The Night Before (8 page)

“Don't mind at all,” Reverend Callum said. “You're welcome here.” He ambled to his desk, sat down, and opened an old Bible, its spine broken and pages frayed.

Joe finished his cookies, aware of the reverend lifting his eyes from the scripture to glance his way, no doubt pondering what sort of tribulations had landed him on the cold Eastborough streets on Christmas Eve in the first place.

He imagined himself saying:
I caught my wife. Her and our next-door neighbor. Caught them right as I was about to share the best news that's come my way in years. That was God's gift to me this night, Reverend.

The words remained unspoken and he pushed past a replay of the dining room scene. Now his brain switched to another show, this one featuring Don and Mariel and the kids from both households thrown together into one big happy family. (Joe and Caroline having been put out on the curb for pickup.) The new couple's combined incomes would add up to serious money and the kids would have everything they ever wanted, every day. Caroline would go directly into spinsterhood and Joe would end up drinking himself to death on his movie money, a shaking wreck of a -

The phone jangled, jerking him out of the nightmare. Reverend Callum lifted the receiver, listened, spoke a few quiet words. He dropped the phone back in the cradle and stood up. “You ain't in any hurry to leave?” he asked. Joe shook his head.

“Then you mind watching the phone while I go collect someone?” Joe said, “I can do that.”

The reverend took his coat down from the hook on the wall. Joe followed him into the chapel. “What happens if someone calls?” he said.

“Ain't too likely that'll happen this late,” Callum told him. “But just go ahead and get their location. If they're outside, tell them to get indoors or under shelter and call back in just a bit. Tell them I'll be around soon as I can.” He was buttoning his coat. “I won't be gone but twenty-five, thirty minutes.” He stepped out into the night and locked the door behind him.

Joe peered through a tear in one of the pieces of colored plastic. It had begun snowing again, though lightly, barely dusting what was already on the street. He watched the reverend climb in behind the wheel. The van stuttered off into the night trailing a billow of gray smoke.

Except for the reedy music from the office radio, the little church was quiet. Joe moved from the window and sat down in a front pew. He noticed that the cross on the wall behind the pulpit was made of a hardwood he didn't recognize, the color of honey, but swirled with bands of deep black grain. It was starkly stirring, constructed in a way that announced an imperfect hand. Reverend Callum's? It would not surprise him to find out that the cross was the preacher's work.

Sitting there, he admitted to himself that he had taken advantage of that kind man's errand to linger and avoid a decision. It was also true that there was nowhere he cared to go. A cab could carry him to a hotel downtown or a motel out on the interstate. He imagined greeting Christmas morning alone in an empty and antiseptic room while the rest of the world celebrated. Hannah and Christian would come downstairs to find him absent. What story would Mariel tell them? He couldn't imagine; he was the one with all the grand fiction.

Crashing at Billy's or his parents' or one of his siblings' was out of the question. No, he would be home for his children on Christmas morning. No matter what happened afterward. The thought cheered him until he began mulling what he'd say to Mariel when he saw her again. As for the kids, he'd concoct something. The carload of presents would distract them for a while. And he would make a point of announcing the news about the option and the money that was coming their way. He took a moment to picture Mariel's face when she realized that she had picked the wrong time to destroy the family.

It was no good. Such imaginings wearied him and seemed a frankly cruel fit on someone taking grateful refuge in that sanctuary for the soul.

He turned back to wondering how much he could blame Mariel for what had happened. That he had never in his life committed a truly horrible act didn't make him an innocent. She'd had every right to expect more from him and he had let her down. If for a certain actor stumbling on his book, nothing would have changed. That it had been so close a call was a humbling notion.

It was in this chastened mood that he rose from the pew and ambled back into the office to call home to make some kind of arrangement. Standing over the telephone, he hesitated, preparing a speech. It wouldn't do to lose his temper.
Cool and calm,
he told himself. No shouts or curses or name-calling and no breaking down. Just get into it and see where they stood.

He was still working on his opening line when the phone chattered. There was an urgency to the ring tone that caused him to snatch up the receiver. “This is the… the Light of the World.” He stuttered over the words.
The Light of the World?

Background noise and someone talking crowded a female voice. “This the shelter place?”

Joe said, “This is the church, yes. Can I help you?”

“We got put out.” The woman sounded a bit hoarse.

“Put out?”

“Put out on the street,” she said. “Malikah and me. We need help. Some place to stay.” Joe said, “I'm not—”

“Hello?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm here.”

“I got my child with me. She's only seven.”

Joe rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Where are you?”

“Store on Butler Street. Corner of Sixth.”

“I'm sorry, I can't—”

“Can't what?” The other voice muttered in the background. “The man says we need to leave.”

“I'm sorry? What man?”

“The manager here.”

Joe stared at the wall, feeling something come over him. The woman said, “Hello?”

“Put him on the phone.”

Clattering sounds were followed by a voice with a South Asian lilt. “Yes? May I help you?”

“This is Joe Kelly.” He reached for a tone of authority even as he ad-libbed the script. “I'm with the Light of the World Tabernacle.”

The voice came back, now more cautious. “Yes, sir?”

“You're the manager of the store?”

“The night manager, yes, sir.”

“Well, a happy holiday to you.”

“And the same to you, sir.”

“I need to ask a favor. The woman and her child are not causing a problem, are they?”

“Problem?” The manager hesitated. “No, sir.”

“Then can you let them stay until I can get someone there?”

“Sir?”

“Somebody will come to get them. From the church. It's below freezing outside. And it's Christmas Eve. We would appreciate it.”

“And how long must they stay?”

“No more than a half-hour.”

“Oh…” The manager paused. “All right, then. Very good.”

“Butler at Sixth, right?”

“That's right, yes, sir.”

“Thank you. Can I speak to the woman?”

The phone was passed back. “Hello?”

“He's going to let you stay. Someone will come get you and your child. Probably the… Reverend Callum. He's out on a call right now.”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

“What's your name?”

“Nicole. Weaver.”

“I'm Joe.”

“Okay, then.”

“You stay put, all right?”

The woman said, “We ain't going anywhere. Got nowhere to go.”

With that, she clicked off. Joe dropped the phone in the cradle, then hurried into the chapel and poked his nose to the mesh-framed window. The van was not in sight.

He stood wondering if he was being touched by some stroke of magic. But such events didn't really happen, did they? Except in movies and books, of course. What did happen was that a decent man who'd been a lifelong disappointment to himself and his family and friends came home with great news for the first time in forever only to find his wife coupled with the next-door neighbor, who happened to be a genuine prick.

Searching the street for headlights, he pulled his mind off his own problems and thought about the woman and child in need of a refuge on this frigid night. If the reverend wasn't back in the next fifteen minutes, he'd have to try and call a cab to pick them up. But the woman wouldn't have money to pay the driver. He wondered if they took credit cards over the phone. He was so absorbed in this happy confusion that it took a few seconds for the crunch of a metal door closing to register.

He was waiting when Reverend Callum stepped inside. “I got a call,” he said. “A woman was put out of her house. She's at a convenience store on Butler Street. She has a kid with her. A

little girl.”

The reverend unbuttoned his coat. “Little girl? Oh, my.”

Joe followed him into the office. “The manager told her they had to leave,” he said. “I talked him into letting them stay. Only for a half-hour, though.” Callum sat down at his desk. “So, can you go get her?”

Reverend Callum stood at his desk to regard Joe for an absent moment, as if something else was occupying his thoughts. The announcer on the radio whispered that they were coming up on the midnight hour. The reverend smiled in a vague way at Joe's fidgeting, then lifted his ring of keys from the desk, and dangled them in the air.

“Why don't you go?” he said.

The van was a creaking hulk to drive. The engine wheezed and the suspension hobbled over the snow-crusted streets. But the heater blew mightily.

Joe steered his careful way west through town. The last thing he wanted was to end up wrapped around a pole and have the poor woman and her child waiting there, thinking he had abandoned them on this of all nights.

It was right on top of the hour when he turned on to Butler Avenue and spied the lights of the store. The street lay dark and quiet under the blanket of snow. He swung into the lot, came to a stop next to a bank of pay phones, and cut off the lights. The wipers swept the windshield a last time and he saw the little girl gazing out at him from the other side of the glass with the kind of patience that only a child can muster - steady and without a hint of guile. She watched him climb out of the van and she stood motionless as he raised a gloved hand to wave at her.

He pushed through the glass door, nodded a greeting to the short, dusky man inside the glass booth, and turned down the first aisle. The woman didn't rush at him in a desperate lunge. Instead, she drew her daughter to her side and stood somewhat stiffly against the backdrop of merchandise, as if waiting for a proper introduction. She was dark-skinned and too thin. Her face was made of sharp planes and there was something proud in her steady gaze and the tilt of her chin. Her hair was wound in braids and streaked with gold and her eyes were wide and deep, black pools.

Joe was relieved to see that the little girl looked healthy, with chubby cheeks at both ends of a shy smile. Her eyes were enormous and full of light and he was charmed.

Catching himself, he offered the mother his hand. “Nicole? I'm Joe. I'm the one you talked to.”

“Yes, sir.” Her fingers felt cold.

Joe smiled at the little girl. “And what's your name?”

“Malikah.” It was just above a whisper.

“Okay,” he said and clapped his hands. “I guess we're ready.”

He herded them to the front of the store, where he stopped to wave through the bulletproof glass at the manager. Malikah slowed her steps to cast her wide eyes upon the display of cookies and cakes on the end cap.

Joe said, “Would you like something?” He looked at her mother. “Is it all right?” Nicole nodded and he said,” Go ahead. Pick whatever you want.”

Joe and the manager traded a smile as the child agonized. After a moment, Joe leaned down to whisper, “You can pick two. One for now, one for later.” He turned to the mother. “And what about you? Please, get something.”

Nicole's face softened at this kindness and studied the display of pastries wrapped in plastic.

Joe said, “Malikah. You like chocolate milk?” The child nodded gravely. “Okay. What about you, ma'am? A Coke or…?”

Nicole said, “Coke's fine,” and Joe made a quick tour, returning with the drinks. His spirits were in a dizzy spin as he helped count the purchases and then pay. He thanked the clerk profusely and wished him a happy holiday for the second time.

Nicole got Malikah strapped into the back seat, then settled in front. Joe climbed in behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and turned on the heater. Plastic crinkled as Malikah attacked the first of her snacks.

Nicole was blinking at the snowflakes, her brow furrowing. “Where you taking us?”

Joe had forgotten about that. He dug for his phone, then got out to read the number splayed on the side of the van. The reverend answered in his slow drawl. Joe reported that he had collected the mother and daughter as he climbed back into the driver's seat.

“You can go ahead and carry them to St. Mark's A.M.E. on Farwick Avenue,” the reverend said. “You know where that is? Almost down to Sage?”

“I can find it,” Joe said.

“I called over and spoke to Mrs. Walters. She runs the shelter. They got beds for the two of them. So go ahead and carry them there and then bring the van on in.”

Joe clicked off and told Nicole where they were going. She and Malikah exchanged whispers. He said, “Something wrong?”

“We got to go back and get our things,” the mother said.

“Back where?”

“To where we were staying. It's on Grant Street.”

“What's there?”

“Our clothes and stuff.” Malikah whispered something that Joe didn't catch. “And her presents. She has Christmas presents.”

Joe turned and saw the blades of worry in the child's eyes. She was holding her lip tight to keep from crying. He knew the look.

“Where is it?” he said.