Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Too late, Bernie. You’re already taken.” And without understanding why, she suddenly felt as empty as one of her stick men.

  Stubby lay in bed, his mind balled in a knot of thoughts about Turtle. He should be napping. Not tossing and turning and racking his brain. Five more days before he got his Social Security check; which meant four nights on the street. He’d have to sleep most of the day and night, stored it up like his mom used to store up groceries after cashing her welfare check—maybe get him a reserve to drawn on.

  A cockroach brushed his skin. He watched it scurry across the healed tracks of his inner arm before snatching it. Then he held it between a thumb and forefinger, which looked like tips of a black Magic Marker, and watched it pedal air. It was God’s creature. They were all God’s creatures, no matter how disgusting. Only some creatures didn’t have much use. Didn’t deserve consideration. He hesitated, then squeezed until he heard a crunch. Then he flicked the carcass across the room and wiped the ooze from his fingers onto his dirty jeans. At least he wasn’t as lowly as that cockroach. Only problem was, the older he got, the harder it was to remember it.

  The sagging mattress seemed to swallow his limbs as he tried forgetting that lump of cocaine in his back pocket. He tried forgetting his guilt, too, over lying to Turtle. What was he supposed to do? There wasn’t enough for the two of them. His small stash, wrapped in a paper towel, suddenly felt like a mountain, as temptation rose. No. Not now. If he used now, there’d be no sleep. Still, the familiar temptation continued to rise. Cocaine would help him forget that pain in his fingers; help him forget this dingy room; help him forget the mean streets he called home; help him forget who he was and maybe help him see how things might have been—could have been if not for all those bad breaks.

  He laid there, flat on his back, his arms and legs like putty. But his mind flipped this way and that until it settled on a decision: he’d use his C-dust later. The decision gave him comfort, like one of the hymns he used to sing at the mission, promising peace and heaven. Yeah, later he’d let his C-dust bring him peace, take him to Paradise, at least a Paradise of sorts. He was glad it wasn’t a snowball. He’d never be able to put that off. He touched the bend of his arm. There was nothing like cocaine and heroin together. But he wasn’t doing anymore of that. If only Turtle would stop. He thought of Manny. Why didn’t he listen? Why did he go messin’ with jojee and snowball? And why had he gotten mixed up with that crowd?

  And now there was Turtle to worry about.

  Stubby turned on his side facing the dirty plaster wall. Holes, the size of golf balls, formed an abstract. He wondered if someone hadn’t dug out the plaster and eaten it. Once, he was so hungry he ate some and got sick, but that was in another hotel. And that was long ago. His Social Security checks kept him from wanting to try anything like that now.

  At least most of the time.

  He changed positions, and when he did, body odor wafted through the air. He never used to notice how bad he smelled, but lately he’d been noticing it, and thinking it reminded him of something dead.

  He pictured the cockroach. Wasn’t the world trying to squeeze him, too? Just squeeze him ‘til there was nothing left? He didn’t know how much longer he could last before he was crushed and flicked against some wall.

  Shame covered him, then filled every pore as though his body was a rag sopping up grease. He was a loser. Had never been nothing else. Wouldn’t be either, though he had tried. God knows he had tried. But his life had been one long list of bad breaks; bad breaks that crowded him like a vicious gang, a vicious army. Those breaks had been too strong for him, an overwhelming force that had beaten him down. Though once . . . just once . . . he had thought his luck had changed, that he had run the gauntlet and come out the other side, but then that kid went and died.

  No use thinking about it. There were already too many bums on Angus Avenue who liked telling everyone what they could have been. But he had come close . . . he was sure of it . . . close to beating the odds, close to making something out of himself, and sometimes he’d let himself imagine what life would have been like if that kid hadn’t died. And never once did he imagine himself in this crummy hotel room, on this crummy street.

  Pain shot through Stubby’s hands as he balled his fingers. Life was nothing more than a crap shoot. There were them that were lucky and them that weren’t. And no one every called him “lucky”. No matter how hard he tried, all he kept rolling was snake-eyes. So why bother hanging on?

  Why didn’t he just do everyone a favor and die?

  He closed his eyes and Manny’s face flashed in front of him, like it was on the big screen of that cheap movie house around the corner where they showed skin flicks. Manny. He didn’t want to think about him. The bed jiggled as he thrashed around.

  Heaps of garbage form a mound:

  Stinkin’, torn, foul.

  Human flesh by the pound . . . .

  He had to turn off that mind of his—stop thinking about Manny or Turtle. Stop composing those silly poems. He drew his knees into a fetal position and rocked back and forth like he used to do after his father finished wallopin’ him with the strap.

  Go to sleep. Just go to sleep.

  “Stubby.” Turtle’s voice rolled around in Stubby’s brain like a bowling ball, knocking over all hopes of sleep. It was the way Turtle had said it, like Turtle had wrapped all the longing of a lifetime around Stubby’s name, and somehow made him responsible. “We could always count on you.” Well, maybe Stubby didn’t want to be counted on. Maybe he was tired of always being the one who had to come up with the ideas.

  He squinted back tears. A man on the street had no business having friends. He pictured Manny in the dumpster. What were Manny’s last minutes like? From how everyone described the body, Manny had to be glad when death came. And now Turtle might be next. But what was Stubby supposed to do? Hadn’t he warned Turtle? And Manny, too? But the thing was done and couldn’t be undone. He was no miracle worker. He wasn’t God. What did Turtle want from him anyway? But even as Stubby lay curled in a ball, he knew he’d try to come up with a plan. Turtle was the best friend he had—now the only friend since Manny ended up in the dumpster.

  Slowly, Stubby rolled off the bed and onto his knees. He knew he was a jerk for doing it. What was the use? He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trailing a smudge of dirt and tears. It was clear what the Almighty thought of him. God had wasted no time in trashing Stubby’s prayers for Manny. Put them right in the garbage where they belonged. But he thought it mean of God to place Manny right alongside them.

  Stubby bowed his head and folded his hands like he’d seen the old ladies at Saint Luke’s do—the ones that always wore black, and lit candles, and fingered rosary beads. Maybe his technique had been wrong. He’d been watching those ladies since the mission closed. Been going to St. Luke’s even though it was a good hike—almost five blocks—mostly when it was raining and he needed someplace dry to rest his aching bones. And after all his watching, he got to thinking that maybe the last time he had prayed he hadn’t approached the Almighty with the proper respect. So here he was, on his knees, like an old woman, with his hands folded, willing to try again. Maybe this time the Almighty would lean over in that big, golden throne of His, look down, and take notice of poor, old Stubby White. Maybe this time, Stubby’s prayers would be answered.

  And if God didn’t answer?

  Stubby shook his head. He didn’t know how much longer he could hang on. Maybe he’d just give up and stop trying altogether.

  He balled his hands into fists even though it brought a fresh wave of pain. He had to get this right. It might be the last chance he had of getting it right. He closed his eyes and dropped his head against his chest. “Please God, I can’t go on like this no more. I’m a mess. My life’s a mess. I got nothin’ to keep me goin’. If you don’t help me, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Please, God, You just gotta help me and . . . Turtle.”

  Jonathan Holmes stood in
back of the sanctuary listening to the choir. “‘All to Jesus I surrender.’” His heart soared. Oh, the tender persistence of God.

  “I give up, Lord. I surrender,” Jonathan whispered. What else could he do? He had been wrestling with the Master for two weeks. But even as he stood there, Jonathan felt a tiny pocket of resistance, a little Alamo raising its battle flag. He tried to identify it. Ambition? He didn’t think so. Pride? No . . . well . . . it could be. Hadn’t he felt a bit of pride over being chosen to pastor this prestigious old church even though it was whispered that it was as dead as a doornail? And hadn’t he, just the other day, when a new tenant in his building asked him what he did for a living, told her he was a pastor, then punctuated it with at Christ Church? And what about last week when he had tilted back in his leather office chair and admired the rich paneled walls, the expensive crown molding, the beautiful new Pella Bow window, and flirted with vanity by thinking how both strange and marvelous it was that God had brought the poor boy back as a man, to preside over the office of the wealthiest church in North Oberon?

  So, was he guilty of pride? It seemed likely. But now what he was feeling most wasn’t so much puffy as painful—like a tearing—as if something was being ripped away; a feeling he had experienced only one other time when he had walked away from the woman he loved. And now, like then, it left him with a profound sense of loss.

  He smiled as his Aunt Adel waved from the back row of the choir. From this distance, she looked like his mother, with her broad shoulders, and standing a head taller than the men. He watched as she sprang from her place, after the choir director called a break, and headed toward him.

  “Jonathan, I’ve got your dinner all packaged up in the car. Remind me to give it to you before you leave.” She squeezed him between long, strong arms.

  He breathed in the scent of eighty-dollars-an-ounce perfume when he kissed her on the cheek. Ever since he was old enough to remember, his aunt wore expensive perfume and clothes, drove luxury cars. Not like his mother, who got her clothes from thrift stores and paid for them with jar change she managed to save from using grocery store coupons. “Thanks for thinking of me,” Jonathan said, meaning every word.

  “Oh, dearest love, who else do I have to think about? Besides, how could I ever face your mother, in the hereafter, if I let you waste away? Her last words to me were, ‘Adel, help the Lord take care of my son.’”

  Jonathan looked away, ashamed of his feeble faith, a feebleness exposed while he was lying prone on the Parthia rug. The Lord had always provided. Never once had He let Jonathan down.

  So how could Jonathan doubt Him now?

  “Gertie’s been on the phone all afternoon blabbing to everyone about the choir robes. Some of the folks are upset. But most of them are taking it in stride. I think your sermons are starting to penetrate. There’ll be no riots, and no tarring-and-feathering, either. I’m thankful it didn’t happen last year or even six months ago. God is doing a work here.” Aunt Adel threaded her jeweled-studded hand through Jonathan’s muscular arm. “For ten years, I’ve been praying for revival to fall on this church, and I never doubted that God would do it, but what I didn’t know was that he’d use my very own nephew as His instrument.”

  Jonathan felt his muscles tighten. So did Aunt Adel.

  “What’s wrong, Dearest?”

  Aunt Adel’s gentian blue eyes, so like his mother’s, brimmed with love and made Jonathan’s insides twist. There was no way around it. He had to tell her, even though he knew she’d be sick with disappointment. “Aunt Adel . . . .”

  “Pastor Jonathan! What’s this I hear about the choir robes?”

  Jonathan spun around and watched the choir director, a tall, thin man with a bulbous nose walk up to him. The director’s razor tongue and temper were legendary. Jonathan braced himself. “I promised Gertie I’d come tonight and break the news, but it seems everyone already knows.”

  In a flash, Aunt Adel lept between Jonathan and the director. Her brows were knotted, her eyes laser-focused. But her mouth, which was curled upward from years of perpetually smiling, betrayed a sweetness of temperament that was impossible to hide. Even so, from past experience, Jonathan understood that at times like this, it was best not to get in his aunt’s way.

  “You and the Finance Committee have been haggling over those robes for six months,” his aunt said sharply. “And if I recall, it was you, Mr. Director, who stopped the whole shebang for almost two of those months while the factory sent color swatches just so you could be sure you were getting the right shade of blue. With that track record, I don’t think you should be worrying about waiting a few more days until we get this straightened out. Do you?”

  “Put your gun back in its holster, Adel. No one’s going to lynch your boy here. I just wanted to make sure Gertie had it straight. Is it true, Pastor? Will the choir be singing in their regular clothes this Sunday?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Well . . . okay then. I’ll tell everyone it’ll be another week or more before we’ll be in proper attire. And if they don’t like it, they can take it up with me.”

  When the director walked away, Aunt Adel squeezed Jonathan’s arm. “See. God is changing this church.”

  “Yes,” Jonathan said, feeling his courage drain from him like water from a leaky bucket. More than you know. But he’d wait to tell his aunt about it until tomorrow . . . or maybe the next day or . . . .

  CHAPTER 3

  Stubby pulled the crumpled paper towel from his back pocket. All day he had tossed and turned, racking his brain ‘til the idea came, making him tingle and float like he was high on C-dust. And making him feel smart, too—something as rare as clean fingernails.

  Tucson.

  Tucson was their salvation. His and Turtle’s. He was sure Turtle would see it that way, too. But there was no going ‘til Stubby got his next Social Security check. Turtle would just have to wait it out, and Stubby right along with him.

  With a sigh—a blend of satisfaction and weariness—Stubby unfolded the crinkled edges of the towel. No sense in fighting any longer. It cost him an extra night at the hotel, but what did it matter? His room was a dump, hardly better than the alley. He’d let C-dust carry him off to a better place, let it free his mind, let himself be taken on its white powdery wings and soar with the eagles like superman, up, up, up in the sky where he could do anything, be anything . . . anything but a nearly crippled, old loser.

  “Tell me it’s not true. I want to hear it from your own lips.” Aunt Adel pressed long, slender fingers against the soft puffy skin under her eyes, blotting her tears.

  Jonathan continued packing in silence, placing his Strong’s Concordance atop his Greek lexicon and three Bibles, then closed the top of the cardboard box. He never had found the words or will to tell Adel, and now felt a coward’s regret.

  He pushed strands of blond hair from his eyes and avoided his aunt’s gaze. Boxes were everywhere, and piles of books and folders formed little stacks along the perimeter of the room. His eyes rested on the sizable portrait of Pastor Sorensen who, from his lofty position on the wall opposite the desk, surveyed his former domain through metal-rimmed glasses. For the first time since stepping into this office, Jonathan was certain the old pastor was displeased. There were other times—when purchasing new hymnals and choir robes even though the old ones were still good, just so he could donate the used ones to that small, poor church in South Oberon; when instituting the all-night prayer vigils on Fridays; when convincing the Finance Committee to divert money from the more than ample decoration and renovation fund to the new missionary efforts he and Andrew Combs had begun—that Jonathan was certain he detected a slight hint of disapproval on the old pastor’s oil-painted face. But today, disapproval seemed to pour in angry waves through those hard, blue eyes that followed Jonathan around the room. Still, it was easier to accept Sorensen’s displeasure than his aunt’s.

  “Tell me it’s not true,” Aunt Adel repeated, fidgeting in the small armc
hair by the side of the desk.

  “You see me packing, so you know it is. Besides, you knew it when you came in. I saw it in your eyes. I’m just sorry you didn’t hear it from me first.”

  “But why, dearest love? Why now? You saw the church Sunday. In spite of no choir robes, it was packed all the way back to the Swenson pew, and that hasn’t happened in at least three years, and then only on Easter. God is getting ready to do a work here, Jonathan. A mighty work. Much prayer has gone up for this. A handful of my Auxiliary Ladies and I have prayed our knees flat. If you don’t believe me, you should see me in pantyhose. They sag right where my kneecaps used to be.”

  Jonathan stuffed a batch of sermons into a manila folder, hating the fact he was putting his aunt through this. “God is well aware of your knees. And yes, I know revival’s coming.”

  “Then all the more reason you should be here. You’ve worked so hard this past year. I’ve never seen anyone work harder. Now, I’m going to have to listen to Gertie Eldridge go around saying ‘I told you so’.” Adel pulled a monogrammed hankie from her purse.

  Any minute Jonathan was going to need one, too. He had never given himself over so completely to the workings of the Holy Spirit as he had while at Christ Church. It was a bitter business to have to leave it now.

  “She’s getting used to you, you know—Gertie is. I heard her say the other day, when she didn’t know I was listening, that she’d make a fine pastor out of you yet. That’s as close as she’ll ever come to admitting I was right to recommend you.”

  Jonathan walked over to his aunt’s chair and ran his hand along her prominent square cheek that spoke of strength and character, and watched wisps of gray hair fall across his fingers. “Recommend? I don’t think recommend is the right word. I believe ‘shove down everyone’s throat’ would be more accurate.”

  “It’s not like they had a string of other candidates. And yes, I did use my influence to press for you. And nobody made much of a fuss after I stressed you’d just be the temporary pastor.”