The Big Blue Sky: Seventy-three

Doug managed to put some distance from Waverly. Suddenly Doug found himself staggering, his strength falling away, his legs sluggish and unsteady. His left leg trailed stiffening and wanting to give out altogether. It was wet there, the wetness spreading along his side and back, running along his leg and filling his shoe. Doug paused at a parked car, feeling at his hip. Blood soaked his shirt and trousers, bubbling through a small finger-sized hole just above the hip. A stuttering heartbeat later the pain came flooding in.

Behind him Waverly stepped into the street and took aim once more. Doug half tumbled, half slid behind a car and let out a groan, hoping to force some life back into his legs. There was a park up ahead, and the blue lake waters beyond. Beneath a tree a preacher read scripture to a circle of parishioners. On a bench nearby a drunk was sleeping off a bad night. Doug lifted the man’s tan cap and a red flannel shirt and made his way to the group.

Doug slipped on the cap, pulled it down tight and found a chair among the others, covering his injured side and leg with the jacket. Waverly appeared a moment later, hiding the weapon inside his jacket, his eyes scanning the park and beach for his injured prey. Doug slunk down into the chair. Someone handed him a Bible. He opened it and held it before him, saying a small prayer for his girls as he did.

It was an odd sort of group. These were the sorts that grew fear when encountered in a dark alley. They were the dregs passed out on sidewalks, begging for change, slowly succumbing to AIDS, bad livers and drug addictions. They were prostitutes, thieves and the forgotten. Somehow, in that little group Doug found safety and, for want of another word: Love.

They rallied to the words and passion of an unassuming Black Reverend, with a fiery manner, and bold, somewhat anguished brown eyes. In cargo shorts and a red and white striped shirt, he hardly fit the image of a holy man, but there he was, preaching the word from a Bible he gave himself body, mind and soul to. And, in that circle, beneath an old Oak, among the parks and benches and alleys many of them called home there was a goodness, as if they joined with the Reverend and one another some part of themselves where love and family and hope refused to relinquish.

“Welcome, brother,” said the Reverend, politely. “Participate if you like, the only rule here is respect. Respect yourself, respect God and respect everyone else here.” The reverend slipped a pair of eyeglasses back on and found his place in the scriptures once more. “Everyone turn to One Corinthians Thirteen.”

Doug pretended at turning the pages. For just an instant he took his eyes off Waverly. When he looked back the man was gone. Doug closed his eyes against waves of pain from the bullet hole in his side. He wasn’t bleeding as bad now, at least that he could tell. His head was light and he wished only to lay down and sleep. He fought it, focusing on the girl’s faces, knowing full well that if he gave into that need he might never see them again. But Doug found he couldn’t concentrate for long on anything. With the darkness threatening he clung to the Reverend’s words, like an anchor to the world and life. As he did Doug found something in those words, as if he had been called to this spot at this moment to hear them.

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels,” the Reverend began, rocking on his heels and challenging the sky with an upraised finger, his voice resonating across the park, “ but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love…”

The reverend’s words trailed away to a strangely uncomfortable silence. Doug looked over to the man beside him. The man’s eyes went wide with fear. Doug knew in an instant, lowering the Bible before him. Injured as he was, Doug knew the fight was over. He had fought as much as he could, and perhaps more than most, but now all seemed lost.