The Barnabas Nickel

Rebecca Bridges’ smile froze mid-stride. The sight of one man, head in hands, stopped her crossing the nave of the Ebenezer Bible Church. His demeanor telegraphed the depth of his spiritual distress. Eyes still adjusting from the bright light outside, the graduate student lowered her gaze, then, she stared. A middle-aged man was slumped in the fifth row pew.

She had never seen him before. But she had passed near enough to witness the brilliant popping and swirling of his distress rockets. On the oceans of life, heroic rescues are seldom rewarded. She tilted her head and drew nearer. Once out of harbor, capricious fate, blinded to goodness, takes from all vessels under sail.

She turned sideways to watch over her shoulder from three yards behind him. Focused on the man, she listened and waited. He was mumbling and shifting in the pew. His disjointed tongue-tied sounds could have been prayer.

Four days ago he had run a shiv through the throat of a local bad guy. That target was the first of his Barnabas nickel projects. Eight years ago, after a successful mission, he would have been out eating and drinking with his team. He had flat forgotten the emotional hangover that follows a killing. His sedate business sabbatical from his natural avocation did not spare him the internal backlash of this work.

Since the Lubbock Street killing, he had remained in his house in defensive solitary confinement. Only one hour earlier he had crawled out of his hole in need of psychic cleansing, and if possible, redemption.

Rebecca found him as out of kilter as an unmade bed. For three days he had eaten shriveled green apples, rat trap cheese and slabs of stale bread. His television had played non-stop. Torrents of media broth, boiled down to flashing lights selling words and music clips, became a hypnotic mantra that kept him in a trance. His television was every bit as treacherous as the Sirens of Scopuli. Powered by undiluted Hollywood energy, its wailing simply could not be ignored but, he did not turn it off. He caught himself aiming his pistol at the box more than once.

Horst decided to get naked and make a breakout from his confinement. He dropped his clothes and stood under a shower. So as not to frighten people he pushed his face close to the mirror. He clipped the most offending hunks of hair. Perhaps this new look could be construed as modern. He was clean. He had found a fresh shirt and a pair of pants shed only a week or two ago. He found two dark socks and both boots. His cowboy hat waited for him near the door. Pulling it down tight he set off walking toward downtown. He did not know where, just that it would be restful.

Head down, he walked toward the city center.

Passing beneath high-rise roads he stopped near an old structure with tiny windows and thick walls. The sign read, Ebenezer Bible Church. Praying again, probably aloud, he turned and entered the shadowy recess beyond the open door. He sat off to one side, alone. Some time later a young African American woman touched his arm. She asked, "Excuse me sir. "May I pray with you?" Horst didn’t answer, but he did look at her.

His tattered spirit was twisting like a kite in a tree. He wondered what she had said. Without waiting for an answer she took his hand, and launched the most wonderful prayer he had ever heard. Her heart drove her voice with singing anoetic love sounds from above. Not hearing words, he felt the melody of her passion, the bedrock of her faith and the glorious music of her soul.