Gideon felt disoriented. Samantha Cleaveland had left a distinct impression on him, but he could not figure out what it was. Yes, he was repulsed by the lavish exhibit of wealth: the shameless disregard for the sacrifices made by members of her church to maintain a lifestyle that would make most Hollywood celebrities jealous.
Yet Samantha Cleaveland was undeniably one of the most beautiful women he had ever been in the presence of. The way she carried her body through space, the sensuous, almost breathy tone of her voice, which seemed to echo in his head, when she spoke. Only a woman like that could eclipse the timeless splendor of Picasso. Only Samantha Cleaveland could make you look away from the breathtaking city and ocean views when she walked into the room.
Every piece of exquisitely designed furniture in her home was in exactly the right place. Every jardiniere and statue was positioned perfectly to display its beauty and craftsmanship. Every exotic flower was pointed in the precise direction to capture the light and reveal its humble magnificence to the fullest. But still it all paled in Samantha Cleaveland’s presence. It all seemed to fade into the background when the woman entered the room.
An intoxicating vapor seeped from her pores. Her seductive brown eyes invited those under her gaze to let down their defenses and trust the pearls that dripped from her red lips. However, Gideon couldn’t help but sense that there was something sinister lurking just beneath the well-polished veneer, something simmering behind the sparkle in her eyes. A thing that was capable of destroying anything, and anyone, in her path to protect and maintain what she had made.
That was the Samantha Cleaveland that he now knew he must expose. He wanted his viewers to see the real Pastor Samantha Cleaveland. More importantly, he wanted to see her for himself.
I wonder if she knew about her husband’s alleged affair with a man, Gideon thought. She doesn’t strike me as the type that would look the other way. She’s got too much to lose. I think it’s time for me to meet this Mr. Danny St. John.
Chapter 7
Danny had managed to shave, shower, and dress himself that morning. His boss had called the day before and told him he had missed too many days in the last month and he either had to get a doctor’s note or come in to work the next day.
“I can’t keep covering for you, Danny,” he’d said in a sympathetic yet firm tone. “I’m worried about you. Are you doing any better? You haven’t told me what’s wrong with you, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to but . . .”
“I understand Gregg, and I appreciate you not pressuring me. I’m sorry I’ve missed so many days, but I’m doing much better now. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
The large room in the homeless drop-in center in the skid row section of downtown was filled with haggard and weather-beaten men and women who had survived another night on the streets of Los Angeles. Some were watching television on a big screen, while others sat quietly, sipping tepid coffee from paper cups. Old women surrounded by plastic shopping bags and bundled in tattered coats huddled against walls, trying to be invisible. Young children clutched their mother’s thighs as they spoke to attentive social workers in cubicles piled with boxes of clothing donations.
A group of six men sat on folding chairs in a corner and exchanged stories they had accumulated from the night before. “The cops showed up at three o’clock in the fucking morning and made us pack up all our shit and move out of the park,” a little man with sunburnt skin and a missing front tooth said to the captivated group. “Bastards took my shopping cart and everything I couldn’t carry away in my arms.”
“Some strung-out crackhead tried to rob me last night over on Sixth Street,” another began. “Son of a bitch pulled a knife on me.” The man then lifted his shirt and showed the group a gash that ran from his left nipple to his belly button. “Cut me here, took my last fucking beer and all the money I panhandled yesterday.”
Some attempted to wash away the city’s dirt in the facility’s shower area, while others slept in heaps on the floor, trying to recover from a night of aimless wandering.
Danny sat in his cubicle. There were eighty-seven e-mails waiting for his attention, and the red blinking light on his telephone indicated there were twenty-eight messages waiting to be heard.
The cubicle was only large enough to fit two chairs in front of his desk. The five-foot-high gray carpet–covered partitions offered little privacy for the exchange of often personal details between client and social worker. A picture of Parker, Danny’s cat, was pinned to one of the cubical walls and surrounded by flyers announcing the latest shelter opening, food basket giveaway programs, free clinics, and dozens of other services available to his clients.
A weathered old man sat across his desk. Danny could smell the stale remnants of Night Train and cigarettes on his breath. His grizzled hair and mustache were stained yellow, and his face and hands were covered in dried blood and scabs. The heavy jacket he wore was covered in dirt from every corner of the city, and his left big toe stuck out from the tip of his worn over shoes.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” the old man sputtered. “Somebody stole my County debit card last week. I need that card, man. I ain’t been able to get my medical marijuana in over a week now.”
Even though Danny had heard the sad story a thousand times before, his eyes were filled with a compassion that comforted the weary homeless man more than any words he could have spoken. Danny would listen intently to every tragic story he was told as if it were the first time he had ever heard it. He made a point of looking directly into the eyes of each person who sat at his desk and, as often as possible, shook their hand regardless of how grimy they looked. When appropriate, he would gently touch the shoulder of those beaten down by life. No person he encountered was unworthy of his time, compassion, and expertise.
The noise in the drop-in center made it difficult for Danny to speak to the man. Wobbly shopping cart wheels clanked against the cement floor, multiple conversations meshed into an indecipherable hum, and children cried in their mother’s arms.
“I’m sorry to hear about your card being stolen,” Danny said to the man. “I’ll contact your eligibility worker and request that another be sent to you here as soon as possible. When we’re done here, you should go to the dining area and get something to eat.”
The man did not respond, but Danny could see the sense of relief in his face. As the two men continued their conversation, Danny noticed the noise level in the center had dropped to a whisper. The only sounds he heard were the occasional sniffle, cough of a small child, and Judge Judy on the big-screen television.
What’s going on out there now? he thought to himself. Then, suddenly, the center’s receptionist appeared at the opening of his cubicle. “Danny,” said the young Asian woman wearing faded denim jeans and a baggy white sweatshirt, with a sense of excitement in her voice, “there’s someone here to see you. He said it’s very important.”
Danny looked annoyed by the interruption. “Have they signed up on my list? I’ve already got nine people in the lobby waiting to see me.”
The receptionist’s excitement level increased slightly. “No, he’s not on your list, Danny,” she replied discreetly.
“He’s not a client, Danny, and I think you should see him as soon as possible.”
Danny could see the disappointment on the old man’s face. “He’s going to have to wait. This is not a good time,” he said to the anxious receptionist.
To his surprise a broad smile appeared on her face. She walked closer to the desk. With her back to the old man, she looked Danny directly in the eye and said through her smile, “Trust me, Danny, you don’t want to make this guy wait.”
Danny looked puzzled but agreed. “Okay,” he said grudgingly. “As soon as I’m done with Mr. Wycliffe, you can send him in.”
The oddly delighted receptionist hurriedly exited the cubicle. Danny returned his attention to the man. “I’m sorry about that interruption, Mr. Wycliffe. Where were we?”
Da
nny spent another fifteen minutes with the man, filling out documents, making telephone calls on his behalf, and loading him up with clean socks, vitamins, and a bar of soap. The old man slowly stuffed the items into his coat pocket and staggered from the cubicle. Before Danny could place the document he had completed into a file, the receptionist appeared again at the entrance to his cubicle.
“Danny,” she said in a now professional tone, “Mr. Gideon Truman is here to see you.”
Danny froze in place. The documents he held were suspended above the manila file folder. A look of surprise and curiosity came across his face as Gideon Truman appeared in the entrance to his cubicle.
When Gideon saw Danny sitting behind the wooden desk in the cluttered cubicle, he saw a world of sharply conflicting contrasts. Danny’s rich brown skin seemed to flicker in the dingy cubicle like a firefly trapped in a jar. His eyes were so clear, they seemed almost transparent. The purity in his eyes forced Gideon to avert his gaze for the briefest of seconds. His perfectly carved shoulders and chiseled swimmer’s frame were surrounded by rickety metal bookshelves stacked with worn binders and tattered books containing the once latest treatments for alcoholism, borderline personality disorders, and chronic substance abuse.
Gideon was paralyzed at the sight of the beautiful young man. For a brief moment he was oblivious to the smell and sound of the human misery within the walls of the homeless drop-in center. The man that sat before him had overwhelmed his senses. His thoughts went immediately to Hezekiah Cleaveland. He must have been a hell-of-a-man to attract two such uncommonly beautiful people.
Danny looked suspiciously up at Gideon and waited for him to speak.
Gideon willed himself back to the task at hand. “Hello, Mr. St. John,” he sputtered, regaining control.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at work, but I was very anxious to speak with you.”
Danny placed the papers in the file, stood up, and cautiously shook Gideon’s warm hand.
“My name is Gideon Truman.”
“I know who you are,” Danny replied.
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately? I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“You can use the conference room, Danny,” the receptionist interjected. “There’s no one in there now.”
Danny again looked irritated at the eager receptionist. “Thank you,” he said, motioning for her to leave. He turned to Gideon. “I’m not authorized to speak to the media on behalf of this agency. You’ll have to speak with my boss. I believe he’s in his office. You can wait here and I’ll get . . .”
Gideon looked intently at Danny as he spoke. He couldn’t help but notice the long eyelashes that seemed to flutter in slow motion as his lids opened and closed. To Gideon’s eye, Danny was enveloped in a warm and inviting mist that seemed to emanate from his core. The air around him was somehow immune to the stench that filled the rest of the drop-in center.
Gideon hadn’t expected to meet such a beautiful man in the bowels of skid row. Danny’s voice echoed in Gideon’s head in the same way Samantha’s had. His voice was hypnotic. In this encounter it became plausible that this man was Hezekiah Cleaveland’s lover. He understood clearly how a powerful man could fall in love with Danny St. John. It would be harder to believe that he could resist.
“Danny, may I call you Danny? This isn’t about the homeless. I’d like to speak with you about Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland.”
Again Danny froze in place. Struggling to regain his composure, he said slowly, “Hezekiah Cleaveland? Isn’t he the pastor who was killed recently?”
“Yes, he is, Danny. Did you know him?”
Danny feigned surprise and forced a laugh. “Why would I have known Hezekiah Cleaveland?”
The two men locked eyes for what seemed forever. Then Gideon looked over the five-foot-high cubicle partition and saw that every eye in the cavernous waiting area was looking in his direction. The eager receptionist had returned to her counter but watched his every move. The group of men who had been exchanging war stories in the corner was silent. Pairs of beady eyes peered from beneath piles of sooty clothes on the floor. All activity in the room had stopped. Gideon was comfortable with the attention, but he felt the need to protect Danny, for reasons he could not understand at the moment.
“Danny I would really prefer it if we had this conversation in private.”
Danny also saw the effect Gideon’s presence had on the facility. He walked from behind his desk and simply said, “Follow me.”
Gideon followed Danny through a maze of cubicles; eyes were peeping out at every turn. Gideon smiled as someone greeted him. “Hey, aren’t you Gideon Truman?”
“Yes, I am,” he replied politely.
“Danny, you in some kind of trouble?” came from another cubicle.
The two entered a dark room together. Danny turned on a light, which flickered and sputtered before it fully lit the room, revealing dingy white walls. Four small folding tables were arranged in the center of the room to form one larger conference table, which dominated the stark space. It was surrounded by a hodgepodge of twelve tattered plastic, worn fabric, and faded leather chairs. Posters of wide-eyed children pleading for compassion and homeless men looking longingly into the camera hung on the walls. A large, round white-faced clock with bold black numbers ticked loudly as the second hand propelled the two men forward in time.
Gideon closed the door. “Would you like to sit down?”
“I’d rather stand,” Danny responded curtly. “I don’t have much time. There are nine clients waiting for me . . .”
“I understand. I’ll get straight to the point. I’m doing a story on the life and death of Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland. Your name came up during an interview with someone who worked very closely with him. So I’ll ask you again. Did you know Pastor Cleaveland?”
“I’ve already told you I didn’t know him.”
Gideon reached into the breast pocket of his coat, removed a sheet of neatly folded white paper, and handed it to Danny.
“Do you recognize this e-mail, Danny?”
Danny unfolded the paper and read silently.
From: Danny St. John
Sent: Wednesday, December 16, 2010 9:37 A.M.
To: Hezekiah Cleaveland
Subject: Re: Lunch
Okay. See you then. I love you too.
D.
Danny St. John
Social Worker
Los Angeles Homeless Drop-In Center
From: Hezekiah Cleaveland
Sent: Wednesday, December 16, 2010 9:36 A.M.
To: Danny St. John
Subject: Lunch
I miss you, Danny. Are you free for lunch today at two o’clock? I’ll pick you up at work.
Love you,
Hez
Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland
New Testament Cathedral
Los Angeles, California
Remember, God loves you and so do we.
Danny remembered the e-mail as if he had just received it that morning. His hand began to tremble slightly as he reached for a chair at the table and sat down. “Where did you get this?” he asked without looking at Gideon.
“I can’t tell you that, Danny. But I can tell you I’ve seen dozens of other e-mails between you and Hezekiah.”
Danny sat motionless, staring at the white paper.
Without thinking, Gideon walked next to him, placed his hand on his shoulder, and gently said, “I’m very sorry for your loss. I can tell from the e-mails that he loved you very much.”
The gentle touch of Gideon’s hand and his kind words released a single tear from Danny’s welling eyes. He could almost smell Hezekiah in the room. The weight of Gideon’s hand on his shoulder made him remember Hezekiah’s touch; and the salty tear, the taste of his lips.
Gideon sat down in the chair next to him and covered the hand that held the white paper with his own. “How long were you together?”
Danny had no wall to hide behind. There was
no hedge to duck under. His emotions had again bubbled to the surface for all to see. “Two years,” he replied softly.
“You must feel very alone now that he is gone,” Gideon said instinctively. There was no hint of guile, no clue of an ulterior motive or tone of deception in his voice. He could feel Danny’s pain as if it were his own. Although his eyes were dry, he still felt the moisture of Danny’s tears on his own cheeks, as if they each had fallen from his own eyes. Gideon had never felt the pain that accompanied the loss of someone so loved, but today he felt the pain that was the companion of sorrow.
Gideon released Danny’s hand and put his arm around his shoulders. Danny rested his head on the nape of his neck and wilted into his comforting embrace. Gideon was helpless as the pain melded them into one. He couldn’t tell if the gentle sobbing was coming from his lips or from the man in his arms. Loneliness enveloped the two like a damp blanket and made their bodies quiver from the cold.
“It’s okay, Danny,” he whispered. “I know Hezekiah loved you.”
When Danny heard the words, his cries deepened.
“I know that you loved him too,” Gideon continued.
“I did,” Danny said through his tears. “I loved him, and he loved me.”
The raw confession of love released the first tear from Gideon’s closed eyes. He didn’t question the source of the tear, because it seemed natural and right. In that moment he wasn’t the hard-hitting investigative reporter. He wasn’t the award-winning newscaster or the host of a syndicated television show viewed by millions. He was simply a man who held in his arms someone he felt he had loved forever.
When Sunday Comes Again Page 9
