Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  Miss Emily chuckled. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. But what about the icing?”

  Cynthia pulled a can of ready-to-use chocolate icing from the plastic bag in her hand.

  “What else do you have in there?”

  Cynthia placed the mix and icing on the counter, them dove back into the bag and came out with a pack of candles, paper noisemakers and happy birthday plates and napkins.

  “My, my. You have been busy. You must have precious little of that pay left.”

  “I have enough to get me through until next week.” Cynthia ignored the look of doubt on Miss Emily’s face. “So, what do you say? Can I make the cake and then later tonight, when things calm down, we can all wish Jonathan a happy birthday?”

  “You mean, like have a little party?”

  Cynthia began arranging and rearranging the party supplies. “I thought it would be nice.”

  Miss Emily picked up the package of plates and turned them over in her hand. “I like the colors—red and blue. Sort of patriotic, too. Makes you feel like celebrating.” She put them back on the counter, then covered Cynthia’s hand with hers. “You’re a strange one. You’re a loner and don’t like people much yet you do something like this. Sometimes you remind me of me before I got saved. Except I used drugs and alcohol to deal with my loneliness. You use work.”

  Cynthia’s long lashes shaded her eyes. “Perhaps . . . I do. But it’s only because I don’t like people much. They’re . . . disappointing.”

  “I know, child. But that’s because you have your eyes on the wrong things. They should be on Jesus. And you need to understand that people are just like you. They’re all looking for someone to love them in spite of their defects and failings. And when you begin to understand that, it won’t be as hard as you think to like people. You like us well enough, don’t you?”

  Cynthia’s eyes misted as she nodded.

  “Well, go ahead, then. Make that cake. I’ll even take a chance and have a piece.”

  Cynthia laughed.

  “But the thing that has me puzzled is how in the world did you know it was Jonathan’s birthday?”

  Cynthia felt her face flush. “One night I, well, I saw it on the lease agreement that Jonathan had filled out. His date of birth was one of the entries. He’s thirty today.”

  Miss Emily frowned. “But that was on his desk.”

  “I know.”

  “So what where you doing in his office?”

  Cynthia took a deep breath. “Using the phone.”

  Miss Emily nodded. “People have grown to love you around here. I hope you’ll keep that in mind when you do what you have to do.”

  “I would never hurt any of you or the mission.”

  “Sometimes, child, people get hurt whether you try to hurt them or not.”

  When Cynthia opened the door of the Day Care Center, she found Effie sitting on a blanket with the children reading Boy with a Sling. She waited for Effie to finish before joining the group. She could see by the smiling faces that no one had tired of the new playthings.

  “I just wanted to tell you that after dinner and cleanup, we’re going to have a birthday cake for Jonathan in the kitchen.” Cynthia helped Effie to her feet. “I hope you and Daisy will come.”

  “It’s Pastor’s birthday? Well, sure we’ll come. Only . . . I can’t afford to bring no gift or nothin’.”

  “Just bring yourself, and Daisy of course.” Cynthia’s smile faded when she noticed worry lines creep across Effie’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  Effie gazed at the children playing at the other end of the room. “Nothin’. Nothin’ you need to worry your head about.”

  Cynthia placed her hand on Effie’s shoulder. “Jonathan said we’re staff and need to stick together, help each other. So tell me, what is it?”

  “Well . . . when you said birthday, it made me think of my son. His birthday’s next week.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  Effie ushered Cynthia out into the hall. “Daisy misses her brother somethin’ fierce. She don’t miss her daddy, but her brother . . . they were just like that.” Effie crossed two fingers. “I try not to say much about him in front of her.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gonna be fourteen next week. He thinks he’s a man, but he’s just a boy. A hurt, scared little boy. And angry. He’s got a lot of anger. You don’t grow up with violence in your home without gettin’ angry.”

  Effie pointed to the empty space where a front tooth should be. “The day my husband did this was the last time I saw my son. Jeff tried to defend me, and my husband nearly killed him. Jeff said he wouldn’t live another day under his father’s roof.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Three months. I worry about him. I worry myself sick. I know he’s out there takin’ on the world, tryin’ to lick it like he did his daddy. But now that I know Jesus, I wish I could tell him about another Daddy, a Father who loves him, cares for him. He needs hope. He don’t have no hope. That’s what gets ‘em, you know. A boy needs hope or he don’t grow right. If a tree gets battered enough by a storm it gets all gnarled and twisted. That’s what happened to Jeff. He’s all twisted up.”

  “I’m sorry, Effie. I had no idea. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. It must be hard not knowing where he is.”

  “Oh, I know where he is. That’s why it hurts so bad. That’s what makes me worry so much. If I could just get to him, see him, tell him I’m alright, and give him a chance to see what Jesus has done for me—a job, a roof over my head and Daisy—to give him hope. I gotta show him there’s hope.”

  “I wish I could help.”

  “You . . . mean it? Those ain’t just fancy, full-of-air words? Are they?”

  “I mean it,” Cynthia returned, though the words stuck a bit in her throat. What was she getting herself into?

  “See, the thing is you’re smarter than me, Cynthia. And you know how to get things done. I seen how you operate. You’re a real doer.”

  “I guess . . . .”

  “Maybe you could ask around, send out some feelers.”

  The pleading look on Effie’s face made Cynthia avert her eyes. “I could try. Just tell me where you think he is.”

  “With the Salamanders.”

  “Blow out the candles and cut the cake, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan Holmes put down the paper noisemaker and stared at all the excited faces. They had just finished singing happy birthday and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t wipe away the silly grin he knew was on his face. He paused a moment to inhale the sweet yeasty aroma that hovered over the kitchen like a canopy. He still couldn’t figure out how they knew it was his birthday. He had been quiet about it, not wanting anyone to feel they had to fuss. It also surprised and pleased him that it was Cynthia who had baked the cake.

  Miss Emily handed him a knife. “Come on now, blow, then cut six pieces. And make them small, at least until we know what we’re getting ourselves into.” Her eyes twinkled with humor when she looked at Cynthia.

  Jonathan noticed that the cake leaned to one side, and hoped it wouldn’t flop over before he blew out the candles. His first attempt ended up as a soft puff extinguishing only one of thirty. He grinned then lowered his head and tried again. Ten more went out. At this rate he’d layer the cake with spittle.

  “Ah . . . Cynthia, you want to help me out?” If she blew and the cake toppled, he wouldn’t feel so bad.

  A chorus of “nos” filled the room.

  Even so, Cynthia slipped alongside him. “If it falls, no one will blame you,” she said in a whisper.

  Jonathan smiled. This time he’d make an end of it, one way or the other. He blew with all his might and was gratified to see all the candles go out and the cake still standing. Then he cringed when he noticed a big dent in the icing where his chin had landed like a hang glider. As he brought his head up, he smelled chocolate, felt it sticky and wet on his face. The first person to laug
h was Cynthia, then Miss Emily. Then everyone, including him.

  Cynthia picked up one of the birthday napkins and wiped his chin.

  “Thanks for baking the cake.” He was surprised to feel his heart thump. “That was thoughtful.”

  “You’ve been working hard. I figured a little celebration would be nice.”

  He smiled, then began cutting the pieces. With each cut, the cake leaned further to one side. After the last one, the top layer slid off, making a soft landing on the counter. Without a word, Cynthia scooped it up with a paper plate.

  “Talk about perfect timing.” She winked at him.

  He was grateful for her good nature, grateful for the cake and this small circle of friends to share it with, and for the first time, he was grateful that God had sent him here.

  “But how did you know it was my birthday?”

  Cynthia shot a furtive glance at Miss Emily. “Let’s just say I came across it by accident.”

  “Boy this cake is great!” Stubby said, carving another slice. The large crumb on his bottom lip was all that was left of his first piece.

  As Cynthia looked down at her collapsing masterpiece, her apparent vulnerability pricked Jonathan’s heart. It wasn’t the God-kind of prick, but the kind a man feels for a woman when he is overcome with a desire to protect her. He had a sudden urge to whisper in her ear—to tell her he was here for her.

  “Happy birthday, Pastor, and good night, Cynthia,” Effie said, mercifully squelching that urge. “Daisy’s tired. And I wanna wash her hair and use some of the salve you got her.”

  Jonathan watched Daisy hug Cynthia around the knees, then scamper off behind her mother. “Looks like you’ve made a friend.”

  Cynthia’s eyes followed Daisy as she disappeared through the doorway. “I’m beginning to understand how important your work is and why you love these people.”

  “When I see God touch lives like theirs, it makes the other disappointments easier to bear.” Jonathan’s hand rested on Cynthia’s arm causing that former urge to return.

  This time it was Stubby to the rescue. “Well, I’ll be sayin’ my goodnights, too. I’m gonna take this piece and eat in my room.” He held up a plate containing a mammoth chunk of yellow cake. “Gonna write Pastor Jonathan a birthday poem. You won’t mind gettin’ it a day late, will you?”

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “It’s been a long day. Guess I’ll turn in, too.” Cynthia said, leaving her spot in order to cover the remaining cake with plastic wrap.

  Jonathan didn’t think she looked tired at all then realized it was because he didn’t want her to go. “Thank you for making my birthday special.”

  “It was just a packaged mix.”

  “It was much more. You brought us all together tonight, Cynthia, and made us feel like family. That’s important in a place like this.”

  “Well, I’m glad it pleased you.”

  “It did, very much.” And when he looked into her eyes, he realized for the first time just how incredibly drawn he was to her—the first woman since Lydia. What was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned anything from Lydia? A pretty face, a sweet disposition, a deep vulnerability—all bait on a hook he seemed too eager to swallow. He was playing with dynamite. He couldn’t let this happen. History was not going to repeat itself.

  “I’ve been thinking about that sermon of yours—mercy at midnight,” she said softly.

  “And?”

  “And, I’ve been thinking about it. Happy birthday, Jonathan.”

  Long after she left, Jonathan stood in the silent kitchen thinking that maybe Aunt Adel’s prayers for Cynthia were being answered. Then he began wondering what exactly his aunt was praying for.

  Jonathan played the two messages on his cell; both of them from his aunt, then dialed the familiar number.

  “Hi, Aunt Adel. Just returning your call.”

  “Jonathan, Dearest! Happy, happy birthday. I wish you could have gotten away from the mission this evening. I so wanted to cook you something delicious and make you a great big cake.”

  “I know and I appreciate it. But like I said this morning the whole moving-in process took me away from my other duties and I needed to catch up.”

  “Well . . . I forgive you. Just as long as you let me cook you one of my classic dinners. Let’s say—this weekend?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re being difficult, Dearest, but I love you anyway. Are you all moved in?”

  “No.” Jonathan pushed a stack of clothes off his bed and sat down. Then he peeled off his shoes and sank into the bed.

  “I can have my cleaning lady come tomorrow and organize your whole apartment. She’s a treasure and will do wonders with . . . .”

  “Aunt Adel, I’m in one room.” He thought he heard his aunt gulp.

  “Okay, she could arrange your room.”

  Jonathan laughed. “What would I do without you?”

  “Then she can come?”

  “Of course not. And I want you to stop worrying about me. Everything’s fine. Believe it or not, I even had a birthday cake today.”

  “Really? Who made it?”

  “Cynthia,” he said in a lowered voice.

  “Cynthia? The keep-this-woman-in-prayer Cynthia?”

  “Yes, and I hope you are.”

  “My ladies and I are on it. But Jonathan . . . it’s the strangest thing. Every time I pray for her I picture a seesaw and I can’t tell which way she’s going to go. It doesn’t make sense I know, but I feel such an excitement in my spirit and also . . . .”

  “What?”

  “A sense of dread.”

  Cynthia dried herself, wrapped her wet hair in a towel, then slipped on her robe. She was getting used to the community showers and no longer had to make two trips back and forth to her room to retrieve forgotten items. She now kept her shampoo and other toiletries organized in a plastic shower caddy, much like she did in her college days. And her routine of cleaning the kitchen after dinner, then showering before she settled into her room at night was almost beginning to feel comfortable. By the time it did, it would probably be time to go home.

  She was sure Bernie wouldn’t give her an extension. Not unless she handed him something he could sink his teeth into. Right now, she had nothing. Stubby was the key. But she couldn’t press him too hard. In fact, pressing him at all didn’t sit right with her anymore. He had written her a poem. Called her friend. Street people didn’t make friends easily. And neither did she for that matter. It surprised her that she wanted to be his friend, too. But how could she? Sooner or later he’d find out who she was. How would he feel then? Disappointed?

  Betrayed was more like it. And she couldn’t bear the thought.

  She picked up the plastic caddy and shut the bathroom light behind her. The hall was dark, with one small plug-in nightlight at each end for illumination. All was quiet. Everyone had gone to bed or settled in their rooms for the night. She wasn’t used to that. She was usually the first to disappear behind closed doors, then had to endure the chatter and noise in the hall for another hour.

  She walked toward her room, wondering if she should call Bernie. What for? She had nothing new to tell him. Let him lecture her tomorrow. It was late. She was beat. All she wanted was to lie down and unwind. The day had been long, and full of emotional ups and downs: the shopping, the encounter with the Salamanders, the excitement of giving out the presents, the birthday party, Jonathan.

  Jonathan.

  He was a pastor and that alone would be a turn-off, but for some reason she wasn’t turned off at all. When she looked at him, she saw a man—a handsome, kind, loving, desirable man.

  None of that, Wells. Pastors didn’t go slipping in and out of women’s beds.

  When she opened the door to her room she was surprised it was dark. She was sure she had left her desk lamp on. She closed the door then groped for the light switch. As her fingers felt along the wall, she heard a noise behind her. Before she could say, “Who�
��s there,” someone grabbed her. She felt a rope snap across her throat, felt it tighten until she could hardly breathe. She tore at it with her free hand, choking, gasping for air. The rope continued to tighten. And the pain. She had never felt pain like that. She wondered if this was how death felt.

  She tried to cry out, but couldn’t. Then she realized she was still holding the shower caddy. She swung it at the body behind her, heard it crack as it connected. But the rope, the ever tightening rope, didn’t slacken. She knew it was a matter of seconds before unconsciousness. With all her remaining strength, she spun around taking the intruder with her, then pushed backward, slamming him hard against the door. She heard the sound of wood cracking, then a far away voice calling out, “Miss Cynthia, what’s happenin’? Are you okay?”

  Then nothing.

  When Cynthia opened her eyes she found herself on the floor and Stubby White kneeling beside her.

  “Are you okay, Miss Cynthia? Can you talk?”

  Her door was open and barely hanging on its hinges. She saw movement in the hall and Miss Emily and Effie standing in the doorway. Then Jonathan entered, breathing heavily.

  “Did you catch him, Pastor?” Stubby asked.

  “No. I ran as far as the Angus Avenue Hotel, then lost him. How is she?”

  Stubby leaned closer to Cynthia. “Her eyes are open, but she ain’t talkin’.”

  Cynthia listened to musical beeps as Jonathan punched numbers on his cell. She tried to say something, but no sound came out. She closed her eyes while Jonathan spoke to the police. When she opened them, he was kneeling beside her, opposite Stubby. She flinched when his fingers brushed her throat.

  “That’s a nasty rope burn, Pastor,” Stubby said.

  Jonathan smiled down at Cynthia, but she could see the worry on his face. “I think Stubby saved your life.”

  Cynthia nodded and felt pain. She wondered if her neck was broken, then realized she wouldn’t have been able to nod if it were. Maybe it was just her larynx. Maybe the intruder had crushed it with that rope. She tried to speak and heard her voice come out a croak.