first, perfecting the scrawl that would spell out Abe Kingsbury-and Nate's doom.

Her hand moved across the paper in swift strokes. There. Only those with a trained eye would notice a difference. And if they did, nothing would be said. They'd be too afraid to challenge the Queen of the Quarter over something as trivial as a man's inheritance.

Capping the pen with an exaggerated sweep of her hands, Jasmine gazed out the balcony window and imagined the tropical beauties she would soon press into the fertile soil of their newly acquired garden. "She's her father's daughter," people in the Quarter often said. Jasmine rewarded herself with a broad smile. High praise indeed.

Abe took one step through the stucco archway and smiled until his sunbaked face ached. What a woman! He didn't know how Jasmine had managed it-didn't want to know, really-but the house was his, every square foot of it. He moved quickly through the rooms, his eyes scanning the walls that needed painting, the floors that begged for sanding before the veve-a pattern of cornmeal for the Loa-could be spread on the floor to prepare for the rituals.

Plenty of time for that later. Right now it was the garden he wanted to see. He strolled out of the darkened house and into the late afternoon sun which bathed the courtyard in a golden haze of light and shadows. Jasmine was right, as always-the plantings were in a sorry state. But, with a little fertilizer, a little coaxing, the garden had potential.

He settled on a stone bench, avoiding a damp patch of moss, and surveyed the enclosed s.p.a.ce: a mosaic of brick wrapped around kidney-shaped garden plots, surrounded by four stucco walls two stories high. Jasmine would want exotic flowers and herbs; he'd want greenery and vegetables. He ran his hands through his thinning hair and sighed. It'll be flowers then. Hadn't he accepted his role in their marriage years ago?

"What did you do to Nate Booth, Mr. Kingsbury?"

Abe abruptly rose to his feet, startled not only by an unexpected visitor but by the man's disturbing question, whoever he was. His eyes searched the dim corners of the courtyard as his words came out in a croak. "Who's there?"

"Didn't you hear? Nate killed himself." The voice came from the entrance to the house.

Abe swung that direction in time to see a man he knew only as Eddie sauntering toward him. Abe relaxed, the tension in his shoulders already gone. Eddie was a loose cannon but hardly a serious threat. He was a street preacher, routinely dressed in drab clothes and toting a Bible. The Vieux Carre was his parish, a vendor's cart his pulpit, as he preached to the shuffling crowds of tourists and locals. "Worship the one true G.o.d!" Eddie called out endlessly to all who would listen. The list was short.

The man was not only crazy, Abe decided; he was uninformed. There were hundreds of spirits, not one. Agwe, the spirit of the sea, and Erinle, the spirit of the forests, and Dambala, the serpent spirit. One G.o.d, one spirit? Ludicrous.

Abe regarded him with thinly veiled contempt. "What are you babbling about today, preacher man?"

Eddie stood before him, a small fellow with a wiry build and piercing blue eyes. "Nate Booth was found swinging from a short rope attached to one of your balconies over on Toulouse."

"What has that to do with me?" Abe maintained a calm expression but felt his stomach tightening. Jasmine had never mentioned murder. "You say he killed himself? That's hardly my affair then, is it?"

Eddie's eyes narrowed. "This is what the Lord says: 'Have you not murdered a man and seized his property?'"

"No, I have not." Abe's protest sounded meager, even to him. True, he hadn't killed Nate, but however Jasmine had acquired the property, it had clearly put the former homeowner over the edge. "Suicide isn't murder, not in any court of law."

"In the eyes of G.o.d you've sinned, Abe."

"Your G.o.d, Eddie."

Eddie's expression softened. "He was your G.o.d once, Abe. Before you sold yourself to that daughter of the devil."

Abe knew he should strike the man down for such blasphemy, but his hands stayed by his side. Maybe it was cowardice, but Abe feared it was worse than that. It could be the man spoke the truth.

Clearing his throat, Abe did his best to sound threatening. "I'll not have you speak ill of my wife, preacher."

"The Word of the Lord has already spoken concerning her. 'Dogs will devour her.' Prepare yourself, man, for you will not be spared either."

Abe felt as if a knife had plunged into his chest, so pierced was he by the prophecy of the man of G.o.d. Yes, his own G.o.d once, before Jasmine became Queen of the Quarter and dragged him into her sacred voodoo-hoodoo nonsense.

No. That wasn't true. He wasn't dragged. He went willingly, eagerly, abandoning all-powerful Jehovah G.o.d for a powerful woman and her plethora of spirits. The truth forced the knife in further, twisting it until Abe found himself slumped over the stone bench, hot tears stinging his eyes. He tore at his shirt, as if to relieve the pain in his chest. "Forgive me, G.o.d. Please...forgive me!"

He looked up, hoping to find compa.s.sion, even absolution, in Eddie's eyes. But the man was gone, the courtyard silent except for his own tortured groaning.

Mambo Jasmine had the best seat in the house.

Within minutes the first of many Mardi Gras parades would flow beneath her balcony, where she'd carefully positioned herself on the brick corner support.

"Jean-Paul, a fresh gla.s.s of mint tea. Quickly." She heard her servant's footsteps echoing through the house and smiled. Born to give orders, Abe had always said. Poor Abe. Gone years ago. Killed when his carriage ride through the Quarter turned into a deadly encounter with a vanload of sightseers. Her sons had filled their father's shoes, with mixed results. She still held the purse strings, still called the shots. Abe's dying words about watching her back had almost faded from memory, haunting her only in the predawn darkness of their lonely bedroom.

Jasmine straightened at the wail of a saxophone and a m.u.f.fled drumbeat. The musicians were warming up mere blocks away. She offered a regal nod to the familiar faces strolling the street below, their admiring eyes turned upward, obviously pleased with her attire. She'd dressed for public display in her finest silks of vibrant hues, had taken special care with her makeup, and piled her hair on her head with jeweled combs that sparkled in the evening twilight.

The life of a queen brought with it certain expectations, did it not?

Jean-Paul appeared on the balcony, a tall gla.s.s of iced tea in hand. His brief nod as he handed it to her was servile enough, but she caught a flicker of disdain in his eyes as he took his place behind her. Something would have to be done about him. Servants with att.i.tude problems simply would not do.

Jasmine craned her neck as the parade rounded the corner, filling the narrow street with a cacophony of music, colorful costumes, and exuberant dancing. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched two more servants join Jean-Paul on the balcony. No point fussing at them for laziness when they surely wouldn't hear her. The drums were deafening, their rhythm primitive, sending the masked dancers swirling like dervishes. A small pack of dogs nipped at the mummers' heels, snarling and barking in the noise and confusion below.

Suddenly a familiar face appeared among the revelers-a city official, and not a friendly one. Jasmine fixed a chilly stare on him, knowing her heavily lined eyes would emphasize her displeasure. He looked up at her, his own gaze filled with scorn, as she leaned forward to offer him a caustic greeting, raising her voice so the words would drown out the incessant barking beneath her...

She's Got Big, Bad, Bette Davis Eyes: Jezebel