Mercy
Sometimes on a Friday in August all a working man wants is a long cool desert between each workday. The small mercy of a dark bar and a cold beer.
The Want To of Monday and Tuesday becomes the God Help Me Get To of Wednesday and Thursday until by Friday it melts into a murmur and waits there unforgotten and howling. Unspoken and so unheard.
Every day John Dalton drove to his job and did his work and collected his pay and watched the words of himself seem to disappear into the heat of late summer.
But Dalton still listened for the voice of that life he hoped for…. still listened late at night in the long moments before sleep…for that howl…something wild and fierce and please God deafening so that it might shout the August silence out of him.
By Friday Dalton was full of the work and the week. He carried every hour of the 40 on his back until by Friday, like an animal it was dragging him.
Sometimes when the teeth and locked jaws of Get There by dawn and leave at 8 were sharp enough it would chase him into a local bar The Bitter End. And there he would look for some way to force it to surrender his heart…to unclench its teeth and stop shaking him by the solitude he had lived into himself.
Katie Dowling was a nurse. She started as one more valiant make a difference girl.. a solve the suffering of the world innocent, certain that the wounded would of course be healed. But across the years something had changed.
The difference was less in those she tended to, they were endless…like trying to mop up the sea. No the difference was in Katie herself, carved slowly into her spirit….a deep humbling lesson of equal parts hope and hopelessness.
Day after day she would pour herself into the doubt and worry of the injured. She would move silently from room to room staring into the rising fear and praying that it could no longer sense her there…so it could not find its pathway… once more, into her.
For this was Katie Dowling’s real work…not the injuries…the car crashes…the gunshot wounds. Those were merely the flesh.
It was the doubt and fear she was there to treat. And it was the mercy in herself she spread across them each day. And it was that thing… that late on Fridays she could feel becoming dangerously low in herself…ebbing like a river suddenly aware its own bottom.
So Katie too would sometimes turn into the Bitter End and sit alone there.
Dalton, already into his third draft, nodded to her as if to ask if the seat was vacant..and when she didn’t reply he settled near.
Katie glanced at him and Dalton asked her ‘Do you know how far it is to this town…its out in the sticks …..someplace called Respite TN? I’m supposed to get there tomorrow to tow a wreck … '
She shook her head…'Sorry…..Respite.... don’t know the way. '
He shrugged and smiled. ‘I’m John' he said . 'I work at the auto body place down on Harding.'
Sometimes on a Friday in August all a working man wants is a long cool desert between each workday. The small mercy of a dark bar and a cold beer.
The Want To of Monday and Tuesday becomes the God Help Me Get To of Wednesday and Thursday until by Friday it melts into a murmur and waits there unforgotten and howling. Unspoken and so unheard.
Every day John Dalton drove to his job and did his work and collected his pay and watched the words of himself seem to disappear into the heat of late summer.
But Dalton still listened for the voice of that life he hoped for…. still listened late at night in the long moments before sleep…for that howl…something wild and fierce and please God deafening so that it might shout the August silence out of him.
By Friday Dalton was full of the work and the week. He carried every hour of the 40 on his back until by Friday, like an animal it was dragging him.
Sometimes when the teeth and locked jaws of Get There by dawn and leave at 8 were sharp enough it would chase him into a local bar The Bitter End. And there he would look for some way to force it to surrender his heart…to unclench its teeth and stop shaking him by the solitude he had lived into himself.
Katie Dowling was a nurse. She started as one more valiant make a difference girl.. a solve the suffering of the world innocent, certain that the wounded would of course be healed. But across the years something had changed.
The difference was less in those she tended to, they were endless…like trying to mop up the sea. No the difference was in Katie herself, carved slowly into her spirit….a deep humbling lesson of equal parts hope and hopelessness.
Day after day she would pour herself into the doubt and worry of the injured. She would move silently from room to room staring into the rising fear and praying that it could no longer sense her there…so it could not find its pathway… once more, into her.
For this was Katie Dowling’s real work…not the injuries…the car crashes…the gunshot wounds. Those were merely the flesh.
It was the doubt and fear she was there to treat. And it was the mercy in herself she spread across them each day. And it was that thing… that late on Fridays she could feel becoming dangerously low in herself…ebbing like a river suddenly aware its own bottom.
So Katie too would sometimes turn into the Bitter End and sit alone there.
Dalton, already into his third draft, nodded to her as if to ask if the seat was vacant..and when she didn’t reply he settled near.
Katie glanced at him and Dalton asked her ‘Do you know how far it is to this town…its out in the sticks …..someplace called Respite TN? I’m supposed to get there tomorrow to tow a wreck … '
She shook her head…'Sorry…..Respite.... don’t know the way. '
He shrugged and smiled. ‘I’m John' he said . 'I work at the auto body place down on Harding.'
The silence swallowed his sentence whole…then seemed to echo for a moment between them. He tried again.
‘I started there a few years back thinking it was just paycheck for a while. You know how that goes.’
She turned toward him. He was handsome in a common way, the memory of a younger man trapped in an avalanche of advancing gray. And he was trim but the center of himself had moved lower the way it sometimes does in a man.
But Katie could see in a glance there was something else…something damaged about him…like sea salt does to a paint job. But only around the edges. She recognized it immediately because she had seen it every night in the mirror.
That dented up innocent kind of hope. The hopeless kind. That was what she felt. Not the anything is possible kind...the truer version beneath it.
‘I started there a few years back thinking it was just paycheck for a while. You know how that goes.’
She turned toward him. He was handsome in a common way, the memory of a younger man trapped in an avalanche of advancing gray. And he was trim but the center of himself had moved lower the way it sometimes does in a man.
But Katie could see in a glance there was something else…something damaged about him…like sea salt does to a paint job. But only around the edges. She recognized it immediately because she had seen it every night in the mirror.
That dented up innocent kind of hope. The hopeless kind. That was what she felt. Not the anything is possible kind...the truer version beneath it.
The kind of hope that no longer believes in the mere prettiness of living. It believes in something else, something greater, something married to the pain of living which yields something cleaner for the all the sacrifice it demands.
Katie glanced again at Dalton…and she thought for a moment she thought she saw it in his eyes. That truer version of hope… made valiant in an everyday kind of way by the price it demands.
Dalton looked past her and waved to Jimmy the bartend for a another and pointed at hers as well.
He glanced into the mirror.
Dalton knew most of the getting in this life is cash and carry. You gotta pay for what you need.
So you pay and pay and pay some more. You pay out of the center of yourself, paying more than you can afford, because the reaching and the becoming is all that seems to matter anymore.
And maybe you get your hands around it...that layaway kind of dream. You take it home and pretend it's yours. But it always belongs to the bank and it always ends up costing 10x more than its worth. And hell most of time that kind of dream ends up repossessed anyway.
Dalton saw all that in his own face. He told himself it was just the leading edge of wisdom. Something you buy with all that regret.
Living demanded payment for its loan of time and Dalton had grown to accept that. To him it was just one more toll road. We all ride it. There is no bypass.
Katie glanced again at Dalton…and she thought for a moment she thought she saw it in his eyes. That truer version of hope… made valiant in an everyday kind of way by the price it demands.
Dalton looked past her and waved to Jimmy the bartend for a another and pointed at hers as well.
He glanced into the mirror.
Dalton knew most of the getting in this life is cash and carry. You gotta pay for what you need.
But there’s another kind of paying. In just about everyone on this side of town, living was a kind of layaway.
You reach for something more and maybe you get to scrape your fingernails on it, but its costs more than you can afford so you say yes..yes I’ll pay. Whatever I have. Whatever I am
You reach for something more and maybe you get to scrape your fingernails on it, but its costs more than you can afford so you say yes..yes I’ll pay. Whatever I have. Whatever I am
So you pay and pay and pay some more. You pay out of the center of yourself, paying more than you can afford, because the reaching and the becoming is all that seems to matter anymore.
And maybe you get your hands around it...that layaway kind of dream. You take it home and pretend it's yours. But it always belongs to the bank and it always ends up costing 10x more than its worth. And hell most of time that kind of dream ends up repossessed anyway.
Dalton saw all that in his own face. He told himself it was just the leading edge of wisdom. Something you buy with all that regret.
Living demanded payment for its loan of time and Dalton had grown to accept that. To him it was just one more toll road. We all ride it. There is no bypass.
And so we pay and silently pray that what's taken is not from the center of ourselves, not from the core. We pay with doubt, pay with longing, and maybe some nights we pay with mercy to another in the hope that it might someday be returned.
So he paid daily...but only from the edges. That was what Katie saw.
Trying to fill the silence Katie said ‘That’s steady work I bet…broken parts.’
‘Yes’ he nodded ‘There’s no shortage of accidents. Just keep coming. Been there 3 years now…never thought I’d stay this long.’
He leaned toward her, ‘But there’s reason I do it…why I stay that is…’
He paused looking down at the bar and ran his hand over the uneven sheen and imperfections in the wood.
‘I keep trying to make the broken parts new…or at least seem like new.’
Outside a boy, maybe 20, in a muscle car revved his engine pointlessly and a girl ran to the passenger side and jumped in.
Dalton gazed at its frame like he had fixed it…or would sometime soon.
‘They come in all smashed to hell. One came in over the weekend…some kid’s wreck.’
He hestitated. ‘I try to find a way to put it all back together.’
‘That’s really what I do…what I am.'
The muscle car revved its engine hard and spun its wheels, like the boy thought the future could only be found at the end of a gas pedal. Like happiness was a matter of speed. It fishtailed as it turned out on to the avenue and disappeared. Dalton gazed for a moment out the window at the river of traffic.
‘There’s no shortage of accidents.’ Then turning to her ‘But you’d be surprised though …. sometimes even the worst wrecks don’t cut to the heart of it.’
Katie leaned a little closer. She was thinking of the teenager they brought in...a kid that had gone joy riding on some blind curve until a tree found his future in the dead of night.
All week long she had hovered watching over him. But he was broken in ways people don’t recover from…What did this man call it? 'Smashed to hell…trying to find a way to put ‘em back together.’
That sounded just like her.
She felt a little stronger….like maybe this man might understand the unspeakable language at the center of herself. And that Friday night smaller version of hope she could no longer bear to hear herself speak, began to pool there somewhere in the bottom of herself nonetheless.
The boy had died on Thursday. There was really nothing more they could have done.
‘Some things just won’t be fixed’ she whispered. Dalton glanced at her and then stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar for a long moment. Then he quietly nodded.
‘That don’t mean you shouldn’t try,' he said.
‘I do’ she answered. “ I do...but still….’ her voice trailed off.
‘That don’t mean you shouldn’t try’ Dalton whispered to himself.
The cover band had come in. Mostly blues guys that were forced to work for tips…doing covers of the latest radio hits. They could play though. You could hear it underneath the sound…like a wail hidden inside a joke.
Katie took a deep breath and stared at herself in the glass. What could this man see in her? She was bone tired. The first few wisps of gray had begun to creep into her hair and when she smiled now it was never itself alone…always like it was being chased by something sharp.
Dalton touched her gently on the sleeve...as if to say “I know” and she felt part of herself surrender a bit. And the hope stirred briefly again like a breeze sometimes can on a hot summer night.
He turned to her.
‘I don’t really know what to say to you….but I get the feeling that there’s something I should…something I know is in me and maybe in you too…'
“But I don’t really have the words for that anymore."
Katie looked down...embarrassed and unsure. She felt the sweet tangle of worry and want begin to grow in her throat.
She heard his voice echo again,
So he paid daily...but only from the edges. That was what Katie saw.
Trying to fill the silence Katie said ‘That’s steady work I bet…broken parts.’
‘Yes’ he nodded ‘There’s no shortage of accidents. Just keep coming. Been there 3 years now…never thought I’d stay this long.’
He leaned toward her, ‘But there’s reason I do it…why I stay that is…’
He paused looking down at the bar and ran his hand over the uneven sheen and imperfections in the wood.
‘I keep trying to make the broken parts new…or at least seem like new.’
Outside a boy, maybe 20, in a muscle car revved his engine pointlessly and a girl ran to the passenger side and jumped in.
Dalton gazed at its frame like he had fixed it…or would sometime soon.
‘They come in all smashed to hell. One came in over the weekend…some kid’s wreck.’
He hestitated. ‘I try to find a way to put it all back together.’
‘That’s really what I do…what I am.'
The muscle car revved its engine hard and spun its wheels, like the boy thought the future could only be found at the end of a gas pedal. Like happiness was a matter of speed. It fishtailed as it turned out on to the avenue and disappeared. Dalton gazed for a moment out the window at the river of traffic.
‘There’s no shortage of accidents.’ Then turning to her ‘But you’d be surprised though …. sometimes even the worst wrecks don’t cut to the heart of it.’
Katie leaned a little closer. She was thinking of the teenager they brought in...a kid that had gone joy riding on some blind curve until a tree found his future in the dead of night.
All week long she had hovered watching over him. But he was broken in ways people don’t recover from…What did this man call it? 'Smashed to hell…trying to find a way to put ‘em back together.’
That sounded just like her.
She felt a little stronger….like maybe this man might understand the unspeakable language at the center of herself. And that Friday night smaller version of hope she could no longer bear to hear herself speak, began to pool there somewhere in the bottom of herself nonetheless.
The boy had died on Thursday. There was really nothing more they could have done.
‘Some things just won’t be fixed’ she whispered. Dalton glanced at her and then stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar for a long moment. Then he quietly nodded.
‘That don’t mean you shouldn’t try,' he said.
‘I do’ she answered. “ I do...but still….’ her voice trailed off.
‘That don’t mean you shouldn’t try’ Dalton whispered to himself.
The cover band had come in. Mostly blues guys that were forced to work for tips…doing covers of the latest radio hits. They could play though. You could hear it underneath the sound…like a wail hidden inside a joke.
Katie took a deep breath and stared at herself in the glass. What could this man see in her? She was bone tired. The first few wisps of gray had begun to creep into her hair and when she smiled now it was never itself alone…always like it was being chased by something sharp.
Dalton touched her gently on the sleeve...as if to say “I know” and she felt part of herself surrender a bit. And the hope stirred briefly again like a breeze sometimes can on a hot summer night.
He turned to her.
‘I don’t really know what to say to you….but I get the feeling that there’s something I should…something I know is in me and maybe in you too…'
“But I don’t really have the words for that anymore."
Katie looked down...embarrassed and unsure. She felt the sweet tangle of worry and want begin to grow in her throat.
She heard his voice echo again,
“…something I know is in me and maybe in you too.”
‘What can anyone say to something like that.’ she wondered.
‘What can anyone say to something like that.’ she wondered.
Finally in a low voice like something told in confidence she said. ‘It’s a long week all around…John….maybe we lose a little bit of ourselves along with the words.’
She looked away and blinked back a tear and tried to smile bravely. Dalton felt the Friday jaws and the loneliness ease a bit. He felt his heart beat a bit stronger, like maybe the animal might release him after all.
He turned and surveyed the slow drift of the Friday nighters into the place. All around them strangers began to fill the dim. They stood alone at the edge of the bar calling out without words and listening hard for any return until the unspoken echoes seemed to filled the room.
He glanced at her and saw her glance back at him. And for just a moment each felt like a runner in a race joined unexpectedly to another’s matching rhythm.
Just for that moment each a prisoner to the cadence of the others heart.
Katie looked at this autobody man…this person who tried in his own way to step into the broken-ness of living and repair its damage. And for a moment she felt a part of herself recognize a place of rest.
But underneath she could feel his longing too. Every woman can. It whispers at the edge of everything about a man—and she felt her own begin to sing a low harmony.
No one in the crowd noticed…but Dalton. The way she turned toward him. The way her legs pointed near and nearer still. The way her hand touched his shoulder—innocent but underneath he could feel a kind of rising harmony.
The drummer counted four and the bass kicked in and the band stretched into an old Aretha Franklin tune.
She looked away and blinked back a tear and tried to smile bravely. Dalton felt the Friday jaws and the loneliness ease a bit. He felt his heart beat a bit stronger, like maybe the animal might release him after all.
He turned and surveyed the slow drift of the Friday nighters into the place. All around them strangers began to fill the dim. They stood alone at the edge of the bar calling out without words and listening hard for any return until the unspoken echoes seemed to filled the room.
He glanced at her and saw her glance back at him. And for just a moment each felt like a runner in a race joined unexpectedly to another’s matching rhythm.
Just for that moment each a prisoner to the cadence of the others heart.
Katie looked at this autobody man…this person who tried in his own way to step into the broken-ness of living and repair its damage. And for a moment she felt a part of herself recognize a place of rest.
But underneath she could feel his longing too. Every woman can. It whispers at the edge of everything about a man—and she felt her own begin to sing a low harmony.
No one in the crowd noticed…but Dalton. The way she turned toward him. The way her legs pointed near and nearer still. The way her hand touched his shoulder—innocent but underneath he could feel a kind of rising harmony.
The drummer counted four and the bass kicked in and the band stretched into an old Aretha Franklin tune.
‘Chain chain chain’ the singer descended into the lyric ‘Chain chain chain.’
The song spiraled down close to the bone touching both loneliness and hope. It seemed to whisper that every person must become a prisoner to this riptide of loneliness. For it is only there, caught in that dangerous pull—that a soul can be offered mercy—or at least whatever we can know of it.
The harmony began to swing between those two… loneliness and hope. Either toward the shore or further out to sea.
Dalton tapped his foot ‘Chain chain chain. Aint that the truth’ he thought and wondered if he should ask her to dance.
The organ player leaned into the sound and the wail rose above the bass until it began to sing. It had a comfort and poured over every couple. It flooded their own failed Friday words with its own.
A drunk at the end of the bar was mumbling to himself.
The drunk hesitated at the threshold, steeling himself, like he knew what kind of cold even an August night carried inside it.
Dalton half turned and stared like he was looking at a wreck. Less a man now than a collection of spare parts.
Jack paused and turned and cast a long last gaze, then resigned stepped into the darkness.
‘He’s not a bad guy.” Jimmy said. “Just way out there tonight. ‘Some nights its like he’s speaking his own language ….when he’s this deep into it’ Jimmy said.
The song spiraled down close to the bone touching both loneliness and hope. It seemed to whisper that every person must become a prisoner to this riptide of loneliness. For it is only there, caught in that dangerous pull—that a soul can be offered mercy—or at least whatever we can know of it.
The harmony began to swing between those two… loneliness and hope. Either toward the shore or further out to sea.
Dalton tapped his foot ‘Chain chain chain. Aint that the truth’ he thought and wondered if he should ask her to dance.
The organ player leaned into the sound and the wail rose above the bass until it began to sing. It had a comfort and poured over every couple. It flooded their own failed Friday words with its own.
A drunk at the end of the bar was mumbling to himself.
'Jimmy….Jimmy’ finally hollering.. ‘I said get me another vodka dammit Jimmy!’
‘Good grief’ Jimmy muttered, sweeping past them toward the drunk. He pushed the money toward the drunk and made a sharp gesture. ‘You’re cut off Jack.’
The man tried to argue but there was no having it. Jimmy was whispering low and hard at him now and the drunk backed off the stool. He lurched for a moment then stumbled to stand upright then slowly, unsteadily moved toward the door.
“You got no call to treat me like that Jimmy. No call at all…good as I been to you….’
He glanced at the door like he was suddenly afraid.
The man tried to argue but there was no having it. Jimmy was whispering low and hard at him now and the drunk backed off the stool. He lurched for a moment then stumbled to stand upright then slowly, unsteadily moved toward the door.
“You got no call to treat me like that Jimmy. No call at all…good as I been to you….’
He glanced at the door like he was suddenly afraid.
“No call at all.”
The drunk hesitated at the threshold, steeling himself, like he knew what kind of cold even an August night carried inside it.
Dalton half turned and stared like he was looking at a wreck. Less a man now than a collection of spare parts.
Jack paused and turned and cast a long last gaze, then resigned stepped into the darkness.
‘He’s not a bad guy.” Jimmy said. “Just way out there tonight. ‘Some nights its like he’s speaking his own language ….when he’s this deep into it’ Jimmy said.
‘I’d have to drink of a fifth a vodka myself just to understand.”
“Out where the buses don’t run if you ask me,’ Dalton said.
“He just gets like this some nights.. lost his wife last year...an accident.’
“Out where the buses don’t run if you ask me,’ Dalton said.
“He just gets like this some nights.. lost his wife last year...an accident.’
Dalton let the darkness soak up the words then nodded and whispered
‘There is all kinds of accidents’
‘There is all kinds of accidents’
'Thing is there's almost always hidden damage.’
Katie’s memory began to swim back into the faces on the ward toward some older woman that flipped on Old Hope Road. She remembered the ambulance crew working on her shaking their heads when they brought her in… like oddsmakers quietly setting a line.
Katie’s memory began to swim back into the faces on the ward toward some older woman that flipped on Old Hope Road. She remembered the ambulance crew working on her shaking their heads when they brought her in… like oddsmakers quietly setting a line.
And Dalton thought of that t-boned Buick…some older couple...he tried to save it. But some things just won’t be fixed.
'Poor man,' she whispered again then glancing around the bar felt a far distant part of herself genuinely moved. To pity.
Dalton nodded and felt his jaw tighten…the way it always did when he felt some part of himself unexpectedly exposed.
His hand reached between them and settled closer to her—like an offer….like the eloquent wordless plea of an inarticulate heart.
Outside a gentle rain began to fall. And the heat of the day struggled against it before finally letting go to the cool.
All around them was a fever. It hung in the eyes of the men and women dancing with each other yet separated by an unimaginable gulf.
A girl at a corner table pulled away from some guys arm wrapped around her and walked behind them. As she passed Katie noticed the half smile of her. It was the feeling of being wanted...the tangible currency of attraction laid bare.
The girl wore it in her features. It lit behind her eyes and cast a light to some place where the love and tenderness she fully still expected waited in the shadows.
It was true Katie thought. Love did wait deep in the shadows. But it was not the thing the girl imagined.
The chemistry of both love and living is not laughter as much as sweat. It is not giving as much as allowing yourself to be taken.
The band slowed again. The drummer using brushes now…the guitarist understating the melody trying to reach its secret meaning. The singer’s voice descended then rose …again and again… trying in vain to tame some untamable heartache at the center of the song.
’At the dark end of the street…Where we always meet’
Dalton leaned toward Katie and whispered in her ear and she gently nodded.
All around them, mercy broken in pieces attempted to assemble itself once more. It hung in the eyes of strangers each trying, once again, to repair it.
Dalton touched her hand and they moved together toward the door…pausing for a moment where the drunk had stood. Then, beating down the last surviving doubt, they stepped into the darkness.
Later that night when they finally turned toward each other she pulled him close—her legs around him—open completely the way only a woman can offer herself --as a kind of healing.
Katie heard herself begin to cry out. It was the way a farmer’s heart cries out for joy at the feel of a mid summer storm—the way the land, dry and cracked and broken from the heat rejoices – at the muffled thunder and the miracle of a cloudburst.
And Dalton heard himself—calling out in a language he knew only at the center of himself.
For a moment—and only that moment—each felt a final barrier buckle—the hinges break away--from the solitude that living is—in the only way that God offers a man and a woman.
Her breathing slowed and the manic beating of her heart retreated. It sounded like the footfalls of stranger on an empty city street – until disappearing she was again…only herself… alone.
Dalton dressed slowly in the dark. She watched his shape form a shadow in the early morning dim. He reached back to her and their hands touched for a long moment….suddenly strangers.
Mercy is fleeting, as fleeting as the night. It repairs what it can and moves on.
Somethings just can’t be fixed…not entirely…not forever.
Dalton walked to his car and quietly ran his hand over the fiber hull he had fixed just last week. ’Straight’ he thought to himself…’Nearly perfect.’ Then looking out into the dawn traffic and the accidents he knew it would bring whispered to himself ‘……At least for now.’
And so John Dalton eased back into the coming week and Katie Dowling back to her place as the ward of the wounded. And each returned to the labor of the living.
They stepped back to the work of standing in the broken-ness of life --to the righting of what can be righted and the culling of what can’t. And each felt strengthened - at least for a time- by the memory of another life at work as well.
And all week long among the pounding and smoothing of mangled door panels Dalton heard her voice
"Some things just won’t be fixed.”
"Don’t mean you shouldn’t try."he whispered to himself.
He looked into the lot and its endless acreage of dents.
"Don’t mean you shouldn’t try."
And all week long renewed, like a reservoir from a night rain Katie moved among the injured pouring herself, once again, into their doubt and dread.
Around them fenders and bones, engines and hearts were broken …again and again. And in each life loneliness accrued and grew each week toward longing until it exposed the mercy that lay hidden within it. And each life set about the futile work of straightening yet another fender….yet another limb....yet another heart.
It is the work of the living…as futile as it is beautiful….made noble by its own futility.
It is as pointless as it is essential…each life battling the slope of its own time here on earth in the only way a human heart can.
Again …and again ….and again.
With mercy.
WLM
'Poor man,' she whispered again then glancing around the bar felt a far distant part of herself genuinely moved. To pity.
Dalton nodded and felt his jaw tighten…the way it always did when he felt some part of himself unexpectedly exposed.
His hand reached between them and settled closer to her—like an offer….like the eloquent wordless plea of an inarticulate heart.
Outside a gentle rain began to fall. And the heat of the day struggled against it before finally letting go to the cool.
All around them was a fever. It hung in the eyes of the men and women dancing with each other yet separated by an unimaginable gulf.
A girl at a corner table pulled away from some guys arm wrapped around her and walked behind them. As she passed Katie noticed the half smile of her. It was the feeling of being wanted...the tangible currency of attraction laid bare.
The girl wore it in her features. It lit behind her eyes and cast a light to some place where the love and tenderness she fully still expected waited in the shadows.
It was true Katie thought. Love did wait deep in the shadows. But it was not the thing the girl imagined.
The chemistry of both love and living is not laughter as much as sweat. It is not giving as much as allowing yourself to be taken.
The band slowed again. The drummer using brushes now…the guitarist understating the melody trying to reach its secret meaning. The singer’s voice descended then rose …again and again… trying in vain to tame some untamable heartache at the center of the song.
’At the dark end of the street…Where we always meet’
Dalton leaned toward Katie and whispered in her ear and she gently nodded.
All around them, mercy broken in pieces attempted to assemble itself once more. It hung in the eyes of strangers each trying, once again, to repair it.
Dalton touched her hand and they moved together toward the door…pausing for a moment where the drunk had stood. Then, beating down the last surviving doubt, they stepped into the darkness.
Later that night when they finally turned toward each other she pulled him close—her legs around him—open completely the way only a woman can offer herself --as a kind of healing.
Katie heard herself begin to cry out. It was the way a farmer’s heart cries out for joy at the feel of a mid summer storm—the way the land, dry and cracked and broken from the heat rejoices – at the muffled thunder and the miracle of a cloudburst.
And Dalton heard himself—calling out in a language he knew only at the center of himself.
For a moment—and only that moment—each felt a final barrier buckle—the hinges break away--from the solitude that living is—in the only way that God offers a man and a woman.
Her breathing slowed and the manic beating of her heart retreated. It sounded like the footfalls of stranger on an empty city street – until disappearing she was again…only herself… alone.
Dalton dressed slowly in the dark. She watched his shape form a shadow in the early morning dim. He reached back to her and their hands touched for a long moment….suddenly strangers.
Mercy is fleeting, as fleeting as the night. It repairs what it can and moves on.
Somethings just can’t be fixed…not entirely…not forever.
Dalton walked to his car and quietly ran his hand over the fiber hull he had fixed just last week. ’Straight’ he thought to himself…’Nearly perfect.’ Then looking out into the dawn traffic and the accidents he knew it would bring whispered to himself ‘……At least for now.’
And so John Dalton eased back into the coming week and Katie Dowling back to her place as the ward of the wounded. And each returned to the labor of the living.
They stepped back to the work of standing in the broken-ness of life --to the righting of what can be righted and the culling of what can’t. And each felt strengthened - at least for a time- by the memory of another life at work as well.
And all week long among the pounding and smoothing of mangled door panels Dalton heard her voice
"Some things just won’t be fixed.”
"Don’t mean you shouldn’t try."he whispered to himself.
He looked into the lot and its endless acreage of dents.
"Don’t mean you shouldn’t try."
And all week long renewed, like a reservoir from a night rain Katie moved among the injured pouring herself, once again, into their doubt and dread.
Around them fenders and bones, engines and hearts were broken …again and again. And in each life loneliness accrued and grew each week toward longing until it exposed the mercy that lay hidden within it. And each life set about the futile work of straightening yet another fender….yet another limb....yet another heart.
It is the work of the living…as futile as it is beautiful….made noble by its own futility.
It is as pointless as it is essential…each life battling the slope of its own time here on earth in the only way a human heart can.
Again …and again ….and again.
With mercy.
WLM
Comments
Post a Comment