“Thank you.” I wait until both are distracted with their clients to pick up and dial. After the usual rigmarole, I get to the tip line. Approximating my best hick accent, I say, “My second cousin’s ex-girlfriend goes by the name Bronwen Evangelista, which is silly ’cause her Mama named her Blanche. Anyway, she does this whole psychic scheme. I usually don’t care how she hustles, but she was bragging about stealing from a kid, and it sounded like she hurt him. You should look into her.”
“Do you have a full name and address?”
“I surely do,” I read out the info from the notepad.
“What is your name, sir?”
“Oh, I’d rather not say. I ain’t no rat, but I draw the line at hurting kids.”
“Can you—?”
I hang up before she can ask any more questions.
I wave to the stylists, who wave back, and exit the store. Once in the car, I slide into the plush leather seat, smiling. “I’ve saved a life and caught a bad guy. Balanced against my petty crimes, I guess that makes us even,” I say to the Father. It doesn’t feel right though. “I’m not sure Sharila will think these deeds make up for leaving her broke and broken. Or all the other people I fleeced. I doubt they’d say, ‘He saved a boy’s life. That’s so heroic! I don’t care about the twenty thou he stole from me anymore.’ So then how does it work? I’ve got more than a dozen years’ worth of nefarious deeds. How would I ever make that right with you?”
“Christianity’s foundation is that original sin and all subsequent sin separates man from God. In order to reconcile this separation, God sent his son Jesus Christ as a sacrifice to pay the punishment of said sin.” The chip’s quote floats through my mind.
“No, things don’t work that way. Nothing is ever free. There are strings attached,” I think over my time in Jax, from Marvin forward everything that happened to me was orchestrated by the Father. “I guess in reality, the whole week here has been one big string. We get forgiveness, you get a follower.”
“Father to the Fatherless,” echoes through the SUV.
“Not a follower, a son.” I think about my own drunken, abusive, carousing father. “I don’t know what it means to be a son. You’ve spoken to me more than my dad ever did. What do you expect from me?”
“If you love me, obey my commandments.”
“I’m not so big on obeying. What if I fail? And what are these commandments anyway? Stupid question. There’s a whole book, right? And you definitely have a way of making yourself known.” I chuckle. “Wait a minute. I didn’t believe you existed at the beginning. How did you know I’d cooperate? Another stupid question. You reached out to me in two different centuries. Time means nothing to you. I imagine you knew what I would do a long, long time ago. That could mess up my brain if I think about it too much.”
Suddenly, Hank’s stomach announces its presence. With the insistence of Simon’s cat, it shouts, “Feed Me!” Now that all the urgency and adrenaline of the day is worn off, I am hungry. Starving. I skipped breakfast, and it’s deep into the afternoon. Nearby, a sign beckons me to bliss—Longhorn. I promised myself a steak days ago, and I’m sure this would be part of Hank’s “logical and conventional daily activities.” Although that concept has flown the coop, I still want to be mindful of what Hank would do. That’s just good tradecraft. Time for the early bird special.
Rare, seared on both sides, tender and juicy in the middle, the sirloin practically melts in my mouth. I gulp down the loaded baked potato in a few mouthfuls, creamy, salty, and sour blending in every portion. Topping it all off, is the dry sweetness of cheesecake. I hope Hankster isn’t a diabetic. I forgot to check his meds.
As I sip on the last vestiges of my Coke, I ponder my next move. I need to get the cash to Lydia. A smart grifter would drop it in the mail. When the job is done, cut and run. And I’m a smart grifter, but this whole situation changed the rules. My every action today has been not only not savvy, but downright dumb. I want to know Davey will be okay. I want to talk to her one more time. I sip again hearing the satisfying slurp meaning I’ve hit the bottom of the glass. “Dumb, it is.”
The cash might be a problem. Knowing Lydia, she won’t accept more than was taken, if she accepts the money at all. What to do with the remainder? I spy a church across the street. Wandering over, I find a mail slot in the side door. I take out the notepad and jot, “For the fatherless Psalm 68:5.” Wrapping the paper around the remaining $112, I drop it through the slot.
“I kinda wish good deeds counted, ’cause I am on a roll today!” I punch Shands hospital into the GPS and head toward Stupidville.
When I enter the ICU waiting room, Lydia looks up at me with a smile. “It’s you.”
“How is he?” I ask taking the seat across from her.
“The doctors can’t believe he’s still alive. They’re calling him a miracle. For once, they don’t know how right they are. God is good. I’m still in awe. I don’t imagine that will change anytime soon.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“They’ve got him on IV antibiotics. They’ll need to operate on the ankle when he’s stable, but they think they can save it. Fill him with all kinds of hardware. He’ll need a lot of PT.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry I didn’t find him sooner.”
“Are you crazy? He’s alive because of you. We owe you everything.”
“Speaking of owing,” I say, handing her the cash.
“What’s this?”
“The Rock the Universe money.”
“I can’t take this from you.”
“You’re not. Let’s just say Blanche, Bronwen, saw the error of her ways and returned it.”
“Detective Diaz called me and said they had her in custody. There was an anonymous call on the tipline. That was you?”
“It takes a grifter to catch a con artist.”
“Wow! How did you—”
“It wasn’t hard. She’s not that bright, really. She’s a blight on the profession.”
“So that’s what you’re doing time for? Conning people.”
“Yes. My mom taught me. It was how we got by.”
“You’ve had such a hard life,” she puts her hand on mine. It’s soft and warm. Here she is, in the depths of despair, and she’s comforting me.
“I survived. What’s the plan for you now?”
“I have no idea and don’t want to think about it anymore. I hear nothing for days, and then the last few hours there’s been a glut of information and adrenaline. I’m exhausted. I’d rather talk about you. I have so many questions! What’s it like in the future? Is there space travel? Do people fly? Huh, I just realized. You’ve done so much for us, and I don’t even know your name.”
I look into her open face and find I’m not afraid. Not even the slightest hint of trepidation stirs. My defenses aren’t just down; they’re gone. Is this what it feels like to trust someone?
“My name is Smullian, an unfortunate moniker given to me by my mother. Its origins have something to do with a pirate and a stolen barrel of Zevekan gin…”
EPILOGUE
SAME DAY, DIFFERENT THING
An alarm rings from across the room. I stumble out of bed searching for it, change my mind and head to the bathroom. It continues beeping while I take care of my beastly business. This place isn’t much bigger than an airplane bathroom. I’m wedged in here like a semarine in its hole. I briefly take into account the room, small, orderly, while I track down the source of sound. I find the phone, alarm blaring, on a desk on the far side of the room. The word ‘far’ is a bit generous. The desk is barely two feet from the bed.
A lanyard lies next to the phone. A brown face with dark eyes and a serious smile emits from the surface. “Anand Bhatnagar D. V., IDC,” I read out loud. “IDC? Probably a call center. Ugh. Hope it’s not outbound.” I shuffle through Anand’s very clean desk. With a place this small, one can’t afford to be messy. Thankfully, I find his password book and work schedule in a matter of seconds. Time is esse
ntial. I have somewhere to be before his shift starts. A quick Google search shows me I’m in Bangalore and where I want to go is on the way to IDC.
The chip in my brain tells me that Bangalore’s population exceeds New York City’s by a few million. “Traffic’s gonna be awful. I better high-tail it. I want as much time as I can eek out.” Throwing on the nearest set of clothes from the wardrobe, I grab the necessary accoutrements for the day and head out the door. Anand’s bright red Hero starts up easily, and soon I’m zipping in and out of the congested traffic on the sleek motorbike.
It’s been 41 days since Hank, and The Powers-That-Be at Life Mod don’t have a clue about what I did, as far as I know. Not a peep from the future. My program is progressing as normal. 148 days to go. No hiccoughs from the Father, either. Although I am spending a lot of free time reading his word. Research. I put my trust in this guy, or this being, whatever. I need to know all I can about him. I don’t always understand it, but more of it makes sense than I thought would. The Bible says that’s the Holy Spirit’s job. I’m still wrapping my head around the whole Trinity thing.
Horns are not optional here in Bangalore. They are an essential piece of the car’s safety equipment. Honking, in dissonant keys, reverberates around me. The sound spurs me on to my destination.
The doctors did save Davey’s foot, and he is putting in some grueling hours of PT. But his attitude is baffling to those around him. His brooding manner evaporated after the pit. He doesn’t complain or whine and embraces each challenge with a smile. He knows how close he came to death. Madds remains by his side, and the two canoodle to the point of being revolting.
Was that street filled with piles of garbage? Huh. I guess Bangalore has grown too fast for the infrastructure to keep up. Need a landfill? No problem—here’s an abandoned street. Nonplussed by his strange actions, Hank felt that the Father had used him that day to accomplish his will. To him, the vague memories only mean that the Holy Spirit was in control. He believes his duties don’t end with finding Davey. In essence, he’s become Lydia’s and David’s adoptive grandfather, the three of them creating their own family. Hank often drives Davey to PT and doctor appointments, as well as sharing dinner with the kids multiple nights a week. In fact, there are talks of the Hawthornes moving in with him. That way, Lydia could quit working and go to school full time. Her independent streak makes her a little resistant to the prospect. She doesn’t want to take advantage of Hank. I think, in the end, she’ll accept the offer.
I reach the internet cafe and trot inside. Twenty minutes will have to do. The woman at the counter takes my ID and cash. I sign up for a computer and head to the farthest one from the door. I log into Gmail and enter an address known only by one other person in the world. The inbox indicates mail from feistygrrl21. I made the account; I got to pick the username.
I open it.
“Hello Smullian, Who are you today?” It reads.
Who am I indeed?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nancy Jo Wilson was published in her local paper and won various writing contests in high school, including a scholarship from the state of TN. Her first novel, Escape the Amoz, placed second in the science fiction category of the 2009 Do It Write! competition. She blogs about faith and homeschooling on her website, six5mom.com. Nancy’s articles have appeared in Practical Homeschooling and MauMag magazine. Contact her through her website www.nancyjowilsonauthor.com. A Jacksonville, FL native, she now resides in Thomaston, GA with her family.
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