"Such transformation of character as is seen in the life of John is ever the result of communion with Christ. There may be marked defects in the character of an individual, yet when he becomes a true disciple of Christ, the power of divine grace transforms and sanctifies him. Beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, he is changed from glory to glory, until he is like Him whom he adores." 13
Humbolt huddled in the doorway, pulling
his coat collar tight against the cold and rain. He stared bleakly
at a hostile world. Unwelcome sights and sounds assailed his brain,
but he was too befuddled to care or notice. Tired, so tired, his
weary brain told him. Rest, need lots of rest, but he cold not
rest. Weary, bone tired, wrestles, O, so wrestles, Humbolt yawned
and slipped down to the garbage strewn pavement and fell sound
asleep. He would remain there, for several hours, in his favorite
doorway, undisturbed, for the rain and cold weather tended to
discourage intruders. Those few people who happened by were offended
by the sight of a dirty man sleeping in a doorway, bottle nestled
by his side, clothes tattered and torn, unshaven and smelling
of liquor and feces. Repulsive was the common reaction to this
wreck of humanity. Repulsive and unsightly, better quickly forgotten.
Humbolt was lean and tanned from endless
days spent wondering the streets of Chicago. He had a scraggly
beard that last saw a razor nearly three weeks ago, he wore a
broad brimmed hat, habitually pulled low over his eyes, to shield
them from dust and the intense sunlight which chronically plagued
his failing sight. His shoes were worn thin, one soul was missing,
and neither had laces. A frayed belt held up his stained trousers,
while his shirt flapped from beneath a tattered blue coat whenever
an occasional gust of wind disturbed its quiet melancholy slumber.
Humbolt was no different then a thousand
other homeless men of the streets, alcoholics who wondered the
nation’s larger cities. Untouched by the political crusaders
for the homeless, to dirty and smelly for those white folks in
three piece suits who masqueraded as caring do-gooders. He often
derided them when they condescended to toss a dollar bill in his
direction. Good for nothing liberals, he would snort in contempt
to his companions, who huddled with him, bottles in hand, tortured
with memories, like himself.
He knew them all, these visitants to his
corner of the jungle. The middle aged white men, in search of
recreation, either feminine or masculine, they didn’t care,
they flittered through his foggy conscience, leaving him none
the worse for their passage.
He knew the street preachers and had as
much contempt for them as for the pimps and the pushers, for he
tended to see in them the same motivations that prompted these
less savory characters in pursuit of prophets. Money, drugs, sex,
religion, do-gooders, they were all the same, and Humbolt didn’t
care, They were just part of his world, as were the police, the
cops who patrolled his corner of the big city, He knew them all,
their wives, their children, their girlfriends, the honest ones
and the dishonest ones, like shadows, they moved through, around,
and over him making no more impression upon his absent mind then
ants at a picnic can disturb the merry making of summer time vacationers
at the park.
Humbolt awoke and yawned, searched for his
bottle, took a long pull, burped, and stirred at the call of a
more urgent need. Leaving his doorway, he wasn’t even conscience
that the rain had stopped. Returning moments later, he settled
down again among the garbage, patted his bottle contentedly, and
was soon adrift upon a sea of sorrow and loneliness.
He slept, but his sleep was fitful. They
were back. He turned his face toward the wall, hoping to shut
out the leering faces. Disembodied forms, floating before his
tired eyes, they appeared and disappeared, sneering, taunting,
laughing, jeering at him in his doorway. They would not go away.
Maybe it was the drink, he thought. Others saw the same faces.
He supposed this was just one more pain he must bear, one more
terror that filled his heart. They seemed to understand his thoughts.
Wide toothless mouths floated before his eyes, searching to devour
him. He shuddered, folded his arms about his head to ward off
their assault, but he could not stop them.
He awoke screaming, bathed in perspiration,
shaking from head to foot. Fumbling in the trash, he found his
bottle and took a long drink. The faces vanished. Exhausted, he
lay back and slept again, this time undisturbed, for the mouths
were satisfied, at least for now.
* * *
Archbishop O’Brady was happy. In fact,
he had never been happier since that summer, when, as an eight
year old boy, he had his first hoarse back ride with his uncle
Gallop, his fond nick name for his wonderful friend with the horses.
Sitting in his well appointed office, surrounded
with luxury and all the conveniences a single man could desire,
Archbishop O’Brady was not just ordinarily happy, but ecstatically
so, yes that was the best description for the way he felt.
He gently caressed the letter that had just
arrived that morning from the Vatican. A letter to him, personally,
from the Pontiff. At last, it was about to happen, something he
and others in his fraternity had hoped for, planned for, and prayed
for over a lifetime. In his wildest dreams, he had never expected
it so soon, not in this manner, nor under these favorable circumstances.
Archbishop O’Brady was a lean, wiry
man in his late 60s, wall tanned from many delightful hours spent
on horseback, strong, yet not overly muscular, with a pleasant
face and a pleasant smile. He exhibited those fatherly characteristics
that the faithful expected from their leader. Kindly of manner,
patient with unbelievers, children loved to climb into his lap
and play with the sold gold gem encrusted crucifix hanging around
his neck suspended on a sold gold chain, given to him by the Pontiff,
for his years of faithful service to the church. He was the typical
grandfather, caring, compassionate, merciful, and tender to children,
women, and dull of understanding believers, but stern and demanding
with his numerous under shepherds when they disgraced themselves
or the church by yielding to the sins of the flesh.
Prematurely balding, slightly gray around
the temples, with clear blue eyes that tended to twinkle when
he was amused. Archbishop O’Brady was ever ready to enjoy
a good laugh, quick witted, respectful of the dignity of others,
yet never hesitant to point out their all too human flaws and
failings with a good natured infectious laugh that even the one
exhibiting these character flaws could not but be amused, Almost
universally well liked by his parishioners and nonbelievers in
the community who respected his intellect, whit, and political
acumen, he was well received by politicians, leaders of other
denominations, and members of his own fraternity. He was often
lovingly referred to as a smart, old, cookie, that is, for an
Archbishop. He was never too busy to listen to those who sought
him out on some marital problem, or breach of the civil law, or
disputed point of Catholic doctrine. Tolerant of dissent, as long
as it did not stray too far from established doctrine, willing
to explain fine points of cannon law, yet tough and just when
it came time to enforce church discipline on errant priests or
parishioners.
Archbishop O’Brady, otherwise known
as Bucky, enjoyed the finer things of life. This morning, he lit
a pre-revolutionary Cuban cigar, given to him by the mayor, reclined
in his black, Corinthian leather swivel chair, and glanced out
of the window at the gardens several stories below. Brushing some
link from his black, three piece suit, he reclined in a contemplative
mood as the cigar smoke swirled around his head, bathing the room
in a delightful aroma.
His office looked out onto a well manicured
lawn and sumptuous gardens which were well maintained despite
the drought and subsequent monsoon rains. Beautiful statuary were
surrounded by gorgeous blooms of a hundred varieties. Lavishly
bordered with stones taken from the Rhein river in Germany, purchased
by his parishioners and lovingly hand set as borders to over half
a mile of carefully trimmed walkways.
His office was also luxuriously appointed
in fine Corinthian leathers of the best quality, tapestries from
Italy, Crystal china vases and wine glasses, a well supplied liquor
cabinet with some of the choicest wines Italy could produce, a
good quality brandy, and the choicest cigars from around the world.
The walls were covered with fine oak paneling, genuine crystal
chandeliers hung from the ceiling, also imported from Italy. A
rich red carpet covered the floor and an exquisitely carved and
highly polished mahogany mantle overhung the fire place that now
had a delightfully warm fire burning on the hearth, completed
the elegant appointments of his office. Nothing but the best would
suffice for Archbishop O’Brady as befitting his high station
in the church of Jesus Christ.
As he again picked up the envelope, a thrill
of expectation and triumph flooded over him like a Niagara of
hopes fulfilled, long delayed expectations realized, the joy that
comes with a good woman on a cold night, the radiant glow of a
cordial and a good friend in front of the fire place at his country
lodge on a snowy December evening, the proverbial light at the
end of the tunnel; his dreams, the dreams of the Pontiff, and
a dozen Pontiffs before him were about to come to pass. Not since
that detested Martin Luther and his 99 thesis, had the church
been on the verge of such a tremendous victory of the faith. Many
Fathers had entered their graves unreconciled to the split in
Christendom, unrelieved by the thought of her wondering children,
bereft of her wise council and guidance in matters ecclesiastical
and temporal; filled with hope, but flavored with reality, now,
under his very fingertips, at last, after nearly four hundred
years, and from the most unlikely quarter, appeared, without warning
or expectation, this offer, this hope of reconciliation. And,
he, Archbishop O’Brady, was being delegated by the Pontiff
to cement the breach and welcome her wondering children, the Protestant
churches, back into the fold.
* * *
Joseph lay on the cold, unyielding ground,
training a pair of light amplification binoculars upon a distant
hill side 250 yards away. Nothing moved, nothing stirred the night
air, no sound, no movement, yet he knew they were there, hidden
behind a fold of ground, laying prone, like himself, waiting for
him to move and disclose his location. They had played this cat
and mouse game for several hours now, watching, waiting, patiently
observing nothing, but with deadly purpose and deadly consequences.
Joseph was a patient man, hardly daring
to breath, conscious of his fellows on either side of him, he
could neither hear nor see them, but knew, instinctively, they
would support him once the enemy made his presence known.
Carefully, he eased the binoculars to the
ground, not making the slightest sound. He was weary, thirsty,
and hungry, but like the good soldier he was, Joseph neither complained
nor grumbled for he was fighting for his country’s freedom
and future. Not a freedom fighter, but a soldier in the Israeli
Defense Forces, his unit had been activated six days earlier when
the first Syrian tanks rolled across the border in an early dawn
surprise attack. Since that first day of fierce fighting, he and
his comrades, now laying quietly beside him, had been driven back
by the surprisingly heavy and accurate fire power of Syrian tanks
and artillery pieces. The opposite hillside, bare of trees or
discernible cover, except for some buildings far to the right
of their present position, was held by determined Syrian forces,
hidden in a ravine just below the summit. This hill, and the intervening
valley, had been fought over for several days as the resistance
of the Israeli Defense Forces had finally stiffened with much
needed resupply of equipment from the United States, and several
discrete European allies. Ammunition was in chronic short supply
as were medicines, but as with the 1948 war for independence,
he and his fellows were determined to hang on at all costs. Then,
as now, enemy forces had over run their positions and threatened
Jerusalem in a prolonged siege, but now, the Syrian mobile forces
were advancing so rapidly that scarcely had they established a
defensible position then they were outflanked.
Joseph resumed his vigil, his thirst temporally
slaked, aching muscles eased somewhat, reassured that his ammunition
belt was well supplied with bullets and grenades. He carefully
adjusted the binoculars and slowly scanned the hill side just
below the crest.
There, just to the right of a large bolder,
a shadow moved ever so slightly, detached itself from the background
then vanished as quickly as it appeared. Joseph stiffened, and
ever so slightly, nudged Benjamin, who whispered into the mouthpiece
of his radio.
Silence descended again, as both men tensed
their muscles, knowing what to expect. Carefully, easing his slim
bulk backward, Joseph inched down the reverse slop of the hill
until only his binoculars peered above the pebbles of the ridge
top.
Holding his breath, he counted to sixty
before removing the binoculars and sheltering his eyes from the
intense blinding light he knew was coming. With a brilliant white
flash and reverberating thunder, the Syrian salvo opened the seventh
day of the Israeli/Syrian conflict.
* * *
Two boys and two girls were sheltered in
the alley. Affluent kids, judging by their trendy clothes, children
on their way to school, except school wouldn’t begin for
another week. Ranging in ages from five to nine years old, they
were unusually quiet as they waited and watched.
“I don’t like this,” Annabel
said.”
“Getting nervous her brother asked,”
as he fidgeted slightly, shivers of anticipation running up and
down his spine.
She squared her shoulders against the brick
wall, feeling its rough texture through her sweater, wishing she
were elsewhere.
“I’m frightened,” Brent whimpered.
“Shhh,” his older brother said.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I gotta go,” he replied, shivering
in the cold and uncertainty of the moment.
Erwin laughed, “over there,” he
said, pointing to a battered aluminum trash can. “There’s
your toilet.”
“Here she comes,” Shenna cautioned,
“remember what to do.”
The others nodded in ascent, while Brent
relieved his urge and wanted his mother.”
Following the plan agreed upon earlier in
the morning, Brent and Erwin Peebles stepped out from the shelter
of the alley, playfully pushing each other in good natured fun
followed by Annabel and Shenna.
Their clothes and demeanor betrayed them.
Erny, the pusher, from his corner, instantly recognized them for
who they were. Wealthy children, from an upscale neighborhood,
on the prowl for mischief. They were as out of place as a liberal
at a Rush Limbaugh seminar. Not that he cared. Here, it was dog
eat dog. If the dogs wore name brand jeans, were clean cut, and
carried school bags, it mattered not to him. He wondered what
they wanted.
Erny wasn’t as indifferent as he appeared.
Vigilant, one had to be and stay alive in his chosen profession,
he tended to blend in with the crowd. Short and stocky in appearance,
black eyes and hair, dark complexion, and a scar at the right
corner of his mouth where a competitors knife had found its mark,
he was alert as a bird, constantly turning his head, first this
way, then that, looking for customers, narcotics agents, and unwelcome
competition.
Annabel, having celebrated her ninth birthday
last Thursday, caught his attention. Cute figure, pig tails, rosy
complexion, she would charm the pants off some of his customers.
Properly trained, she could run drugs in safety for the cops would
never suspect such a young, upscale girl trafficking in narcotics.
Her friend also caught his eye. Not as cute as her sister, he
thought of them as twins, she might fetch $200 an hour for Stanley.
Prophet, he saw them only as profit busters for his business.
The boys were teasing the girls, pulling
their pig tails and pushing them aside as they boisterously walked
past his corner.
Erny laughed. He saw them as pretenders,
they lacked the street smarts of real punks. They apparently thought
of themselves as sophisticated, reveling in their supposed understanding
of street life but they would wet their pants or panties, as the
case might be, if confronted with real toughs. They were running
a real risk of confrontation with the Deputies, the 34th street
gang should any of the boys happen to pass by.
He paused to service a customer, exchanging
a small packet for several bills, then returned his attention
to the children who would be tough. He watched as they approached
Mini, an old, gray haired woman who was sitting on the curb, feet
spread apart, peering into the sewer. She sat thus for hours.
Erny often wondered what she was looking for, he even asked her
once and received a torrent of invective for his inquiry. Queer
he said, referring to her by the old fashioned usage of the word.
But, as with Humbolt in his doorway several blocks away, he cared
nothing for her eccentricities.
A police car, siren screaming, shrieked
past the knot of children.
“Well, kiddies,” he said to himself,
“you ain’t on a school outing now. Them cops don’t
care who your parents are. You play on my street, and your end
up where you don’t want to be.”
They were pestering her, now, pulling her
hair, kicking her in the back, pushing and showing as she attempted
to stand. He could her their laughter and her curses. Flailing
wildly, Mini caught one of the girls by her pigtail, flinging
her into the street. He was amazed by her strength and agility,
for an old woman.
A boy, of about eight years, he judged,
seized her from behind, tugging her backwards, while the other
girl grabbed her hair. A small boy, probably no older then four
or five, Erny judged, hung back, watching the older children as
they tormented the old hag.
He could hear their laughter and taunts.
Her skirt was torn, revealing dirty underwear and an unshaven
leg. Mini fought back, going for the leader, a boy who was wearing
designer jeans and an ear ring. Silly kids, Erny laughed. Trying
to demonstrate his machismo, he succeeded only in affording her
a hand hold. Seizing his ear ring, she tugged. Erny smiled at
his cry of pain and fear as blood began flowing from his torn
flesh.
But Mini was visibly tiring while the kids
still retained the vigor of their youth. Erny felt the first flicker
of sympathy for Mini who had fallen to the ground under the assaults
of the two other boys. The leader, who was egging them on, stood
to one side, a white handkerchief to his ear to staunch the blood,
a look of fear on his face.
The girl, who had first suffered at Mini’s
hand, was back in the fray, although with a limp and torn jeans
from her tussle with the pavement. She was angry, Erny saw, angry
and humiliated at being bested by this street woman.
Rushing upon her victim, nails scratching
and clawing, the girl seized Mini by the neck, her black hair
flying as she pulled the older woman off balance, while the other
boy pummeled her.
The youngest boys stood irresolutely, thumb
in his mouth, watching the fight, uncertainly written on his face.
Sensing her immanent demise, Mini roused
her waning energies and aimed a powerful kick at the girl who
had her by the neck. He could hear her scream as, once again,
she found herself bouncing off the pavement. Mini twisted and
kicked again, landing a powerful blow to the genitals of the nine
year old. Bellowing his rage, the boy staggered backwards, falling
over the five year old, causing him to cry in fear and pain.
Now, Erny thought, the children were beginning
to look the part of street kids. Their hair messed, clothes torn
and dirty, bloody, and bruised, perhaps, he chuckled, they were
repenting of their unadvised foray into his neighborhood. Foolish
children, foolish---”
A gun shot rang out, followed by two more.
Mini staggered, blood appearing on her dirty blouse, a vacant
expression in her eyes, she fell into the gutter. With triumph
in her eyes, the older girl, who had twice bounced off the pavement,
stood with a gun in her hand, pointing it at the older woman.
But Mini wasn’t dead, Erny noticed. Her feet convulsed as
she tried to rise. He could see her face, twisted in fear and
rage. Erny felt a tug of sympathy but repulsed it. Let her fend
for herself.
The girl fired twice more. Mini’s body
ceased its twitching and lay still. Silence enveloped the group
of children as they gazed first at the limp body then at the girl
who still held the gun. Tossing her hair in a defiant gesture,
the gun toting girl said something to the leader who was still
holding his ear.
It didn’t take any great wisdom to
understand her body language. Now in full command of the gang,
Ma Barker mocked the former leader, derived the five year who
was still sucking his thumb, and kicked Mini’s body in a
gesture of defiance and contempt.
Sticking her gun in the waistband of her
jeans, the pony tail girl gestured to the others and walked back
toward the alley, oblivious of the sirens on the next street.
Ma Barker, Erny thought, I wonder if the new leader would know
who she had killed. Probably not.
He went back to his business, oblivious
of the bloody body in the gutter and the rivulet of blood dripping
into the sewer. The cops would be along soon and remove it. Business
would go on as usual.
