The Messenger

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Yes,” she said, more definite this time.

  “Thought so. Where’s home?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Never heard of it.” He tested the pen on his thumb, bent over the form. “Okay, name?”

  “Ariel.”

  “First or last?”

  “Ah, first.”

  “Last?”

  She was silent a moment, then, “Messenger.”

  “Address?”

  “I’m just here.” She waved her hand toward the door. “At the Providence General Hospital.”

  “That’ll do for now.” He scribbled down the words. “Okay, what’d you lose?”

  “My pass.”

  “Train, subway, what?”

  “No,” again the stumble, then, “higher.”

  “Higher? Oh, right. Your plane ticket home. What about money, jewels, credit cards?”

  “No, just my pass.”

  He stopped writing. “Were you mugged?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Attacked,” he said impatiently, glancing at the line forming behind her. “Hit, slapped around, that sort of thing?”

  A shudder ran through her body. “No, nothing like that. I don’t even know who did it.”

  “A pro,” said a voice behind her. She turned, saw a heavyset woman with eyes of eternal weariness seated on a bench alongside the wall. “Nice to see somebody taking pride in their work.”

  “You’re lucky, honey,” said the grimy man sprawled next to her. “Most of the jokers out there hit first, search later.”

  “But it’s my pass home,” Ariel said fearfully.

  The police officer asked impatiently, “Does this pass have your name on it?”

  “No,” she replied sorrowfully. “I was warned not to lose it.”

  “Sounds like good advice to me. You shoulda listened better.” The police officer tossed her form in the wastebasket at his feet. “Next.”

  “Come on, sister, move aside.” A young man with a fishnet T-shirt and skintight jeans weaseled up. “You’re not the only one’s got problems.”

  “Tell me about it,” the police officer said, his voice eternally bored. “Okay, so what’s your beef?”

  A hand tugged at Ariel’s elbow. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but hear.” Bright eyes peered at her from beneath a stiff navy-blue cap, one quite different from those worn by the police surrounding them. Her blue uniform had emblems on each lapel which Ariel immediately recognized. “I’m Sister Clarice. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I was supposed to just go in and see someone at the hospital and leave,” Ariel said. “But now I’ve lost my pass and I can’t get home.”

  The woman showed genuine sympathy as she asked, “They took all you had?”

  “Everything,” Ariel said sorrowfully.

  The little woman tch-tched. “And now you don’t have any place to stay?”

  Ariel shook her head. “This was not supposed to happen.”

  Sister Clarice had a good chuckle over that. “Well, honey,” she said, “that’s life. Why don’t you come with me, now, and I’ll see if I can’t find you a nice cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you, I—” She looked back over at the desk sergeant. “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?”

  Ariel sighed. “I haven’t even seen to my task at the hospital.”

  “Well, of course, go get your work done, and I’ll just finish handing out these tracts. Then when you’re done, come meet me at the Salvation Army hall. You can’t miss it, the big red brick building just opposite the hospital’s main entrance.”

  ****

  The hospital was busy and noisy and full of people tensely intent on their duties. Ariel was directed down endless halls filled with patients in various stages of distress. A few doors from her destination she had to stop and lean against the wall, her heart was so full of sorrow and compassion for those who surrounded her.

  The door to the room suddenly opened, and a group of women emerged. The last one turned and said with forced cheerfulness, “We’ll be back in time to pray with you before breakfast.”

  “Thank you, sister,” said a feeble voice from within.

  “Sleep well,” the gray-headed woman said briskly. She managed to keep her smile in place until the door had shut behind her. Then her chin trembled, and she accepted a friend’s steadying hand. “Oh, Gladys.”

  “Have faith,” her friend urged.

  “I try, I try, but it’s so hard,” the woman whispered. “It tears at me to see my best friend in all the world lying there in such pain.”

  “She feels that the Lord has heard our prayers,” another said, drawing close. “She is so certain of it.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” her friend said gently. “We’re here beside you, dear. Lean on us. All we can do is be there for her, pray with her, give her love, and ask that His will be done.” The group drew close around the woman, and together they walked down the long hall.

  Ariel collected herself and entered the room. “Hello,” she said softly.

  “Oh, excuse me,” the woman said, fumbling for her glasses. “I don’t—”

  “It’s all right,” Ariel said, drawing close enough to see that the woman’s age-spotted cheeks were streaked with recent tears. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took the woman’s free hand, willing love to flow between them. “It really is all right.”

  “My friends,” the old woman said, and suddenly the tears started afresh. “They are all such good people.”

  “They love you very much,” Ariel agreed.

  The woman’s tears continued. “I wouldn’t mind going now, I really wouldn’t. This old body is such a bother. But I keep having this feeling. I can’t explain it better than that. It wakes me up at night. God is near, I know that with all my heart. I keep hoping He is here to guide me home. But then I have the feeling that my time has not yet come.”

  “No,” Ariel agreed, and reached for the glass on the woman’s bedside table. She unfastened the top button to her blouse, drew out the little satchel, and sprinkled a little of the sparkling powder into the water. Immediately the water began to shimmer with rainbow hues. “Would you like to drink this?”

  “That’s a strange place to be carrying medicine,” the woman observed. “What is it?”

  “I think you know,” Ariel said quietly.

  The woman glanced from the glass to Ariel’s face and back again. Her eyes widened. “Are you—”

  “Here,” Ariel said softly. “A gift.”

  One trembly hand reached over and accepted the glass. The woman swallowed noisily, then lay back, tired from the effort. Ariel set down the glass, patted the woman’s shoulder, and rose to her feet. “I must go.”

  “Wait,” the woman said. She searched Ariel’s face, then asked quietly, “What is it like?”

  “Just as you said,” Ariel replied, turning toward the door with a smile. “It is home.”

  ****

  Light. Intensely glowing light. Issuing from everything. Light so softly powerful it was not content simply to shine upon him. Manny stood and felt the light illuminate the depths of his body and his mind.

  Manny searched the chamber in which he stood, his heart pumping and his chest heaving like mad. The great room was empty save for the light that poured from every surface. White benches lined the featureless white walls. There was no nook, no cranny, no shadowy corner where he could flee and hide. He was totally and utterly exposed.

  A door he had not seen slid back to admit a white-robed figure. Light shone from this person as well, making it hard for Manny to see whether it was man or woman, young or old.

  The light-person turned and looked at him. Manny sought a frantic escape path, saw nothing, no way out, not even the door through which the person had entered. He could see nothing but the light.

  A step closer, and Manny felt the light pouring forth with the person’s gaze. It searched not his face, but rather his tw
isted spirit. The pain of being so exposed would have been unbearable had it not been for the love with which the person looked at him. It was unquestioning, given without measure, illuminating the empty depths within Manny and filling them to overflowing.

  “You are not intended to be here,” the person said.

  “You’re telling me,” Manny stammered.

  “You have something that is not yours. From whom did it come?”

  Manny was about to break his last and final cardinal rule and tell the truth. But a lifetime of living on lies was a heavy chain that pulled at his soul. He opened and closed his mouth, doing his best imitation of a goldfish, immobilized by the love that threatened to melt him down and reform him totally. He could feel the love and the light withering away his life of lies, cauterizing the wounds he had inflicted on himself.

  Then the pain of honest self-discovery proved too much. Manny turned, and without another thought or instant of wondering what he was leaving behind, he spun on his heel and fled toward what appeared to be a featureless, light-filled wall.

  A horn blared. Brakes squealed. Still blinded by what he had left behind, Manny leapt back and stumbled over the curb. A voice yelled out words which his mind could not yet take in, then the motor gunned and roared away.

  He was back.

  Manny raised himself up on trembling legs, dusted himself off, tried to still his heaving chest. His heart continued to beat like an overworked snare drum. He backed up to the wall, leaned heavy against it, tried to collect himself. He knew without understanding that the pain in his chest had nothing to do with his overworked heart. His whole being ached with a loss he could not fathom. He yearned for something he could scarcely believe existed.

  The love. It lingered about him like the faintest perfume. The love and the light had seared him. In those few moments, he had felt as though unseen shadows had been stripped from his eyes, his mind, his body, his very life.

  An empty, aching hollowness swelled within him, filled with the utter nothingness of a wasted life.

  Then a lifetime of habits kicked in. Anger swelled to fill the empty void, and more lies formed to veil him from the truth. That was what he got for breaking his own rules. Nothing but trouble. He’d let himself go for one minute, let himself feel something for a pigeon, and what happened? He started slipping.

  A two-minute flashback, yeah, that’s what it was. Nothing but the dregs of a bad trip. Just forgetting who he was and what this world had in store for people who didn’t keep it hard and sharp and fast and furious, letting a too-long night linger and let him go soft for some pigeon.

  But it wouldn’t happen again. Manny felt the anger mount, and used it to shove himself from the wall. He didn’t just get by. He was a beast of the jungle. He fed on the prey. He was tough. He was a hunter.

  Manny jerked his leather vest down straight, grabbed the silver card from the machine, turned down the side street, and eased into his familiar strut. A hunter, yeah. That was the ticket. Remind himself of who he was and what he did. Then go out there and hunt down a few pigeons.

  ****

  The reed-thin old man standing guard at the Salvation Army’s entrance gave her a smile of surprising brightness, considering his advanced years. “Can I help you, young lady?”

  “I was looking for Sister Clarice.”

  “Sure, she told me to keep watch for a lost-looking foreign gal. Didn’t say she’d light up the room with her looks, though.” The old man cackled. “Shame I ain’t ten years younger. Give those young boys a run for their money, I would.”

  “Stop with your jawing, already,” complained a derelict tottering two stairs below Ariel. “You’re holding up traffic.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He urged Ariel over to one side. “Come right on in, ladies and gents. There’s room for all. Same as the place awaiting you when all this is over.”

  “Yeah, right.” A bitter-eyed young man stepped forward, held the door for a woman carrying a whimpering child. “You’re gonna feed me the line about mansions in the sky, that it?”

  “Don’t aim on feeding you anything your heart ain’t hungry for,” the old man said easily. “But if you fill your belly and still find yourself empty, you can come back and we’ll chat.”

  “I never had any idea the work was so hard,” Ariel said softly, watching the young man take the child from his woman and walk toward the cafeteria line.

  “Hard it is for anybody with eyes ready to see and a heart ready to feel,” the old man said, but his eyes remained bright and his tone cheerful. “Only way to make it through the day is to remember who it is we’re here to serve.”

  Ariel turned back to the old man, placed a gentle hand upon his arm. “You speak like one who knows the way home.”

  “Ariel, welcome, welcome.” Sister Clarice came over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did the police find your things?”

  “No,” Ariel said worriedly. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, nothing like a nice cup of tea to set the world straight, I always say.” She steered Ariel into the hall. “Now, would you like to sit, or would you like to come chat with me while I serve? It’s almost lunchtime, you see, and we’ll soon be up to our ears with hungry people.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Bless you, child, what a nice thing to hear. As a matter of fact, we’re short one pair of hands. A volunteer hasn’t shown up yet, and the line is due to open in just five minutes. If you wouldn’t mind serving the soup, it would be a blessing.”

  “Of course.”

  “Wonderful, just wonderful. Here, take my apron so you don’t dirty up that lovely uniform of yours. And if you could manage a smile and a nice word, these folks would be more than grateful. We try to show them that someone still cares for them, you see. You’ll find that often means more to them than the food.”

  Sister Clarice made a series of swift introductions before stationing Ariel behind a great gleaming vat of soup. She stood and watched as more and more people filtered in through the door to be greeted cheerfully by the old man. Some responded with a grunt, some with anger, some with a yearning word or two that twisted her heart. Ariel stood and inspected the growing line of men and women and children, saw worry and desperation and hunger and fear and pain etched deep into their dirty, lined features. It was all she could do not to cry.

  Sister Clarice noticed her distress and moved over. “Now, don’t let it get to you,” she warned. “Remember, we’re not called to solve all the world’s problems. We must simply do what we can with what we have.”

  Ariel nodded her understanding, yet felt the woman’s words ringing inside her head. What we have.

  She reached up and plucked the sachet from within her uniform, drawing it up and over her head. She glanced about, saw that everyone was busy with their last-minute duties, opened the little sack, and dumped the entire contents into the soup.

  She bowed her head through the blessing, hoping that what she had done was acceptable, knowing that she could have done nothing else.

  “My, my, that soup smells good.” A smiling black face stood waiting in front of her when she opened her eyes. “How you doing, sister? Don’t believe I’ve seen your pretty face around these parts before.”

  “This is Ariel,” Sister Clarice said from farther down the line. “She’s a new volunteer.”

  “Well, bless you, sister,” the black man said. “Surely is nice to set eyes on a pretty young thing. You make that soup up special today?”

  Ariel ladled out a bowl, handed it over, replied, “Just added a little spice.”

  “I hear you,” he said, moving on. His place was taken by a gray-bearded man whose grimy features were set in a permanently twisted scowl. Ariel smiled through the shared pain of what lay beneath the man’s expression and handed over a bowl. On and on the procession went, each face holding a thousand stories. Ariel did as Sister Clarice had suggested, and shared from all she had.

  ****

  This diner served
the worst coffee in all Philadelphia. Still, Manny spent a lot of time there, a cup resting untouched on the counter beside him. Through the steamy front window Manny could look across the street and survey the pawnshop’s entrance. As usual, he had a system worked out.

  Manny lived by his wits. Always had. He had fashioned a life based on speed and agility and freedom, his desire for close relationships quenched at an early age by a mother who drank and fathers who changed by the week. Schooling had ended the summer he had been dumped on the streets at the age of eleven. Manny had not minded so much. At least the current old man had given him time to get situated before winter hit.

  And he’d done all right since then. A loner’s loner, he had learned to skirt the city jungle shadows, ever wary of the bigger forces at work—the blue-clad soldiers and the beasts of the night. Both were eager to ensnare him, one to put him in a cage of steel, the other to make him their slave. Manny strived for invisibility and paid homage to none.

  Now he sat watching the pawnshop with a stillness that would have surprised those who knew his quickness on the street. Watching and waiting. As always, he allowed a full ten minutes from the departure of the last customer, no matter how long it took, adding those who entered and subtracting all who left, making sure no surprise lay waiting for him in some unseen back room.

  When the shop had stood silent and still for the prescribed time, Manny rose from his stool, paid for coffee he had not touched, left the diner, checked the street, crossed, checked again, and entered.

  “Manny, hey, just the guy I was looking for.” Spider was a bent, hairless man whose overly white limbs seemed to lack both joints and bones. He spent the better part of his life perched upon a stool from which he could survey his little kingdom. “Where you been keeping yourself?”

  Manny’s internal alarm started flashing. Spider was not a man known for his hospitality, especially to people trying to sell him something. “Same place as always, Spider. The streets.”

  “Yeah, I hear you.” He shifted his stool closer to the wire cage through which he conducted all business and hit the unseen switch that locked the front door.

  The first time he had done that, Manny had gone totally berserk. He had always harbored a grim terror of enclosed spaces. But Spider had soothed him, walked over, shown him how the door could now be opened only from within. A twist of the little lever, see, and Manny was free to go. The electric lock was for the special protection of his special clients.