BARBARIC MERCIES

A Mystery

41 A Mystery 1. She Came to the Office Through the jarred door, first her voice, soprano humming an old song I couldn’t quite remember. Then she entered my world in black, dangerous mare, large eyes wondering at every new hurt. By the time she arched herself into the chair across from me, naturally I was in love with her, in love again with a hundred inadequacies cultivated in years of desolate rooms. The torch she lowered to the edge of my soul, I wanted it. I needed her to burn away every trace until now. And as she cried, pale fingers coiled in her lap, I stepped woodenly around the desk. I was a fool— thin curve of shoulders, trembling, ochre forest of mane, my own thick hands dropped as uselessly as anchors in a desert. She needed me. She needed my help. I couldn’t touch her. I was terrified; my fists were stones, bludgeons. I’d crush whomever she told me to. 2. Back in the Room The stink of oil. Incriminating cloth. My gun, oblique on a table. 42 3. Later, on the Telephone I was praying it was you. Because he just called. He said he’s on his way here now. He’s coming to the bar. Then agitation, a woman’s background voice. The thud of something heavy, shattered glass. The line dead. 4. I Grabbed My Hat and Coat A dark sanctuary in the afternoon— booths empty, jukebox quiet. Pool cues rigid lances above a few dingy gaming tables, abandoned fields. It was early. The day required penance. I arrived in shadow, soundless, flattened both palms on the cool altar. She turned from pouring wine and I felt, somehow, incorporeal in my shirt, released from mortal burdens. She smiled when she saw me. The men at the bar, I couldn’t detect them anymore. You’re trying to save me, she said. He had come and gone, not so bad today. For now it was over. She blew her nose and laughed. And I laughed. Please don’t leave. She stepped away to answer others’ thirsts. I watched her, tender wrist poised on a spigot, knuckles of spine visible beneath a tight sweater. 43 I envisioned her as she had described— collapsed and weeping, water more assault than cleansing. Her body’s limbs crossed, swaying. Steam over skin. Legs raised. Her body, in a storm. 5. That Night, Drinking Whisky A fever wind. The ocean, black. My thoughts. 6. In Her Father’s House Many Mansions He was a man of the Cloth, a man of God. Her mother, the wife of a man of God. That much I knew, and a stolen address. For names, they had only Those Who Disapproved, Those Who Disavowed Her Trouble. She would be sent to a school to break her, open her eyes to truer light. If they knew me at all— and yes, in my vanity I hoped she had spoken to them of me— I could feel their rage on the backs of my hands, in my belly. My intentions were earthly ones, for I was the agent of . . . God knows whose agent I was now. Hers, certainly, and something unnamed we had chased for centuries, perhaps as many, even, as Christ his. I sat with car engaged, windows lowered, good eye squinted 44 to a speaker in a stone wall. Around me bougainvillea, coleus, day lily, hibiscus—a garden of heavenly explosions. Beyond the entry, an insinuation of adobe, stucco, tile and luminous water—fleeting reward for the spirit’s works. And if I said it was as hot as Hell? Well, it was. My body craved to shed skin, be a cooler, quicker animal. I forced an arm through sun, extended it to the cross of numbers. I knew neither their codes nor languages. My sight blurring. My face slick. I pressed them all. Once, then twice. It’s regarding your daughter. It’s regarding Sarah. I say honestly I have never feared my own death. When the last person I loved died, the hyena bounded from my chest laughing. To be crucified is not so exceptional, nor so profound as one imagined. How many of us might shine at the opportunity to be adored? We don’t know you, we don’t need your help. Sarah doesn’t want to see you. I’ll call the authorities...