Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Count on it! After what you said I couldn’t turn a blind eye even if I wanted to.” Pamela paused to take a breath. “One more thing. I did some checking today. I figured I owed the taxpayers that much. I was able to retrace some of Andy’s steps without drawing attention to myself. I checked out his computer and the last thing he worked on—the files have those dates next to them, you know—well the last thing he did the day before he quit was to compile a list of vendors.”

  “What kind of vendors?”

  “Suppliers the city use to stock their shelters with food, bedding, toilet articles. You know, things like that. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, why would Andy waste time doing that?”

  “You think you can get me that list?”

  “Sure, if you think it’s important. But you can’t tell anyone you got it from me. I know I can trust you because reporters never reveal their sources. They’d go to jail rather than reveal their sources. Right?”

  Cynthia dropped her head into her hand. “Don’t worry, Pamela, I won’t tell. Just fax that list to me when you get it, okay?” She gave Pamela her office fax number. “But be careful. Be very careful.”

  When Cynthia, Miss Emily and Effie entered Stubby’s room, they found him sitting up in bed. For ten minutes, the place was bedlam as everyone tried to kiss and hug and talk at once. It took the intervention of a stern looking nurse to quiet them all down.

  “You sure had us worried,” Effie said.

  “Speak for yourself. I always knew God would heal him. Why do you think I stocked up on all that butter? For his baloney and butter sandwiches, that’s why.” Miss Emily fluffed Stubby’s covers, then began tidying his nightstand.

  “How long before you can come back to work?” Cynthia said, noticing how much Stubby’s face beamed as he watched Miss Emily fuss.

  Stubby shrugged. “I’d go right now, but the doc said I gotta stay a few more days.”

  “You’re feeling that good?” Cynthia thought he still looked drawn and tired.

  “Well, after bein’ with the police all afternoon, I gotta admit I’m done in. But after I get me some rest, I’ll be fine.”

  “Did you remember anything?” Cynthia took out a mental pencil, preparing to inscribe every word Stubby said onto her brain. “Were you able to give them any information?”

  “They kept askin’ if I knew who tried to kill me. And all afternoon I tried and tried, but the only thing I remember is that I was in the men’s room, gettin’ ready to wash when someone came up behind me and threw somethin’ over my head . . . a towel maybe . . . I ain’t sure. Then my head smashed against somethin’. And that’s the last I remember, ‘til I saw you and Pastor Jonathan standin’ over my bed.”

  “You never saw who it was?” Cynthia said.

  “No. But one thing I do remember. It’s kinda weird. Probably don’t mean nothin’. But I remember smellin’ fruit.”

  Cynthia’s heart jumped. “Fruit? You mean like a fruity smell?”

  Stubby nodded.

  “That’s just what I smelled when . . . . It’s the same man, Stubby. Don’t you see? That proves it’s the same man who tried to kill us both!”

  Favorite Flavors was nothing to look at. Vinyl booths lined both sides of a large room, forming a monotonous gray line. In the middle, small gray and pink vinyl covered tables left little space for walking. Grey and pink checked curtains covered the only two windows and did nothing to enhance the drab camel-colored walls.

  In spite of the lackluster décor, the place was always packed, and patrons believed themselves fortunate when they were able to get a seat after only a twenty-minute wait.

  Cynthia craned her neck to survey the room and spotted an empty corner booth. Without waiting for the waitress to seat them, she led her small band to the cubicle and settled in—Miss Emily on one side, then she and Effie on the other.

  “Reporters are used to barging into places,” Cynthia said, picking up one of the menus lodged between the napkin dispenser and wall. She could tell Miss Emily was displeased.

  “Suppose someone else was ahead of us, waiting?”

  Cynthia smiled sheepishly. “I don’t always think about things like that.”

  “I know.” Miss Emily folded her hands on her lap, not taking a menu. “Perhaps that’s one of the things you can learn, this time around. Thinking of others.”

  Cynthia nodded and looked into Miss Emily’s kind eyes. She loved that about this white-haired woman . . . her ability to be honest without being cruel. “I’ll work on it,” Cynthia said, as a waitress sauntered over. “Have we taken someone else’s table?”

  “No, it’s slow tonight. Nobody’s had to wait more than five minutes. So, you’re okay.”

  Cynthia winked at Miss Emily. “Give us a second, will you? We need time to decide what we want.”

  “Sure. Just signal when you’re ready,” the waitress said before bouncing off.

  Cynthia watched Miss Emily finally pick up a menu, then she scanned her own. “The banana split sounds good. So does the hot fudge sundae. Did you know that all the ice cream is homemade? They make it right in back, with real cream and fruit and . . . .”

  “You have a teachable spirit,” Miss Emily said. “That’s a good thing.”

  Cynthia felt uncomfortable by the compliment, but pleased, too. “I also have something else.” She replaced her menu behind the napkin holder. “A BIG yen for nuts and whipped cream and syrup. Tonight I’m tackling the El Grande.”

  “Make that two,” Effie said with a laugh, looking younger and prettier, even with her damaged teeth, than Cynthia had ever seen her.

  “I guess I’ll have the Cookie-Dough Sundae Supreme,” Miss Emily added, leaning over the table and tapping first Cynthia’s then Effie’s hand with her menu. “And while we’re eating I’ll tell you the secret of finding true love.”

  Effie whaled with laughter. “I just got rid of one man. I ain’t interested in gettin’ another.”

  Miss Emily folded her arms across her chest and arched her eyebrows. “You just take notes, Effie. No telling what God will do with your marriage once you give it to Him. And you,” Miss Emily turned to Cynthia, “You take notes, too, because it’s obvious you’ve never found any man who remotely interested you.”

  Cynthia bit back laughter and slumped against the seat. For one night it was going to be wonderful not worrying about her story, or Stubby’s assailant, or the mission. For one night it was going to be wonderful just to be silly and talk girl-talk.

  “Effie, I think we should let Miss Emily have the floor. You know what they say, give someone enough rope and she’ll hang herself.”

  Effie’s head bobbed up and down. “That’s right. We’ll let her eat, let all that cookie dough loosen her tongue.”

  “Right, and we will take notes. Maybe we’ll get enough on her tonight to ensure extra cookies for Daisy and second helpings on desert for both of us, and maybe even some of that fresh fruit she hides way back in the refrigerator whenever she thinks no one’s looking.”

  “I save that for some of the sicker ones, who need it,” Miss Emily said, unmoved by the fact that both women had ganged up on her.

  Effie leaned closer to Cynthia. “So she says.”

  “Okay, tell us all about true love,” Cynthia said, settling back in the booth and knowing there was no other place she’d rather be tonight than right here.

  Cold air slapped Cynthia’s face as she studied the outline of her new Holly Hobbie kitchen. The little oven door hung on one hinge, the cabinets open and empty, her beautiful china tea set that Grammy had given her—gone.

  Julia!

  Julia wasn’t supposed to touch it. But Julia won’t be punished. She was never punished no matter what she did. She could wreck all of Cynthia’s things and get away with it.

  But not this time. This time Cynthia was going to get that little terrorist and make her pay.

  The swish of denim and smell of Blossom Eau de Toilette made Cynthia turn her head. Oh,
not her new toilet water! Julia must have used the whole bottle. Out of the corner of Cynthia’s eye, she spotted the wisp carrying a small china tea cup and creamer.

  “You give that back!” Cynthia demanded as she ran after the wisp. “You give that . . . .” Suddenly she remembered the window. “Stop!” Cynthia shouted as the imp headed straight for it, looking backward at her and giggling.

  “Stop!” Cynthia shouted again, and was answered by one more giggle just before it turned into a scream.

  Cynthia jerked up in bed. Perspiration soaked her nightgown. She looked around the semi-dark room, remembering she was at the mission. Had she cried out? She was sure she had and sure she had woken someone up. She listened for sounds and heard only silence. She sank back onto her pillow. She hadn’t had her dream in a while. Why now? Hadn’t she and Miss Emily and Effie had a wonderful time at the ice-cream parlor? Yes, after they left Stubby. And he would be returning to the mission soon. Was that it? Was that what she was worried about? How to continue keeping her secret from him? How much longer could she go on like this? The strain was too much. She closed her eyes. When she did she saw her little toy oven, saw the window, saw the wisp. She blinked. There would be no more sleeping tonight. That was certain. And as she lay in bed, staring up at a black ceiling, she thought of all the so-called miracles happening around her, and found herself whispering, “Oh, God, I need a miracle, too.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Cynthia tied back her shiny blonde hair with a black scrunchy then applied more mascara.

  Why was she fussing?

  She tossed the mascara into her make-up bag and zipped it. She ran her hands down her T-shirt, smoothing it out, then glanced one last time at the mirror. The reflection pleased her. Even the washed out T-shirt and faded jeans didn’t detract. But why go to all this trouble?

  Primping like a schoolgirl. Honestly, Wells.

  It was only Jonathan.

  She had cornered him at breakfast and told him she wanted to talk. They had made an appointment for two-thirty, when all the lunch madness was over.

  She grabbed her room key and jammed it into her pocket, then filled a paper cup with water and drank. Her mouth was as dry as dust. As she tossed the cup into the small corner pail, her stomach flipped.

  Why was she so nervous?

  She locked her door then scooted down the hall and around the corner. She stopped when she saw Jonathan’s door ajar, when she saw his head bent as in prayer. She wondered if he was praying for her. He always prayed before his counseling sessions.

  Counseling?

  She hoped he didn’t think that’s what this was. She just wanted to talk. Get something off her chest. She smoothed her T-shirt one more time, then took a deep breath.

  Ready or not, here I come.

  A series of loud raps on the heavy maple door raised Jonathan’s head. His face told her he had been deep in thought. “If I’ve caught you in the middle of something, I can come later.” She backed away from the door.

  “No, I’ve been waiting for you.” Jonathan rose and gestured for her to enter. “Take a seat.”

  Cynthia noticed that the empty chair, which was usually stationed by the side of the desk, had been moved to the front, opposite Jonathan. She wondered why he felt the need to put such a large object between them. It only added to her suspicions. She sat, then leaned against the desk, one elbow propping her chin as she watched Jonathan ease his tall, muscular frame onto his chair. No point in beating around the bush. “Are you mad at me?” she blurted.

  A look of surprise rearranged his face. “No . . . why?”

  “I’ve been here three days and seen little of you. It’s as if you’re avoiding me.”

  Jonathan’s face colored. He spent time brushing hair away from his eyes before clearing his throat. “You sure are blunt.”

  “I just wondered if you resented me for being here. I hope not, because it makes my task harder and . . . .”

  “I don’t resent you.”

  “Then why, when you see me coming, do you go the other way?”

  “I’ve been busy . . . and you’ve been busy, looking for your story. I wanted to give you plenty of space to find it.”

  “You sure that’s it?”

  “Cynthia, I don’t know what it is you want me to say.”

  “Say you like me even though I don’t know the Lord, even though I don’t believe what you believe. Say you’ll help me understand the mission and what you see in it and why. Say we can be friends.”

  Jonathan seemed to relax. “That I can say without hesitation.”

  “Well . . . that’s a relief.” Cynthia rose from her chair, a smile on her face. “All this time I thought you held it against me for forcing myself on the mission . . . on you. I won’t get in the way, I promise. I have a lot to learn and hope to learn it right here.”

  As Cynthia rounded the corner heading away from Jonathan’s office she noticed Willie Tanner lurking in the hall. He scowled at her as she passed. His black, brooding eyes were still fixed on her when she turned back to look.

  The man gave her the creeps.

  It was silly. There wasn’t one tangible thing she could put her finger on to explain her uneasiness. His face was always dirty; his black greasy hair uncombed and hanging in his eyes, but that wasn’t it. Nor was it the way he looked at everyone. She had seen that look on some of the boys she’d grown up with. A look that told her to keep her cat indoors so its tail wouldn’t be set on fire or its little body hung from a rafter. No, it was something deep and ominous, right behind his eyes. And it was this thing Cynthia couldn’t quite make out that scared her.

  How did Jonathan put up with him?

  He rarely did his job and when he did, it was poorly done. Everyone, including Miss Emily, who never complained about anyone, was counting the days for Stubby to come back and relieve Willie.

  “What were you talking to Pastor Jonathan about?”

  Cynthia heard Willie’s shoes scrape along the floor, and resisted the urge to turn around. She continued walking.

  “You’re so stuck-up! You think you’re better than the rest of us?”

  Cynthia sidestepped a puddle of dirty water that Willie had failed to mop up. “You ask inappropriate questions, Willie. You need to learn some manners.” She kept walking and heard his footsteps keeping pace behind her.

  “I don’t think you’re the one to teach me.” He caught up and slipped in front of her, all hunched over and smelling like he hadn’t bathed in a week, his hands jammed in his pockets. “I see you asking everyone all sorts of questions. How come you can ask questions but I can’t?”

  Cynthia studied his dark eyes, eyes that looked like black reflecting coals. It was pointless to argue with someone like him. “Forget it,” she said, turning away.

  “Yeah . . . well I don’t forget that easily.”

  The phone rang just before Jonathan was able to take it off the hook. He had planned to disconnect himself from everything so he could spend time with the Lord, praying about something that troubled him. But after the fifth ring, he gave in and picked it up.

  “Hello.”

  “Bill Rivers here. I wanted to thank you for the tour.”

  Jonathan stifled a groan and tried to keep impatience from seeping into his voice. “You’re welcome.” The last thing he wanted to do was waste more time with this man.

  “Yes, it was interesting . . . very interesting.”

  Jonathan rubbed his forehead. “Okay, maybe we’ll do it again some time.”

  “Oh, count on it. But in the meantime, I was wondering if you could send me a list of all your male residents, past and present.”

  “Why? For what purpose?”

  “Pastor Jonathan, I don’t think I need to remind you that you have this mission because of the benevolence of Mr. Angus. One would think you’d be willing to bend backwards in order to satisfy any requests made by his appointed liaison.”

  “And Mr. Rivers, I don’t think I need to remin
d you of the limited staff at my disposal. If Mr. Angus cares to loan me his secretary for a day, so she can compile a list of all those who have come and gone since we’ve opened, then I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “You needn’t be curt. It’s a simple request. A list of names. Is that so hard? How long would it take you?”

  “Like I said, Mr. Rivers, if Mr. Angus would like to loan me his secretary . . . .”

  “Forget it!” Bill Rivers snapped before slamming down the phone.

  Cynthia’s hands were wrist-deep in meatloaf fixings when Bernie’s call came. She quickly rinsed them off. “Sorry,” she mouthed when she took the phone from Miss Emily. This was hardly the time for a phone call. They were swamped with work, trying to get the dinner together. But Miss Emily didn’t seem to mind. She smiled and patted Cynthia on the shoulder as though saying it was okay, then returned to dicing onions.

  “Hello. Hello!” Bernie’s voice bellowed over the receiver.

  She brought the phone to her ear and walked to the other end of the kitchen. “I’m here, Bernie, stop shouting.”

  “You’re one hard lady to reach! I’ve had to jump through more hoops than a dog at Ringling Brothers. First I get the pastor and he transfers me to the kitchen.” Cynthia heard Bernie chuckle. “I still can’t believe anyone would want you in their kitchen . . . anyway, then I get this sweet lady . . . .”

  “Miss Emily.”

  “Yeah, I figured that’s who it was . . . anyway, why can’t I get you on your new cell phone, the phone I had to buy because you lost your last one?”

  “I didn’t lose it. It was stolen, remember?”

  “Yeah, well, all I know is that I’ve bought you two phones in the past year and I still can’t get you when I want to.”

  “Bernie, I’m supposed to be homeless, remember? The staff know who I am, but how would it look to the others if I walked around with a phone sticking out of my pocket? I keep it in my room.”

  “But you’re never in your room!”