Bleeding in Babylon

Chapter 1 (continued)

 

        “Any news?”

        For a long time she says nothing. “Thomas, I hate the phone.”

        “You haven’t heard?”

        “I’m still waiting.”

        “Maybe he won’t be deployed.”

        Marybeth taps her receiver, the sound an insistent ticking. “Can you come by and see Daniel? He should talk to someone.”

        My hand shakes from gripping the telephone. “I can't replace Artie.”

        “You can still talk to him.”

        “It wouldn't be father to son.”

        “No, but at least it would be man to man.”

        Man to man. When did Daniel grow up? When did God become blackness and void? When my alarm rings, reminding me of the Mass, I set down the phone to lay my face in my hands.

        “Thomas—Thomas—”

        Finally I answer. Marybeth thought we had lost the connection but I tell her everything’s fine, and promise to visit soon.

        “Don't mention that I asked you to check on him.”

        I close the curtains to shut out the drizzle. “He's a soldier. I'll treat him like one.” Again the radio announcer—laser guided bombs are pulverizing cities in our campaign of shock and awe.

        “He may be a soldier but he’s still only nineteen.”

 

        During the homily I ask for attention and talk of war and rumors of war. “We cannot let this conflagration become a conflict between faiths. Does Islam not mean peace in submission to God? Was Christ not born Prince of Peace?” A watery light filters through stained glass windows that portray His life and agony. The face of Christ shines like amber. The storm behind Calvary churns in a ruby sky.

        One man arrives late. He takes off his coat, runs fingers through wet hair plastered to his temples and finds a seat in back. In the first pew a woman clasps her hands so tightly that her knuckles are white. She has the bright flush of rouge on her cheeks. Her husband nibbles a cracker, hides it in his palm and brushes the crumbs from his lips. Two daughters squirm next to them. Such innocents, thumping their shoes against the kneeler. We cannot question the ultimate mystery of God's design. If it is His wish then we must follow, although our free will allows us to stray. Yet, again and again I return to that last night with Artie, while outside I hear only the murmur of chill winter rain.

 

*  *  *

 

        Bread. The staff of life. I visit the bakery where bells jingle on the door. Standing behind the counter, the owner wipes her forehead with the heel of one hand. “You again?” It's still early and already she seems spent. We talk about the news over our usual cup of coffee. For days satellite feeds and embedded reporters have dominated the airwaves, yet we can't get enough. When I ask for another donation to help my shelter down the street, she says, “Sorry—no cash to spare,” then goes to the back room and returns with some loaves in a paper bag. “They’re too stale to sell, but it’s all I have.  .  .  .” She would like to give more, yet the lines around her mouth—deep grooves worn by labor—say, I can't.

        After I thank her and buy a dozen muffins for the shelter, she packs two extra for me. I walk past a diner that must have been busy, long ago, when the morning crowd stopped for coffee and doughnuts. Now its booths are empty, its windows opaque with grease and dirt. Pitted, discolored, interrupted here and there by broken concrete, the sidewalks seem forlorn and this neighborhood of graffiti-covered buildings feels lost.

        Stinking as always and wearing grimy camouflage fatigues, Hector sleeps in the entry of the shelter. I hold my breath and bend over to rap him on the shoulder. “You're blocking the door.”

        He curls against the steps. “Go 'way. I’m tired.”

        “And I'm tired of finding you here.”

        “Where were you?” Hector huddles in his jacket and sneezes. His nose drips. He wipes it on his sleeve and complains of the snot that won’t stop.

        “You want to sleep inside? Come when we’re open.”

        “Piss off.”

        “You piss off.” I nudge him with my foot but he doesn’t move. After watching him for a long time, I help him stand then unlock the door. “All right, come in. You know what to do.”

        He mutters with the rasp of gravel in his voice and tramps behind me through the vestibule, where a wan glow emanates from the windows and tiny brown moths flutter in shafts of light. In the common area I ease him onto a folding chair and grasp his face. His cheeks are cold and greasy; his beard is gritty with flecks of dirt. Years of sun exposure have thickened his skin, now mottled with lesions. Could he have ever been nineteen? Did he ever dream of sailing across the ocean? Flying to the moon? Marrying the girl next door? When did Hector’s life veer to the streets?

        His social worker would remind me to assess his state of mind, but he only has that thousand-yard stare.

        “What's your name?” I shake him.

        “Go 'way.”

        “Tell me your name.”

        “Hector. It’s Hector—okay?”

        “Are you okay?”

        “Go to hell.” He picks his nose then wipes his finger on the back of my hand.

        “Oh—why'd you do that?”

        “'Cause you're a prick.”

        I clean my hand with a paper towel; nothing changes with him. “Do you know where you are?”

        “'Course I do.”

        “Then tell me. Where are you?”

        “Los Angeles. Goddamn City of Angels.”

        “What’s the date?”

        “Mudday.”

        “Not the day. The date—”

        “It's Mudday. Tomorrow's Shrovesday. Then Winesday, Tinesday, Friday and Suckerday.”

        “Hector, today's Saturday.”

        “I was in Saigon on Saturday.”

        “You were in Saigon thirty years ago. Today's Saturday.” I should give his social worker an update—oriented in self and place, but not time.

        While waiting for the volunteers coming to clean the building, I give Hector a muffin. He grabs it and squeezes so hard it breaks apart.

        “What are you doing?” I pick pieces off the floor. “Slowly—you hear me? When did you eat last?”

        “Goddammit—” He reaches and I pull back, only to be startled when he snatches a pen from my shirt pocket.

        “Hector—give it back.” I hold out an open hand then with my other hand offer another muffin. Finally he trades and bolts out the door, squeezing past Francis, our deacon, smoking a cigarette on the steps.

        By now several people have arrived, anxious for me to direct them. Winter has been hard on the building and the shelter needs a good cleaning. After assigning tasks, I wash the front windows while others mop the floors and sweep the stairs. The smell of ammonia makes me wince, but despite my scrubbing the glass remains cloudy.

        Late in the morning we rest on folding chairs arranged in a circle and I open the box of muffins. There is Francis, chin ballooning as he looks down to pick crumbs off his lap. Also here are members from the youth group, one of them a young man with fuzzy sideburns who kicks over a carton of milk.

        After we mop the spill, someone sets a portable television on the floor, turns it on, adjusts the antenna and tunes to the news. On a grainy, black and white screen those images taken through night-vision equipment appear remote, like newsreels from fifty years ago. But the bombing is happening now. The cityscape vanishes in the glare from an explosion and when the picture reappears, smoke billows into a glowing sky.

        Today our forces race through the desert. The Vatican has released a statement expressing deep pain about the conflict and those caught in it. The Dalai Lama calls for prayers of peace. Mesmerized by the television, by the reporter panting about anti-aircraft fire in the background, we watch assessments by generals and politicians, see maps and footage of strikes launched from our warships or dropped from aircraft flying in the darkness.

        During a moment of static, Francis moves to sit beside me. He chooses another muffin, wolfs it down, licks his fingers and wipes them on his shirt. His chair creaks as he leans against my shoulder to whisper, “The devil must be pleased.”

        “There is no devil,” I say.

        Francis scoffs, picks a cigarette from his shirt pocket and clamps it between his lips. When I reach for it, he lifts one hand as if scattering smoke. “Why the stink eye?”

        “What are you doing?”

         “Trying to quit—this helps me.” He chuckles in my ear, his bulk pressing against me and making me squirm. “You thought I was lighting up, didn't you?”

        Across the street and visible through the front window, wearing clothes two sizes too large, clothes black with dirt and torn in the seat of his pants, Hector paces and waves his arms. Feeling claustrophobic, I go to the kitchen, where the door to the alley is open. It admits the cold and a rectangle of light that crosses the floor. A band constricts my chest; my breath is shallow and oxygen seems scarce. When the whine of a low-flying jet pierces the silence, I step outside to see it descend, looming over me as it blots out the sun, until its shadow passes and the light hits my face.