Come Sunday Morning Page 17

“You did well, Lance,” Richard finally said. “Phillip was right about you.”

  It was eleven o’clock when Danny locked his apartment door. A light fog met him on the porch and flowed between the cars and around the sycamore trees. He walked upstairs to his neighbor’s front door, holding a note containing instructions for the care and feeding of Parker:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Somner,

  I will be away for a while and am not sure exactly how long. I know how much you both like Parker, and I ask that you will take him into your home until I return. I left a bag of dry cat food under the sink, along with several cans.

  Thank you for watching him for me.

  Sincerely,

  Danny

  Danny slipped the folded paper under the Somners’ front door and proceeded back down the steps toward his car.

  As he walked, he could not see the lush green grounds of the park across the street from his home. He didn’t hear dogs barking as their masters threw tennis balls into the distance. The joggers with bouncing ponytails and aching muscles were mere dashes of color in the corner of his eye. Formerly fond images of rolling lawns and trees gently quivering in the breeze now served only to remind him of the love and the city that had been snatched from his tenuous grasp.

  There were four messages on his answering machine from Hezekiah that morning. The last came at 10:30 A.M.: “Danny, baby, I’m so sorry,” the trembling voice said. “Since you haven’t returned my calls, I assume Lance Savage has found you. I never wanted you to get hurt, and I did everything I could to protect you…to protect us, but…” There was a long pause. “I guess I failed. I know you’re hurting right now. Believe me, this is eating me up inside too, but they’ve got me trapped. They’re determined to destroy me over this. I think it best that we…” He stopped. An anguished sigh could be heard. “Danny, I don’t want to do this in a telephone message. Please call me. I love you.”

  Rush hour traffic had given way to a light stream of motorists attending to their midday errands. Danny drove along Santa Monica Boulevard toward the Pacific Ocean.

  The homeless shelter, where he spent every Thursday afternoon giving out warm socks and medical referrals, went by without a glance from Danny. The Department of Motor Vehicles building, where he had recently paid fines for a collection of overdue parking tickets, passed without Danny’s usual sneer of disdain.

  There was no longer a reason to look at the city he loved. No reason to appreciate the rows of brightly painted Victorian houses with neatly manicured lawns. Two-story murals of brightly festooned Native Americans and stern faces of the city’s founding fathers no longer held interest.

  As Danny neared Ocean Park Boulevard, traffic began to slow. A toothless man sat on a white plastic bucket in the street’s median. His left foot was wrapped in soiled gauze, while his other wiggled through a worn-out tennis shoe. Stains of dried blood dotted his ruddy cheeks, and his salty white hair whirled in the wind. He refused to make eye contact with drivers waiting at the red light. Instead, his tattered cardboard sign pleaded his case:

  VIETNAM VETERAN WILL WORK FOR FOOD.

  THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS.

  When the light turned green, Danny removed the last twenty-seven dollars from his wallet. Driving forward slowly, he handed the man the wrinkled bills through the car window.

  The man looked suspicious at first but then eagerly accepted the generous gift.

  “God bless you, sir,” he said with a toothless grin. “Thank you, sir. God bless you.”

  Danny merged his small car into the next lane and began the slow ascent up the winding ramp to the Santa Monica Pier. The lush green shrubbery along the side of the road was littered with the remains of human inhabitants. To his right he could see a bundle of blue blankets, soggy from water and mud. An abandoned shopping cart rested on its side, with the few remaining contents of plastic bags and newspapers scattered about. A poorly concealed man stood urinating behind a tree, while another searched the muddy ground for cigarette butts and a stray pebble of crack cocaine.

  The pain that Danny had once felt upon viewing such human despair was nowhere to be found. There was no outrage toward an uncaring society. No sorrow for the discarded lives wallowing in the mud and debris. The numbing realization that his life would never be the same again was all that remained. He crept forward as if guided by fate.

  The world had crossed an invisible line and boldly stepped into the space he had so carefully protected. He could have no more secrets. No more private moments.

  His life would soon be on the front page of every newspaper in town. The sorrow that welled in his heart would serve as fodder for gossip at restaurant tables and park benches in every part of the city.

  How could he mourn the loss of Hezekiah with the media exploring every pore of his existence under the microscope of public opinion? It would be impossible to start again without Hezekiah. Impossible to heal while his life was being delivered daily to front porches and sold for seventy-five cents on every corner.

  The crush of traffic eased as he approached the parking lot for the Santa Monica Pier. Danny maneuvered the car into the lot and parked in the nearest available space. A cool sea breeze raced past him as he walked along the creaking wharf. Weathered wooden girders jutted from the side railing partially blocking the view of the turbulent waters below. Couples strolled by, hand in hand, and a massive Ferris wheel clanked and churned to the delight of a few small children as their parents waved from the dock below.

  Once at the tip of the pier, Danny stood and stared out into the ocean. Waves crashed into the pylons below, causing sprays of mist to dampen his face and mingle with the tear that rolled down his cheek. Danny could hear the sea calling his name. He thought frantically for a reason not to respond.

  Sympathetic tourists avoided eye contact with the seemingly distraught young man as he inched closer to the railing. Danny looked out and could see the sprawling mountains of Malibu, the high-rise condominiums along Pacific Coast Highway, and the hills of Santa Monica. Without hesitation he hoisted his body onto the railing and dangled his legs over the edge. At that point the few pedestrians walking nearby began to watch him more attentively.

  “Don’t jump!” he heard a woman yell.

  “Oh my God! Hey, wait, buddy, it can’t be that bad!” came a husky, concerned cry.

  “Go for it, guy! Fuck this place!” another man exclaimed.

  Then Danny heard a little girl crying behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw a little brown girl wearing a pink polka-dot bathing suit and holding a melting red snow cone. Danny climbed down and knelt beside her and asked, “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

  She looked up through her sobs and replied, “I can’t find my mommy. She left me here. I want my mommy.”

  “Don’t cry,” Danny said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I’m sure your mommy didn’t leave you. Come on, let’s go and find her together.”

  With that, Danny stood up and took the little girl by her sticky little hand and together they walked away from the edge of the pier to find the ones who could stop their tears from falling.

  Hezekiah sat at his desk with pen in hand, suspended above the closing line of a form thank-you letter:

  Yours Truly,

  Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland

  A stack of white papers adorned with the embossed seal of the New Testament Cathedral lay before him. All were waiting for the ink from his pen to breathe life into the hollow words each contained.

  Hezekiah didn’t know the content of the official correspondence. Perhaps they were thank-you notes for $50,000 contributions toward the construction of the new cathedral or complimentary VIP tickets to the next big political fund-raiser. Their purpose and the protocol that dictated each line were of no interest to him.

  He had dialed Danny’s number four times that morning, but the only reply was the generic greeting on the answering machine.

  Hezekiah had instinctively known when Danny was troubled thro
ughout their year together. Days would pass without a word between them, when suddenly a “feeling” would come over him that something was wrong with the man he loved. Hezekiah would then call Danny, and inevitably he would be right. On one occasion Danny’s mother had suffered a heart attack and died. Another time Danny’s landlord had threatened to evict him.

  Hezekiah was now having one such haunting premonition. As the pen, without prompting, glided across the first letter in the stack, a jolt suddenly kicked inside his stomach. He grabbed his belly and buckled from the pain. It was unbearable—what he imagined a heart attack must feel like. Droplets of perspiration formed on his brow, and the room began to spin around him. Then came another strike followed by yet another.

  Hezekiah braced himself and stood with agonizing effort. He staggered toward the private bathroom at the rear of the office. Nausea overtook him as he stumbled across the floor. He gagged violently, clamping his lips shut to contain the bile that threatened to spew onto the freshly shampooed carpet.

  An intangible yet familiar force was being yanked from the depths of his body. Hezekiah fought to maintain his grasp on the elusive energy that now thrashed violently for release. Without turning on the lights in the little bathroom, Hezekiah dropped to his knees and positioned his gaping mouth over the porcelain toilet. Vomit gushed out with each brutal contraction of his stomach. Troubling thoughts raced through his mind as his kneeling body heaved. Something is happening to…The thoughts stopped to accommodate yet another convulsion. Then again they came. Danny. Where is Danny? Please don’t do this. I won’t leave you.

  After a series of painful spasms and agonizing groans, the heaving in his stomach gradually subsided, but feelings of fright and dread continued. “Danny, where are you?” he said out loud. “Don’t leave me like this.”

  Hezekiah’s body was drenched in sweat as he collapsed backward onto the tiled bathroom floor. He could hear his secretary pounding from outside the office door.

  “Pastor Cleaveland!” came a panicked shout through the locked door. “Are you all right, sir? Pastor Cleaveland, please open the door!”

  Hezekiah’s white shirt clung to his body, wet and transparent from fluids he had released. His chest heaved up and down, gasping for air, and lifeless arms stretched at his sides.

  He stared at the darkened light fixture above and surrendered to the overpowering need to cry, to mourn. His body convulsed again, not from the need to reject unwanted liquid, but to acknowledge the grief that flooded his heart. To mourn the loss of an essence that had been so painfully torn from his body. Hezekiah felt a familiar emptiness, which the last year with Danny had allowed him to forget. The void that Danny had so lovingly filled, the hollow that called for no one but him. At that moment Hezekiah felt that Danny was gone, and he was alone again.

  Hezekiah stepped from the rear of the double-parked limousine. The curtains to Danny’s apartment were open. He looked to the window for the familiar figure of Parker sitting on the sill. He was not there. Hezekiah rang the bell, then knocked loudly. There was no response. He leaned over the wrought-iron railing and peered into the window. The apartment was just as he had remembered, but Danny was nowhere to be seen.

  Hezekiah walked to the car, when he heard, “Excuse me! Are you looking for Danny?”

  Hezekiah looked up and saw an old man standing in the window above Danny’s apartment. “Yes, I am. Have you seen him today?”

  “Not today. But he…Hey, you’re the pastor, Hezekiah Cleaveland.” The man turned and yelled to someone in the apartment. “Norma, come here. Look, it’s Hezekiah Cleaveland. I told you I saw him here the other week.” Ray looked again to Hezekiah and said, “Norma watches you and your wife on TV all the time. She even sends you money.”

  An equally aged Norma joined her husband in the window to gawk at Hezekiah.

  “I’m sorry. She didn’t believe me when I told her that I saw you here before. I’m Ray Somner, and this is my wife, Norma.”

  Hezekiah smiled politely. “You were about to say something about Danny.”

  “Oh yeah. Strangest thing. He left a note under our door this morning asking us to take care of his cat ’cause he wouldn’t be coming back soon. I hope he’s okay. He’s a real nice kid. Works with the homeless, you know.”

  Hezekiah walked up the steps toward the couple. “Yes, I know. Would you mind if I saw the note? He’s a friend, and I’m a little concerned about him.”

  “Sure. Norma, go get the note. It’s over there on the table.”

  Hezekiah read the shaky print as Norma and Ray vowed their support for his new cathedral.

  “Do you have Parker?”

  “Yeah, we used our spare key to get him. He’s in the kitchen right now, eating. Do you want to see him?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary. Will he be able to stay with you until Danny returns? He loves that cat.”

  “No problem. What’s going on? Maybe we ought to call the police or something. This isn’t like him to leave without telling us where he’s going.”

  “Yes, that might be a good idea. If you hear from Danny, would you please tell him I came by?”

  “Of course we will, sir. I hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “I hope not too. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

  “Likewise, Pastor.”

  When Hezekiah reached the car, he heard one of the two shout from the window, “Good luck with the…” Dino slammed the car door before the final word could be heard.

  Dino turned the car onto Crenshaw Boulevard. Hezekiah looked out the window through weary eyes and asked, “Where are you going? I just want to go home.”

  “Pastor Cleaveland,” Dino said, holding up a sheet of paper, “your schedule says you have a meeting with a group of homeless advocates at the community center near the church in ten minutes. Would you like for me to call ahead and tell your advance man that you will not be coming?”

  The muscles in Hezekiah’s stomach churned again. “No. I should go. Take me there.”

  All heads in the room turned to the door when Hezekiah entered the community center in the South Central part of town. Folding chairs were placed auditorium-style in the center of the hall.

  Clusters of people lined the perimeter walls, and the chairs were filled with a mix of homeless people and educated young men and women—many who had used their degrees from Brown and Harvard to advocate for the rights of the city’s poor and disabled.

  “Oh good, the pastor has arrived,” a frail-looking man with thin hair said, addressing the audience. “Hello Reverend. For a moment there we thought you were going to be a no-show.”

  Hezekiah nodded his head in acknowledgment and moved toward the front of the room.

  “Now that Pastor Cleaveland is here I think we’ll hold our other agenda items until later and give him the opportunity to speak,” the meeting facilitator continued. “I know you all have a lot to ask him, but please hold your questions until he has finished.” With a grand sweep of his arm, he yielded the floor to Hezekiah.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Hezekiah said, standing before the crowd. “Thank you all for coming out to discuss this very important issue with me. As many of you may know, I have always been very concerned about the issues faced by homeless people in Los Angeles and in this country.

  “New Testament Cathedral had spent the last ten years giving money to local feeding programs and shelters. Members of my congregation volunteer their time at many social service programs around the city, and my wife and I sit on the board of several national programs whose missions are to serve homeless men, women, and children. We’ve held countless meetings with merchants, concerned citizens, and members of the faith community, listening to your concerns and—”

  “We’re tired of you just listening,” a heavily bearded man interjected. “You’re spending millions of dollars to build a shrine to yourself, and all you can do for the homeless is sponsor a food drive once a year so your members can drop dented cans of
tuna in a box in your lobby. When are you going to do something that would help the homeless people that live on the streets all around your new church?”

  The facilitator jumped to his feet. “Please, there will be plenty of time for questions after he’s done.”

  Hezekiah proceeded with his speech. “There’s no question that homelessness is a growing problem, not only here but all over the city. That is why I’ve recently instructed our accountants to increase the amount of money we donate annually to social service programs.”

  “We don’t need your money. We need you to build more shelters and affordable housing instead of a massive glass church for rich people,” came a shout from another part of the room.

  An elderly woman near the front stood to her feet and said, “How can you justify spending forty-five million dollars on a building that will only be open on Sunday mornings when you know that every night, of every year, thousands of men, women, and children live and die on the streets of this city?”

  Angry-faced people shook their heads and blurted out expressions of agreement.

  Hezekiah raised his hands. “Please, please, everyone. I know this is a very difficult situation, but there are also factions in this city that believe the homeless have a constitutional right to live on the streets. You cannot force anyone to go into a shelter who does not want to go.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it!” shouted a homeless man near the rear. “You think I want to sleep under a bush and wash myself in park bathrooms? The problem is there’s just not enough shelter beds in this city, and people like you, who could help to do something about it, prefer to ignore us and pretend it’s our choice to live on the streets.”

  The crowd grew increasingly agitated. Random comments came from every direction:

  “If you won’t do anything about it, then maybe we should organize protests every Sunday morning on the steps of your church.”

  “You’re a hypocrite. You claim to care about the homeless, but you only care about money.”