Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  Where to start? He looked around at the deserted street. Barely sunrise but already the sun was brilliant and made the neighborhood glow. Shafts of light, like fingers, tickled the rotund storefronts and for a brief moment seemed to make them smile. It made Jonathan smile, too. It was as though God was showing Jonathan His promise, His assurance that a future Fourth Street could be a place of beauty instead of ashes, a place where the garment of praise could replace the spirit of heaviness.

  Jonathan passed Reggie’s Pawn Shop, crossed the street and headed toward the mission. Then he paced the perimeter of the building, calling it “holy ground” and rebuking the devourer. He moved left, around the cracked concrete and into the narrow alley, then stopped where the back of the building butted another. He turned and retraced his steps, crossing in front of the building, then down the alley to the right, repeating, as he went, the prayers, praise, the rebuking.

  The right alley was wider, cluttered with garbage and untouched by sunlight, making it dark, foreboding, with sinister shadows dancing along the wall. Jonathan sensed that the physical reality mirrored a spiritual one.

  “Lord, I’m so inadequate.” The words made a hollow sound in the breeze, though it came from a heavy heart. “I want to be Your servant; to obey You in everything, only . . . help me. I can’t do it alone.” He had not wanted this. He had not asked for this. God would have to see him through.

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

  Jonathan dropped to the ground beside the pails, oblivious to the stench, the sharp pebbles digging into his knees, the dark shadows. “Yes, Lord, for Your glory, for Your kingdom.” And in that moment, Jonathan felt as if a shaft of light, as powerful and penetrating as a laser, punched a hole in some darkness deep within him.

  Cynthia fumbled the potato peeler, nearly nicking her index finger. She glanced at Miss Emily, hoping she had not seen the near miss, but the old woman’s face was an open book with the word “puzzled” written across it. Well, Cynthia was puzzled, too. She had never had such a good night’s sleep. And not one nightmare, either. And she felt . . . what? Happy? Yes. But something else, something she had not felt in a long time—a sense of peace. How was that possible in this cul-de-sac of down-and-outers? She should feel out of place. She didn’t belong and yet . . . .

  “I’ve never seen anyone more transformed in my life,” Miss Emily said, beating a dozen eggs with a fork in perfect rhythm, and with a sense of pride, Cynthia thought.

  But what was the point in mastering scrambled eggs?

  “Yes, totally transformed. Yesterday you looked one way and today, today you look another. Today, you look beautiful.”

  Cynthia felt her cheeks burn. “It’s the new clothes.”

  “No, the truth is you are beautiful. And I never would have thought it the first time I saw you.”

  Cynthia’s eyebrows formed a V.

  “Now, don’t tell me no one’s ever called you beautiful before?”

  Cynthia shrugged and pressed the peeler too hard, slicing off a chunk of potato. Her sister, Julia, was the beauty. Everyone said so. At least they used to, even years after the accident. People said lots of things about Julia, how she would have grown up to be a heartbreaker, a man killer, with her looks. Or a famous movie star with her handprints preserved on the sidewalk of Groman’s Chinese Theater. Or perhaps a supermodel with her face on the cover of Glamour and Vogue or Mademoiselle. She was that pretty, though now, in retrospect, saying such things about a four-year-old seemed inappropriate, perverse even. And it was odd how no one ever said Julia was willful or spoiled or catered to like a duchess, or that she had no respect for property. Especially other people’s. Nobody ever said things like that. But why speak ill of the dead? Let Julia be enshrined, like a relic, in people’s minds—forever the “Little Beauty.” Cynthia had always thought it odd that most people rarely called Julia by name but rather the “Little Beauty” as though she were part of a doll collection—The Fantasy Adventure Doll, the Forever Friendz Doll. The Little Beauty Doll.

  “There are lots of reasons why a girl can’t see herself.” Miss Emily’s fork tapped against the metal bowl in a steady click-click-click, as she beat the eggs, her eyes fixed on Cynthia. “Maybe she had a father who wished she were a boy, or maybe she’s too busy exhibiting her brains. Lots of maybes. But one thing’s for certain, you can’t peel potatoes to save your life.” Miss Emily added the eggs to a larger bowl of other beaten eggs. “The other certain thing is you’re not homeless.”

  The potato squirted out of Cynthia’s hand. “What . . . makes you say that?”

  “Looks like there’ll be slim pickings in the home fries department this morning.”

  Cynthia put the peeler down and faced Miss Emily. “What makes you think I’m not homeless?”

  “Well, for one thing, your nails. No polish, but they’re manicured. And for another, I lived on the streets for twenty years and I know a street person when I see one.”

  “Then why did you offer me a job? Why did you ask me to stay?”

  “I figured anyone pretending to be homeless had to have a mighty good reason.”

  Cynthia picked up the peeler and worked another potato. “You sound like you know who I am.” She held her breath.

  “Oh, I do. I do. You’re a little lamb, lost among the wolves. A precious little lamb that Jesus is just itching to gather up in His arms.”

  Cynthia’s sigh of relief came out like a hiccup. Good. Her cover was not completely blown. “You won’t say anything? Tell anyone, will you?”

  “No, dear, I won’t even tell them you can’t cook. Let’s let them find that out all by themselves.”

  Stubby swept up the last of the dust balls around the lectern, then turned his attention to setting up the breakfast chairs. He couldn’t remember when he felt this good—strong as a bull, like a man half his age, like someone who had never poisoned himself with drugs or alcohol. He still couldn’t get over God wanting someone like him; couldn’t get over the love he felt, even now, as though the mighty arms had nothing better to do than wrap themselves around him. But it scared him, too. What if God made a mistake? Poured out His grace on the wrong guy, thinkin’ it was somebody else? But even if He had, and ended up dumping Stubby back into the garbage heap where He found him, there was no turning back. Not now. Not after seeing the goodness of God first hand.

  Stubby glanced at the clock. The men’s floors weren’t even a third full, and the women’s less than that. But not for long. Word traveled fast on the street. By week’s end, the place would be packed. And now, people would be coming for breakfast and he wanted to be ready. He pictured Miss Emily with her snow-white hair and rose-petal mouth that was always smiling. Still, when it came to her kitchen, she could be hard as a drill sergeant, insisting things being just so, and on time.

  Stubby positioned the metal chairs around the tables, enjoying the chatter that filtered between the swinging double kitchen doors along with the sound of frying bacon. Yes, Miss Emily could be hard, but he liked the idea of making everything shine, making everything come together as it should, knowing it would give her pleasure. Maybe he couldn’t preach the love of Jesus like Pastor Jonathan, but he could show that love by what he did for Miss Emily and others. This was no flunky job he had here. Not like all those other jobs he had had sweeping up people’s dirt. No, this was different. He knew that, as though he had new eyes that could see beneath the surface of a thing. God had entrusted him with this work; had given him, Stubby Nobody White, the privilege of helping out in a place where lives would be touched and changed for the better. The thought made his lips curl, made him spend extra time fussing with the chairs until they were aligned just so.

  Then he focused on the stainless steel serving counter. The silverware bins needed refilling, so did the napkin dispensers. After that, a ton of plates needed to be brought from the kitchen. He began by stacking the plates.

  “Well, look who’s here!”

  Stubb
y turned toward the voice. Panic gripped him when he recognized the taller of the two men entering the mission.

  “Guess the runt thought hiding with the Bible thumpers would keep him safe, as if we couldn’t find him, as if we couldn’t put our hands on him anytime we wanted.”

  The man Stubby didn’t know, laughed. “Yeah. Turtle and Manny thought they could hide, too.”

  Stubby peeled two heavy ceramic plates off the pile on the counter. Once, he saw someone bust open a guy’s head with them. “Look, don’t go makin’ trouble now. The pastor’s been workin’ real hard to get things goin’ again. Why don’t you two just go and leave us be?” His eyes went to the tall man’s waist, searching for the blade he knew would be there, then watched as the man fingered the sheathed, hunting knife. “Ain’t no weapons allowed in here.”

  “People say I can skin a man faster than a seasoned hunter can skin a deer. ‘Course I never seen a deer skinned so it’s hard for me to say.”

  “Shut up, Skinner!” The second man moved between Skinner and Stubby, as though he were breaking up a fight. “How this goes down is up to you. For my part, I like things easy. Not like Skinner, here. He likes the rough stuff. But if you don’t want what happened to your friends to happen to you, you need to cooperate. That’s all, just cooperate.”

  Stubby raised a plate. If he flipped it just so it would hit the man square in the middle of his forehead. That should stop him long enough for Stubby to get the other plate off at Skinner’s throat.

  “Now me and Skinner here, we want the stuff or the money. Don’t matter which. But we gotta get one or the other. If not, it won’t go down easy. We can’t let everyone who has a mind to, run off with our property. Word would get out. People would start thinking we were soft. Then what would happen to business? You see how it is? But we want to be reasonable, don’t we Skinner?” Skinner grunted like a hog. “You just give us what’s ours so we don’t have to make no examples.”

  “Can’t give you somethin’ I ain’t got.”

  Skinner pushed his friend aside. “Let me take him to the alley.”

  “Here or in the alley, it’s gonna be the same.” Stubby glanced at the ceiling as if hoping to see the Almighty come down like the shield and buckler Pastor Jonathan had talked about in his last Bible study. “I ain’t got nothin’ of yours. I wasn’t in on it with Manny and Turtle.”

  “Maybe you were and maybe you weren’t.” Skinner unsnapped the sheath of his knife. “But there’s just one way I can know for sure and that’s if I have at you.”

  Stubby waved one of the heavy, white plates in the air. He knew this moment would come. Knew it ever since Turtle was found in that freight car. Now that it had, he wasn’t as scared as he thought he’d be. “You fellas get outta here!”

  Skinner laughed. “Who’s gonna make us? You, old man?”

  “I will.”

  The two men turned. Over Skinner’s shoulder, Stubby saw Jonathan’s tall, muscular frame coming through the front door.

  “And who might you be?” Skinner said.

  “The new pastor.” Jonathan walked toward them, a good-natured grin on his face which made Stubby inclined to smile, too, until he saw Jonathan hold out his hand to the two men in friendship. That was the easiest way to stick a guy—grab him by the arm and plunge the belly.

  This new pastor couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Oh God, You gotta help him.

  Just then, Miss Emily and Cynthia bustled through the swinging kitchen doors, chattering like magpies and carrying steaming dishes which they placed on the stainless steel counter.

  “Morning Pastor,” Miss Emily said, almost as if she were singing, unaware of what was happening. “Stubby, call everyone to breakfast, will you? It seems no one has gotten down the system, yet. I guess they think they’re living at the Waldorf and can get their meals anytime they want.”

  Stubby stood motionless, clutching the plates. Maybe he should let them drop. That would snap Jonathan out of his stupor and make him lower his arm. Even so, Stubby didn’t move, not even his eyes, which were riveted on the intruders, not until Jonathan dropped his arm and Skinner unhanded his knife.

  “Who’s that?” Skinner said, jerking his head in the direction of the two women. “Not the old crow, the young one in jeans.”

  “A worker,” Stubby said, feeling nervous for Cynthia.

  “If you’re joining us for breakfast, you’ll have to surrender your weapons,” Jonathan said, moving in a semicircle until he was positioned behind Skinner.

  Maybe this young pastor weren’t so naive after all. It looked like he was getting ready for a tackle. Stubby tightened his grip on the plates, and moved closer. He’d be ready when Jonathan was.

  Skinner’s eyes widened when he realized what was happening, and for a second his hand moved toward his knife again, then stopped. “We didn’t come for food.” He squinted at Stubby. “But we’ll be back. You haven’t seen the last of us.”

  Stubby watched the two men walk out the door. Then he glanced at the ceiling. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure the shield really was there, big like the wooden door of the mission and just as strong, hanging right over him and Jonathan both.

  “What was that all about?” Cynthia said, after the two men left.

  “Nothin’ you need to be worryin’ your head about, Miss Cynthia,” Stubby answered. “Just some ruffians.” The short, balding man smiled as he walked over. “But don’t you go worryin’ none. I’m here and I’ll protect you.”

  “Well, thanks . . . .”

  “Gregory White. That’s my name if you’re askin’, but people call me Stubby. Seems like we ain’t been properly introduced, though it was me who got you that first aid kit, last night. Glad Miss Emily was able to tend your cut and that you’ll be with us awhile.”

  Cynthia’s heart thumped. “Well, thanks Stubby. And call me Cynthia, just Cynthia. No need for the Miss.”

  “You got a last name?”

  “Cynthia’s good enough.” She turned and headed for the kitchen, her insides shaking. Was it possible? After all these years? No, it couldn’t be. But why did her insides shake, so? Twisting and turning and quivering. Her instincts, Bernie called them. She had always been able to trust her instincts, and right now they were screaming. Miss Emily, who had followed her, saw it, too, how Cynthia’s hand shook; how she wiped the same spot on the counter over and over with her towel; how she kept moving from the counter to the stove and back again like a toy on a track.

  “Don’t worry,” Miss Emily said, hovering like a brooding hen. “People like Skinner are no match for Jesus.”

  Skinner? As if that stranger could bring her to this state.

  No. It was that little balding man. Stubby White.

  “People just call me Stubby.”

  And he had said it with delight as if his name was something that pleased him and sure to please everyone else. But it hadn’t pleased her. It had frightened her. She had not heard that name in twenty-five years and had thought . . . believed . . . hoped she’d never hear it again.

  But two people can have the same name.

  And he looked nothing like that other Stubby. At least not that she remembered. But that name. And the way he had said it . . . just like years ago. “My nickname’s Stubby. Just call me Stubby.”

  She snapped the wet dishtowel over her shoulder and grabbed two bowls filled with little pads of butter encased in peel-top plastic, then headed for the stainless steel serving counter. The swinging kitchen doors whooshed behind her.

  Get a grip, Wells. Stop letting your imagination run amuck.

  She willed her hands to stop shaking as she placed the bowls on the counter.

  Okay, good. Breathe. Breathe. Regain control. Then start plying your skills and find out if this is the same guy.

  She should be able to do that. She was, after all, a reporter.

  That night Cynthia had another nightmare. The worst yet, because it was in color and she could see the red blood splattere
d on the concrete patio, and Julia lying there, dead, the window screen beside her. And when Cynthia woke up, her first instinct was to run from the mission as fast as she could. Instead, she cried, then washed her face.

  “You’ve got competition, Bernie. If that raise doesn’t come through soon I might quit and start a whole new career.” Cynthia stood in the mission foyer, cupping the mouthpiece of the payphone and speaking in a low tone. It had taken her the better part of the morning to free herself from that Technicolor nightmare. And only when she was sure her voice was firm and wouldn’t betray her, did she make her call to Bernie. Even so, she felt distracted and knew it wasn’t because of the steady stream of people entering and leaving the mission.

  “What are you talking about Wells? What competition? And why haven’t you phoned in? You’re supposed to call every day. Remember?”

  “I know . . . sorry about that but it’s been . . . difficult. I can’t always get away and . . . .”

  “Stop conning me, Wells. I hate when you try to con me, though most of the time I ignore it. But it ticks me off. And I think you should know that. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Dear sweet, Bernie. He must have been really worried. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine. Just call when you’re supposed to. Okay? Now . . . what’s this about a new career? Did one of the other papers offer you a job?”

  “Not another paper, Bernie, the Beacon Mission. They hired me as their cook, rather as the cook’s assistant.” Bernie howled so loud she had to pull the phone away.

  “How did that happen? You can’t even boil water!” The laughter was still in his voice.

  “I know. I think they felt sorry for me.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, you did good. You’ve established a cover. So, what have you found out? Got anything that even resembles a story?”