Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Not yet, but I’m keeping my ears open.”

  The operator cut in asking for more money and Cynthia picked up a few of the coins she had lined up on the little metal shelf in the phone booth and dropped them into the slot.

  “Why aren’t you using that expensive cell phone you made the Trib pay for?” Bernie said when the last coin went down.

  “Because I don’t have it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t have it? You wouldn’t leave it home . . . not when you’re undercover. So that means . . . . Don’t tell me you’ve lost it?”

  “Well . . . .”

  “How am I going to explain that to the front office? You know they’re looking at every penny we spend these days. I don’t believe it, Wells. The thing was brand-new!”

  “It’s a year old, Bernie, and I didn’t lose it. It was stolen . . . when I got mugged.” She said the last part in a near whisper hoping Bernie wouldn’t catch it. But he did.

  “Mugged? You gotta be kidding!” He waited a second. “You’re not. For heaven’s sake, didn’t I tell you it was dangerous? I ought to have my head examined for letting you talk me into this. You ought to have your head examined.”

  “Go ahead, do the ‘I told you so’.”

  “I just did. And I will again if there’s one more mishap. You weren’t hurt, were you?” Cynthia heard the worry in Bernie’s voice which he tried covering with a gruff, “and of course you reported it to the police?”

  Dear sweet Bernie.

  “No, I’m not hurt. As for the rest, let’s just skip it. But next time I call, I’m calling collect. I had to borrow two dollars from Miss Emily and . . . .”

  “Miss Emily? What are we, back in grade school?”

  “and I’m on a tight budget. Minimum wage doesn’t go far.”

  “You mean they got your phone and your money?”

  “Yup.” Cynthia heard air pass between Bernie’s lips and frowned. She knew what was coming.

  “You need a man, Wells, to take you out of this rat race before the rubber band snaps. Roberta wants to fix you up with her cousin, Harvey, you know—the accountant. She said he’d be a good change after your cop friend. Roberta says Harvey’s already bought a ring and is just waiting for the right girl to come along so he can give it to her. ‘Course I told her you might not be ready for that.”

  Cynthia’s insides twisted. She’d never be ready for that until she picked herself up from that blood-splattered patio. Why was so much of her still lying on that terrace where Julia had fallen, refusing to get up and leave? Oh, how she wanted to get up and leave!

  “So, should I tell Roberta to call Harvey?”

  Cynthia placed her free hand on the phone cradle for a quick disconnect. “Gotta go. It’s prayer time.”

  “Prayer time? Now you’re really starting to scare me.”

  “Miss Emily wants me to go, says it’ll do me good.”

  “There you go with that Miss Emily again. What’s going on over there?”

  “Listen, regarding Harvey, just tell Roberta ‘thanks but no thanks’.”

  “I’m not telling Roberta anything. You think about it. After this assignment, you might want to party with someone.”

  “Bye, Bernie.”

  “Wait! One more thing. Someone from the Department of Social Services called. She left several messages on your office machine and when you didn’t call back, she called me. She wouldn’t give her name, but said you’d know who it was. She wants you to call her. Said it was important.”

  “You have her number?”

  “Yeah, just a minute.” Cynthia heard the phone bump against the desk, then some papers rustling, then more fumbling, then finally, “It’s her home number. She wants you to call her there and not the office.”

  Bernie rattled off the number which Cynthia committed to memory. “Thanks. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “Tomorrow. You’ll call me tomorrow.”

  Jonathan stood behind the lectern scanning the twenty souls seated on folding chairs. Their faces resembled worn leather pouches, with deep wrinkles grooving the areas around their eyes and mouths, across their foreheads and down their cheeks. It was hard to tell the young from the old because even the ones he knew were young, looked old.

  He noticed the woman with her child, the same ones he had seen eating from the garbage pail the first time he had come to Angus Avenue. Even from this distance, he could see that the child’s head was still scabbed. If the woman recognized him, she gave no indication. But she had attended all his Bible studies, and even came up, at the last one, when he gave the altar call. Since his arrival, she was the first woman to receive Christ at Beacon Mission.

  Jonathan looked at the only other woman present, and wondered if he had been right in letting Miss Emily hire her. The new employee, Cynthia, seemed out of place. He detected a hint of sadness, suffering even, hidden behind her eyes that oozed through when she didn’t think anyone was watching. But her shiny, blonde hair and flawless complexion spoke of a pampered life. Even now, in her jeans and with her hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked more like someone attending a college lecture than a homeless woman trying to learn how to survive. All in all, he found her clean, flawless beauty, distracting.

  And he hadn’t been distracted by a woman since Lydia.

  “We haven’t got everything up and running yet,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Our schedules are not fully established, but generally speaking, we’ll have prayer every morning around this time, followed by Bible study. Also, beginning tomorrow, I’ll be available for individual counseling in my office. And if you don’t want counseling but just want to talk, that’s okay, too. We also have a bulletin board where employment opportunities will be posted. There’re a few things already for you to look at. Also posted will be phone numbers of various agencies that can help with some of your specific needs.

  “Most of you know that I’ve departed from Reverend Gates’ practice of only housing men. While the second and third floors are still for the men, our fourth floor is now for women.” Jonathan looked at the mother with her child. “So if you know of anyone who could use a place to stay, we still have rooms available. Of course Reverend Gates’ rule about no weapons or drugs on the premises, still stands. Anyone caught with either will be required to leave.

  “I must confess, this is the first time I’ve worked at a mission and I’ve a lot to learn. For that reason, I’d like you all to keep me in prayer. Pray that God will help me, and teach me, and guide me. I can’t emphasize how much I covet your prayers.”

  He hadn’t meant right this second, but the group took him literally and at once closed their eyes and bowed their heads. He listened to the sound of mumbling as some composed their prayers out loud. He watched as others mouthed them silently. And as he dropped his own head, he could feel love begin to take hold of his heart. It was as if a seed had sprouted and pushed through crusty soil. This was his little flock, and like a shepherd, he didn’t want any harm to come to them. He wanted to gather them up in his arms and carry them until they were safely deposited into the arms of the greatest Shepherd of all.

  Cynthia crept into Jonathan’s office, closed the door and turned on the light. Then she walked to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello, this is Cynthia Wells. I got your message.” She kept her voice low. The small hand of the Bulova on the desk pointed to eleven. Everyone had gone upstairs for the night and Pastor Holmes had gone home. That left the first floor of the mission deserted except for Miss Emily and Stubby White. “Sorry for the late hour, but you wanted me to call you at home and this is the first chance I’ve had.”

  “That’s okay,” A drowsy voice answered. “I won’t have trouble getting back to sleep. The minute my head hits the pillow, I’ll be out.”

  “Bernie Hobbs said you had some information.”

  “Your editor was so very nice. I didn’t want to bother him, but when I couldn’t get you . . . I didn’t expect
a big important person like him to be that nice. He spent a lot of time with me on the phone and didn’t rush me, you know?”

  Cynthia glanced anxiously at the door. “So what did you want to tell me?”

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you, but I like your work. Your writing has integrity, you know? And I’m not snitching or anything. Just repeating what I heard. It’s not the kind of information that could get anyone into trouble. If it was, I don’t think I could do it.”

  “I understand.” Cynthia fingered a pile of papers on Jonathan’s desk. “Just give me what you have.”

  “It’s probably nothing. My friends tell me I have an overactive imagination. I’m an Agatha Christie fan. I’ve read The ABC Murders five times. I think I’m in love with Hercule Poirot. He’s such a kind, sensitive man . . . a real gentleman. Guys today hardly know the meaning of that word, you know?”

  “Yes, I know.” Cynthia absently read the first paper on the pile in front of her. It was a copy of the building lease. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

  “Well, I found out who handled both of those men you asked about. It was the same caseworker for each of them, a real nice guy, too. Close to retirement age. Lost his wife last year and, well . . . that was sad. But anyway, I talked to him and told him you were interested in knowing more about those two who were killed, and he said he’d try to get as much information as possible.”

  Cynthia tore a page off a note pad and picked up a pen. “Okay, shoot. What did he get?”

  “I don’t know. He told me he’d go through his files and make some phone calls to the drug rehab center—both of these guys were on drugs—then he’d call the shelters in town and any place else he could think of. He was excited about helping you. He liked the angle of the story. He said it would be good to track two men like this and see what happened to them and why. So I expected to get some great information, instead . . . well, he up and quit. Just like that! I went to his office one morning to see how he was progressing and he was gone. I couldn’t believe it! Someone told me he took early retirement. But that surprised me because he once told me how much he loved his job and that he didn’t know what he would have done after his wife died if he didn’t have this place to come to every morning and if he didn’t have other people to worry about. He and his wife never had kids, so I guess he considered his cases, family, you know?”

  Cynthia shifted on her feet. “What’s the name of this caseworker? I’ll try to call him and see what happened.” She heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have done this, and you can’t tell anyone, because I know I crossed the line and could get into trouble at work, but I tracked him down. Once, he had mentioned where he lived and I looked in the phone book under his last name and called every one of them. There weren’t that many, just eight in his area, but I called each one and spoke to seven of them. When I called the eighth, I got the answering machine and knew by the voice it was the right number. A few nights ago, I stopped at his house after work and there was a big “For Sale” sign in front. The lady next door was out walking her dog, a little black terrier. I don’t like dogs, do you? Especially little ones. They’re too yappy. But I guess this one was sort of cute.”

  Cynthia began drawing stick men on the paper.

  “Anyway, we got to talking and she told me that Andy, that’s the name of the caseworker, had put his house in the hands of a realtor and left town. He didn’t even pack his things! The neighbor said that once the house was sold, Andy would have a moving company come and clean everything out. I thought it was kinda bizarre. So did the neighbor. She said Andy had lived in that house with his wife for over thirty-five years. He worked at the Department for forty, ever since getting out of college. He was really sweet and a hard worker, but no one would ever call him spontaneous. Don’t you think this is strange? I think it’s strange and I wanted to tell you, that’s all. I hope you don’t think my friends are right. About my overactive imagination, I mean.”

  “No.” Cynthia put her pen down.

  “What do you think it means? You think Andy quit because he wanted to retire?”

  “I don’t know. People addicted to routine and the familiar don’t usually up and do something this sudden or drastic. On the other hand, maybe Andy got tired of being predictable. Maybe he’s in a resort somewhere having a good time. But just in case, do me a favor and keep your eyes and ears open. I appreciate all you’ve done so far. And don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Well, okay. I can do that. And if I learn anything, I’ll let you know. Sorry I couldn’t give you better information. But you can call me . . . any time . . . if you need help or anything, just as long as I don’t have to violate a client’s privacy. You know I couldn’t do that.”

  “I know, and thanks again.” Cynthia hung up the phone and crumpled up the paper full of stick men. Then she began reading the mission lease.

  “Are you and Miss Emily engaged, yet?”

  “Aunt Adel? Do you know what time it is?”

  “You rarely go to bed before twelve, so that gives me thirty minutes. I’ve been thinking about you all day. How are you, Dearest?”

  “Tired.” Jonathan pushed the Tribune off his lap and began unlacing his sneakers.

  “I bet you just got home.”

  “About twenty minutes ago. On the way here I was thinking maybe I should give up my apartment. Half of the mission’s first floor is nothing but private bedrooms for the staff. If I move in I could use my rent money to pay wages. So far I have three employees. They’re just getting minimum wage, but it adds up.” Jonathan heard his aunt groan. “What’s wrong?”

  “Gertie said you’d be doing that. She cited the scripture about the prodigal son and how he went and lived with the pigs. She said you could feel sorry for a penned hog, but you didn’t have to get into the pen and go rooting around with it. She said it was okay to help the less fortunate, but that you didn’t have to live with them. Gertie said that would be the first sign to watch for.”

  “The first sign of what?” Jonathan kicked off his sneakers and stretched out on the couch. His body ached and he hoped his aunt wouldn’t keep him long, though he didn’t want to be rude by rushing her.

  “Suppose I were to pay everyone’s salary at the mission.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Jonathan, I know it’s easier to see the speck in someone else’s eye than the beam in your own, but right now I’m seeing that speck in your eye and it’s called pride. You’re just like your mother in that regard. Maybe if she hadn’t been so prideful she’d still be with us today.”

  “Aunt Adel . . . .”

  “Don’t Aunt Adel, me. You know what I’m talking about. Your mother worked herself to death, taking care of your sick father all those years and working two jobs; and me, with more money than Midas. You know how many times I tried to help her?”

  “You know how mom was. She believed in hard work and never took a handout from anyone.” He didn’t know why, but this conversation irked him. Maybe because part of him had yet to understand why his mother refused Aunt Adel’s help. It would have made life easier . . . for all of them. “You know how mom was,” he repeated.

  “Pride. Let’s call it by its right name. You know I loved my sister, but you also know what the Bible says, ‘pride goes before destruction.’ Ruth just didn’t know how to accept a helping hand. That was her speck, and now I’m seeing it in you.”

  “Aunt Adel, it’s not like you to be critical.” Was it wrong to try to do things on your own? Already he noticed how some of the homeless were so unwilling to do for themselves, and wondered if his mother hadn’t been right in trying to handle things herself, and to teach him that as well. On the other hand, pride was as sinful as sloth.

  “I know I’m hurting you when I talk about your mother. I know how much you loved her. And she was a good mother and deserved that love. She was also a wonderful sister.”

  “Then
let her rest in peace. Mom was a gracious and kind woman who tried to teach me the value of hard work, and the only thing she loved more than her family was the Lord.” But hadn’t lack during his grade school years been the catalyst for erecting idols in high school and beyond? What about his Hot Wheels? His varsity jacket? What about . . . Lydia, the beautiful woman who had little interest in the things of God?

  “Even people who love the Lord can have leaven, you know. Besides, don’t you think that the Lord uses other people as His hands of blessing?”

  “Yes”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Jonathan’s insides churned as he recalled those lean years. Had they jaded him? Had they twisted him so that pride had gotten the upper hand and he couldn’t accept a gift? Maybe his form had become misshapen, maybe that was the very reason God had brought him to Beacon Mission. “All right,” he said. “You can pay the salaries. But just until enough cash contributions start coming in which may be soon since we’ve already gotten a few checks from local merchants.”

  “Then you’ll stay in your apartment?”

  “No. And that’s the speck you’ll have to get out of your own eye.”

  “What speck?”

  “Gertie Eldridge.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Cynthia was not assigned the potatoes this morning. Instead, Miss Emily had given her the job of beating eggs and turning bacon. She seemed more skilled at these, and was pleased at the thought of actually being useful. From her place at the griddle, Cynthia watched coarse potato skins fall effortlessly onto a paper towel as Miss Emily worked the peeler.

  “What makes you so good at that?”

  “Practice.” Miss Emily grabbed another potato—the third in less than a minute.

  Cynthia’s feelings of envy surprised her. But everything about Miss Emily seemed to inspire envy in Cynthia: her smile, her friendliness, her composure, her way with people . . . her proficiency in peeling potatoes. And there weren’t many people Cynthia envied.

  So why this admiration for someone who had spent half her life on the streets or working in a soup kitchen?