Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “And that’s the key word, isn’t it? Temporary.”

  “But I had hoped . . . I had so hoped . . . .” Aunt Adel dabbed her eyes with the hankie. “Oh, Jonathan, you’re such a wonderful pastor and I know you’ve come to love these people, and what’s more, they’ve come to love you, too. So how can you leave them? Before you see the fruits of your labor?”

  Jonathan felt the familiar churning. After all his prayers, it was still hard to let go. He hoped that fact wasn’t written on his face. “The Lord is directing me elsewhere.”

  “And where is that?”

  Jonathan removed his hand from his aunt’s cheek knowing what was coming. “I don’t know.”

  She gasped as if his words were blows. “Please tell me you’re not serious?”

  “Andrew will do an admirable job. He’s been involved with me from the beginning, on everything. I’ve discussed this with him, and the changeover will be seamless. He’ll be a fine replacement until the Search Committee can locate, then vote in a new pastor.”

  Aunt Adel leaned forward in her chair. “Andrew Combs is a good man, and has been an admirable assistant pastor, and his wife is a precious lady, but he’s half the man you are.”

  “You’re talking with you heart, not your head. And my last official act here will be to implore you to be his ally—to implore you to help him as much as you can—to keep the Body united. For years, Christ Church has been a Laodicea, neither hot nor cold. But now . . . now that’s all about to change. So you must do everything you can to keep it on track. To see that the work of the Holy Spirit is not hindered.”

  Aunt Adel twisted her handkerchief, making it resemble a rope. “When revival comes, and it will, everyone will credit Andrew. They’ll forget about all your hard work, your prayers.”

  Jonathan felt that pocket of resistance grow stronger as cannons rolled up to strategic positions along his Alamo wall, could feel his heart twist and crack, releasing an ooze of self-pity. He had never worked harder in his life. And now the Lord was asking him to pass the mantle of authority over to someone else . . . before he could see the fruits. And aside from disappointing his aunt, that was the part that stung the most, the part that cut deep into his core.

  Before he could see the fruits.

  It was a lot easier talking about—preaching about—doing the will of God, no matter the cost. But paying the price—that was another matter.

  “When revival comes,” he said softly, trying to corral his feelings, “the credit will go to the Holy Spirit, where it belongs.”

  His aunt’s broad, square shoulders heaved as she slumped backward in her chair. She gazed at the ceiling as though listening to silent instructions from on high, then absently released her white monogrammed handkerchief. Jonathan watched it flutter to her lap like a flag of surrender.

  “Oh, dearest love . . . I had such hopes . . . I had so wanted you to be the one . . . .”

  “I know.” Jonathan squeezed her shoulder. “Forgive me?”

  “Forgive you? For obeying the Lord? How can I even answer that without sounding presumptuous? No, you must obey God, of course. But, He’s given you no clue? No hint of what He wants?”

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “Then you’ll be needing prayer cover. My ladies and I will see to it.”

  Jonathan turned to an empty box on the floor and began filling it so he couldn’t see the hard, disapproving eyes of Pastor Sorensen or the hurt, tear-filled eyes of his aunt. “We’ll both need prayer.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Gertie Eldridge. You know what she’s going to be like when she hears the news.”

  Aunt Adel chuckled. “Yes, you’d better cover me in prayer, too.”

  Cynthia’s lower back screamed in protest as she sat rigid in the wooden chair opposite Bernie’s desk. The chair had been an issue between them from her first day on the job six years ago when she made the mistake of telling Bernie he needed to buy a new one. Now, it seemed like Bernie kept it as a matter of principle, as though reminding her that he was the boss, a fact he often accused her of forgetting, and which, Cynthia believed, he secretly feared was not always the case.

  In vain, she tried to get comfortable by shifting her weight from one side to the next. All the while Bernie’s sausage fingers flipped through the pages she had handed him late yesterday afternoon—the rewrite of her government waste story. She knew he’d prefer to take the pages home to read rather than waiting to read them off the composition system or computer network this morning. And she could tell by his face he was pleased.

  “This is more like it!” Bernie said, smacking his lips as if he had just eaten a Krispy Kreme. “Guaranteed to shake up those bureaucrats at the state capitol. They don’t call our business the ‘fourth branch of government’ for nothing. It’s a good watchdog piece, Cynthia. Good for circulation, too.”

  Cynthia smiled. Bernie always worried about circulation. “Glad you like it. You running it tomorrow?” When Bernie nodded, she rose, anxious to relieve her back of its torture. “Okay, guess that wraps it up. I think I’ll take the rest of the day off.” She was exhausted. The melatonin from the health food store hadn’t helped. And the nightmares . . . they were worse than ever. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days. She planned on taking a few sleeping pills and going to bed early. But when her hand brushed against the hard chair, she added, “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  Bernie tilted back then plopped his feet on the desk. “Since when did you start worrying if I minded what you did?”

  “I’ll be in bright and early tomorrow.”

  “You could take a few days off, you know. I don’t have an assignment for you and the Trib’s not going to fall apart if you’re not here. Besides, those bags under your eyes are not terribly attractive.”

  “Tomorrow, Bernie, I’ll be at my desk.” She heard him sigh.

  “You got something you’re working on?”

  Cynthia shrugged. “Nothing special.” As city editor, Bernie handed out the assignments, but he was always open to suggestions. Still, she wasn’t ready to tell him what was on her mind. Bernie would get upset and accuse her of being morbid. And the way she felt right now, he would be right.

  As soon as Stubby rounded the corner of Angus Avenue and Fourth he saw her. There was nothing that made him feel as good as seeing Miss Emily passing out sandwiches. It was her permanence, her always being at the mission, and now on the street in front of it, that gave him a fleeting sense of stability, a knowing that the world hadn’t slipped off its axis and gone careening into outer space, forever lost, and him with it. Here on this street, even those dirty, gnarled fingers of his could touch the pure hand of kindness. For one minute, life made sense. And for one minute, fear didn’t eat at him.

  “Hey there, Miss Emily.” Stubby wiped his hands on his pants—the closest he’d come to any kind of personal hygiene today, “I’ll take the house special.”

  Miss Emily smiled, not one strand of white hair out of place. She held a baggie-wrapped bologna sandwich between small, pink fingers that boasted of short, well-manicured nails. “I’ve got one here just the way you like it, with lots of butter.”

  When she handed it to him, Stubby smelled the scent of lavender and wondered how anything could smell this good on these mean streets.

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming today. I figured you’d have your check by now.”

  “Ain’t cashed it yet. Got it too late. Gonna do that tomorrow, so don’t expect me here. Gotta let some of them others, who ain’t got any ways and means, get a chance to sample your good home cookin’.”

  Miss Emily’s laughter floated like flower petals on the warm, humid air. Then she frowned. “You don’t look good today, Stubby. I don’t even want to ask what you’ve been doing because I can guess. But don’t think that’ll stop me. I’ve been asking Jesus to clean you up, and I’ll continue to ask. That’s His specialty you know, cleaning people up. And you know I’m qualified to speak
on that subject.”

  Stubby thought of his empty back pocket and how he had been drugging for the past four days, and getting the money by going uptown and panhandling. “No denyin’ it, Jesus did you good. But some folks have used up all their chances, Miss Emily, and I’m one of ‘em.” He wasn’t proud of what he had been doing but he wasn’t one to put on airs either, trying to make people think better of him than they should. Besides, he was sure Miss Emily knew the worst. He was still a little chalked up, and Miss Emily could always tell if someone was high. “I’m sure I used up all my chances,” he repeated, then smiled in spite of himself when he saw that familiar twinkle in her eyes.

  “You don’t believe that, Stubby. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here on this street with me. I know you’ve had your ups and downs, like a man riding an elevator but never going anywhere. Still, you wait and see. One of these days you’re going to give in to Jesus. Then look out! He’ll get you off that elevator and fill you with so much life you’ll never be the same. Resurrection day’s coming, Stubby. Like Lazarus, you’ll be walking out of your tomb.”

  Stubby took a bite of his sandwich and looked at the building behind Miss Emily. “Maybe Jesus would do better to put some life back into that.”

  Miss Emily turned to face the empty Beacon Mission that was locked up tighter than a vault. “He will, in His own good time.”

  “It looks kinda sad, all closed up like that. Still don’t understand why God let it happen. Reverend Gates was a good man.”

  “God’s ways are higher than our ways, Stubby. His ways are not like our ways at all.”

  Stubby shrugged. “I ain’t sure I can buy into that kinda thinkin’. Makes no sense to use that to account for all the miserable things that happen to people. But I can still picture him, you know—Reverend Gates at the bottom of them cellar stairs. His head all bloody, his body twisted. Don’t understand how it could happen. He walked them stairs a million times.”

  Miss Emily nodded.

  “I never told you this, but I ain’t convinced it was an accident.” Stubby squinted at Miss Emily and when he saw her expression hadn’t changed, that she didn’t look at him like he had two heads, he decided to say what was on his mind, what had been wedged in his brain, like a splinter, for months. “You can say what you want, but I think someone pushed him; that someone wanted him dead.” He looked again at Miss Emily’s face, studying it like you would a map for signs, and though she was smiling, her eyes told him that she believed it, too.

  CHAPTER 4

  A four-year old girl died yesterday. Carrie Ann Dietch. Pneumonia, the obituary said, though it wasn’t the season for such illnesses. And that made Cynthia suspect that Carrie Ann had a history of asthma or bronchitis or some other respiratory aliment that made even the simple things of life, difficult. Cynthia was surprised that the obituary mentioned the cause of death since most didn’t. She also supposed that laying it out in the open like that, filling in the blank of everyone’s question of what happened—sure to be asked again and again—was a matter of self-defense on the part of the parents. At least at the funeral they would be spared the need to give an explanation.

  A small mercy.

  Cynthia slouched on the floral couch, her pj’s crumpled and moist with perspiration. It was three in the afternoon and she had yet to rouse herself. What was the point? Too late to follow her plans now—shopping for new art supplies at Creativity Plus, which closed at two on Sundays, then treating herself to a mocha frappuccino with a double portion of whipped cream at Starbucks—a treat she didn’t deserve, since treats, to her mind, implied a reward for accomplishments. Instead, she supposed she’d continue doing what she had done all day, blow around like a wind chime and cry buckets of tears.

  What would Bernie say if he saw her now?

  He had called this morning to invite her to dinner, an invitation she refused. Then his wife, Roberta, called two hours later trying to get her to change her mind. Cynthia pictured Bernie’s sweet face twisted with confusion. He never could figure her out. She felt tears well up then run down her cheeks. Lately, she had trouble figuring herself out. And those annoying emotional lows were getting to her. It wasn’t her period so she couldn’t blame it on hormones—not that she had problems of that kind to begin with. But it would be nice to put her finger on something; to point to something tangible like an unplugged phone and say, “There it is. There’s the problem. That’s why I’m not working, why I’m not connected.”

  Tears dripped from her chin onto her pajama top, making small wet marks near her neck. No denying it, something was going on inside her, churning deep like a washing machine agitator, disquieting her whole system. And though she didn’t want to admit it, though she had fought admitting it even up to this very second, she actually did know what it was. And that was the problem. Sometimes knowing the reason for a thing was worse than not knowing. Once you knew, you couldn’t play with it anymore, shape it to your liking, or blame it on someone or something else.

  You couldn’t pretend.

  With a languid motion and a sigh, the kind one makes after too much crying, Cynthia reached for the folded Oberon Times on the coffee table and began to reread the obituary of Carrie Ann Dietch.

  “It was standing room only! You pray for a thing and believe God for it, but when it happens, well, it takes you a little by surprise. But Jonathan, revival has come to Christ Church! I wish you’d been there to see it.”

  Jonathan stood in his cramped kitchen, fighting the urge to throw his phone into the air out of sheer joy. “God is in the mountain-moving business, Aunt Adel. Just shows you that nothing’s impossible for Him, not Christ Church or . . . hidden pockets of resistance.” Jonathan’s Alamo had been reduced to near rubble over the past several weeks, though a small footing remained.

  “Well, I didn’t see too many people resisting. When the power of God fell, it was incredible. People were on their knees, crying like babies and confessing their sins. And some folks who hadn’t talked to each other for years were suddenly hugging and kissing. And after the service, nobody wanted to go home. They just hung around the altar—not wanting to leave what everyone knew had become holy ground. Oh, Jonathan, we could have the beginnings of another Azusa Street on our hands!”

  Jonathan’s eyes misted. It was said that during that revival the presence of God was felt even on the street around the building. Daily, thousands of people from all over the country poured into the former Methodist church on the dead-end street—a church that had been converted into a horse stable before William Seymour acquired it in 1906.

  Could Christ Church become another Azusa?

  “I’m overwhelmed with joy, Aunt Adel.”

  “Well, dearest love, that’s as it should be since you played such a large part. I wish you’d come next Sunday and see it for yourself. You may not be pastor anymore, but nothing says you can’t fellowship with us.”

  “You know that’s not possible. I’ve told you how important it was that I make a clean break.” Jonathan slipped a crusty fork into the dishwasher, happy that his aunt couldn’t see the condition of his kitchen, of his whole apartment for that matter. He hadn’t cleaned in days. Prayer had kept him too busy, and the apartment looked like someone had detonated a case of C4. “Andrew Combs needs to establish his headship at the church, and my presence would make it difficult. People, because they’re used to it, would seek me out instead of Andrew, and that’s counter productive. You know in your heart I’m right.”

  There was a long pause and Jonathan knew his aunt was thinking, in that customary way of hers, of how to say what was on her mind without being unkind. He pictured her face contorting with indignation, anger, sadness, and compassion, all at once. His mother had been like that—ever ready to speak her mind, but never wanting to be unkind, and he had always admired her propensity toward mercy.

  “I suppose there’s no point in arguing the matter. You can be as stubborn as a rash when you’ve made up your mi
nd about something.”

  “Leave me in God’s hands, Aunt Adel. I’m safe there.”

  “I have, Dearest. I’ve put you in His hands at least a hundred times since you’ve left Christ Church.”

  “And yanked me back a hundred times.” Jonathan heard what sounded like kitchen cabinets and drawers slamming. When pot-banging was added, Jonathan knew his aunt was more than displeased.

  “Just tell me this; have you been out at all?”

  “No.” His aunt’s ensuing silence told Jonathan she was close to losing her temper.

  “Jonathan, this-has-got-to-stop,” she said, running her words together like an auctioneer at an estate sale. “You’ve-been-cooped-up-in-that-apartment-for-the-last-month!”

  “I’ve been busy . . . praying.”

  “For Christ Church?”

  “Yes . . . but when you told me revival had fallen, I felt God’s release. Now I can seek Him for myself. Get the direction I need.” Excitement curled around Jonathan’s nerves, making them tingle. Would God send him to another church in North Oberon or pull him out-of-state? It would be nice if he could stay close to Adel. He was the only family she had left, and she wasn’t getting any younger. Ever since his mother died five years ago, his aunt had been there for him and he’d like to be there for her, too, when the time came.

  “You still haven’t a clue what the Lord wants you to do?”

  “No.”

  “You know your Uncle Douglas left me more money than I can spend in a lifetime. I’d hate to think of you without electricity and eating cold beans for dinner. Do you . . . have you . . . enough money?”

  Jonathan’s neck muscles tightened as he tossed an empty can of Dinty Moore Stew into the garbage. His years of poverty had stayed with him, like a threatening cloud over his head. It was one of two things he feared. The other was falling in love with someone like Lydia. But he had turned both over to the Lord. Even so, he couldn’t shake the fear.