Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  The space would take getting used to. It made his former apartment, of four small rooms, seem large and open by comparison. Now, all he had to call his own was a single bed, a nightstand, a desk and chair, a four-drawer dresser, a small stuffed recliner, a closet for his clothes, and an alcove where there was a sink and toilet that smelled of Pine-Sol.

  But thank God for small conveniences.

  At least he’d have some privacy. But showering would be another matter. The men’s showers were down the hall, the women’s in the opposite direction. But he shouldn’t complain. It was for staff. Which meant that for now, only he and Stubby would be using them.

  Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.

  He sighed again, feeling like a spoiled child. Oh, how much work God still had to do in him! His heart was more like a tea cup than the well of love it should be. It still made him angry when an able-bodied homeless person was unwilling to even look for a job. Didn’t Scripture say ‘if a man will not work, he shall not eat’? How was he to reconcile that with the mandate to love unconditionally? He knew it was wrong to judge. He had never walked in their shoes. But he couldn’t help how he felt.

  Oh, God, make me more like You.

  Cynthia jammed her pay into her jean’s pocket and gave Miss Emily a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek. “I’ve never been so happy about a payday in my life!”

  “God knows you’ve earned it. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the little extras you do. Cutting up my vegetables so I don’t have to, and leaving them in the refrigerator for the next day. Putting my spices in alphabetical order. And the other night, you spent an hour of your own time organizing all those bottom cabinets. That’s why I asked Jonathan to slip in a little bonus.”

  Cynthia’s mouth dropped. “You shouldn’t have. He’s on a tight budget.”

  “Well, bless my soul, the girl’s starting to care about us here at the mission.”

  Cynthia gave Miss Emily’s arm a squeeze. “I need a few hours this morning. Just dock me, okay? I’ll be back before lunch. I’ve finished kneading all the dough for the bread and made a ton of egg salad.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the drug store and Christian bookstore.”

  Miss Emily’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”

  “None of your business. Just tell me how old Effie’s little girl is.”

  “Effie said she’s four.”

  “What kind of books do four-year olds like?”

  Miss Emily stopped mixing the tuna salad. “You’ll have to ask someone at the bookstore.” Her eyes narrowed again. “Are you planning to blow all your pay?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then you should know Effie has two more in Day Care. They just started yesterday. A brother and sister. The boy’s two, the little girl’s three.”

  “Now, what makes you think I’d be interested in knowing that?”

  Miss Emily washed her hands at the sink causing the scent of lavender to fill the kitchen. “Because I can read you like a book.”

  Cynthia saw the twinkle in Miss Emily’s eyes as she blew her a kiss. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You be careful, with all that cash on you. You hear? This neighborhood’s not safe.”

  “Then you’ll just have to ask your Jesus to protect me, won’t you?”

  Miss Emily wiped her hands on a towel. “What’s all this about?”

  “I thought you could read me like a book.”

  “I can. I just want to know if you can read yourself.”

  “Okay . . . it’s about mothers who have to work and have to leave their children, even though it breaks their hearts.”

  Miss Emily smiled. “I see. Yes, indeed. I see.”

  “You think you know it all, don’t you?”

  Miss Emily nodded.

  “Then tell me this, why doesn’t my egg salad look anything like yours?” She laughed as she watched Miss Emily scurry to the refrigerator and pull out a huge, stainless steel bowl.

  “Goodness gracious, what is it?”

  Cynthia was still laughing when she darted out the front door.

  Cynthia walked the mile to the nearest bus stop, then hopped the first bus that would take her another three miles to the outskirts of the Projects. When she disembarked she wasted no time in finding the drug store where she spent an hour picking out crayons, coloring books, puzzles, two Baby-Cry-and-Wet dolls, baby shampoo, a tube of Triple Antibiotic Ointment, and a little girl’s brush and comb set with three fake pearls imbedded in each pink plastic handle. Then she hurried to the Christian bookstore where she spent another hour picking out nine books, three for each of the children, and a painted wooden Noah’s Ark, complete with ten different pairs of animals. Just the thing a two-year old boy might like.

  She looked at the wall clock behind the register. In twenty minutes Miss Emily would be serving lunch. Cynthia had one more stop to make before she caught the bus back. She was cutting it close. As she paid the clerk, she noticed the wooden plaque hanging beneath the clock. In bright letters it said: Jesus Loves You. Well, Jesus might love her but Miss Emily wouldn’t if she were late. She pictured the mob scene that was lunch. She’d have to rush. She grabbed her bundles and raced out the store.

  She had seen a little grocery a few blocks from the bus stop and headed towards it. Within minutes she had gathered everything she needed. Now, her hands were loaded, clutching three bags apiece. She struggled through the door, then stopped to redistribute the weight. She was finishing just as three teens, wearing red bandanas, came up to her. She recognized two of them as the ones who stole her money and phone. She hoped they wouldn’t recognized her, too.

  “Hey, girl. What you got in them bags?” One teen pushed against her. It was the one Cynthia had thought was the ringleader last time.

  She closed her eyes. If you love me Jesus, please get me out of this.

  “Hey. I’m talkin’ to you. What you got there?”

  Cynthia opened her eyes. At least he didn’t recognize her. “Toys, for the kids at the mission.”

  “You from the mission?” said the one Cynthia had never seen before. He was younger than the others and seemed less threatening. On his wrist was a tattoo of a salamander. “You from the mission?” he repeated.

  “Yes. I work there as a cook.”

  “You don’t look like no cook,” said the leader.

  Cynthia met his eyes. “I’m late and can’t afford to lose my job.” She tried to press through but the ringleader clamped her arm with a hand the size of Miss Emily’s favorite potholder.

  “Who are the toys for?” the younger one said.

  “I told you. For some kids at the mission.”

  “Do they got names?”

  “I know the name of one of them—Daisy.”

  The young boy’s face twitched, then he nudged the leader. “Let her go, man. She’s late for work. It ain’t right interferin’ with a workin’ girl.”

  Cynthia and the ringleader faced off for what seemed like minutes, then he released her. “Go on, get outta here.”

  Cynthia tightened the grip on her bags and hurried away. When she turned the corner and could no longer hear their voices, she stopped, braced herself against the side of the building and tried to catch her breath.

  Maybe Jesus really did love her.

  Cynthia was grateful for Miss Emily’s forbearance. Fifteen minutes late, and Miss Emily never said a word or gave her one dirty look.

  She owed her.

  Cynthia went through the whole lunch madness before she was able to calm down or get the Salamanders out of her mind. The gang situation in South Oberon was horrendous. She tucked away the idea of doing a future story on it. What else could she do but write about it? Gangs, poverty, drugs, welfare, poor education, mental illness, homelessness—all spokes on the same wheel. The problems seemed insurmountable. What could anyone do that would make a difference?

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nbsp; She thought of Jonathan and Miss Emily. How could they love a God that allowed this? He was cruel. And hadn’t she experienced that cruelty first hand? She pictured Julia lying on the concrete patio.

  But . . . what of Stubby?

  Hadn’t this same God shown kindness to him; a man written off by society? But chances are God had nothing to do with that. Chances are Stubby was ready to change and he changed.

  You don’t believe that for a second, Wells.

  After the last dish was placed in the giant conveyor dishwasher, Cynthia slipped into her room and retrieved the toys and books. Then she headed for the Day Care Center—an unused staff bedroom that had been emptied and refitted with a few folding chairs and a blackboard. The blackboard and chalk, plus a few soft rubber balls were the only items available for play. It was the place where Effie spent her days with her daughter, and now two other children.

  She pushed thoughts of God out of her mind. These were His problems, too big for her to take on. All she could do was small, insignificant things. Plunk a few drops into the empty well.

  “Hey, Effie. How are you?” Cynthia said, opening the door.

  Effie turned from the blackboard where she had been printing the ABCs in large, poorly formed letters, and smiled. “The little ones are playin’ real nice with them balls, and Daisy here can say her letters up to E.”

  “That’s wonderful, Daisy. Before you know it, you’ll be reading.” The child ducked her scab-covered head behind her mother’s skirt. “I have a few things for you,” Cynthia said, handing Effie four of the five bags. She watched Effie’s eyes brighten then mist as she pulled out one thing after the other.

  “Miss Emily kept tellin’ me Jesus would provide. I knew Pastor Jonathan was strapped and couldn’t spare money just now to get the Day Care up to speed but I never thought God would be usin’ you to do it. I don’t know what to say, ‘cept God bless you.” She fell on Cynthia’s neck and hugged her until the children began pressing in.

  They squealed and jumped up and down when Effie showed them the new toys. Then they picked out a few things and took them to a corner to enjoy. Cynthia was sure that, in time, they would share and play together.

  The one thing she was learning here at the mission was that everything took time.

  Cynthia opened the last bag and pulled out the shampoo and ointment, and went over the druggist’s instructions with Effie. Then she handed her the little pearl-handled comb and brush. For a moment Effie seemed on the verge of tears. Then she clutched the items to her chest and looked at Cynthia with a mother’s expression that said it all.

  Cynthia smiled as she closed the door behind her. She couldn’t remember feeling this satisfied over anything. Not even after finishing a great article.

  If Bernie could see me now!

  The thought made her laugh out loud.

  “Glad you’re in such good spirits, Miss Cynthia.”

  Cynthia turned and saw Stubby walking towards her with something in his hand. His clothes were neat and clean, and there was a spring to his step.

  “I wanted to thank you for makin’ me that sandwich last night and for listenin’ to all my troubles. ‘Course now that I’m a new creature in Christ, my troubles are startin’ to fall away. Some of ‘em, anyhow. But I wanted to thank you. For bein’ my friend.” He handed her a piece of paper. “I wrote this for you.” Then he walked away.

  Cynthia unfolded the page and began reading:

  Father’s heart is big and round

  Like a ball, like the earth—solid ground

  A hidin’ place to go when you’re scared

  when you ain’t sure

  ‘Cause it’s large enough and pure.

  Father’s heart is big and round

  And full of tears,

  Like the ocean that splashes and pounds

  Out a sad love song

  Of things that coulda been

  Of kids lost and not found.

  Who’s gonna wipe the tears

  From eyes that watch through painful years

  As kids play in slop, with swine,

  Covered with dirt and grease and grime?

  Father’s heart is big and round

  Like a bubble or the O in a happy sound

  When sinful kids come homeward bound.

  Quick! Grab robe and royal ring, He shouts,

  And cow on spit,

  To make a bash fit

  For a king.

  But ain’t for king this all is done,

  It’s for a lowly son, not worthy of the name,

  Who, on account of love has been forgiven his stain.

  What kind of love is this?

  That waits and waits and waits,

  Watchin’ in silent agony?

  How wonderful that all this love

  Is there for you and me!

  Father’s heart is big and round.

  Cynthia folded the paper as she walked to her room. Only after locking the door, did she allow what she had read to sink in. She thought about it a long time. She thought about the mission, the poverty she had seen, the ruined lives, the young gang members, the battered women with their children, the drug use, the mental illness, the jobless, the homeless . . . and little girls who watch their sisters die. And after she did, she dropped her face into her hands and wept.

  Cynthia slipped into the kitchen, feeling guilty for not watching the time. “Are the tables done?”

  Miss Emily shook her head and continued cubing a giant slab of beef for stew.

  Cynthia grabbed a bucket, squirted some liquid cleaner into it and filled the rest with water. “I’m on it.” She pulled a clean rag from the drawer and threw it across her shoulder. As she passed Miss Emily, she squeezed her arm. “Sorry I haven’t been much help today.”

  “How did the kids like their things?” Miss Emily’s eyes twinkled.

  “They loved them. They’re having fun with them right now, but not half as much fun as I had giving them.”

  “Some things are more important than cleaning a kitchen.”

  “Yes . . . I know.”

  “If that’s so, then it was time well spent.”

  “You’re a dear, you know that?” Cynthia whispered.

  “Now, don’t go thinking you can soft-soap me. I’m still docking your pay for this morning and this afternoon.”

  Cynthia nodded. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  The first thing Cynthia saw was Skinner sitting at one of the tables with his hands folded in front of him. Why was he here? Again. It could only mean trouble . . . trouble for the mission, and she was beginning to take that personally.

  This time she made no pretense. She walked up to him and plopped her bucket on the table. “Why are you sitting here?”

  “I’m waiting for dinner.”

  “Dinner’s not for another four hours.”

  Skinner’s nostrils flared. “So I’m early. Any law against it?”

  “No.” Cynthia slopped water all over the table. “It’s your time. You can waste it any way you like.” Some of the water reached Skinner and dribbled over the edge forcing him to push away.

  “That’s unfriendly. You don’t wanna be unfriendly to me.”

  “I’m not trying to be unfriendly. I’m trying to do my job and you keep getting in the way.”

  Skinner frowned and fingered the angry, red scar that veined his cheek. “Where’s that little runt? I haven’t seen him since I got here.”

  “If you’re talking about Stubby, he’s busy. And what have you got against him, anyway? Why don’t you stop trying to scare him and just leave him alone?”

  Skinner reached for Cynthia. “Has he gone and shot off his big mouth?” His fingers clamped around her wrist like handcuffs. “You listen here, girlie, you use any of what that little runt told you and it’ll be the last story you ever write.”

  Cynthia pulled away. “Stubby didn’t tell me anything. And I don’t know what story you’re talking about.”

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p; “I’ve done some checking. I know who you are, and all I gotta say is that nannies and politicians play nicer than we do.” Skinner rose to his feet then kicked over his chair. “You’re outta your league, girlie. And if you’re not careful, someone’s gonna separate you from your good health.”

  “What did he say, Miss Cynthia?” Stubby’s breathing was hard from running across the room.

  “Nothing much.” Cynthia watched Skinner walk out the front door “He was just mad because I spilled water on him.” She avoided Stubby’s eyes and wished he’d stop being so nice. She couldn’t stand that, him being so nice.

  “Is that why he kicked over the chair?”

  Cynthia shrugged.

  “Next time he comes, you stay far away. You hear?”

  Cynthia nodded and without thinking, gave Stubby a hug. When she did, she smelled the hint of aftershave. “I loved your poem.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  Stubby beamed like the neon above Reggie’s Pawn Shop. “Well, I appreciate that. I sure do.” Then it faded. “But Miss Cynthia, I ain’t kiddin’ about Skinner. You got to stay clear. He likes to hurt people. And it don’t matter if it’s a woman, neither.”

  Cynthia looked into Stubby’s worried face, trying to decide if she should ask him what it was that Skinner didn’t want her to find out. Then decided against it. Pressing too hard would only make Stubby suspicious. “Next time he comes I’ll avoid him like the plague.”

  “You promise?”

  Cynthia nodded.

  The neon-like beam returned to Stubby’s face. “My mind’s been troubled over you and I been gettin’ scared every time that front door opened. But now you’ve gone and given me your word, and I know I can trust what you say.”

  Cynthia opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it and walked away all the while wondering just how elastic her conscience was going to get.

  “You want to do what?”

  “Make a birthday cake for Jonathan.”

  “But child, you can’t cook.”

  “I can read and follow directions.” Cynthia held up a box of yellow cake mix. “There are only three steps listed on the back and I think I can manage that.”