Mercy at Midnight
Page 14
Cynthia stabbed the sizzling bacon with her fork, annoyed by her feelings.
“Good morning, everyone!”
The sight of a smiling Jonathan Holmes with his face partially obscured by hair hanging over one eye made Cynthia smile in spite of herself. She knew the first thing he’d reach for was a mug and he did, then helped himself to a cup of coffee from the giant one-hundred-cup urn. “Care to join me?” he said, raising his brimming mug.
Cynthia nodded, then glanced at Miss Emily. “How about you?”
“I still have an hour before breakfast has to be served. I guess I can indulge.”
“Make that four,” said Stubby, entering the kitchen with a mop and pail and perspiration slicking down the white fringe of hair around his collar. “Finished the bathroom floors.” He deposited the mop and pail in the corner before joining the group. “I guess that oughta earn me a cup.”
Mugs clattered as they all fetched and filled them, then formed a semi-circle. Cynthia used the time to size up Stubby. With each sip of coffee she swept him with her eyes. Nothing jolted her memory. Nothing was familiar. Not his looks, not the way he moved. It couldn’t be the same man she had briefly known as a child
“Tell Cynthia how you came to the mission, Stubby, and what happened to you,” Miss Emily said, winking at the balding man.
Stubby hesitated, and Cynthia saw the vestiges of a shy childhood flicker across his face. Then he pushed away from the counter and straightened to full height. “Divine Appointment.” His smile seemed to come up all the way from his toes. “That’s what it was. Divine Appointment. Ever hear of it?” He looked straight at Cynthia, making her almost choke on her coffee.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“Well, that’s when God plans everythin’, fits all the pieces together so He can meet with you. And when He’s done, you ain’t the same. Ain’t the same at all.”
Miss Emily filled in by telling Cynthia about Stubby’s healing and deliverance. A good story, Cynthia had to admit, as stories go. But how much was fact and how much fiction? Their faces conveyed sincerity but even sincere people could be fooled, could mix up their facts or assign a wrong explanation. “I guess miracles can happen,” she said, “It’s just that I’ve never seen one.”
“Your being here is a miracle, don’t you think?” Jonathan said, a bit too eagerly to suit Cynthia. “You could have been killed instead of mugged. You could have come after Miss Emily hired someone else. Any number of scenarios could have taken place. But you’re here, and I think for a Divine purpose.”
Well, that cut it. It was her nose for a story and not God that brought her here. That, plus her need to get a grip on her life, to be served a heaping dose of reality so she’d snap out of her funk. Why were these people trying to making something big out of it? Something noble and mystical and wonderful? It ticked her off. It also made her ashamed of her duplicity; ashamed of how she had wormed her way into the mission and their lives. “You know nothing about me. I could be anyone. A thief, a liar, a murderer . . . anyone. If you’d seen as many scams as I have, you wouldn’t be so trusting, so ready to believe a . . . .”
“Goodness gracious, child! How old are you?” Miss Emily said.
“Thirty.” Cynthia avoided her eyes.
“Thirty and so tired of life? You think we haven’t seen our share of the kind of rottenness this world can dish out? Ask Stubby here. He could write a book. And me—I’ve seen more misery in seventy years than most three people see in that time combined. And what about Jonathan? This may be his first time heading a mission, but he’s a pastor and I’m sure he’s had a bellyful of seeing what people can do to each other. Compared to us, you’re a baby. We live in a sinful world, Cynthia, and there’s only one remedy, and that’s Jesus.”
Cynthia slumped against the counter, allowing the smell of bacon and coffee, of fried onions, and toast to comfort her. If only there was a tonic for life’s hurts and not that snake oil the world passed out. Could Miss Emily be right? Could Jesus be the answer? They all seemed so sincere, so genuine, making her dishonesty the more odious. “Maybe if you knew who I was you wouldn’t be so trusting,” Cynthia repeated.
Suddenly, Cynthia found herself enfolded in soft arms and the scent of lavender. “We love you, dear,” Miss Emily said, holding her close. “We love you no matter who you are, and so does Jesus.”
Over Miss Emily’s shoulder, Cynthia caught sight of Stubby smiling at her and wondered just how long that love would last if they ever found out her secret.
“Reverend Holmes? Bill Rivers from Angus Enterprises.”
“Oh, yes, hello, Mr. Rivers. But you can drop the Reverend. Just plain Jonathan will do.”
“Okay, Reverend, whatever you say. Just wanted to touch base. See how things were shaping up at the mission.”
“It’s going well.” Jonathan noticed that Bill Rivers had not offered him the use of his first name. “The response from the community has been overwhelming. I’ve never seen such generosity.”
“That’s what Reverend Gates used to say. Of course there are some who’d credit it to P.T. Barnum’s jaded saying that ‘there’s a sucker born every minute.’”
Jonathan cringed. “I hope you’re not that cynical.”
“Oh, I’m cynical, for sure.” His words came out heavy as stones. “But not in that way.”
Jonathan picked up the gray marble paperweight that Aunt Adel had given him as a gift with Psalm 118:24 written in gold letters, and turned it over in his hand. “Was there anything in particular you wanted, Mr. Rivers?”
“Well . . . no . . . not exactly.” There was a long pause. “I imagine you’re pretty full by now.”
“About two-thirds in the men’s floors. Less in the women’s.”
“Women’s? I . . . didn’t know you were taking in women.”
“I decided to do that when I learned women and children were the fastest growing group of homeless. Did you know that last year alone . . . ?”
“But doesn’t that leave less space for the men? I mean . . . under Reverend Gates, the mission was just for men. I don’t know why you’d go and change that.”
Jonathan replaced the paperweight, then hooked the toe of his right shoe behind one of the rollers of his executive’s chair and stretched out his other leg as he prayed for patience. This was the day the Lord had made and the very reason he didn’t want to waste it on useless dialogue. “I believe I explained the reason, Mr. Rivers. And it’s just one floor. The second and third floors are still devoted to the men.”
“But there was no mention of this when you met with Mr. Angus. I don’t believe you outlined any plan to house women.”
“Mr. Angus gave me the impression that I was in charge when it came to the running of the mission. Was that a mistaken impression?”
“No . . . of course not. You are in charge. Total charge. I’m just surprised, that’s all. But no matter. You still have two floors for men. I don’t suppose you’re planning to change that? Maybe give the women another floor?”
“Not at this time.”
“Does that mean you may do so at some point?”
Jonathan shifted his weight. Patience was a fruit of the Spirit that was quickly withering on his tree. What did Rivers want? And why didn’t he just come out with it? “I plan on being flexible; change only when change is needed.”
“That’s good, I suppose. Well, okay, it was nice chatting with you. I’ll keep in touch.” Then the phone went dead.
Jonathan held the receiver, letting it drone in his ear before placing it on the hook.
Now what was that all about?
When the tall, thin man entered the mission, Stubby nearly dropped his tray of biscuits. He managed to place it on the counter, then scanned the room to see who else was here, who else could be counted on in case there was trouble. Jonathan stood talking in the corner with a woman Stubby had never seen before. And a guy he knew from way back was sitting at a table eating breakfast. Mayb
e he’d help. Sorta chancy though. Still, that made three, counting Stubby. And three should be enough to take Skinner and his knife.
With a flash of inspiration, Stubby pushed the biscuits from the tray onto the stainless steel counter, then held the tray against his chest. “We told you yesterday, we didn’t want no trouble.” He walked toward Skinner.
“What are you supposed to be, the tin man?” Skinner eyed the tray with a smirk. “That won’t do any good. If I wanted a piece of you, I’d get it, no matter what you put between us.”
“Why are you here? I already told you I ain’t got nothin’ of yours.”
“I came for breakfast. Any law against that? I thought this place was open to everyone.”
Stubby frowned. He could see the bulge beneath Skinner’s jacket. “No weapons allowed.” He pointed to Skinner’s handcrafted leather belt that he knew secured a large sheath. “Either you leave or I gotta take that.”
“Don’t try little man or you’ll be eating steel.”
“I see you’re back.” Jonathan had slipped alongside Skinner, unnoticed.
“Yeah. But I’m not getting much of a welcome. I thought you Bible thumpers believed in loving your neighbor.”
“We do.” Jonathan squared his muscular shoulders like a fighter just before answering a challenge.
The motion wasn’t lost on Skinner and his jaw clenched. “Then how come this runt keeps trying to kick me out?”
“I told him he could stay if he were to give up his weapon,” Stubby said, keeping his eyes fixed on Skinner.
The heel of Skinner’s boot made a scraping sound as he shifted his weight. It was obvious he was using the time to size up the situation and consider his options. Finally, he laughed, then opened his coat to reveal an empty sheath. “Is this how you treat someone down on his luck, someone who’s just looking for a hot meal and bed?”
Jonathan’s eyes strayed to Skinner’s handcrafted leather belt, then his handcrafted boots. Stubby hoped that Jonathan would see their quality, a quality no down-and-outer could afford.
“We can’t give you a bed, but you’re welcome to eat all you want of the hot breakfast,” Jonathan said.
There were still ten empty beds on the men’s floors and that meant Jonathan wasn’t going to let Skinner stay in any of them. Stubby sighed with relief, then removed the tray from his chest and walked away. He knew, without looking, that Jonathan followed. He didn’t say a word until they entered the kitchen. “Thank you, Pastor, for not lettin’ Skinner stay. I appreciate that.”
“Stubby, when a man of your experience senses trouble, I’d be a fool not to pay attention. I didn’t question you yesterday, but now that Skinner’s back, don’t you think you should tell me who he is and what he wants?”
“He’s a killer,” Stubby said, without hesitation.
“Who’s a killer?” Miss Emily put down her oven mitts and walked over. Cynthia remained standing behind her, her green eyes large with questions.
“Now, don’t go gettin’ upset, ladies. But you gotta know this, especially you, Miss Cynthia; yesterday, this creep, Skinner, the one with the big scar on his face, was askin’ about you. He’s a no good, scum-suckin’ bottom dweller . . . .” Stubby stopped when he saw Miss Emily’s jaw move back and forth like a horse straining at the bit. “Okay, let’s just say he’s a bad egg, a real bad egg, and leave it at that. But you need to keep clear of him, Miss Cynthia. No tellin’ what he’s got on his mind.”
“Maybe we should call the police,” Jonathan said.
“And tell ‘em what?”
Jonathan shrugged. “You got me there, Stubby. All I know is that Skinner seems bent on making trouble, but you still haven’t told me why he’s here. What does he want?”
Jonathan’s voice was low, controlled, and Stubby guessed he was trying not to panic the ladies.
“Don’t know.” Stubby said, feeling three pair of eyes bore into him like diamond-tipped drills. “I don’t.” The way Jonathan shook his head told Stubby he hadn’t been convincing.
“We’re the staff, the four of us,” Jonathan said, in his serious preacher-tone. “That’s all there is. We have to work together, and we have to trust one another. People are counting on us, people like you were, Stubby, and Cynthia, here, people with problems. For some, this is the end of the line, and if nothing changes they’re going to quit. You know better than anybody, Stubby, how fragile they are. But Beacon Mission has the answer and maybe some of them will find it. I want them to have that chance. And I won’t let anything come along and steal it from them. So, if there’s danger or a threat of danger to this mission, I need to know about it.”
Stubby’s face reddened all the way up and over his bald head. It was that guilty stain of someone caught in a lie. Now, there was nothing left to do but tell the truth. “A while back, my two friends got killed. Sometimes street people ain’t particular in how they get cash and that could mean anythin’ from panhandlin’ to stealin’ and sellin’ drugs. My friends, they got involved in drugs . . . and a bad crowd. And they did somethin’ stupid. I guess there are some who figure I was in on it, too, and Skinner was sent to find out. The people he works for want them drugs back or their street value in cash. Thing is, I ain’t got a clue where Manny and Turtle stashed ‘em. They never told me and I never asked. No way I wanted to know.”
Stubby watched Cynthia’s nostrils flare, watched her eyes cloud then clear. He recognized that look, a cross between revulsion and curiosity, between loathing and wonder. He’d seen it often enough on his mother’s face when his father staggered through their apartment door and she’d try to guess how much of the welfare check he had left after getting his drugs and if he was going to share those drugs with her.
“Did you say your friend’s name was Turtle?” Cynthia said, as though not hearing the part about danger that Stubby had tried so hard to convey.
“Yeah. You knew him?”
Cynthia shook her head. “I heard about him on the street. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was your friend.”
“Then Skinner’s a drug dealer?” Jonathan asked.
“He deals.” Stubby shifted his weight, feeling burdened by how he had brought danger to the mission—to all those here. If he hadn’t come, Skinner wouldn’t have either. “He deals,” Stubby repeated. “But mostly he’s a trouble-shooter.” Might as well tell ‘em the worst. If Jonathan asked him to leave, so be it. “He does special work for them who operate the drug rings—like makin’ people disappear or end up in dumpsters.”
Jonathan looked worried. “Okay, so he’s dangerous, but what makes you think Cynthia has anything to be concerned about?”
Stubby frowned. “Because he noticed her. And Skinner ain’t the kind you want noticin’ you. So you all, especially Miss Cynthia here, need to watch out. He’s killed before. And he’s the kind that likes it. He don’t need no reason. Okay?”
“She’s killed before.” Cynthia turned to the voice behind her. The face was shadowed and she couldn’t make it out, but it was a man, judging by the deep tone. And short. And he was pointing at her. Cynthia tried putting distance between her and the stranger but her feet had turned to lead, too heavy to pick up. “She’s killed before,” he repeated. It took every ounce of strength to raise one leg and slide it forward. Then she raised the other. The exertion made her breathing come hard, made sweat trickle along the sides of her ears. She couldn’t keep this up. The strain was too great. She had moved less than a foot. But she had to get away. She couldn’t stay here with him. Her heart pounded, then fluttered against her chest. She had to escape. With her last ounce of strength, she flung her body forward . . . .
Cynthia awoke with a jerk and found herself dangling off the side of the bed. Her sweat-drenched pajamas stuck to her chest which quivered like a frightened bird’s. She remained sprawled half on, half off the bed. There was no rush. It would be a long night. The clock on her nightstand told her it was 2:00 am, and she had no intention of going back to sleep.
Miss Emily, after discovering this propensity, assigned Cynthia the task of scrubbing the appliances, counters and tables. Now, kitchen duties weren’t as stressful. Cynthia no longer had to worry about burning the eggs or cutting away too much of the potatoes. She no longer had to compete with Miss Emily.
Yes, cleaning was her thing. Something that gave her pleasure.
Except today.
Cynthia guessed it was because she was still brooding over her nightmare. And then there was Skinner. His eyes had been on her ever since she started wiping down the tables and chairs. They were still on her the last time she glanced his way. And this was the second day in a row he had come to the mission and just sat, watching her. Or was her imagination working overtime?
She didn’t think so.
And he looked weird, sitting like that at one of the tables—the only person left, his hands folded in front of him—staring like a battered tomcat stalking prey.
For the most part she had ignored him but each completed job brought her closer to where he sat. Sooner or later, she’d have to clean his table. She glanced at Jonathan not twenty feet away, talking to two men, and took comfort in his proximity. Even Stubby left his chores in other parts of the building to come and check on her, though he tried not to be obvious about it. His last pretext—bringing in a single folding chair and setting it up near the lectern—almost made her laugh. It was clear that Stubby had a soft center, a tender nature, though considering that she still thought he might be a ghost from her past, his presence was hardly a comfort.
But Skinner was another matter. She saw that meanness had set up residency long ago just by the way he’d smirk when one of the older occupants walked by limping or wheezing as though seeing someone suffering from an infirmity pleased him.