Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  The bulky layers of clothes made her gait graceless; made it look like a shuffle, which Cynthia thought served her purpose well. As she walked, she tried making eye contact with a friendly face, but no one looked at her.

  Was she invisible?

  “Hey buddy,” she said to a nicely dressed passerby with short cropped hair, “can you spare a dime?” She stifled a smile over using that old cliché. To her surprise, he brushed by without a word. Other people followed, streaking like comets to some unknown destination. Then, a promising sight—a young couple holding hands. Idealism usually resided in the young. She stepped in their path. “I could use anything you can spare,” she said, but she had stepped too close because the man thrust himself between Cynthia and his companion like a barrier.

  “Get away,” he snarled, “or I’ll call the cops.” Then he grabbed his companion and fled.

  Cynthia felt silly for allowing her feelings to be hurt, but they were. Maybe it was because she was used to intimidating people as Cynthia Wells the reporter. It was obvious that here she was Cynthia Wells, the nobody; and it felt odd, unpleasant, even. Still . . . the man could have been kinder. Suppose she had really needed help?

  “Neanderthal,” she mumbled under her breath, then continued walking toward South Oberon.

  She was sweltering now. Perspiration dripped down her face and onto the sidewalk. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like an IV plugged into the vein of these streets. She turned, half expecting to see the sidewalk awash. All she saw was the wall of people to the right and left with a space in the middle where she had just passed, a space opened to her as though she were a leper. It made her feel isolated and alone.

  You asked for this assignment. You wanted shock therapy. Remember?

  Hope budded anew when she saw an elderly woman coming towards her. Maybe compassion was about to meet her. But the woman walked by without a glance, turning only after she passed.

  “Why don’t you get a job? You look young enough.”

  Cynthia opened her mouth to say something sassy but nothing came out. Perhaps because the woman reminded her of her mother—gray-haired, thin, and nicely dressed; and under different circumstances, probably a decent sort. But why had she been so uncharitable? Fear? Fear of a lone homeless female? Or was it because Cynthia didn’t look like someone you needed to be nice to? Didn’t look like someone who could give you back anything for your trouble?

  She gave up trying to make eye contact and concentrated on the surroundings. Without benefit of sign or marker, Cynthia knew she had crossed from North to South Oberon. The curbs weren’t Belgium block but concrete, and the huge flowerpots, spaced every ten feet, had disappeared. The stores were different, too. Pawn shops and consignment depots dominated. And all the shop windows exhibited big “bargain” and “sale” signs, and with their merchandise of clothes, shoes, toys and whatnot looking more like they had been thrown into the display window rather than staged.

  A wave of dizziness forced Cynthia to stop and lean against the wall of a small grocery. She needed to hydrate. A Gatorade or Sprite, or maybe just a bottle of water. No more putting it off. She’d have to chance going for her money. She reached into the third layer of her clothing, probed the pocket of the shirt where she had hidden her cash then pulled out a twenty. She was about to enter the store when suddenly three teenagers—the size of Hulk Hogan, their heads covered with red bandannas—surrounded her. She tried slipping through the grocery store door but one of them barred her way.

  “You must be new here, otherwise you’d know this sidewalk belongs to us. To the Salamanders.” He pointed to a picture of a reptile tattooed around his wrist. Cynthia guessed he was the ringleader. “And since it belongs to us, you gotta pay a toll to use it. See?” With that, he snatched the bill from her hand.

  Cynthia held her breath. Jackrollers—young people who prey on the homeless. Hopefully, they’d take the twenty and leave.

  “This ain’t much,” said the ringleader. “What else you got?”

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “You better answer when the Man asks you a question,” the one behind her said.

  “Maybe she ain’t got no tongue,” said another, making everyone laugh, the kind you hear when boys get ready to pull wings off flies.

  “Or maybe she’s got no respect for us,” said the ringleader. “Maybe what she needs is a lesson in manners.” The ringleader jerked his head in some secret signal and Cynthia found her feet dangling in mid air. Then the three teens carried her into the nearby alley. She squirmed and kicked and wiggled with all her might, but she was like a toy in their hands. And for the first time in her life, she wished she were a man. They put her down next to two garbage pails.

  “Now, we can do this nice like or we can do it hard. You call it,” said the ringleader.

  Cynthia backed away, trying to catch her breath. Her heart pounded like a gong while dark scenarios raced through her mind. What where they going to do? Rape her? Kill her? She balled her hands into fists and stuck them out in front of her.

  The ringleader laughed and shoved her hard against the wall, causing Cynthia’s head to bounce against the brick. Even with the wool hat to buffer the blow, Cynthia felt a sharp pain behind her right ear and thought she was going to pass out. As she tried steadying herself, two of the teens pressed against her, pinning her to the wall. The third was all over her, running his hands up and down her body. Within seconds, he discovered her phone; a few seconds later—the rest of her money.

  “That’s it,” said the one who frisked her. “That’s all she’s got. For a minute I thought she was a cop.”

  The ringleader studied her, taking his time, allowing his eyes to linger here and there, letting her know by this unhurried action that he was in control; that he had the power to keep her or let her go, to harm her or not. Through it all, Cynthia barely breathed, barely managed to keep her chin from quivering with fear, barely kept her eyes dry of tears. Using every ounce of inner fortitude she could muster, she managed to hold his gaze, to follow his every move. Her years as a reporter had taught her the value of eye contact.

  “Well, whoever she is, she’s got spunk,” the leader said. “I gotta give her that.”

  “She might be kinda pretty under all that dirt and clothes,” said one of the gang. “Too bad she smells like a toilet. We could’ve had ourselves a little fun.”

  The ringleader gave her a final once-over, then shook his head. “No . . . leave her be. She’s got guts. I like that.” He nudged the others to move out. “Thanks for the phone and money. You can use our sidewalk, now.” Then all three laughed and disappeared around the corner.

  Cynthia remained propped against the wall, unable to move until nausea overwhelmed her, making her bend over and retch, though nothing came out. Her head felt like someone was using it as a drum, beating, beating. She tucked her fingers under her cap and touched the spot behind her ear. It was wet. When she pulled them out they were covered in blood. The sight brought on a fresh wave of dry heaves, and with them, dizziness.

  Oh God, don’t let me faint. Not here, not now.

  She pressed against the wall, afraid to leave, afraid to stay. What if they came back and found her? What if she left and passed out on the street? That gang was sure to be close by. What would they do? The thought made her heave all over again. Finally, she pushed herself off the wall and staggered out of the alley.

  “I’ve been mugged!” she said, in a squeaky voice to the first passersby, holding up bloody fingers as proof. No one looked. “I was mugged,” she repeated over and over like a wind-up doll. But she was invisible. No one saw, no one heard. She felt violated, dirty, angry, terrified . . . insignificant.

  She stumbled along the sidewalk for three blocks pleading with people to look, to listen, to help, until she spotted a policeman standing on a corner. If only she could make it that far. Her head felt like it was ready to crack open; her vision was blurred, distorted. “Help me, officer, please help me,” she said, even be
fore reaching him. “I’ve been mugged.” She walked the last few feet under his gaze, then leaned against the graffiti-covered mailbox. “Help me please.”

  “You can’t sleep it off here, lady. You’ll have to be on your way.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve been mugged.” Cynthia held up her bloody fingers. “See, they mugged me, in the alley.” She pointed in the direction behind her and noticed the policeman was no longer looking.

  “Move along, now.”

  “But I . . . need help. Won’t you help me?”

  The policeman rested his hand on his belt and glanced her way. “Go one mile straight ahead, make a left onto Angus Avenue, then go another block and make another left. They’ll help you there, at the mission. You’re in luck. They just opened today.”

  “You don’t understand . . . .”

  “Go sleep it off, lady. Everything will look better in the morning.” The officer turned his back. “Off with you, now. You can’t stay here.”

  How she managed it, Cynthia didn’t know. But there she was, standing under a huge wooden cross and a sign that said, Beacon Mission. If she could just get some water, maybe a little food, and something to put on her cut. She had to get her strength back, then plan what to do next.

  When she put her hand on the door, her eyes caught sight of the large glass encased bulletin board. “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” What she knew about Jesus was learned when a friend invited her to a two-week Vacation Bible School ages ago, and didn’t boil down to much. But she did know that somehow He was made to carry a heavy load—too heavy for one man, she always thought, because she understood about burdens. But as far as Jesus being a gift from God, one thing she had learned from her job, and now walking down Skid Row, was that there wasn’t one person deserving of any gift from God.

  She hesitated, then entered the mission. Music filled the place, making it vibrate while a cluster of people, all men, sat in folding chairs, singing. Her overwhelming urge was to backtrack but she was too weak. Instead, she took an empty chair in the last row, then slumped down when the good-looking man behind the lectern glanced her way.

  “You’ve just missed our Bible study,” he said. “We’ve been talking about how God is our great shield and buckler.”

  As if that was supposed to mean something to her.

  All eyes turned and looked at her, and for the first time that morning, Cynthia didn’t feel invisible. She burst into tears. “I was mugged,” she said sobbing, feeling both foolish and angry at herself, as though she were some cry-baby who had come running in with scraped knees. She had asked for this assignment. She knew how tough it was going to be. Now, she had to suck it up, get a grip. Even so, she continued crying.

  “There, there, everything’s going to be all right.” An elderly woman came from out of nowhere and locked onto Cynthia’s arm. “Let’s have a look.” The woman tucked her hand under Cynthia’s chin and lifted it, and Cynthia found herself looking into twinkling blue eyes that exuded so much love it made her shiver.

  “You’ve got quite a bump,” said the woman, after gently pulling off Cynthia’s cap and pressing her fingertips behind Cynthia’s right ear. “It could use tending. Get me that first aid kit, would you, Stubby?” A short, balding man popped from his chair and disappeared down the hall. Others had also gotten to their feet and gathered around Cynthia, craning their necks to see what was wrong, and smiling shy, reassuring smiles.

  Even the good-looking man had left his lectern and now stood over her. “What is it, Miss Emily? Anything serious?”

  “Luckily she was wearing her cap, though for the life of me I can’t understand why anyone would wear wool this time of year.” She gave Cynthia a curious look. “Someone bring a glass of lemonade. Looks like our guest has sweated out all her juices. She’s dripping wet.”

  By now, Cynthia had stopped crying and was feeling embarrassed by all the attention. What must these people think of her? “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m just shaken. I don’t want to be a bother. I’m fine, now.”

  Someone handed Cynthia the lemonade which she took and gulped down. By the time she was finished, the first aid kit was in Miss Emily’s hands.

  “Maybe Stubby should run her to the clinic,” the good-looking man said. “If she was . . . roughed up, a doctor should check for internal injuries.”

  “No, it wasn’t anything like that. Really.” Yes, wimp, with a capital W, that’s what they all thought. She could see it in the young man’s eyes that looked so concerned it unsettled her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make so much of it. They . . . those boys . . . just pushed me into a wall and I hit my head. Nothing else. Now, I feel stupid for making a fuss, for . . . crying.”

  “Did you report it to the police?” the young man asked.

  “Yes . . . no. I tried.”

  “By the way, this is Pastor Holmes,” said the elderly woman with the kind eyes. “But he likes to be called Jonathan, and I’m Miss Emily.” She pulled a wet wipe from a dispenser and began cleaning Cynthia’s cut. “Looks deep. Might need a few stitches. After I finish, Stubby can walk her to the clinic.”

  “No.” Cynthia said, sitting upright. She had to take charge. Get a grip. She wasn’t the first person to be mugged and wouldn’t be the last. “No clinic.” That was sure to blow her cover. Besides, she didn’t want Bernie getting wind of what happened. Not yet, anyway, not before she had a chance to do some poking around, because Bernie was sure to pull her out at the first sign of danger. “Couldn’t you just put a Band-Aid on it?”

  Miss Emily cupped Cynthia’s chin and smiled. “Sure, dear. If that’s what you want. I’ve got a little butterfly here. That may hold it closed until it starts healing. But you’ll have to keep it clean or there’ll be an infection.” When Miss Emily let go, she looked Cynthia up and down. “We must have something in the storeroom that fits you. Something fresh and clean. You can wash your things in the basement laundry when you’re feeling up to it.”

  “Right. And she can use one of the staff showers. No one will bother her there,” Jonathan added.

  Cynthia avoided looking at the pastor who, as far as she was concerned, appeared too young and trouble-free to be taken seriously as the head of a mission, and watched Miss Emily rip open a package of waterproof bandages.

  “After your shower, I’ll do it right,” Miss Emily said, applying one over her cut. “Are you staying the night?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.” The prospect seemed at once intriguing. What better way to get her story? And . . . it would be safe. After the Salamander incident, she wasn’t ready to brave the streets at night. Somewhere between now and the morning, she’d find her nerve again and start doing what she had came here to do. But right now . . . okay, call her a wimp.

  She looked from face to face, hardly able to take in the kindness and acceptance she saw. She was one of them, now. They’d trust her, might even open up and give her information when she asked. That was good. It was one reason to be grateful for her encounter with the Salamanders. Unwittingly, they had opened the door of Skid Row for her. “I suppose I’ll stay if you have a place for me. Of course I can’t pay you or anything.”

  Miss Emily snapped the first aid kit shut then looked at Jonathan. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if I could hire someone for the kitchen. I could use an extra pair of hands. We’re not full, yet, but when we are, it’s going to take a lot more than me to cook three meals a day.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Sure. Get whomever you need. But does . . .” he turned toward Cynthia, “What’s your name?”

  She wished he wouldn’t look that way. The trust on his face made her feel dirty, like her veins were the pipeline for the municipal sewer. “Cynthia,” she said, looking past him to Miss Emily. Was that how all con men felt after fleecing one of the more gullible types like a widow or . . . pastor. “My name’s Cynthia,” she repeated.

  Jonathan tapped the back
of her chair. “Well, Miss Emily, the question is, does Cynthia want to work here?”

  Miss Emily pulled Cynthia to her feet. “Can you cook?”

  “Well . . . I . . . .”

  With one swoop, she tucked Cynthia under the crook of her arm and led her down the hall. “You don’t take drugs do you? Because we have strict rules about that.”

  Cynthia was sure Miss Emily was leading her to the room where all the clothes were stored, but on another level Cynthia had a vague sense she was being led into something more than she had bargained for. “No, no drugs.”

  “That’s what I thought. You don’t have any of the usual signs. The job pays minimum wage, and comes with room and board. We’ll also throw in a few outfits.” Miss Emily smiled a funny, knowing little smile, then looked back at Jonathan. “She’s perfect. Just what I want.”

  Cynthia placed her new jeans and shirt, bra and panties, on the small shelf outside the shower stall, then turned on the water. While she waited for it to heat, she stared at the wide wall-to-wall mirror over the sinks. A grotesque creature stared back—with a matted head of blonde hair. Blood streaked her neck and right cheek. And dirt, the dirt she had applied as part of her disguise, was smudged all over her face. She looked, smelled and felt the part of a homeless nobody. And yet . . . these people had taken her in, had opened their collective arms and accepted her just as she was. They had even offered her a job. It was more than she had bargained for. It was more than she had imagined. It was almost more than her conscience could bear.

  Never in her life had she felt such acceptance.

  CHAPTER 9

  I will give you every place where you set your foot.

  Jonathan awoke mouthing those words. He showered and dressed with them. Drove his car with them. Now, standing in front of the Beacon Mission, he understood what God was inviting him to do—to claim the mission, to take possession in His name. It would be both an act of faith and an act of war.