Instead of spending the evening with Stubby.
Jonathan tossed his shirt and trousers in the hamper and yawned. It was late. He needed to get some sleep. As he went to the sink to wash he thought of Stubby. The burden to continue praying was still there. But Jonathan also wanted to seek the Lord about the information Detective Bradley had given him today. Maybe he’d try to stay up another hour.
He was getting ready to brush his teeth when the phone rang. Reluctantly, he answered it.
“Aunt Adel, what are you doing up? It’s nearly midnight.”
“Well, dearest love, you’re impossible to get a hold of. During the day you’re doing Bible studies, counseling, loading and unloading trucks, and at night, more of the same I imagine. Except for last night. That’s why I called.”
Jonathan put down his toothbrush. “What about last night?”
“I heard all about it from Gertie.”
“Gertie?”
“She heard all about it from a friend who saw you. At the Beef and Brew. Gertie said you were with Cynthia Wells and she was in quite an excitable state.”
“Who? Cynthia Wells?”
“No! Gertie. Gertie said her friend told her you were dressed and shaved and looked . . . wonderful. Gertie said that all her prayers and those of the prayer chain must be working, because it seems like you’ve turned yourself around.”
Jonathan headed for the bed and stretched out. “I thought you were through caring about what Gertie said. I thought that was all over.”
“Well . . . nearly, Dearest. I’ve been praying about it and asking God for help, and I’m getting better. When was the last time I called and talked about Gertie?”
“Ah . . . .”
“Exactly! It’s been so long you can’t even remember. So you must admit I’ve been quite self-controlled and mature.”
“If you say so.”
“That’s why I think I’m entitled to ask a favor. One small teensy-weensy favor.”
“Anything I can do, Aunt Adel, you know I’ll do it.” He heard what sounded like a sigh of relief.
“Well, that’s what I was hoping you’d say. Because you know I don’t ask for many favors. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I did ask.”
Jonathan smiled. “Stop with the guilt trip, Aunt Adel. Just tell me what it is.”
“Gertie said her absolute favorite reporter in the world is Cynthia Wells, and she was hoping you could introduce her, maybe even have dinner together, the three of you . . . or I could come, too, if that would make you more comfortable.”
“Out of the question.”
“Why!”
“Because . . . I don’t know her well enough . . . and because it’s totally inappropriate. I can’t ask someone like her to come to dinner with my aunt and ex-secretary.”
“Why!”
“Because . . . it’s going to put me in an awkward position.”
“Like you’ve put me in these past few months?”
Jonathan sat up. “I know it’s been rough on you, and I’m sorry.”
“I’ll never ask you for anything, again, I promise, but please Jonathan, grant me this one little indulgence.”
“I want you to ask me for things. That’s not the issue. We’re family and should be able to count on each other.”
“Exactly. I knew you’d understand.”
“Has it really been that bad?”
“Worse, dearest love. Much worse. She’s been an absolute beast. God forgive me for saying it. I know I shouldn’t look to justify myself, that I should let God justify me, but I’m flesh and blood, Jonathan, not a plaster saint. Meeting Cynthia Wells, going out to dinner with you and her, well . . . it will stop Gertie in her tracks. She wouldn’t dare say anything more about you. She’d stop all her nasty remarks and snide comments and . . . .”
“No she wouldn’t. This isn’t going to change Gertie. It’s just going to slow her down a bit.”
“So, you’re saying you won’t do it?”
“I’m saying you’re looking for comfort in the wrong place.”
“I know you’re right.” Aunt Adel’s voice deflated. “But somehow that doesn’t help. Thank you anyway, Dearest. I’m sorry to have troubled you. Kisses and hugs. Good night.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When do you and Gertie want to go to dinner with Cynthia Wells?”
“You’re not joking are you? No, of course not. You’d never be so cruel. Well . . . anytime . . . anytime at all. Oh, my goodness! Wait ‘til I tell Gertie.”
“I can’t promise anything. Remember that. But I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 15
Cynthia had been sitting at her keyboard for three hours and had exactly eight words to show for it: You can’t spell bum without u in it.
Mentally, she had switched her lead three times, but when she committed each to paper they sounded wrong. She wasn’t sure about this one, either. She stared at her monitor, mesmerized by the nearly blank screen. How was she ever going to fill it? Any minute, Bernie was going to come bounding over and ask, for the millionth time, how it was going.
Well, it wasn’t.
Her phone rang, and Cynthia let it go on her machine. She half listened to her own voice as it spit out the automatic salutation. But when she heard Jonathan, she lunged for the receiver.
“I’m here,” she shouted over the machine’s message. “Don’t hang up.” When the recorder stopped, she heard Jonathan sigh. “Sorry about that. I’m screening calls today. I’m way behind with my article.”
“Then I wouldn’t keep you. I wanted to let you know that the hospital just called. Stubby’s taken a turn for the worse. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. You don’t have to come. I just thought you should know, that’s all.”
Cynthia’s throat tightened. “Thank you for telling me.” Her palms dampened and the brow over her left eye twitched. “Of course I’ll be there. I’ll leave in a few minutes.” She bit her tongue. Why had she said that? She no more wanted to go to the hospital than she wanted to continue sitting in front of a blank screen. But it was too late, now. If she didn’t go, she’d lose all credibility with Jonathan.
She hung up, then sat staring at her monitor like a zombie. Her prayers hadn’t worked for her sister, either. And now Stubby. How was she going to face it? The dying part, the burying part, the crying part, the guilt part? She shuddered when she felt a chill. Someone once told her you could feel death as it passed. But that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
“How’s it going, Wells?”
When she glanced up, Bernie’s pleasant expression changed to one of concern.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What’s wrong? That creep, Skinner, didn’t call here, did he?”
Cynthia shook her head. “It’s Stubby White. I think we’re going to lose him.” She felt Bernie’s hand rest on her shoulder. With a shy, awkward movement, she reached up and covered it with hers.
All the way to the hospital, Cynthia tried thinking of viable reasons for turning around and heading back to the office, but couldn’t. When she saw the huge brick and stucco building on the hill, her mouth went dry. As she pulled into the parking space, her head began to pound. And when she walked into the large, tiled entrance, her stomach felt like it had been given a-once-over by a bulldozer.
People die, Wells, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
She headed for ICU and recognized the nurse from her first visit.
“You’re Mr. White’s granddaughter.” The nurse winked. “Go right in.” Her voice lowered. “I don’t know how long he has left.”
Cynthia mumbled, “thank you,” and headed for Stubby’s room. She stopped at the door when she saw Jonathan sitting by the bed. She was glad he was already here. It would make things easier. She avoided looking at Stubby, and crept in. When Jonathan glanced up with tear-filled eyes, she took a deep breath.
This was it.
“Is he . . .
has he . . . .”
Jonathan rose and pushed his chair back so she could get closer to the bed. When she hesitated, he took her arm and drew her to him.
“Is he . . . dead?” she whispered.
Jonathan shook his head and smiled. “Something wonderful has happened. God has just told me He’s going to heal Stubby. He reminded me that ‘these signs will follow them that believe . . . they will lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.’ And I’ve just laid hands on Stubby and prayed for God to fulfill His word.”
Cynthia was wedged between the bed and Jonathan, and having no avenue of escape, finally looked at Stubby. He appeared worse than the last time she saw him. His face was sunken and even grayer, his breathing labored and shallow. She glanced at the heart monitor and saw the irregular blips on the screen. Even her untrained eyes knew distress when they saw it. She twisted around to look at Jonathan, her insides knotted by both anger and fear.
“That’s a cruel, crazy thing to say. Just look at him! He couldn’t get closer to death without being there.”
“When God tells me something, He’s faithful to perform it. I’m called to walk by faith, Cynthia, not by sight.”
“Well, I’m not!” She tried to get by him but couldn’t, so she just eased herself onto the nearby chair and began massaging her temples. “I know you’re not cruel, Jonathan. And I know you believe in what you say. But I don’t understand your faith. And what’s more, I don’t want to. It . . . scares me.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . it’s irrational. I’m a reporter. I believe in what I can see, and I believe in my instincts.”
Jonathan squatted by the chair, bringing his face level with hers. Concern and kindness filled his eyes. “I’ve come to learn you have good instincts. You knew there was a story at the mission and you were right, even if you may never prove it.”
Cynthia felt herself relax. “You think my instincts are good?”
“I think God has given you a gift, a talent if you will, for keen insight and sharp deductive reasoning.”
“Thank you . . . I think.”
“Don’t thank me, thank God.”
A slow smile spread over Cynthia’s face. “You’re the most persistent man I’ve ever met. And you’re mulish, too. Like me. You won’t rest until you get your point across. I can respect that.” Cynthia folded her hands on her lap and felt the perspiration between her fingers. “I don’t know if you’re right about Stubby, but I can tell you when I first walked into this hospital I was a wreck and now . . . I feel peace. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it’s a fact.” She glanced at the bed, then looked away. “I can’t explain it, just like, I suppose, you can’t explain why you believe Stubby’s going to be alright. But if it doesn’t happen the way you say, I think I’ll be able to handle it.”
Jonathan took her hand. “You know you have a friend who’s always ready and willing to help you handle your problems.”
“Thank you, Jonathan. That’s kind of . . . .”
“I was talking about Jesus. But you can include me, too.” He took her by the arm and helped her to her feet. “There’s no need to stay any longer. Let me walk you to your car.”
All the way to the parking lot, Cynthia felt strangely lighthearted. It was irrational. But oddly enough, she loved it; loved the feeling she was a leaf the wind had taken up and was now twirling in the air. And for once she didn’t want to analyze. She just wanted to revel in the fact that she no longer felt afraid or burdened. Maybe later she’d examine it. Pull it apart and ask the tough questions. But for now, she’d just let it be. She allowed Jonathan to do all the talking, to fill the space with small talk about Miss Emily and Effie. She barely listened.
Before she knew it, Cynthia found herself by her car. She unlocked it and let Jonathan open the door. She slipped in and was surprised to see him linger, almost hanging on the door, and staring at her like a little boy facing a trip to the principal’s office.
“What’s wrong?”
“This is awkward, but, do you think you could stand going out with a preacher just one more time?”
Cynthia’s heart jumped. He was asking for a date. The thought pleased her. “I suppose so. If you could stand going out with an older woman.”
Relief washed over his face. “Aunt Adel is going to owe me big time.”
“Aunt Adel?”
“She has a friend, not a friend exactly; it’s the church secretary, Gertie Eldridge. Anyway, she . . . they . . . found out we went to dinner together and now are pestering me for an introduction.”
“Oh . . . well . . . sure.” Pestering?
“They had hoped it would be for dinner or maybe lunch. Whatever you prefer.”
“Dinner’s easier. Sometimes I work through lunch.”
“Okay. How about tonight? This way we can get it over with.”
“Oh . . . well . . . sure.” Get it over with? Cynthia rummaged in her purse and pulled out a business card. She turned it over and wrote down her home phone number. “Let me know the time and place. If I’m not home, put it on my machine.”
“Should I pick you up?”
“No. I’ll meet you. It’s easier.” She thought he looked relieved.
“Okay. And thanks for being such a good sport.”
After starting her car, Cynthia peeled out, leaving Jonathan standing in a cloud of fumes. She could hardly keep from laughing because of what she had been thinking. A date? He hadn’t wanted a date. He just wanted to fulfill, as quickly as possible, something he had obviously been pressured into doing. She hadn’t gone half a mile when she realized how terribly disappointed she was.
Cynthia pounded her keyboard, filling her monitor with three lines of Ds for deadline. She wasn’t going to make hers. Bernie asked to see her piece no later than tomorrow to determine if he wanted to do a simultaneous photo essay. But if tomorrow was a hundred hours away instead of twenty-four, she still wouldn’t have it ready. She tapped out two lines of Cs for can’t, can’t, can’t. Then she filled five lines with Ms. Mad. That’s what Bernie was going to be.
“How’s it going, Wells?”
Cynthia shrank in her seat. If Bernie asked her that one more time she was going to scream. When he leaned over her shoulder she minimized the screen.
“What’s all that gobbledygook I saw?”
“You know I hate it when you try to see my work before it’s finished.”
Bernie plopped on her desk, not even bothering to move the folders scattered over the top. She wondered how he could possibly be comfortable, then saw him wiggle his bottom like a chicken getting ready to brood over an egg.
“So what have you got for me?”
“Be patient. You can’t rush a masterpiece.”
“A masterpiece? Now, you’ve got my interest. Every time you come up with a great story, circulation jumps. The front office will love that.”
“Speaking of the front office, how are the sharks, Bernie?” Cynthia saw a worried look come over his face and tried not to smile.
“All they’ve been talking about lately is the Hunter News Corp. Did you know Hunter just unloaded their Canadian papers?”
“Not surprised. Last year they sold all forty-nine of their U.S. papers. The year before that, their UK interests. Everywhere you turn, it’s consolidation madness run amuck.”
“The front office keeps reminding me that’s the only way to survive. They keep telling me it’s all about profit opportunities, long-term situations, accessible markets, economies of scale. It seems that the newspaper game has become synonymous with capital chasing.”
Cynthia laughed, then stopped when she saw the look on Bernie’s face. “Sorry. But that’s why you get the big bucks. Somebody has to deal with them.”
“They’re all bean counters. Not a reporter among them as far as I’m concerned. Journalism graduates who defected to business. Oh, my mistake. One of them did a few side-bars twenty years ago.”
“Side-bars?” Cynthia burst out la
ughing.
“Keep it up, Wells, and you’ll be chum. The sharks are always looking for extraneous salaries to cut, then regurgitate to their bottom line.
“You saying I’m expendable?”
“Everyone’s expendable, including me. And you know when money stops pouring into the cash register, the front office starts pouring into our backyard. Sniffing under computers and desks and wherever else they think they can find a dollar to cut.”
“You’ve always been the voice of reason. So reason with them.” Cynthia noticed how tired Bernie looked. “You’ve done a great job so far. Nobody will ever know the number of jobs you’ve saved over the years. But I bet it’s enough to fill half this press room.”
Bernie slid off the desk and Cynthia watched him rub an obviously sore posterior.
“Did they bloody you this time?”
Bernie sighed. “Just make sure you get that story in on time. Make me look good. I don’t want to end up at the copy desk. And like I said, Wells, everyone’s expendable. I hear they are looking for someone in archives, so watch out. A transfer to the basement might be in your future.”
Cynthia gave him one of her superior smiles and waited until he was half way back to his office before maximizing her screen. Then she began typing several lines of Es.
For expendable.
By the time Cynthia got home, she was in no mood to go out with what’s-her-name, Aunt Adie? Maybe there’d be a message from Jonathan telling her the whole thing was off.
She was still nowhere on her story. She should’ve told Bernie the truth. Better now than later, and just let him explode and get it over with. His anger didn’t bother her as much as the feeling she was letting him down. But if she went with her story the way it was now, it would only be half a story. She wanted more. She wanted to give Bernie something he’d be proud of.
She poked her head in the refrigerator and pulled out a wedge of Gouda. After cutting a few slices, she carried them to the bedroom. She nibbled them while listening to her messages: someone wanted to repaint her apartment, someone else wanted to shampoo her carpets—three rooms for the price of two; another wanted a contribution for their “Save the Park Fund,” then Jonathan’s.
Mercy at Midnight Page 24
