Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  She rapped on the door. No answer. When she opened it she was disappointed to see the room empty. Another “good-bye” note, Wells?

  She headed toward the kitchen and straight for Miss Emily. “Where’s Jonathan?”

  “He left.”

  “He left the mission?”

  Miss Emily nodded. “He said he had errands to do.”

  Cynthia frowned. “That doesn’t sound right. He knew I was leaving and . . . .”

  “And what? You expected him to give you a going away party?”

  “It’s not like you to be sarcastic.”

  “Not everything’s about you, child. If you had seen the look on his face when he left, you’d know the man was troubled. Right now, he has the weight of this mission on his shoulders. Strange things are going on here. Makes me think of Reverend Graves—what happened to him—things you know nothing about. And you’re not the only one who cares about Stubby, you know. My guess is that Jonathan needed to be alone with the Lord.”

  Cynthia watched Miss Emily plunge her hands in dishwater, watched her scrub and rinse, then scrub some more. Cynthia had been wrong this morning for criticizing Miss Emily. It was obvious she was greatly troubled over Stubby. It was equally obvious that her kitchen, her pots and pans, her paring knives and cutting boards were all therapy.

  “I’m sorry. For a reporter, I can be slow at getting the picture. Tell him ‘good-bye’ for me, will you?”

  Miss Emily grabbed a dishtowel and dried her hands. “Haven’t you learned anything? After people have opened their hearts to you, you have to give them their proper due.”

  “Fine . . . I’ll say goodbye to him myself.”

  Cynthia rushed down the street to where the cabbie said he would meet her. She had called three cab companies and none of them would drive to Skid Row. She had one more block to go, and quickened her pace. As she passed a graffiti-covered mailbox, Cynthia saw a policeman walking his beat and recognized him as the one she had gone to for help after the mugging. She could hardly believe that was only two weeks ago.

  It seemed like a lifetime.

  She slowed down. After a moment’s hesitation, she approached the cop. “Excuse me, officer, could you tell me where the City-Wide cab stand is?”

  The officer smiled. “Sure, Miss. Just up one block and left. You’ll see their orange sign about twenty yards in.”

  Cynthia stared into his eyes and returned his smile. “Thank you.”

  He responded with a slight gesture as though tipping his hat.

  She wasn’t invisible anymore.

  Jonathan Holmes strolled the perimeter of the glass factory, heading toward The Gorge. He had been walking up and down the industrial strip hoping to put his troubled mind to rest, hoping to connect with the Prince of Peace. But peace eluded him.

  Something was very wrong at the mission. First, the attempt on Cynthia’s life, then Stubby’s overdose. It was as if an evil hand had ripped through God’s hedge of protection.

  But how?

  The mission was God’s. Jonathan was just the caretaker. He had given everything to the Lord, entrusted all to His mighty hand of provision and protection. Had he failed God in some way? Allowed the enemy to come in like a flood? And if so, where was God’s promised standard?

  At the edge of The Gorge, Jonathan dropped to his knees. People’s lives were being changed at the mission. Just yesterday, two men fresh off the street accepted Christ after only a little encouragement from Jonathan. And the day before that four rough men, who cursed like longshoremen, were slain in the Spirit. And then there was the little girl with the clubfoot who was healed. All signs and wonders pointing to a new move of God. It just couldn’t end now.

  Oh, God, if the mission closes again, where will these people go? How will they come to know you?

  Faces of homeless men Jonathan had gotten to know paraded before him. Lord, please keep this mission open. I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you ask of me. He closed his eyes and when he did, he pictured Cynthia. Bitterness filled his heart. She had used him—made a fool of him. She had made fools of them all.

  “I know I’m to be a fool for Christ. But does that mean I must be a fool for everyone else, too?” Jonathan got off his knees and sat in the dirt.

  I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you ask of me.

  His words taunted him like a challenge. Would he meet it? He dropped his head into his hands, felt the warmth of his breath caress his face as though it were a caress from God Himself. What did it matter what Cynthia did? He wasn’t in a position to judge or condemn her.

  He lifted his head and gazed at the pit of rubble nearby. In the short time he had been at Beacon Mission he had seen more shattered lives, more broken dreams than in all his years combined. God had sent him to help people out of their own pit. Instead, he was sitting here whining about his bruised ego. “I’ll be a fool in any way you want, Lord. Only, use me at the mission. Make the mission safe again, so people won’t be afraid to come. Help the police get to the bottom of what’s going on. And about Cynthia—I know she’s hurting and needs You. She doesn’t even understand how much she needs you. And . . . I forgive her. I don’t know why she deceived me . . . deceived all of us at the mission, but I forgive her. And Lord . . . please forgive me, too.”

  Cynthia lounged on her floral couch studying the Waterford crystal paperweight that sparkled like an ice sculpture on her desk. It kept no papers at bay because they were all in color-coded folders and filed away in a bedroom cabinet. Aside from the paperweight, the only things on her desk were a six-inch solid brass table clock and a 5x7 Waterford Crystal picture frame containing a photo of Hawaii’s Diamond Head which served as a reminder that this was a place she had promised herself she’d visit someday.

  From where she sat, Cynthia could see a thin layer of dust coat the desk top, and was surprised she felt no compulsion to clean it.

  Two weeks ago, it would have driven her crazy.

  So, what was she going to do with herself for the rest of the day? Nap? Her throat still ached and she could use the rest. But she was too tense, too restless to sleep. Maybe she’d start that tortoiseshelling project she had wanted to do. It would transform her bathroom mirror. She could do the clear scumble and turpentine glaze today, then add the raw sienna tomorrow. If she did a process every day, she might finish in two weeks.

  Two weeks.

  About how long she had stayed at the mission.

  She tapped her fingers on the sofa arm. Then stopped. Tortoiseshelling was the last thing she felt like doing. A nap. That made more sense. Bernie was expecting his Pulitzer-award-winning article tomorrow and she had better not disappoint. She looked at her desk clock. 2:30. Miss Emily was just finishing lunch clean up and about to start cooking dinner. Cynthia closed her eyes. That’s what she wanted to do. Help Miss Emily make dinner—that and see Stubby’s smiling face one more time.

  Instead, she sat listening to the silence.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cynthia’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

  “Good to see you back,” someone said, passing by.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled without looking up. People had been stopping by her desk all morning, asking questions, wishing her well, and making her feel they were pleased she had not ended up with a rope around her neck—dead. But all this warmth and sentiment had kept her from finishing her story. She slid lower in her chair as though that would make her harder to see, and tuned out the clamor and bustle that filled the newsroom.

  She squinted at her monitor. Wiggly lines—like thin red worms—scoring dozens of words, told her Spell-Check was getting a workout. She didn’t stop to correct. That would dam up the thoughts streaming from her mind and out her fingers like a geyser. Her fingers moved faster and faster in a mad effort to keep up. Then, in a Mozart-like finale, they crashed against the midnight-black keys and stopped.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got Part One done already?”

  Cynthia looked up in time t
o see Bernie Hobbs push her organized pile of notes aside and fill the spot with his ample bottom.

  “So? You finished Part One?” he repeated.

  “Just the draft.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Not yet. Needs more work.”

  Bernie looked at his watch. “Guess that day off did you good. I’ve never seen you work so fast.”

  “I gave it a lot of thought yesterday and organized everything in my head.”

  “Then you didn’t rest?”

  Cynthia straightened and watched Bernie’s face cloud. “If you must know, I sat on my sofa for three hours—thinking.”

  “Thinking? You mean preparing for the article?”

  “I mean thinking. About things. That kind of thinking.”

  Bernie hopped off the desk. “Roberta wants you to come over tomorrow night, and she won’t take no for an answer.”

  “When someone you know almost dies, might still die, it makes you think. One minute you’re here, the next you could be gone. It’s unnerving.”

  “Cousin Harvey’s coming for dinner and Roberta needs you to round things out.”

  “I keep picturing Stubby on that cold bathroom floor. How weird is that?”

  “You coming, Wells?”

  “You know, outside of the people at the mission, you’re the only friend I have. I think that’s sad, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, and that’s what I’m talking about. You need to get out more. Socialize. Come for dinner tomorrow and get to know Cousin Harvey.”

  Cynthia folded her arms across her chest. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Can I tell Roberta you’ll be there?”

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “Why not? You’ve just been complaining that you have no friends. You’ve got to make the effort, Wells.”

  “Nope. Not tomorrow. I have a date.”

  Bernie’s face lit up in genuine delight. “No kidding? With who?”

  “A preacher. And don’t say another word. Not one word.”

  Cynthia’s hand trembled as she dialed. Dinner would be over at the mission and things would be calming down. She held her breath and listened to the phone ring a half dozen times. Finally, Cynthia heard Miss Emily’s familiar voice and found herself both relieved and disappointed.

  “Miss Emily, it’s Cynthia. How are you?”

  “Missing you, child. Missing you. Lots of people have been asking about you. It seems you didn’t say your proper goodbyes to anyone. Effie was really hurt.”

  “I know . . . that’s why I’m calling. I thought I’d catch Jonathan. He’s usually not busy this time of night and . . . I thought I’d try to explain.”

  “Aha. I’d say that was a good idea. And Effie? Are you planning to explain to her, too?”

  “I thought I’d write a note. Maybe send a little something along for Daisy.”

  “Rather cowardly, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. I was hoping you had came away with more. I’ve been praying for Jesus to break down those barriers you’ve erected. You’re like a battleship, with all that armor plating.”

  “What’s wrong with a letter?”

  “Distance—a lot of tidy clean space without hugs or . . . tears. Paper and ink are poor substitutes, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia slumped against the pile of pillows on her bed. “Habits aren’t easy to break.”

  “Almost impossible if you try doing it alone. That’s what took Stubby so long to learn. Just don’t wait till you’re his age for this to sink in, okay?”

  “How is Stubby?”

  “Hanging by a thread. He needs all our prayers, now. So please pray because nothing is impossible for Jesus.”

  “I haven’t prayed since I was five.”

  “Well, you have to start, because Stubby needs you.”

  “All right, if you think it might help, but I can’t imagine God will bother to listen.”

  “You just do the asking and let God decide about the listening part.”

  Cynthia chuckled. “Miss Emily, you should have been a reporter. You’re pushy enough.”

  “Good night, dear. I’ve got to finish shutting down the kitchen. You come visit us, okay?”

  “Wait! What about Jonathan? I need to speak to him.”

  “Oh, he had an emergency. That’s why he bounced his calls here, to the kitchen. He’s expecting S&S to phone, and asked me to take it. He’s shut up in his office behind closed doors—counseling a man who threatened to kill himself. The man’s been living here two weeks now—a real quiet type—and all of a sudden, just like that, he went berserk. But that happens in a place like this. I’ll tell Jonathan you called.”

  “Okay. And tell him he can ring me back no matter how late it is. I’ll be up.”

  Cynthia covered the kitchen table with an industrial strength drop cloth, then carried the 3x2 foot mirror from the bathroom and placed it on top of the cloth. She knew it was crazy to start this project now—it was nearly eleven.

  After she gathered her supplies, she mixed equal parts of scumble and turpentine and began glazing the mirror frame. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. Maybe because she still hoped Jonathan would call.

  How silly.

  All she wanted to do was explain why she had come to the mission. She was sure he’d understand. And she wanted to do her explaining in person. Because contrary to what Miss Emily said, Cynthia didn’t want the advantage of distance.

  Not this time.

  She couldn’t forget the look on Jonathan’s face as he watched her and Steve talk, as he understood she was a fraud and not homeless. And she had seen something else, something in his eyes—a look of humiliation that made her cringe. How like a fool he must have felt as he stood there remembering his offer to pay her legal fees. She had really made a mess of things. But this time she wasn’t going to walk away, not without making it right.

  She jumped when the phone rang, wiped her hands on a rag, then grabbed the cordless.

  “Hello, Cynthia? It’s Jonathan.”

  Cynthia detected weariness in his voice. His emergency must have drained him.

  “Sorry I missed your call, but I was tied up.”

  “Yes, Miss Emily told me about it. Everything okay?”

  “For now. I think. But it’s hard to tell. The man is troubled . . . but there was something else . . . something I couldn’t put my finger on. I’ll have to pray about it. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “Forgive me—forgive me for deceiving you.”

  “Well . . . sure. I’ve already done that.”

  “You have? I’m so . . . glad. Thank you. Still, I’d like a chance to explain, to tell you why I came to the mission in the first place. I know how busy you are but I had hoped you’d have dinner with me tomorrow night. I know a great steak place. And a neutral setting will make explanations easier.”

  “I don’t know . . . .”

  “Besides, I told my boss I had a date tomorrow night. Don’t make a liar out of me.” Cynthia listened to the stony silence on the other end. “You there?” She finally heard a soft chuckle.

  “I don’t date older women.”

  “Well, I don’t date preachers. But this one time we can make an exception. What do you say?”

  “Let me see what my schedule looks like tomorrow. I’ll tell you by noon if I can make it. I’ll let you know one way or the other . . . by noon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Was your boss imposing himself . . . making advances, I mean? Is that why you told him you had a date?”

  Cynthia laughed. “No. He was trying to impose his wife’s cousin. I had to think fast.”

  “Well, I’m glad you thought of me. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night, Cynthia.”

  When Cynthia hung up, she felt a foolish grin crawl across her face.

  By twelve ten, Cynthia had filled two entire pages with stick men. By twelve twenty, she was glaring at the phone, daring it to ring.

  “Are you in la-la land again, Wells?”
/>   Cynthia ignored Bernie Hobbs as he pushed aside her four-pound Webster’s New World College Dictionary which boasted right on the front cover that it was “the official dictionary of the Associated Press and America’s Leading Newspapers.”

  “You’re drawing stick men again, and that worries me.”

  “Go away. I’m thinking.”

  “Is that a way to talk to your boss? Even though you just finished writing one of the best pieces I’ve read in a long time—don’t think your job is secure. Around here it’s always ‘what have you done for me lately?’”

  Cynthia spun around in her chair, momentarily forgetting the phone. “You liked it?”

  “It’s good, Wells, and you know it. You’ve got plenty of facts and statistics, and still don’t put the reader to sleep. And your seven point conclusion on homelessness is, well . . . I have to give it to you . . . inspired.”

  “Any surprises?”

  Bernie shrugged. “Most of the causes were obvious: inferior education in poverty areas, mental illness, physical disabilities, addictions, insufficient low income housing, the decline of manufacturing jobs that pay enough to support a household. But the most startling were your stats on how much both the breakdown of the family and the welfare institution contribute to the problem. The increase in number of young people and mothers with children at shelters is staggering.”

  Cynthia pictured Effie with her damaged teeth. “Most of them have been battered for years and can’t take it anymore.”

  “And what’s this? Fifty percent, fifty percent of the homeless heads of households grew up in welfare families?”

  “A sobering testimony that a lifetime of welfare promotes a cycle of dependency.”

  Bernie nodded. “Maybe another time I’ll have you do a piece on our welfare system.”

  Cynthia swiveled around so she could face the phone. She looked at it a moment and sighed. He wasn’t going to call. He wasn’t even going to have the decency to let her know he was standing her up.

  “I’m running this as a news feature. Just make sure Part Two is as good.”

  Cynthia picked up her pen and drew more stick men. “I’ve already started working on it.”