by Sharon Sala
January made herself focus on finishing. When she was done, she hit Send and e-mailed the piece directly to her producer’s computer.
With that out of the way, her mind turned to the real issue at hand: who to take to the award ceremony. Only one named appeared: Ben North. He probably wouldn’t like it. No man she’d ever known liked the fluff and hustle of formal affairs and wearing a tux. But it was him or no one. She would rather go alone than take a friend or drag out her little black book. The last time she’d done that, she’d been stood up. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The phone calls they had exchanged since making love had been a little awkward. All he could do was say no.
She reached for the phone and started to call him at work, then changed her mind. Instead, she flipped through her Rolodex, got his home phone number and dialed it. The luxury of calling his home was that she would be talking to an answering machine. As soon as it clicked on, she began to speak.
“Ben, it’s January. I’ve just gotten a rather nice call from a charity organization I’ve worked with in the past, telling me that they’re honoring me as Woman of the Year at their annual Black and White Ball on Saturday. They said I could bring a guest. I’m asking you. You have to wear a tux. I’ll let you know time and place later. If you’re going to weasel out of this invitation, just leave a message on my machine. That way you won’t have to hear me wailing.”
Smiling to herself, she hung up and started thinking about what to wear. A new gown was definitely in order.
After Jay’s visit to the church, his physical condition had improved, which raised his confidence, as well. He’d made several visits to the Sisters of Mercy shelter and had a couple of hot meals. Like many of the others, he ate without looking up or interacting with those around him in any way. And before he left, he meandered into the clothing area, taking whatever they would let him have in the way of extra clothes and blankets. The days were still comfortable, but the nights could get chilly. He wanted to make sure that his disciples would be warm.
Mother Mary Theresa looked across the room at Jay. She’d been watching him recently, curious as to why he took different sizes of men’s clothing and asked for more blankets than an individual normally received. Ever since January’s last visit to the shelter, Mother Mary T. had been determined to help her own favorite helper get some answers, and this man fit the description of the street preacher she’d been hearing about. If January was right about someone kidnapping people off the streets, she wanted to help stop it. She wouldn’t have admitted it, but she was getting something of a kick out of playing sleuth, and she made a promise to herself that she would speak to this man before he left.
Jay kept a low profile while listening to the chatter around him. Tonight he was changing the setup at the warehouse. He’d spent the last few days outfitting what had once been a huge blast furnace so that the disciples could be together. He’d decided the problems he’d been having with the men were coming from the fact that he’d isolated them from each other. In the Bible, he pictured the disciples sleeping, eating and doing their Master’s work together. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking by keeping them apart.
He smiled to himself as he drank the last of his coffee. If things went as he planned, he would be adding two more disciples to the fold this very night. As he got up from the table to carry his paper plate and cup to the trash, he caught a glimpse of motion from the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to come face-to-face with an elderly nun.
“Good day,” Mother Mary T. said. “It’s good to have you here.”
Jay nodded, as he reached down to pick up the garbage bag full of clothes and blankets.
But the little nun wasn’t satisfied.
“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” she asked.
Jay nodded again and started toward the exit. The elderly nun was right behind him.
“My name is Mother Mary Theresa.”
Jay didn’t respond as she’d hoped by offering his name—not even a fake one. He just kept on walking.
She wasn’t ready to give up easily, however. She stepped quickly, walking just far enough ahead of him so that Jay was forced to stop to keep from stepping on her.
“I’ve been told you also do God’s work.”
Jay frowned.
“I have to go now,” he said, and tried to step around her. To his dismay, she just moved with him.
“Are you the man who calls himself the Sinner?”
Jay’s heartbeat stuttered, but somehow he managed to keep his composure.
“Aren’t we all sinners in the eyes of God?” he asked, and then pushed past her and hurried away.
Mother Mary T. was frustrated. She thumped a fist against the side of her leg. Although Murder, She Wrote was one of her favorite television oldies, she was definitely no Jessica Fletcher. With a jut to her chin, she followed his exit, only to find he’d gotten himself lost in the crowd outside the building. She was on her way back inside when a cab drove past. She glanced up and, to her surprise, saw the same man behind the wheel.
“Oh Lord,” she muttered. “It is him. It has to be.” She hurried inside to a phone to call January.
It was almost ten o’clock when Ben finally got home. Two hours to midnight, and he was just now going to have dinner. He had Chinese takeout in one hand and a handful of mail tucked under the other arm when he unlocked the door. He tossed his keys on the hall table as he passed, and dumped the mail and food on the kitchen counter before going to change.
A few minutes later he came back into the kitchen wearing a pair of gym shorts and an ancient T-shirt from a Grateful Dead concert. The carpet felt good against his bare feet as he carried his tray of takeout into the living room. He was reaching for the remote when he noticed that the red light on his answering machine was blinking. He took a big bite of egg foo yong and then punched the play button, quickly deleting a message from the cleaners, one from the pharmacy and one from the staff psychiatrist reminding him that he had yet to make his annual visit. With one message left to play, he dug into the cashew chicken with gusto, then nearly choked when he heard January’s voice.
At first he smiled as he chewed. He felt an odd burst of pride as she mentioned the award she would be getting, which was quickly followed by a frown when he heard her mention the word “tux.” He was already shaking his head when the shaky tone of her voice caught his attention. It was her mention that he could refuse the invitation by leaving a message on her machine that caused a big surge of guilt to replace his male reluctance for folderol.
“Well, hell,” he muttered, then swallowed.
He stared at the light switch on the opposite wall, as if some magic sign would appear to tell him what to do. The last time he’d worn a tux had been at least ten years ago, at a friend’s wedding. He didn’t own one, which meant he was going to have to rent. Something told him that a rental tux at a fancy charity ball would be like wearing a sign on his back that read Lacking in Class.
He poked his chopsticks into the carton of fried rice, speared a tiny shrimp and popped it in his mouth as he ran through a mental list of excuses he could give her for not going. He thought about it all the way through an order of sweet-and-sour chicken, some beef-and-broccoli stir-fry, and two spring rolls slathered with hot mustard and duck sauce. He washed it all down with a bottle of Pepsi, then broke open his fortune cookie.
He read it, then groaned.
You will do something new with the love of your life.
“Well, hell,” he said again.
He thought about it for less than two seconds, then reached for the phone book and flipped through the Yellow Pages. There were dozens of shops renting formal wear. He marked the three closest to where he lived, then marked the place in the phone book by leaving it open and turning it upside down.
He dumped the takeout boxes in the garbage and glanced at the time. It was fifteen minutes after midnight. Time enough to have a shower and get a few hours sleep before the a
larm went off. Just before he stepped into the shower, he looked into the mirror, combed his fingers through his hair several times and decided he needed a haircut, as well.
It wasn’t until later, when he was almost asleep, that it hit him. If he went to that damn ball with January DeLena, he would be expected to dance, and God help him, he’d been born with two left feet. He didn’t know what rhythm meant, and he couldn’t find the beat if someone was standing beside him and using the drumsticks on his head to mark it.
He sighed in defeat, then rolled over onto his belly and fell asleep, dreaming of dancing with January in front of all the people at the ball while his tuxedo fell apart at the seams.
Jay was almost delirious with excitement. The first four disciples were in their new surroundings. It hadn’t been easy, either. Having to put sleeping pills in the water and then wait for them to take effect had been worrisome, but he’d gotten it done. And, during the last six hours, he’d picked up two more disciples.
He pulled into the warehouse and then lowered the door before unloading his last fare of the day—a free ride to a street hustler named James. This would be his second disciple named James, which was as it should be.
This James, who called himself Jimbo, was twenty-seven and a product of the state of Virginia’s social services system. He had no family and few friends, and would never be missed. Jay was patting himself on the back for his choices as he pulled Jimbo out of the back of the cab and began dragging him toward the new common room he’d commandeered.
Tonight he was going to have the first Bible study with six of his precious disciples. Simon, Matthew, Andrew, James, John, and, with the newest disciple he was bringing home tonight, a second James. This was what had been missing. Even Matthew, who hadn’t communicated directly with him since the day he’d found him, was quiet in the new room. Whether it was the fact that he was no longer alone or that he’d begun to trust Jay, Jay didn’t care. Surely the turmoil was at an end, and he was going to devote whatever time it took to bring peace.
Johnny Marino didn’t know how he’d wound up chained inside some big metal bin. The last thing he remembered was being in the alley behind Petrowski’s Deli, minding his own business and digging through a trash bin for empty pop cans, when a cab had pulled into the alley. He had given the driver a cursory glance, then turned back to his digging, felt a sharp blow to the head, then everything went black. Now he had shackles around his wrists and was chained to a wall between a black man and a man who called himself Jim.
Tom Gerlich was sixty-three years old, but once he had been a promising young college athlete.
Then there was Vietnam.
After that, Tom Gerlich came back a burned-out, drugged-out facsimile of his former self, and he’d never recovered. He’d haunted the back streets and alleys of his native New Jersey without ever finding solace, and then they’d built the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. His initial visit had been meant only to honor his fallen comrades, but he’d found himself returning almost monthly until, finally, he stayed. For some reason, being close to those names was as close as he would ever come to truly being home.
So he, like countless other homeless vets, became a shadow in D.C., just as he’d been in New Jersey, living without making waves. He’d expected to die the same way—not locked up in this loony bin. He’d already tried to pull free of the wrist chains, cursed the man closest to him, and wondered how long he would be able to stay sane chained to this wall.
He’d recognized the man they called Matthew. He’d seen him on the streets before. Knew he was a vet. Knew he’d been a POW. He felt sorry as hell for the poor bastard. From the looks of him, PTSD had kicked in and led to some bad flashbacks. It made him all the more determined to stay alive—at least long enough to squeeze the life out of the crazy shit who had a thing for collecting losers.
Then the door opened. Everyone turned toward the sound. When they saw the cab driver they began to talk, some begging, some cursing. Then they realized he was dragging in another man, and the room went silent.
It was Tom Gerlich who broke the silence.
“What the fucking hell are you playing at?” he growled.
Jay frowned.
“Cursing is a tool of the devil,” he said, and proceeded to fasten wrist and leg chains to his newest victim.
Matthew moaned.
The man named Simon cursed, then started to cry.
The huge black man, who called himself Andy, picked his nose and then wiped it on the wall near his head.
Johnny Marino was still confused as to what was actually happening, and had yet to shake the last of the drugs that had put him out.
The new victim was beginning to come around. His first glimpse of his new abode was looking at the backside of a half-naked black man. In a panic, he tried to get up. That was when he realized that he, like the other men standing against the wall, was chained to it.
“Hey! What’s going on here?” he cried, then winced when the sound of his own voice shot a pain through his head that started in one ear and went straight to the other. “Oh! Oh, fuck,” he moaned, and sat down on his butt and put his head in his hands.
But Gerlich hadn’t survived four years in Vietnam without becoming tough as the old boots he wore. He’d survived a country of jungle crazies. It was going to take more than one kook to take him down.
“The devil, you say? Well, you oughta know,” Tom yelled. “From the looks of this place, I’d say you two are on a first name basis.”
Jay spun, shocked and angered that anyone could possibly believe that of him.
“Look around you! How could you say such an evil thing? How could you accuse me of such deceit? How could you doubt me? Don’t you know? Don’t any of you know what you are to me?” Then he moved to the center of the room and lifted his arms upward, as if he was beseeching the heavens. “Lord! Lord! Why have you forsaken me?”
In that moment, a slow knowing came to him. This was his Garden of Gethsemane. Thomas was doing nothing more than what he’d been meant to do, which was doubt. God was testing Jay’s faith now by giving him disciples who doubted, just as Jesus had been tested by the devil all those centuries before.
Jay fell to his knees as the chained men stared at him. Even Matthew had stopped rocking in place and locked his gaze on the man in the middle of the room. When Jay suddenly threw himself forward, lying face down in the middle of the floor with his arms outstretched, Matthew flinched.
But Jay was at peace. Here, with his helpers around him, he felt closer to God then than he had since his mission had begun. With his nose pressed against the filthy metal and his twisted mind on heaven, he began to pray.
The men stared at him, aghast. What was coming out of his mouth made no sense. For the first time, those of them who were capable of rational thought began to realize they were the victims not of a psychopath but of a religious zealot—and a crazy one, at that.
Nine
January was late getting home, and too tired to do anything but clean up and go to bed. She was getting out of the shower when she realized her phone had been ringing, obviously for some time. She reached for a towel as the answering machine kicked on. She heard her voice, asking the caller to leave a message, then quickly realized her caller was Ben. Subconsciously, she clutched the towel in front of her as if he could see her, expecting to hear some half-assed excuse for why he couldn’t go.
She was wrong.
“Hey, honey, I got your message. Congratulations big-time. That’s quite an honor, and I’m touched that you want to share your big night with me. However…”
January wilted. “Here it comes,” she muttered, and schooled herself not to cry.
“…you need to know that I don’t own a tux, so the one I’ll be wearing will be rented. Black, as required, but it won’t be custom-fitted, as I’m guessing the other men’s will be.” Then he chuckled. “And that’s the good news. The bad news is that I can’t dance worth shit. Just thought you should know
. If these two issues are a problem for you, I’ll understand. Otherwise, I expect a second call from you telling me when to pick you up.”
January grinned, then sat down on the side of the bed and buried her face in the towel as his voice continued to cruise through her senses.
“Another warning. I’m also not getting you some dumb corsage, because the last time I tried that gesture was my junior-senior prom. I picked out a red, six-car-nation corsage for my date that was the size of a football. Her dress was a bright canary-yellow, with this giant ruffle around the neck. She looked like Ronald McDonald. The damn thing—the corsage, that is—came apart in the middle of the Watusi. And since I can’t dance, my version of the Watusi looked more like the last throes of a dying crane. She didn’t even let me kiss her good-night.”
January fell backward onto the bed and laughed until she hurt. Oh, Lord, but she was falling in love with Ben North in a really big way.
“Anyway,” Ben said, “call me with the time. You can leave a message on my machine, too. That way, if you decide you can’t bear to risk my inadequacies, you won’t hear my heart breaking with disappointment. Have a good day, honey…and congratulations again.”
January was beside herself with joy. She was so excited about Ben’s acceptance that she didn’t notice that there was already a message on the machine. She ended up not hearing the message from Mother Mary Theresa until it was too late to return the call.
The next morning, her alarm failed to go off, making her late for work. It was almost noon before January remembered the call and they connected.
“Mother Mary T., it’s me, January.”
The little nun set aside the file she’d been working on and leaned back in her chair. The urge to kick back even farther and prop her feet on the desk was strong, but lack of restraint was one of her failings, and she’d been praying to do better.
