“I don’t know what she looks like but she has a kind voice and seems very committed to the homeless.”
“Oh perfect, perfect. See how quickly God can work? How old is she?
“Seventy.” Jonathan heard the phone go dead.
CHAPTER 7
Panic clutched Stubby’s throat as he rounded the corner of Fourth. He scanned the long sidewalks, first one side of the street then the other. The grip on his throat tightened. It was rough and choking, like his father’s when he’d tell him to “listen up”. He leaned against the building and shook his head trying to dislodge what felt like cotton wadding inside his skull. Then he tried to “listen up”; take stock of what he saw. And what he saw, or rather what he didn’t, brought on a fresh wave of panic.
Miss Emily was nowhere in sight.
Had he come too early? Or too late? He had no idea of time, only a vague sense that it should be noon. He pressed one palm against his forehead. He was still high, but not so high he didn’t know how easy it was to get confused.
That had to be it. He had gotten his time messed up. He’d come later to see Miss Emily and get a sandwich. After drugging for days and eating nothing except what he’d found in the pails, he needed something decent if he wanted to keep up his strength; if he wanted to keep from getting sick.
He let his hand slide off his forehead and down the length of his dirty shirt. That’s when he noticed the throbbing—not from his arthritis but from the cut he had gotten at The Gorge. He wiped his hand on his jeans, then looked at it.
His palm was red with pus oozing down his fingers.
He knew someone who had lost his arm this way—clear up to the elbow. He had to get it fixed before it was too late. But not at the clinic. Too many questions and too much paperwork. He had hoped Miss Emily would tend it. Now, he didn’t know what to do.
He was about to leave when someone came sauntering out of the Beacon Mission.
Weren’t possible.
If the mission had opened, he’d have heard. When a second person came out, Stubby staggered over the sidewalk and entered. And there was Miss Emily, humming Amazing Grace and washing down the long stainless steel counter that separated the main room from the swinging kitchen doors, her white hair and face shining like an angel.
It was the sight of her and the sound of her voice that pried the hands of panic from his throat. He was safe here. And slowly, like the barely discernable legs of a moth, a feeling of security crawled from his cotton-wadding brain and moved down his chest. That’s when the corner, where a dozen folding chairs ringed the lectern Reverend Gates had used for preaching, seemed to beckon him as if the Reverend’s words, the only kind words Stubby had heard on these mean streets, still hung in the air like fruit waiting to be plucked. He stumbled toward the lectern, knocking over a chair.
“Stubby! Praise be! I heard you were drugging again, but I didn’t believe it. Not for one second. Come here where I can get a good look at you.”
Without wanting to, Stubby reversed course and moved toward the counter, keeping his head bent, his eyes directed at anything but Miss Emily; certain he looked every inch the cockroach.
“You look up at me, now. Let me see your eyes. They’ll tell me everything I need to know.”
Reluctantly, Stubby lifted his head and looked at Miss Emily’s kind, smiling face.
“Oh, Stubby, now why did you go and do that? Start up with heroin again? You had it licked. I’ve been asking Jesus to get on your case. To wring you out like a rag and leave nothing of that old desire, that old life in you. I suppose He’ll just have to do some more wringing.”
Stubby brushed a dirt-caked hand over his hair—the little tuffs of white that formed a ring around his bald dome—as though trying to spruce up a bit before Miss Emily found cause for further disappointment. “Save your prayers for the more deservin’. I told you there were some beyond helpin’. Some who don’t deserve the consideration of the Almighty. I’ll just settle for one of them sandwiches.” When he held out his hand, Miss Emily gasped.
“Goodness! Your hand’s as big as a baseball mitt!” She grabbed his wrist. “And look at that nasty infection! That cut’s oozing all down your palm.”
“I was hopin’ you could doctor it.”
She studied him. “How long since you’ve eaten?”
“Don’t know. Things blur . . . maybe two days. Maybe three.”
“I suppose you’ve used up all your money?”
Stubby hung his head. “You hear about Turtle?”
“I heard. I suppose that’s why you’re in this state. But no sense in fussing at you. Not in your condition. Not when you need food and tending. We’re not set up, yet, but I did bring some sandwiches. And I’ve got one of my deluxes—a double-decker bologna and cheese. But first you wash up. You look like a chimney sweep. After you eat, I’ll look at that hand.”
Stubby hurried into the bathroom and with his good hand pumped the soap dispenser. Then he turned on the faucet and lathered his hands, arms, and face. He ignored the pain from his cut; ignored the fact that every time he touched it or moved his fingers the pain made him grind his teeth. And then there was the pain in his joints. He ignored that, too.
He watched small, foaming bubbles fill the sink then float around his head. He felt as light as one of them, as light as though he had just gunned another snowball. Miss Emily always made him feel good.
When he returned, Miss Emily had his place set with a tall glass of milk, a sandwich on a paper plate and a white, folded napkin. She gestured for him to sit, then took the opposite seat. When he picked up his sandwich, she gave him a stern look.
“Don’t you think you should thank the Lord first?”
Stubby dropped his head and mumbled a quick “thanks,” then shoved the sandwich into his mouth. “I can’t believe the mission’s open,” he said between bites. “Who’s runnin’ the show?”
“A nice, young pastor. Jonathan Holmes. We opened yesterday to clean the place and connect with our old contacts; have them send food and clothes. In another day or two, we should be ready for business.”
“So, they sent a young one this time.” Stubby narrowed his eyes. “Let’s hope he knows how to walk down them stairs better than Reverend Gates.”
Miss Emily shrugged off his innuendo. “Pastor Jonathan doesn’t seem to know much about places like Fourth Street. I don’t think he’s ever worked at a mission.”
Stubby swallowed his last bite, then wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand. “Lots of luck.” He grinned when Miss Emily handed him the napkin, but instead of using it, he just held it in his hand.
“Of course, he could make a real go of it if he had proper help. Grady—you remember him—the maintenance man who worked for Reverend Gates? Well, he has disappeared. No one’s seen him in weeks. And we need to get someone quickly because Pastor Jonathan’s as green as kale.” Miss Emily leaned over. “So . . . what I’ve been thinking is that you’re just the one who could break him in.”
“Me?” Stubby pushed away from the table, making a scraping sound with his chair. “Take a good look, Miss Emily. My nose is runnin’, my hands sweatin’. I ain’t in no shape to help anyone. Beside, Reverend Gates never allowed dopers to work the place. What makes you think the new kid will?”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be using anymore. You’d clean yourself up. The job pays minimum wage, but you’d get free room and board. Think of what that would mean. Three squares a day and a roof over your head, plus a little extra pocket money. Combine that with your Social Security and you can live very well. Maybe even help someone else once in awhile. Not to mention Pastor Jonathan. A person as wet behind the ears as he is needs someone like you.”
Stubby rested his oozing hand on his thigh. He was coming down fast, judging by how much pain he was feeling in his hand and fingers. It was driving him mad. He couldn’t wait to get high again just to make it go away.
“What do you say?”
“No
use talkin’ about it ‘cause it’s never gonna happen. I ain’t no good, not to myself, not to nobody. You know what I’m gonna do soon as I get outta here? I’m gonna panhandle. And if I don’t get enough money that way, I’ll steal it off some drunk in the alley or outta some old lady’s purse. ‘Cause if I don’t get a G-shot soon, I’m gonna be in real trouble. Now, what do you think of that?”
Miss Emily took Stubby’s good hand and held it so gently Stubby swore it was being cradled by butterfly wings. And as she did, he smelled baby powder and lavender, and wondered if it was strong enough to cover the stink of his shame.
“Suppose you get your little dose of drugs to hold off withdrawal, what then?” She released his hand as if giving him more freedom to ponder the question. “What about tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that? Nothing’s going to bring Manny back, or Turtle, either. Jesus is patient, but how many times do you expect Him to come knocking at your door? How much longer do you plan on keeping Him waiting? Chances like this don’t come around everyday. This job can set you for life. Make you useful and give you a reason to get up in the morning. Are you going to throw it away because you need a G-shot? Like I said, after you get it, then what?”
Stubby stared at Miss Emily’s clean, pink nails, then at his own blackened fingers that hurt so bad he could hardly sleep nights unless he was doped up. “There ain’t no ‘then what’,” he said. “There’s only now.”
“Aren’t you tired of scratching and scraping just to keep high? Don’t you know Jesus has something better for you?”
Stubby wrapped the napkin around his oozing cut. “Miss Emily, your Jesus has nothin’ for me.”
“Don’t be too sure,” came a stranger’s voice.
Stubby looked up. A tall, handsome man with broad shoulders and straw-blond hair stood next to the table. There was a smile on his face and his green eyes glowed, just like Miss Emily’s, as though plugged into some inner power pack. No matter how hard he tried, Stubby couldn’t tear himself away from those eyes.
“Miss Emily thinks Jesus has a plan for your life. I think so, too,” the stranger said.
“And you bein’ who, exactly?” But Stubby instinctively knew it was the young pastor. A renewed panic gripped him, and a fear so great it made him want to bolt from his chair and race out the door. Any minute now this tall, strong man would tell him to “listen up” in a way Reverend Gates never could. Then there’d be nothing Stubby could do but obey. “Who are you?” Stubby repeated, glaring at the man, hoping his glare was menacing enough to make him back off.
Instead, the man winked at Miss Emily and extended his hand. “I’m that young, inexperienced pastor who could use your help. Jonathan Holmes is my name.” Jonathan continued holding his hand extended, but after a few moments of awkward silence, with Stubby remaining rigid in his chair and not moving, he dropped his arm.
“You don’t look like no preacher I ever saw.” Stubby hoped he sounded as disagreeable as he felt. He was coming down fast, and feeling sicker by the minute—too sick to listen to any preaching. “With your build I figured you for a Marine. Or maybe a prizefighter. I once knew a prizefighter about your size. But never no preacher, that’s for sure.”
Jonathan smiled, a warm, tender smile that drew Stubby like a heater in winter. “As Miss Emily said, I could use you. You don’t have to answer now. Take some time and think it over.”
“No need. Won’t do no good. My mind’s made up.” Why did the pastor keep starin’ at him like that—like he was somethin’ special? “Besides, I do drugs.” That should clench it.
Instead of recoiling or looking disappointed, Pastor Jonathan slid a chair closer to Stubby and sat down. “Why don’t you and I pray about this?”
“You mean now? Together?” The panic was fierce now, raging like a bull with no place to go. When Jonathan didn’t answer, Stubby shrugged. “I been prayed over lots of times. Never did nothin’.” The tender love in the pastor’s eyes made Stubby swallow hard, made him continue sitting in his chair instead of getting up and running out, made him nod his head and add, “But I guess you could pray if you want. Just don’t go thinkin’ I’m gonna change my mind about workin’ here. Like I told Miss Emily, I got problems to iron out. I ain’t much good to no one right now, maybe never will be.” It was still there, that love, shining through those green eyes and pinning Stubby in his chair.
“Let’s see what Jesus has to say about this, okay?” Jonathan said.
“He’s heard the gospel a hundred times, Pastor,” Miss Emily said. “It’s just a matter of him opening up his heart.”
Jonathan rearranged his muscular frame, then stretched out his legs right under Stubby’s chair as though preparing to stay as long as it took to wear Stubby down.
Stubby glanced at the front door, wondering if it was too late to run.
“Well, if what Miss Emily said is true, then Jesus is no stranger. You already know about Him; enough to understand that He’s kind and loving and wants only what’s best for you.”
“I heard a lot of preachin’ on the matter.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
“I want to. I do.” Sweat beaded Stubby’s neck, right under his hair line. Then his thumb began twitching like one of those Mexican jumping beans an old sailor once showed him.
“Why not ask Jesus to take control of your life right now? Let Him show you what He can do? Let Him help you with those problems you spoke about,” Jonathan said.
Stubby shrugged, unconvinced. “I been prayin’. Don’t go thinkin’ I don’t pray, that I never asked God for help because I have. But it ain’t done no good. He never listens.”
“I’m sure you’ve prayed and that you were sincere when you did, but have you ever specifically asked Jesus to forgive you for all your sins and to take control of your life?”
Stubby didn’t like that word, “specifically”. It felt too much like a choke-hold, fastening him in place with no wiggle room. “Well . . . not exactly.”
“He can help you. He wants to help you.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps tellin’ me.”
“Maybe it’s time you listened.”
Stubby’s throat caught. He knew it! He just knew this guy was gonna tell him to “listen up”. And now Stubby couldn’t do a thing except sit there like a girl and take it. It was those eyes; those glowing green eyes that kept him pinned, then pulled words out of his mouth.
“Well . . . I haven’t been doin’ such a good job at helpin’ myself. I . . . suppose it wouldn’t hurt none to ask Jesus. If He can do better and wants to try, I guess that’ll be okay with me.”
That seemed to please the young pastor because his smile deepened. “Of course, in order for Jesus to help you, you’d have to give Him your life—turn it over to His care.”
Stubby squirmed in his chair. He was stuck now, too late to run, and he was tired, bone tired, and feeling lousy. Getting up would take effort. Much easier to go along, just say what was expected. It would make the pastor happy. Miss Emily, too. And get them off his back. He saw no harm in that.
“It’s not much of a life . . . I ain’t much,” he said, looking down at his injured hand, at the napkin soaked with pus. “And I don’t have much. If Jesus wants someone like me, okay, I won’t argue.” When Stubby saw Jonathan’s eyes tear he added, “But just in case He don’t, want me I mean, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Jonathan rubbed his chin, his eyes ablaze as though a sudden thought sparked a fire within him. “Don’t you know that Jesus promises He’ll never leave you or forsake you? That He loves you with an everlasting love? And that He’ll stick closer than a brother? You’d want someone like that, wouldn’t you, taking charge of your life, leading you, directing you, helping you through the rough spots?”
“Well, sure . . . .”
“It wouldn’t be a hardship giving someone like that control, would it? Obeying what He said, trying to do everything to please Him?”
“No
. . . I guess not.” Why didn’t the pastor just pray and get it done with?
“And it would be a comfort, wouldn’t it, to know that after your days are finished here, that you’d know just where you were going, that you’d know Jesus had prepared a place for you in heaven—because He promised in His Word He would? Now, that would be something to look forward to, wouldn’t it?”
“Even a man with half a brain would like a deal like that.”
“So, if all that’s true, what’s stopping you from asking Jesus to come into your life right now? To take control?”
Stubby settled back in his chair, wondering why the pastor’s words made him feel high, why they made heat rush through his body and stir up something deep inside and almost forgotten—a kind of hope so battered and fragile it had to limp, rather than run, to the surface. But it made him smile. “Can’t think of one thing.”
Jonathan placed an arm around Stubby’s shoulder. “Of course on the other hand you have to mean it. You have to really want Him. It’s not something you’d do in a casual way. That would be insulting. When the God of all glory offers us freedom, forgiveness, wholeness and heaven all in the same breath, it wouldn’t be right to be flippant about the offer.”
Stubby paled as a new kind of fear gripped him, one he couldn’t identify. “Yes, sir, I . . . see your point. And I wouldn’t want to do nothin’ like that. Like I said, I ain’t much. Maybe I was too hasty . . . maybe we should forget this whole thing.” No sooner were the words out then a deep disappointment overwhelmed him as if he had just stomped on his last chance for happiness. It made his heart ache. “But . . . that is . . . if you think God wants me, would want someone like me, then I’d like to go ahead and get the thing done.” The words seemed to come out of nowhere, yet felt so right.
“You’re exactly the kind of person God wants.”
Stubby felt Miss Emily’s hands on his back, right next to Jonathan’s, heard their voices praise the Lord, saw the hairs of his arms rise, tasted the salty tears that ran down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. Then, as though a lifetime of sorrows weighed him down like sacks of cement, he bowed his head. “Jesus, I’m a miserable sinner. Can’t seem to do nothin’ right. Please forgive me. Right now I ain’t got a friend in the world, and I ain’t much the way I am. But this preacher says You want me. I don’t know if that’s true ‘cause not even my mama wanted me. But if You do, if this is for real, you can have me.” And he meant every word.
Mercy at Midnight Page 9
