The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (4 page)

"Porter
," started Mario, "you do not have to continue."

"No, I'm ok with it
," said Porter without emotion.  "So much of my life is hidden, it feels good to be honest and transparent about why I do what I do."

"Then get on with it
," said Mario, with eagerness in his voice. 

"
All right, so a few weeks after Hill and Mom split, one of the associate pastors was meeting with me and my sister Jennifer for counseling.  And Jenny was only 12 at the time."  Porter stopped as the emotion he had suppressed for years now welled up inside of him, causing his lips to tremble and throat to dry. 

Forci
ng the emotion back down, he continued.  "The pastor's name was James Holland and he really wasn't a counselor, more of a community outreach guy.  But because so many in the church were affected by Hill's departure, all those on the church staff were asked to meet with whoever needed help."

"He ask
ed to meet with me first but I didn't have much to say.  I was just going there 'cause my grandmother wanted me to go along with Jenny.  Our discussion ended in about five minutes and then it was Jenny's turn.  It was about dinner time, so I told them I was going up the road to the diner to get a quick bite and would be back in about 30 minutes."  Porter paused and held up his hand to halt what he knew was Mario's next question.  "And before you ask, yes, I was only 14. But remember, it was West Virginia.  I'd been on a tractor since I could reach the pedals and neither Dad nor the sheriff had any problem with me driving through town."

Mario
smiled, "You read my mind."

"I'm good at that
," Porter said with a smile.  "So, when I walked outside, no one else was in the church; just Holland and Jenny.  I can't say I had a bad feeling about that as I left the building, but when I got to the truck, I just couldn't turn it on.  Something told me to go back in, but I ignored it.  At most it was two minutes before I listened to my conscience and headed back in.

As I w
alked down the hall towards Holland's office, I heard sounds of panic.  Like someone was rattling a door handle trying to get it open, but it wouldn't.  And then I heard muffled sounds like screaming behind a wall.  When I got to his office, I saw the handle moving but the door stayed shut."

"
It was dead bolted," Mario said solemnly.

"It was
," answered Porter, a bit surprised at Mario's guess.  "I went to grab the handle and that's when I heard him say,  'You little bitch!  Get over here!'.  And I froze.  I heard Holland grab Jenny and then he must have forced her down, all the while barking, 'Shut up' and, 'I'll kill you'.  She was muzzled somehow 'cause I could hear her screaming, but it was very faint.  It wasn't until he said, 'Shut your fucking mouth or I'll do the same to your brother' that she went quiet.  For the next 15 minutes I stood catatonic in front of his door.  There was not another sound made except for that of Holland and his vile, aggressive grunts."

Desperate to end this confession, Porter said
, "I waited in the truck for her to come out of the church.  When she did, I couldn't bear to watch her slow, injured walk towards me.  I had the radio on pretty loud when she got in, so we didn't talk and I sure as hell wasn't going to look over at her."  Porter stared at his cigar as he said in a hushed admission of shame, "I haven't seen or talked to her since."

Mario sat with his eyes fixed on the floor, unsure what to next say.  Placing his hand on Porter's shoulder, as a father does when comforting his son, Mario said
, "I understand your rage."

Mentally exhausted from
the memories he could not escape, Porter directed the conversation back to Mario.  “Now that you understand my motivation, how do you envision me helping you?  Is one of your other businesses killing abusers?" Porter said jokingly.  "But seriously, I really care about your family and I have no desire to ruin that by assisting you, then us falling out of favor 'cause I disagree with what you're doing.”

Mario interjected quickly, “I will never place you in a position to choose between my family and any work you would do for me.  You saved that which we had lost and
could never have found.  Do you know that I had the best private detectives searching for Renata and none of them had even the slightest lead?  But you, with your vigilante idealism, found her.  So I promise you now, I will never make you choose.”

"Thank you
," said Porter.

Pausing to
consider his words carefully, Mario said, “What I would ask of you is this.  When my rivals are killing my men, you will help me kill them.” 

S
hocked at Mario's bluntness, Porter added, “So that we’re clear, you would like me to do to your rivals, exactly what they are doing to you?”

“Precisely
,” answered Mario.

“That’s not really what I do
,” Porter rebutted.  “I find abusers and eliminate them; not target one crime syndicate for the benefit of another; even if the other is a family as wonderful as yours.  I...”

Without giving
Porter time to finish his sentence, Mario continued, “I have witnessed depravity and seen atrocities you can only imagine, all at the hands of my rivals.  None of which I have ever condoned or permitted within my organization; beheadings, castrations, body parts shipped back to family members to torment them. None of that happens within my business.  Those barbarians should not share the air we breathe.  If you take their lives, how many children will still have fathers, and wives, their husbands?"

"Huh," said Porter
in a questioning tone, as he considered this new paradigm.  "I've never thought of it that way. But unless we take them all out, the violence never ends.”

"Violence never ends," emphasized
Mario.  "The best we can do is control that which affects us." 

A minute passed with no discussion as the two sat and exchanged smoke rings; neither willing to speak first.  When the silence became too much
, Porter answered, “Give me some time to think about it.  I'm inclined to help, but I'm not sure yet.”

Mario
blew his final smoke ring as he extinguished his cigar.  "Thank you Porter," he said, his eyes now not as bright as when their conversation began. As he exited the room to rejoin his family, Mario paused to invite Porter but remained silent.  Porter's head was in his hands as his tears wet the hardwood floor. 

Chapter
4

Heavenly Strangers

May 1991

Al Capone may no longer call the Second City home, but it holds his essence; fast-paced, congenial, efficient, and brutal. On the street, pedestrians offer deliberate and sincere salutations to one another. Unlike the Big Apple, where greetings are considered a waste of precious time, Chicagoans see them as an opportunity to conduct business.  Stories abound along the Miracle Mile of retirement-inducing financial opportunities where random and unconnected events collide.  The stranger on the street, or new person in the pub may possess that next nugget of information which leads to a lifestyle of leisure.

Making Chicago home was not
a choice Porter made.  It was simply the end point of the next Greyhound bus leaving Huntington, West Virginia.  Desperate to flee his home, and with only the $987 he had tucked away from his occasional construction work, Porter boarded the bus under the crushing weight of cowardice and sorrow.  The three steps up onto the bus were the most difficult he had taken since he learned to walk. 

As the bus rolled
west on interstate 64, questions no 14-year-old should have to consider surged through Porter’s mind. 
Why didn’t I help Jenny?  How did I fix anything by running away?  How am I going to survive?
  He could not solve these.  His one answered question was that there was no life left for him in West Virginia and that Chicago’s metropolis would swallow him, smother his flames of guilt, and extinguish his innocence.

The
goodbye letter he placed on the kitchen table was brief, sincere, and a lie. “Dad, I am so sorry for the pain my actions will cause you and Jennifer, but life will be easier without me to worry about.  I’m the reason mom left and not having me around will make it easier for Jennifer to heal.  I've failed to be the person you taught me to be.  I'll be safe and come home when I feel like the time is right.  Tell Jenny that I love her and that I will never forgive myself for letting her suffer.  Tell Granny and Grampy I love them too.  I hope one day you can see that what I am doing is because of how much you mean to me.  Wherever I go I will always remember who I am… your son, Glenn.”

E
leven hours in the shuttle allowed Porter the time and solitude to resolve who he would be in his new life.  His desperation focused his mind on the pain Jenny had felt.  His mother and church had often spoken of redemption and atonement as the themes of Jesus’ ministry.  But Porter knew Jesus was not there for Jenny in her time of need, nor would he be waiting for him in Chicago. 
If there's a rescuer on Earth
, Porter thought,
it's going to be me
. 

Cool
, dreary, and blowing like he had never experienced, the first few minutes on the Chicagoland concrete were terrifying.  With no sense of which direction to even walk, much less find food or shelter, Porter opted for the Waffle House across the street. 

With smoke filling the air, he ordered a
pancake breakfast and a coffee, his first of many cups to come.  The early dawn gave him his first glance at the movements of his new home; cabs bustling about, businessmen unloading from the train with a coffee in one hand and a Wall Street Journal in the other, and street vendors unfolding their food and magazine carts.

Waffle
House may be famous for their breakfast, but their wide windows were the real draw for Porter.  For less than $5, Porter had a view of all the creatures who could be his ally.  For now, they were the same downward looking stranger headed off to make their way in the world with no care for anything but their own advancement.

Connie
Lazarus’s relaxed, black, shoulder length hair accentuated her piercing green eyes.  Porter intuitively sensed this late twenties stranger who carried a sweet countenance along with a plate of hotcakes, would be a source of comfort to him.  Asking for his breakfast order, she exuded a warmth he had craved since his mother left.  Porter needed to find shelter and a job, without betraying his runaway status or risking police involvement.  He hoped Connie had those answers.

Nathan had taught his son
the best way to break the ice was to smile and just say hi. 
But that advice works in friendly West Virginia, not impersonal Chicago
, Porter thought.  Necessity often produces courage, so without further deliberation and as Connie poured his third cup of coffee, Porter grinned and meekly said, “Hi.” 

“
Well, hey there.  You’re up awfully early aren’t ya?” came Connie’s response heavy with a nasal Chicago accent.  “You headed to Mass before school?  Not too many of you kids are out this early unless you’re spending time with Father Ryan.  What’d you do? Play hooky or something?” 

Porter
tilted his head slightly to the left and furrowed his brow, showing he did not follow her.  “No,” he said slowly, his eyes now back on his food.  “I’m new in town and I need to find some work and a place to live.” 

“Work?” Connie stated
incredulously.  “You can’t be but 12 or 13 can you?”

“16
,” blurted Porter, knowing it was a lie of two years. “I’m just small for my age.” 

Connie
knew the look of a runaway but Porter did not have it.  He was too clean, and his clothes not disheveled enough to be a child escaping a broken home life.  But his demeanor puzzled her.  “So where you coming from?” 

“Just a small town
in Ohio,” he responded.  “Not much work there anymore, so I thought I’d see what I could find here.”

“Um
, miss, some coffee,” came the hurried request from a sleepy patron two booths over. 

As Connie
hurried to her eager locals, Porter lost his nerve to ask for any help, gulped down his drink, placed a $5 bill on the table, and got up to leave.  When his fingers reached the door handle, Connie touched him. 

“
Listen, I don’t need to know your story or who you are, but if you need a place to stay, Father Ryan at Saint Timothy’s will take you in for a bit until you figure out what you’re going to do.  And if you’re looking for a meal while you find work, I’m in here every weekday morning and I’ll cut your bill in half.” 

Porter
smiled as he looked into Connie’s eyes.  "Thank you very much," he said earnestly as he pushed the metal framed door open and walked out into the jungle.

*****

St. Timothy's entrance of ornate wrought iron connected to smooth limestone welcomed Porter.  His first conversation with Father Ryan, however, was neither smooth nor welcoming.  Porter tried the ‘in town, looking for work’ line he had used with Connie, but the 60-year-old priest would have none of it.  “That’s bullshit son and unless you come clean, you’ll not stay a night in my parish.”  Fully aware that this priest had a finely tuned lie detector, Porter came clean. 

T
he details of his sister’s abuse, his cowardly flee, and his resolution to never return to West Virginia flowed out of him like the New River during Spring floods. 

“
You feel that son?" asked Father Ryan as Porter paused to catch his breath.

"Feel what?" said Porter

"The work of God’s Spirit.  Many try to discount the work of the Holy Spirit, but in dire straits, the cleansing of the soul through confession brings us into full awareness of the Spirit’s work.” 

“You're right
,” Porter answered, “I’ve always heard that confession is good for the soul, but I never had anything big to confess before.  But now...the weight and pressure that have come off my chest…Father it’s real.”

"It is, my boy.  It is."

Over the next month, Porter resided in one of St. Timothy’s three rooms set aside for special cases such as his.  He confided much to Father Ryan during that time; the bizarre religious teachings to which he had been subjected, his feeling of helplessness even when his parents were together, and how the church and the law both perpetrated and ignored abuse. 

The good priest
had welcomed countless Porter Browns into God’s sanctuary of peace.  Most exited soon after, still carrying the despair with which they had entered; a despair that would drive them to commit heinous crimes against others or themselves in an attempt to expel the resident demons of their souls. 

Father Ryan could tell
Porter was different.  His was a quiet hurt.  He was not animated like so many of the others.  There were no fits of rage.  His face did not return bloodied from a day on the open streets of the city.  This man of the cloth could sense a smoldering fire deep within Porter.  When it would flame hot and for what purpose, the servant of God could not know.  Fortunately, he never would.

*****

“Hey Connie,” Porter offered with a smile as he sat down.  Each morning since arriving in town, Porter’s day started at the Waffle House.  His two eggs, three strips of bacon and five pancakes were ready for him at 6:30 a.m.  Though Connie did not normally serve the bar, when Porter arrived and sat in the second stool from the door, she always covered his spot. 

Connie was a faithful parishioner at St. Timothy’s and knew that Father
Ryan had a policy of one month’s grace for those helpless boarders he took in before they had to find other accommodations.  This was painful for Father Ryan to enforce, especially since he knew the fate of so many who left was that of a living Hell.

“So you’ve been here
how long now Porter? About a month, right?” asked Connie as she poured his coffee and put his plate in front of him.

“Yea
h, that’s about right.  Can’t believe it’s gone so fast. But you know,” Porter paused, ”It’s also been like the longest month of my life.”

“I know
,” she responded smoothly.  “I remember the first time you walked in here.  You looked like you’d been run over by a truck full of trouble.  You’ve looked better each time, but I’m sure there’s still a lot you’re dealing with, right?”

“
Yeah, but that’s gonna take a long time to get over,” came Porter’s mild response, his eyes no longer engaged with Connie’s, but somewhere in the memory of the bus ride from Huntington to Chicago. 

“Look Porter, I know the church is about to have you find another place.  Have you though
t about what you’re gonna do?”

“No, not really," he answered.
  "I’ve looked at a couple of shelters but really, those places just scare me.” 

His honesty
endeared him even more to Connie and solidified her decision.  “Ok, so here’s what I’m thinking,” she said hurriedly, excited about her idea.  “I never had a little brother but always kind of wanted one.  Why don’t you to stay at my apartment until you find a place.”

“Really
?” Porter asked, smiling through his eyes. 

"Really
."

“
Oh, that would be great," said Porter, trying not to sound as excited as he felt. "Thank you very much!"

“
Don't thank me yet," she said with a grin.  "You've haven't put up with all my craziness yet.  But I'm sure we'll get along just great.  So, my shift ends at 1p.m. today.  Get your stuff and meet me back here then.  We’ll go to my place and get you settled.  Now, I gotta go take care of my tables.  I can’t spend all my time talking to my little brother,” she said as she playfully messed his hair and walked away.

*****

Porter’s goodbye to Father Ryan was a happy one for both.  “Son, you may not be a resident in my church anymore, but I expect you here at Mass with Connie at least every Sunday.  More often would be better, but I’ll only hold you to the Lord’s day,” the good priest said in his jovial tone.

“Will do, sir
,” came Porter’s response as he walked to the threshold of the church. 

“And, you are always welcome to confession.  Life without family is not God’s design. 
Make the church your family,” came the father’s parting advice. 

“I will father.  I will.”

*****

T
he daily routine over the following months solidified their familial relationship. Connie was up by 4:30a.m. to pull her hair in a ponytail, groan that Porter once again had not lifted the toilet seat before using it, slip on her yellow uniform and catch the 4:45a.m. train.  Porter still made his morning visit to the restaurant, but his days were now filled with high school. 

After six months,
Connie amended her short term hospitality to an indefinite one.  Her only rule was the day Porter quit school was the day he would need to find another place to live. 

Connie
knew from personal experience the sacrifices the working poor make to educate themselves.  After an early marriage had soured after only one year, Connie had taken two classes per semester at the University of Chicago to complete her undergraduate degree in chemistry.  If they both held to their current schedules, she and Porter would graduate the same month.

As he had done with Father
Ryan, Porter bared his soul to Connie.  She knew him on a deeper level than any member of his biological family.  She knew his given name was Glenn David Joyce; that his nickname was Zipper, or Zip, because from ages two to eight his dad had jokingly threatened to install a zipper on his lips to shut him up; and that his biggest pet peeve was the stereotypes and jokes about his home state of West Virginia.