Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “That’s because I have cooking to do.” Cynthia shifted her feet and glanced at the mound of meatloaf fixings. She needed to get back to work. “And Bernie, you may not believe this, but people are starting to like my cooking.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe it. Anyway are you going to let me tell you why I called? Because I wasn’t going to call since I think this is some kind of joke, on the other hand, since it was for you and no telling what you’re into now, I thought I’d better, just in case. Anyway, I just got a fax addressed to you from someone named Agatha Christie. Does that do anything for you?”

  Cynthia’s attention peaked. “Yes. What does it say?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a list of vendors. Fifteen of them. What’s it all about?”

  “Remember I told you about that guy who retired suddenly from Social Services, the one who was going to do some checking on our two homeless men?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This was the last thing he worked on before quitting. Give me the names, Bernie.” Cynthia scurried for paper and pencil, then scribbled the names as Bernie read them. “I’ll hand this over to Steve. Maybe he can do something with it because I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I told you I’m going after a different angle, now, and you agreed.”

  “Yeah. That was before you got your hands on this.”

  Cynthia walked over to the mound of chopped meat and sprinkled the top with dried parsley flakes. “What was all that talk about my safety? Just talk?”

  “I figured as a reporter you’d want to follow up your own leads, that’s all. What could happen at a food store?”

  “If Steve comes up with something interesting, I’ll check it out.” Cynthia put down the parsley and began lining up her loaf pans.

  “What’s all that clanking noise?”

  “I have to go, Bernie. I’ve got to get my meatloaf in the oven or there’ll be no dinner tonight.”

  “Now, that would be a shame.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you. I’m on the front lines here, working hard to get this story. Think about the climb in circulation. Think about all those happy faces in the front office.”

  “Right now I’m thinking about your dinner. It’s got to be tough enough being homeless without having to eat your meatloaf.”

  Before molding the chopped meat in the loaf pans, Cynthia decided she needed to make her own phone call—to Detective Steve Bradley. By the time her meatloaf was cooked, Detective Bradley was there to watch them all come out of the oven.

  “I’ll never, as long as I live, I’ll never understand you, Cynthia! Just what are you trying to prove?”

  “Nothing.” Cynthia, wearing heavy oven mitts, carried her loaf pans, one by one, to the cooling racks. “That’s why I’m giving you this list. You follow up.”

  “Whose bright idea was it to have you come back here? Bernie’s?”

  “No, mine.”

  “Do you have a death wish or something?”

  Cynthia bent over the pans and inhaled the steamy vapor. “Can you smell the basil? I tried a new recipe. I hope it’s good.”

  “I get paid to put my life on the line. What’s your excuse?”

  “It’s not what you think, Steve. I’m not digging for that drug story. I just want to finish my story about the mission and how sometimes people get a new lease on life.”

  “Maybe so, but does Skinner know that? And how about the killer who may still be here at the mission? Did you send them memos with your change of plans?”

  Cynthia stripped off the oven mitts and placed them on the counter next to the hot pans. “I’ll be more careful this time with my questions. It won’t be long before interested parties understand that I’m looking for something totally different.”

  Steve squinted at her. “You willing to take that chance? To do what? Some sob-sister piece? Did you get religion or something?”

  “I guess I got the ‘or something’ but don’t ask me to explain what that is.”

  Steve moved closer and put his hands on her waist. “I can’t say I approve.” He eyed the pans on the counter. “Although I find this new domestic side of you sexy. You were never this good in the kitchen when we played house.”

  Cynthia pushed him away. “Let me know what you find after you’ve checked out that list.”

  “Okay, okay.” He tried to nuzzle her ear but she stepped to the side. “It sure would be nice if you’d make meatloaf for me sometime.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Is that what you tell your preacher friend?”

  “You don’t usually say stupid things, Steve, so what makes you say something stupid now? Why bring Jonathan into this? He’s not my type at all. And I’m certainly not his. Besides, he’s a pastor with his mind always on higher things.”

  “He’s a man, Cynthia. Just a man, like the rest of us.”

  Jonathan sat at his desk staring at his open Bible. Her princes in the midst thereof are like wolves ravening the prey to shed blood, and to destroy souls, to get dishonest gain.

  Two days ago, when he was reading Ezekiel 22, this verse jumped out. And for the past forty-eight hours he had been asking the Lord what it meant. He still had no answer; only an uneasy feeling that continued to linger.

  He thought of Cynthia and felt fear slide over him like a shirt. He rose from his desk and walked to the maple door and locked it. Then he returned to his seat and began praying. Even after several minutes of doing spiritual warfare he still sensed a force so hostile, so foreboding that he felt compelled to continue. He also felt something else—the assurance that God was going to expose the wolves.

  Cynthia’s lips formed a wide smile as she carried a tray of dishes into the kitchen. Three people had stopped and complimented her on her meatloaf.

  She breezed past Miss Emily and tried to read her face. Miss Emily had not said one word about her masterpiece. Cynthia had promised herself she wouldn’t ask, but Miss Emily’s silence was driving her mad. “Well, are you going to tell me if you liked my handiwork or not?” she finally blurted.

  “The basil was a nice touch,” Miss Emily said, already washing down the stovetop with Clorox. “I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

  “Then you liked it?”

  “Rivaled mine.” Miss Emily winked. “It makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”

  Cynthia shrugged. “It’s a trivial accomplishment. Nothing that will ever earn me a Pulitzer.”

  “But it gives you pleasure.”

  “Actually . . . yes.” Cynthia placed the tray on the counter, her face beaming. “But for the life of me I don’t understand why.”

  “It’s because you’ve given others pleasure. It’s the law of reciprocity . . . the law of sowing and reaping. In other words, you’re getting what you have given. Understand?”

  Cynthia wiped her hands on a towel then walked over to Miss Emily and hugged her. “Yes. I believe I do.”

  Cynthia finished washing down the last of the tables and looked around for Willie Tanner. He was supposed to mop up after each meal but she could tell by how her shoes stuck to the floor when she walked that he had missed doing it today. Maybe she’d just mop it herself. It was a good time. Aside from a few stragglers, the place was empty. Almost everyone had gone to his room. She headed for the corner closet which housed the mop and large, yellow pail on wheels, but stopped when she saw a man step from the shadows.

  “I’m glad to see you, Willie. This floor’s in bad shape.”

  When the man got closer and Cynthia saw it wasn’t Willie, her heart raced. “What are you doing here?”

  “No need to ask you that ‘cause I already know. You’re meddling. You just can’t stop meddling, can you?”

  “I’m doing a story, on the mission and how lives are transformed here.”

  “Is this why your cop friend was here?” Skinner’s eyes glowed like magma.

  “You need to leave. There’s a rest
raining order that says you can’t be here.”

  “That’s not gonna do you any good. That’s what I wanted you to know. Before, I was only going to cut you up a little, alter your face—give you a new look. But now, I’m turning you into bait.”

  Cynthia walked away. “I’m calling the police, Skinner.”

  “It don’t matter. They won’t find me. But I can find you. Anytime I want. You think on that. And count yourself among the dead. You hear? You’re dead!”

  CHAPTER 18

  “I want you out of there! Pronto! I should have my head examined for listening to you; for letting you convince me to send you back.”

  “If I leave, Bernie, my story won’t have clout.”

  “I don’t care. You get your tail back here. Skinner doesn’t sound like the kind of man you can reason with. Let the police handle it. You did report Skinner’s threat to the police?”

  “Yes, Bernie, of course. I suppose I could try to salvage what I can of the story and maybe write it along some other angle. I’ll have to play with it a bit.”

  “Just do your playing back here in North Oberon.”

  “Okay, okay. But it’ll have to wait for another twenty-four hours because Stubby’s getting out of the hospital tomorrow and I want to pick him up.”

  “Fine, but after that, no more excuses. Not if you still want to work for the Trib.”

  Cynthia laughed. “Ooooh . . . I think I’m scared.”

  “You should be. Yesterday, some hotshot reporter came into my office with her resume. Impressive, too. She was looking for your job.”

  “You don’t say? Mind if I ask who?”

  “You’ll find out pretty quick if you’re not here at your desk in two days.”

  Cynthia’s palms felt clammy and her stomach wouldn’t stop doing flips as she walked toward Stubby’s hospital room. She blinked several times hoping to relieve the heaviness in her eyes. She hadn’t slept well because of her nightmare. It was the same haunting dream where she couldn’t get to the window in time, and ended with Julia lying on the concrete patio, as lifeless as a rag doll; and blood splattered everywhere, painting the concrete, red.

  She couldn’t go on like this. She felt as if she was trapped on some weird board game where she’d take one step forward, then two back, and all the while the object was to keep from sliding downward into what resembled Dante’s Inferno.

  One thing she had learned at the mission was that your secret sins always find you out. Even if they were never made public, they’d eat you alive. There was no escape. She was sure that’s why so many homeless had drinking or drug problems because they couldn’t run from their sins, either. She had come to believe there was wisdom in confession. Would it bring her peace? Get rid of those nightly demons? No way of knowing. But she was finally willing to find out.

  Even so, there would be a price.

  There was always a price. Stubby would hate her. So would everyone at the mission when they found out, and they were sure to find out. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, because she was leaving anyway. Bernie had forced that issue. And that would make everyone’s disgust, bearable. She wouldn’t be around long enough to let it beat her down.

  Still . . . she hated the thought of disappointing them. But their contempt would be well deserved. And payment was long overdue.

  She wondered if Stubby could ever forgive her. She wouldn’t hold her breath. Then there was Jonathan. Wouldn’t Steve Bradley have a good laugh if he knew how much she liked that man? She could almost see the derision on Steve’s face. Now, Jonathan would hate her, too. And though she had hardly dared think it or admit it, a part of her had wanted, had hoped, there would be more than friendship between them. She could forget that, now.

  And what of Miss Emily and Effie? She couldn’t bear the thought of losing their friendship, especially Miss Emily’s. But she would after they found out she was a coward, a killer.

  Her chest tightened. And for a moment she couldn’t breathe—the pain of it all was too great. But this time she’d see it through. She had to. No matter what. Because she could live with people hating her. But she couldn’t live with the lie. Not anymore.

  It was killing her.

  “You sure are quiet, Miss Cynthia. You ain’t said two words since pickin’ me up. I hope this weren’t a big inconvenience for you.”

  Cynthia’s knuckles were white from clutching the steering wheel. She looked over at her passenger and forced a smile. “No inconvenience, Stubby. I was happy to do it. And Jonathan didn’t mind loaning me his car.”

  “Well, I appreciate it. You sure are good to me.”

  Cynthia slammed on the brakes, making the tires squeal and causing Stubby to grab the arm rest. Then she pulled into a small park containing a plastic slide set, and stopped the car.

  “You okay, Miss Cynthia? You ain’t lookin’ so good. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been on a binger. An all-nighter.”

  Cynthia took a deep breath. “No binger, but I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Miss Emily says hot milk can cure that along with a little . . . .”

  “Only the truth will cure it, Stubby.” She unhooked her seat belt because she was having trouble breathing again, then turned to the elderly man beside her. “You’re going to hate me and I can’t bear the thought of that, but it can’t be helped because I have to tell you something. Something important. Something I should have told years ago.”

  “I could never hate you, Miss Cynthia. Never.”

  Tears filled Cynthia’s eyes. “Oh, yes you can. And that’s okay. I want you to know that. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and that’s okay.”

  “You’re startin’ to scare me. You got a crazy look in your eyes. I ain’t never seen that look in ‘em before. You sure you don’t just want to go to the mission and lie down?”

  “Years ago, you came to a house in North Oberon’s Spring Terrace and installed a large casement window in the upstairs playroom—a playroom belonging to two little girls. Remember?”

  Stubby’s face whitened as he nodded.

  “What you don’t know is that one of the girls removed the screen, to see if she could fly her kite out that window. It never did fly. But the trouble was she couldn’t get the screen back on, so she just leaned it against the edges. Later, when that girl saw her sister taking her things she chased after her, only she had forgotten about that screen until it was too late, until that sister, who wasn’t looking where she was going, ran straight for it and . . . out. I was that girl, Stubby. I was the one who removed the screen. Everyone thought you had been careless, that you had installed it improperly. Everyone blamed you. And I never said a word. Not one word. I let you take the blame. And I’m so very very sorry.” Tears streaked Cynthia’s face. “I was a coward. And I ruined your life. I hope that someday . . . maybe someday, a long time from now, you’ll be able to forgive me.”

  Stubby’s mouth was open, his bottom lip quivering. “You the big sister of that . . . ?”

  Cynthia sat sobbing into her hands unable to speak.

  “You mean, it weren’t my fault? It weren’t my fault that that little girl died? All these years . . . I was thinkin’ I killed her. That I . . . .”

  Cynthia felt a hand patting her shoulder.

  “There. There. No need to cry. That was mighty kind of you tellin’ me, lettin’ me know. It takes a load off my heart. So don’t cry no more, Miss Cynthia. Please don’t cry. It’s okay.”

  Cynthia looked up. “You don’t understand. I’m the one who ruined your life, Stubby. If I had told the truth you would have kept your business. You would have been successful and lived a happy life.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe not. Who can say? I was still the old Stubby, the sinner. But I was a growd man, while you was a wee bit of a thing no more than five. I coulda handled it better, me bein’ the adult and all. I coulda pressed through, continued tryin’. But at the first sign of trouble, what did I do? Cut and run. That’s what. So if you expec
t me to blame a five-year old for my troubles, you’d be wrong. ‘Course it woulda been better for you if you had come clean. It woulda made you happier. Made you sleep good at night.”

  Cynthia used her fingertips to blot her tears. “Why are you being so kind? Why don’t you yell or curse or something?”

  “‘Cause I ain’t mad.”

  “Are you saying you . . . forgive me?”

  “‘Course I forgive you. So, no more cryin’, okay?”

  “But how? I don’t understand? I . . . .”

  “It’s that simple, Miss Cynthia. I gotta forgive you. After all them things Jesus forgave me for, if I don’t forgive you how am I ever gonna look Him in the eye again?”

  Cynthia scrambled over the center console and gave Stubby an awkward hug, then kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice catching.

  “Now, Miss Cynthia, you’re embarrassin’ me. Quit that.”

  “There’s one more favor I’d like to ask.”

  “Sure Miss Cynthia. Anythin’.”

  Cynthia settled back in her seat and buckled in. “From now on, just call me Cynthia.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. Seems kinda disrespectful.”

  “We’re friends, Stubby, and should call each other by our first names.”

  “Well . . . I . . . .”

  “Okay, if you can’t do it then I’ll start calling you Mr. Stubby. How’s that?”

  “Don’t sound right. In fact it sounds downright silly. So . . . okay, Cynthia, I’ll do it.”

  As she started the engine she turned and saw a smile spreading across Stubby’s face.

  Stubby White walked around his room at the mission touching the bed frame, the dresser, the sink as though assuring himself this was not a dream.

  The past two and a half weeks in the hospital were foggy, like a bad drug trip. Sometimes he thought he remembered. A word here . . . a word there . . . would pop into his head. Fruit was one of them. But there were others—none of them made sense—striped shirt sleeve, winded breathing and a snake . . . no . . . not a snake, somethin’ else . . . somethin’ familiar. He’d have to trust God to put those words together and make sense of them.