Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  Cynthia sat in Bernie Hobbs’s office hoping he wouldn’t notice that her makeup was heavier than usual. If he did, he’d know it concealed something—like those dark circles under her eyes. Then he’d try to force an explanation. How could she explain all those nights of sleep deprivation?

  Would the nightmares never end?

  Now, if Bernie would just provide the cure, albeit unwittingly, by approving her proposal. She desperately needed to immerse herself in a story. Fix her mind on something other than vapor.

  “I don’t like it,” Bernie bellowed with authority, but even so Cynthia detected the sweetness that coated his words like honey glaze. “This whole scheme of yours sounds too dangerous. If I thought there was something to your hunch, I’d say maybe the risk was warranted, but this story has no legs.”

  Sweetness or not, it wasn’t what Cynthia wanted to hear. “You’ve always said I had the nose of an aardvark, that I could burrow under anything and find a story. I’m telling you there’s something here.”

  “If it is, it’s well hidden.”

  Cynthia watched Bernie mutilate a paper clip, twisting it into the shape of a pretzel. A good sign. It meant he was considering the idea. “But these people will only talk to their own. To get the story I’ve got to go undercover.”

  Bernie tossed the paper clip into the pail next to his feet and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Why this sudden obsession with the homeless? I hope you’re not planning a sob-sister piece. Your readers won’t stand for it. They’ve come to expect solid, gritty reporting not hearts and flowers.”

  “You’ll get grit, I promise, or I won’t do the piece.”

  “You know how dangerous it is for a woman on the street?”

  “I plan to make myself as unattractive as possible.”

  “That won’t make any difference. A bag lady’s an easy target for . . . for all kinds of predators. Have you thought this through?”

  Cynthia nodded. “I’ve thought of nothing else. I want this, Bernie. Please. Let me do it.” She was sure this kind of harsh assignment that required her to leave her comfort zone and forced her into an unfamiliar and hostile environment would serve as shock therapy, bring her back to her old self, make her shed this obsession with the dead and dying and hopefully . . . end her nightmares. She leaned back in her chair wondering if she looked as desperate as she felt.

  Bernie muttered something under his breath then cupped his baby-pink cheeks in his hands and sighed. “How much time would you need?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “I’ll give you one.”

  “Two.”

  “All right, you’ve got it—against my better judgment. But I want you phoning in every day.”

  “Done,” Cynthia replied, able to keep the elation from her voice by concentrating on the pain in her back. It had gone into spasms from the hard seat. “Bernie, you need to do something about this chair.”

  “You come back with a great story and I’ll buy a new one just for you.”

  Jonathan wiped his hand on his jeans, then pushed strands of blond hair away from his eyes. Every muscle in his body ached. Not since his college days had he worked this hard, physically.

  “Looks like you’re not going to get another thing in here,” Miss Emily said, bustling into the pantry. “You’ve been stocking all morning and there are several cases you haven’t even touched.”

  “That was generous of the S&S Market.”

  Miss Emily’s eyebrows arched. “Generous? It’s the biggest delivery S&S has ever made to the mission.” She moved closer to Jonathan. “We’ve also received a sizable delivery from Everyday Ladies Wear. And wait till you see what Jolson’s Men Shop sent. I started sifting through it—a whole crate of slacks and shirts, marked ‘irregular’ and another two crates of belts, shoes, socks, underwear, plus assorted sweaters and sweatshirts. Henry Jolson told me this stuff had been on the sales rack too long and needed culling. But Jonathan, I didn’t see one tag reflecting a discount. I don’t believe this stuff came from the sales rack at all. And I bet he wrote ‘irregular’ on that crate himself, so we wouldn’t know just how generous he was.”

  “Yes . . . it’s amazing. All morning I’ve gotten calls from other merchants wishing us well and promising to help in the future, some even financially. I’m overwhelmed, and a little . . . ashamed.”

  “Ashamed?” Miss Emily squinted at Jonathan. “Oh . . . you were doubting the Lord, is that it? Well, you might be young and inexperienced, but as sure as God made little green apples, He’s going to see you through. Next thing you know, He’ll start sending you staff. You got your first last night.”

  Jonathan laughed. “Stubby? You think he’ll stay?”

  Miss Emily nodded.

  “Well, you know him better than I do.”

  “And others will come, too. You’ll see. And there will be miracles happening here. God’s going to send revival. People are going to be saved, healed, delivered. He’s going to do a new thing at this mission. Yes, sir, He’s going to gather up those precious souls on the sidewalks and alleys all around here, just like a mother hen gathers her chicks.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. And you know how I know? Because He’s already given you the anointing. I saw it last night, and knew. And that surprised me a little.”

  “Because I’m young and inexperienced?”

  Miss Emily’s blue eyes twinkled. “No. Because your heart isn’t in it, yet. But it will be. You wait and see. You may not love this place and these people, now, not like you should, not like God wants you to, but you will.”

  Cynthia sat at her Chippendale desk staring at the two cards in front of her. Her birthday had snuck up on her. She couldn’t believe she was thirty. She hadn’t even thought about it until she got the cards. She had read them three times. Two cards. How had her life shrunk to this? She reopened one. Love Bernie. Then the other. Love Mom. Bernie Hobbs and Mom. Were they the only people in the world who remembered her—who cared if she was alive and well and growing older? She felt depressed. Not even Steve sent a card. But what could she expect?

  You can’t dump a guy then expect him to remember your birthday.

  Already, the morning was gone and she had nothing done. Her new assignment had created a whopper of a “to-do” list, one of which was going to the thrift shop and getting half a dozen “bag-lady” outfits. If only she could get herself going instead of reading and rereading those two silly cards and brooding. Still . . . a person shouldn’t be alone on her birthday. It smacked of deficiency. Mom or Bernie would be happy to spend time with her, but she was the one who didn’t want to. And of course calling Steve was out of the question, though she was embarrassed that she had picked up the phone twice and hung up.

  She rose from her desk, with cards in hand, walked several feet then plopped on the couch.

  What was her problem?

  She had begged Bernie for this assignment. Now that she had it, she couldn’t get herself going. She supposed it was because she had gotten little sleep last night thanks to the same nightmare. But having the nightmare twice in one night was a first. That had rattled her. She needed a good rest. Maybe she should take the day off. After all, a birthday only came once a year. It might be the perfect prescription for what ailed her. But what would she do with it? Go to the movies? Read? Watch TV and eat chocolate? Sleep?

  She scanned the living room as though looking for a clue. Navy blue walls with seven-inch white molding across the top and bottom made her think of a safe, cozy nest. A red and white floral couch and loveseat filled the center of the room, along with a walnut end table and coffee table—both with carved cabriole legs and brass feet. An antique walnut bookcase hugged the back wall and her Chippendale desk faced the single French door through which she could see the sun outline the branches of a large maple, several dozen azaleas and a small flower garden.

  Her gaze lingered on the view outside the French door.

  Outside.

>   It was becoming a chore to go anywhere. Maybe Bernie was right. Maybe she was burnt out. Maybe she shouldn’t have pressed so hard for this story, even though she still thought it was the right thing to do—maybe the only thing, considering her other therapeutic options—sleeping pills or a psychiatrist. She took a deep breath and smelled lemon oil and pine. She loved her clean, tidy apartment. Now, she was leaving it for two weeks to go to God knows where.

  As a bag lady.

  She hoped going out into the world as someone else would help her face her dark secret once and for all, see it from a new perspective, maybe lay it to rest.

  Forever.

  But if that were her sole reason for wanting this assignment she would have felt guilty for conning sweet, lovable Bernie like that. The fact remained she was still a reporter; still knew a story when she saw one. And she still cared; cared that some agencies used illegal aliens as nannies; cared when state officials took trips to Vegas or LA or Bali and charged it to the taxpayers.

  She wondered how long she could go on caring. Because the more she cared, the less she liked what she saw, and the less she wanted to be part of the world. Still, she couldn’t just lay on a couch for the rest of her life. Unless, of course, she followed her mom’s advice and “secured a husband.” But from what Cynthia had seen, there wasn’t much in that department that interested her, either.

  She forced herself to rise, then went to the kitchen. On the table, spread out over a vinyl drop cloth, was her latest project—a 15 X 10 inch painting of wildflowers in a white porcelain vase. Cynthia touched it. The second coat of oil-based varnish was still tacky. Perfect. It was ready for the cracking varnish. With a clean, soft brush she began applying a thin, even coat of cracking. In thirty minutes, if no cracks appeared, she’d use a hair dryer to heat the surface and force the cracks. Then after a few hours she’d mix some turpentine and burnt umber and rub the blend over the surface then use a toothbrush to spatter the painting with the same mixture. If it still wasn’t antique looking enough, she’d work a little raw umber into the crevices. Yes, this was what she was going to do with the rest of her day—her birthday—shut out the world and her problems just a little longer.

  She moved her brush in long even strokes, and then, in a near whisper, began to sing. “Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to . . . Cynthia . . . happy birthday to me.”

  When Stubby awoke, he was surprised to find himself in a clean bed with sheets that smelled like the fresh air at that “Fresh Air Camp” the Oberon Housing Authority had sent him to a zillion years ago that was supposed to help inner-city kids at-risk. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell.

  Where was he?

  He blinked away the sleepy haze and saw that the room was large, with a single bed, nightstand, dresser, desk and chair, along with a stuffed recliner in the far right corner. To the left was an alcove with a toilet and sink. The walls were freshly-painted beige, and while the tan industrial carpet on the floor wasn’t new, it was clean and far from threadbare.

  For a moment, Stubby wondered if he was dead and in some holding room waiting for his entrance interview into . . . where? Judging by the luxury around him, he was sure it had to be heaven.

  He had already been to hell.

  He ran his fingers down his chest, feeling concave ribs. Okay, so he was flesh and still livin’. When he sat up, he felt so refreshed, as if he had been sleeping for a week. He rose, walked to the window, and looked out. Across the street was Reggie’s Pawn Shop and Fourth Street Liquors.

  The mission. He was at the mission.

  Bits and pieces of last night began coming back, like a black and white newsreel that jerked from frame to frame. He had prayed with that nice, young pastor. He remembered crying and feeling kinda strange . . . but kinda wonderful, too.

  Without thinking, he ran his left hand through the greasy fringe cupping his neck, then stopped.

  It didn’t hurt.

  He held his hand in front of him. No swelling, no redness, no pus; just a pink scar where the cut used to be.

  What happened?

  He made a fist, first one hand, then the other. He did this over and over again. The joint pain was gone, too. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t get over how good his hands felt, how good he felt.

  He walked to the dresser and looked into the mirror. His eyes weren’t tearing, his pupils weren’t dilated. He ran his hands over his arms, then his forehead. No fever, no perspiration. And instead of wanting to puke, he wanted to eat, in fact he was starving. What’s more, he felt no muscle cramps, no agitation, no restlessness.

  And he wasn’t scared.

  He held up his hand again, making sure it really was healed, and then realized he had no craving, not an ounce of craving for a snowball and any other drug. He walked back to his bed and sat down. Something important had happened. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. When it all came back, he began to laugh, then cry. Stubby had heard about this from ex-street people who talked about a Divine Appointment but he never expected, never in a million years expected it to happen to him. But it could be nothing else. It was the only thing that made sense. Somehow, he had met with God.

  He jumped to his feet and skipped around the room like a kid, then sank to his knees.

  God had answered his prayer.

  But He had done much more. Stubby felt a peace he’d never felt before, felt a well-being and acceptance he’d never felt before, felt a love he’d never felt before. It was like he was a new person. A different person. And the joy! He’d never felt such joy.

  God hadn’t rejected him.

  Stubby felt like his heart was ready to burst, that it couldn’t contain all the joy and love bubbling up inside it and would just split open like some overripe melon.

  How could God love a bum like him?

  He could hardly believe it. But there was no denying it, either. Not anymore. Not after God had healed him. Not after God had filled him with peace and love and joy. Stubby went from his knees to lying prone on the floor, his face touching the industrial carpet. “Thank you, God. Thank you. I ain’t never gonna forget You for this. All the days of my life I’ll remember, I’ll remember what you did. And whatever you want from me, you got it.”

  “How’s your Miss Emily doing?”

  Jonathan lay sprawled on the couch, Miss Emily’s deluxe bologna and cheese in one hand, the cordless in the other. “Would you believe she’s already fixing me meals?”

  Aunt Adel laughed. “Sorry I hung up on you the other day. I wasn’t in the best of moods. Guess I let Gertie get to me. Forgive me?”

  Jonathan swallowed the bite of sandwich he had been nursing. “Nothing to forgive. I was the one who baited you. But speaking of Gertie, how is she?”

  “Don’t ask. She has put you on the prayer chain—said she and the other prayer warriors will pray you right out of that pit of degradation you’re in.”

  Jonathan forced a chuckled. “She means well.”

  “I’ll not comment. I’m trying to be more charitable. Been feeling too much like a noisy gong lately. Anyway . . . why do you sound so exhausted?”

  “Because I am. I’ve been lifting and hauling and cleaning all day. You wouldn’t believe how dirty the place was or how much work it takes to get a mission the size of Beacon ready for business. We open tomorrow.”

  “God’s moving fast.”

  “Lightning speed, Aunt Adel, lightning speed. Last night we had our first conversion. A man named Stubby White. He’s going to stay and work at the mission. He’s street smart and knows the people here. I think he’ll be a great asset.”

  “A homeless man?”

  “Yes, and a drug addict or rather ex-drug addict because last night God healed him—healed his body and took away his addiction, just like that. It was incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I know what you mean, Dearest. It’s been happening in our Sunday services. Lives are being changed though maybe not as dramat
ically as your Mr. White’s. But people are being touched right here at Christ Church. Pastor Combs is doing a fine job. God is using him mightily.”

  “We both knew that would be the case. Didn’t we? And it doesn’t matter which yielded vessel the Lord uses, does it?”

  “No. Only . . . .”

  “Only what?”

  “Only I wish Gertie Eldridge understood that. She claims revival only came because you left. That the Lord had to clean house before He could do anything significant at Christ Church.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes. “I’m exhausted, Aunt Adel.”

  “Okay, Dearest. Good night then. Keep me posted on the happenings at the mission.”

  After Jonathan hung up, he rolled off the couch, bologna sandwich and all, and began praying for Gertie Eldridge.

  CHAPTER 8

  Perspiration soaked Cynthia’s ski cap as she walked down the street. She pictured her hair looking like Plaster of Paris. Perhaps she should take off the cap. No, better not. She was determined to look the part, now that she had roused herself out of the apartment and onto the streets. She certainly felt the part, all tired and sweaty and dirty and layered in mismatched clothing—four layers in all. Enough clothes to make her look thirty pounds heavier and make her perspire like one of those out-of-shape joggers she passed every morning on the way to Starbucks.

  Already she felt dehydrated. She needed water or maybe one of those sports drinks. The problem was she couldn’t pull her money out, not here in front of everyone. Maybe she’d get into the spirit of things and try panhandling. She needed practice if she was going to be convincing as a bag lady. A lot was riding on her success in scooping this story, a success, as far as she was concerned, which included more than seeing her piece in print. Somewhere on these streets, she had to find peace. Had to get her life back. Had to . . . bury the past.