Maybe if she wasn’t such a diehard reporter, Skinner would have frightened her more, revolted her even. But the truth was, while he made her uneasy, she was studying him as much as he was her. Stubby said there was a connection between him and the two dead, homeless men. He was also afraid of Skinner, though Skinner was the type that could frighten anyone. But already she had come to trust Stubby’s judgment when it came to matters of the street. Based on that, she knew she needed to be careful.
When there were no other tables left to wash, Cynthia approached Skinner. Miss Emily’s instructions were to avoid all contact; to return to the kitchen if there was a problem. But no one had anticipated that Skinner would still be seated two hours after breakfast was over. If she asked Miss Emily to come now and clean this last table it would look strange, arouse Skinner’s suspicions.
And then there was the story.
She owed it to Bernie and herself to nail it down, to chase all possible leads.
“I need to clean up.” Cynthia hoisted the bucket of sudsy water onto the table top.
“Who are you, lady?”
“Miss Emily’s assistant.”
“No, I mean who are you? Why are you here?”
Cynthia felt his steel, gray eyes, sharp as any blade, pierce her courage.
Keep your cool, Wells. Just keep your cool.
“I told you, Miss Emily’s assistant. And I need to clean the table. All the tables have to be washed down before lunch. In case you haven’t noticed, this is the last one. So I’d appreciate you moving. You can sit at any of the other tables or in one of the folding chairs by the lectern.”
“Someone told me there was a woman, a reporter lady, snooping around asking questions.”
Cynthia’s breath caught as she squirted disinfectant over the tabletop. She pulled a rag from the bucket and squeezed it. “Do I look like a reporter?”
“I was told to look out for this busy-body.”
“By whom?”
“By someone dangerous.”
Cynthia dropped her wet rag onto the table, ignoring that it caused water to splatter across the front of her white tank top. While she washed the area on both sides of Skinner, she could feel his eyes on her. Her survival instincts told her to flee. Her reporter instincts kept her rooted in place.
“You that reporter lady? You sure match the description.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m Miss Emily’s assistant?” She couldn’t let him bully her or let him think she was afraid. She swiped her rag in front of him and tried to look peeved. “Gimme a break here. You looking to get me fired? It’s not much of a job but it pays minimum wage, plus three squares a day and a cot.”
“You trying to tell me you’re homeless?”
“That’s right. I’m a homeless woman who caught a break.”
“Sure you are lady.” Skinner’s mouth curved into a sickly arch. It took Cynthia a minute to realize he was smiling. “And I’m Peter Pan.”
Jonathan ran his finger down the manual of the South Oberon Coalition for the Homeless and stopped by the phone number of The Center for Day Care. “You sure you don’t want me to call?”
The woman in front of him clutched her child and shook her head. “I won’t leave her with strangers. She’s fragile. She’d been through a lot. I gotta know who she’s gonna be with. I gotta know I can trust ‘em.” With one hand the woman stroked the scab-encrusted head of the little child. “Why haven’t you got a Day Care here?”
“We’ve just reopened. Maybe in time we can provide that service but for now . . . .”
“Then how you expect me to take this job?” The woman poked the ad resting on Jonathan’s desk. “I’d be glad to pack at the glass factory, but I got no place for my Daisy. And without a job, how am I gonna support us?” The woman made a fist. “You just like the rest. I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinkin’ I’m lazy. That I want a handout. But I ain’t afraid of hard work. And I can work with the best of ‘em, but I ain’t gonna put my Daisy into the care of people I don’t know. I’ve heard stories of what happens in places like that. Daisy’s been through enough. I ain’t gonna let nobody hurt her again.”
Jonathan watched the woman wipe her eyes. She looked cleaner than the first time he saw her—Miss Emily had given her clothes from the storeroom. But the child still had sores on her head, sores that looked close to becoming infected. “What about your husband? Can’t you get him to pay child support?”
The woman snorted with laughter. “The only thing I’ll get from him will be more busted teeth. And Daisy . . . he nearly killed her, just for wettin’ the bed. She wets sometimes, ‘cause she’s scared, scared from all the fightin’ and shoutin’ in the house.” The woman ran her thumb down Daisy’s cheek. “She’s startin’ to get better. Don’t wet as much, not since we been here. I don’t know what I woulda done without this here mission. There’s not many places women and children can go. None that’s safe, anyhow. I gotta thank God. I know He’s the one Who brought us here.”
Jonathan rubbed the cleft of his chin longing for the wisdom of Solomon. The burden he felt for this woman was terrible and heavy, tugging at his heart and nearly breaking it in two. He couldn’t have been more pained if she was his sister. But then, she was his sister, wasn’t she? And more, too. She was one of God’s lambs He had entrusted to Jonathan.
What should he do?
“I been readin’ Daisy scriptures every night. I think that’s one of the things that’s been helpin’ her. I know it’s been helpin’ me. Sometimes I don’t understand what I’m readin’. But I read anyway. I’m believin’ the Lord will get me to understand it, little by little.”
Jonathan felt a sudden stirring as he silently prayed for guidance, then he smiled a big toothy smile. “You know you never told me your name.” He felt as light as air.
“Effie.” The woman looked confused.
“Well, Effie, how would you like to work here? To be one of the staff? It doesn’t pay much, but you and Daisy could move to the first floor where the rooms are larger, so that’ll give you more space.”
Effie’s mouth dropped. “This ain’t no joke, is it? I mean, you’re serious. Right? ‘Cause I sure would like that. Yes, I sure would. This way I could take care of Daisy, keep an eye on her. ‘Course I wouldn’t let nothin’ interfere with my work. I’d work real hard. Give you your money’s worth, that’s for sure. You wouldn’t be sorry. But what kind of work is it? You being a preacher and all, I know it’s gotta be honest, decent work. What you want me to do?”
Jonathan tilted back in his chair thinking that when God allowed you to participate in His solutions, those were the best of times, times you’d remember for years to come. “You’ll be heading our new Day Care Center. You’ll supervise and care for the children, and once a day, for about half an hour or so, you’ll read them Bible stories. We’ll have to get you a children’s Bible, with lots of pictures, and maybe some wooden toys like Noah’s Ark and ABC blocks, and maybe some balls and puzzles. Things like that. What do you say?”
Effie brought her hands to her face and began to sob. Normally, Jonathan would have been concerned when a woman cried in his office. But today, he stared at his marble paperweight and whispered praises to God. He had been a pastor long enough to know the sound of joy when he heard it.
After Jonathan and Stubby unloaded the produce and other supplies that S&S Market had delivered, changed a flat on the mission pickup truck, and broke up a fight between two drunk men, Jonathan decided to take a break, and headed for the kitchen. He felt unexpected pleasure at seeing Cynthia. He watched her a moment as she scrubbed the giant coffee urn, then felt nervous when he realized Miss Emily was nowhere in sight. He had never been alone with Cynthia before.
“Looks like I’m too late for coffee,” he said, staying in spite of his better judgment.
Wisps of blonde hair, that had escaped the scrunchie holding Cynthia’s ponytail, swirled around her face. “I can put another pot on after I�
��m finished here. Or, there’s some iced tea in the fridge if you want.”
Jonathan opened the door of the gleaming commercial refrigerator and pulled out a large plastic container. “Tea’s fine.”
“What was all that commotion I heard?”
“Stubby and I broke up a fight.”
“No need to ask if it was between guys.” Cynthia buffed the urn with a clean towel. “Not to sound sexist but what makes guys need to settle their arguments with fists? When women fight, the tongue is their weapon of choice.”
Jonathan studied Cynthia, the contour of her chin, her full red lips, her long sweeping eyelashes that dropped like a curtain when she didn’t want to let anyone in. He felt a stirring he hadn’t felt in a long time and that added to his discomfort. Still, he remained in place. She was beginning to open up more. Maybe that meant soon she’d open up to the Lord. Jonathan was surprised at how much that mattered to him. And the trouble was he didn’t know what he wanted most—for Cynthia to open up to him or to God.
“And speaking of women, I met our newest employee and her daughter.”
Cynthia’s use of the word “our” produced another jolt of pleasure in Jonathan.
“I’ve never seen anyone so happy. That was nice of you.”
“The mission needed a Day Care and she fills the need,” he said, happy that Cynthia faced the urn and couldn’t see the red blotches along the sides of his nose that he knew were there, that always appeared whenever he was embarrassed.
“Is it like you thought it would be? Working at the mission?”
Her question took him by surprise. It was innocent enough, but it had the tone and directness of an experienced interviewer. He filled his glass with tea. “Well, I expected it to be hard, but it’s harder, much harder. But it’s also more rewarding. And humbling.”
“Humbling?”
“I always knew the Lord had to be in a thing before any real good could come of it. But I’ve never felt so helpless before. No matter what I do, it’ll never be enough to make a difference in these people’s lives. They’re so damaged, so needy. Only the Lord can mend what’s broken here.”
Cynthia placed her towel on the counter and faced him. “You really care about these people, don’t you?”
“I care.”
“But don’t you find them . . . disappointing? People in general, I mean.”
“Sure, people can be disappointing. That’s why I try not to expect too much. That’s why I try keeping my eyes on the Lord. Only Jesus is perfect, Cynthia.” He could see by the jut of her chin he had struck a nerve.
“I guess you have to say things like that, being a preacher. But you have to know that kind of talk has no relevance in the real world.”
“Then what does?”
“Hard work. Self-sufficiency.”
Jonathan looked at the shining, stainless steel coffee urn. “I believe in hard work, too. I was raised on it. You’re a hard worker. I can see that. I wish that more of those who came here were willing to work half as hard. But it’s still not enough. All the hard work in the world can’t change a heart or make a sinner feel clean again, or fill the void of an empty soul.”
Cynthia’s face clouded. “Back to your Jesus again?”
Jonathan nodded. “Has anyone ever talked to you about Him?”
“Once, at Vacation Bible School years ago.”
“So what happened?”
“My sister died.”
Jonathan put down his glass. “I’m sorry. I know how hard it can be to lose someone you love.”
“You ever lose someone close?”
Jonathan nodded and thought of his father who had been an invalid for years and his mother who worked two jobs to keep a roof over their heads. In a way, he had lost them both long before they died. “I know how hard it is,” he repeated, and was surprised by the anger on her face.
“Why do you preachers do that?—say it’s hard, say you understand the cruelties of life, then in the next breath talk about a God of love and mercy and how He’s in control of everything? It seems hypocritical.” Cynthia grabbed the dishtowel and ran it over the counter top.
Should he tell Cynthia about his childhood? Should he share his own hurts and disappointments with her? Or would that put him on dangerous ground? That’s how he and Lydia started, by him sharing about his dad and her listening. Jonathan picked up his glass and drained it. No, best not to go down that path. Already, he was much too drawn to her.
And that was a problem.
“Bernie, my instincts were right! There’s something going on here, but I can’t tell you about it now because I don’t know enough. But good news; I’ve connected with someone who knew those two murdered men.” Cynthia heard a yawn on the other end of the phone.
“What happened to calling me collect, while it’s daylight?”
“Sorry, Bernie, but it gets crazy around here. The phone booth is right by the front door. Impossible to talk with people parading in and out. I had to find an alternative.”
“But you didn’t find one that suits me. It’s past my bedtime. Way past. And you know how cranky I get without my mandatory eight hours. You need to find a better time to communicate.”
“There isn’t a better time, Bernie. It’s just too nuts here. But next time I could call the office and just leave a message on your machine for the morning.”
“Suppose I have questions? Or want to give advice?”
“You can’t have it both ways. I’m the one out here trying to scratch for a story while you’re snoring in bed.”
“I don’t snore, and I’d be careful how you talk to me, Wells. The Newspaper Association just came out with their latest prognostication and the trend doesn’t look good. Advertising is down, cost of newsprint is up and the Internet is scooping newspapers like crazy. You know what that means. Layoffs.”
“Whining doesn’t become you.”
“You know that here at the Trib, bootlickers have the edge. I’d be nice if I were you.”
Cynthia giggled. “Come on, Bernie, you know that profit margins for most newspapers are still higher than most other industries. And you and I both know that during the dot com boom, newspapers received the lion’s share of advertising dollars. There still should be plenty in the till to cover any lean times.”
“Maybe so, but shareholders have become accustomed to large profits forcing newspapers to bleed themselves in order to maintain them.”
“You being pressured, Bernie?”
“Well . . . .”
“Okay, I’ll be nice, just because I want to make your life easier and because I’m feeling generous. Now, let me tell you what I’ve got: this story involves drugs.”
“Oh, c’mon Wells, we already knew those two dead men were drug users. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I can’t. Yet. But I’m on it and when I’m finished, I’m expecting a Pulitzer or a raise, either one.”
“I’d shoot for the Pulitzer. You’ll have a better chance.”
Cynthia pushed away from Jonathan’s desk and craned her neck towards the door. “I think I hear someone. Gotta go.”
“Where are you?”
“In the pastor’s office.”
“And he doesn’t know, right? That’s just great. Now you’re going to go and tick off someone who’s in good with God. Really counter productive, Wells.”
Cynthia laughed before she could cover her mouth. She was sure she heard footsteps. “Bye, Bernie.”
“Call me tomorrow . . . anytime.”
Cynthia hung up and crept toward the door. She pressed her ear against it, listening for a sound. When she was sure all was quiet, she opened the door and almost jumped out of her skin when she saw a man standing in front of her. It took a minute to recognize him.
“Stubby! You scared the wits out of me!”
“I heard a noise. Sometimes people steal things, you know, for drugs and stuff, and I didn’t want no one takin’ from Pastor Jonathan.”
Cynt
hia eyed Stubby. She had to get to know him better; had to get the silly notion that she knew him way-back-when out of her head. Then there was her story. She needed information for that, too. Bernie was always telling her honey drew more flies than vinegar. Maybe now was the time to try a little of that honey.
In one fluid motion, Cynthia threw up her hands and twirled around. “I’m clean. See. No contraband.” Then she leaned closer to Stubby. “I was making a phone call. Guess I should have asked first.” When she saw the suspicious look on his face she grabbed his arm and headed down the hall. “Come on, let’s have a sandwich.” She felt Stubby’s resistance and stopped.
“Ah . . . you makin’ this sandwich, Miss Cynthia? ‘Cause if you are, no offense, I’ll pass.”
“No one, not even I, can mess up a sandwich.” Cynthia’s grip tightened as she resumed her trek toward the kitchen with Stubby in tow. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”
“Miss Emily don’t like it when someone goes messin’ in her kitchen.”
Cynthia continued leading him down the hall and through the kitchen door. This was her chance and she wasn’t about to let it slip away. Before the sun came up she wanted to know Stubby White.
When they reached the mammoth, stainless steel refrigerator she released him. Then without a word she flipped on the kitchen light, opened the fridge and pulled out a turkey carcass and loaf of bread. Good. There was still white meat left. She cut a few slices and slapped them between two pieces of rye, then handed the creation to Stubby.
“Ah . . . hows about a little mayo, and some salt, and maybe a piece of lettuce?”
Cynthia sighed. What did he want? Gourmet? She rummaged through the refrigerator thinking how a few weeks ago he would have been content with just the rye. It showed how quickly a person’s expectations could change. She found the requested items and added them to the sandwich, then watched Stubby take a bite. “Pretty good, huh?” Stubby just kept eating. When he finished she handed him a napkin. “You’ve never gotten over being hungry, have you?”
Mercy at Midnight Page 15
