A Guardian of Innocents (36 page)

“Sure.”

He sighed, “Jeshua, I’m sorry you’ve had to live the life you were dealt. I’m sorry you were raised by people who lied to you and so grossly mistreated you. But I hope this can be the beginning of a new life. For both of us. Please promise you’ll call me soon.”

I was filled with a sudden warmth and affection for this man. His kindness and guileless manner was infectiously disarming. But I was also stricken with an immense feeling of loss that I had not grown up with this man, rather than with Jack and his doormat of a wife.

*          *          *

The drive home was spent mostly with the radio turned off. My thoughts dwelt on Desiree, and on a single promise I’d made in the heat of anger.

I arrived at the apartment and crashed into the couch that was a little too low to the ground. I buried my face in my hands, trying to wipe the cold air out of my eyes. I sat there awhile, just zoning out, not wanting to feel anything.

“You’ve been talking to someone, haven’t you, Tessa?” I whispered to the air.

If Aaron, a low level psychic at best, could communicate with the dead, and if his full sister had about ten to twenty times his power...

“Then what if Des’ drifting spirit sought her out?” I asked myself out loud.

I walked to the bathroom, only sparing a passing glance at the metal cross which had been placed back on its proper spot on the bedroom door, hanging from its slightly rusted nail.

After I took a piss, I was washing my hands when I heard a thump on the floor. I grunted out a tired sigh and dried my hands, finding with no surprise upon walking out that the cross had fallen to the carpet again.

I knelt down and reattached it to the door; this time it had taken the nail with it. Then I stood there a moment, just staring at it, studying it.

“So what the hell do you want from me, God? WHAT THE FUCK DO YA WANT FROM ME?!!”

I felt foolish raising my voice when I was alone. Surely the neighbors would complain. But belligerence was quickly taking over my rational thought process.

“After all the shit You’ve put me through, what, do You think I’ll just bow down say Hallelujah? Finding my real father doesn’t make up for the crap You’ve let happen to me! Just when my life began to feel decent, You took Des from me. You son of a bitch! I hate You! Get the hell outta my life!”

I sat down on the bed, head hanging between my knees, not wanting to cry, but my throat clenching nevertheless. I felt utterly alone. More alone than I even had after my encounter with Willy so many years ago.

I lit yet another cigarette and went into a coughing spasm. I’d been smoking entirely too much lately. My lungs felt hard and rubbery inside my chest, as though made of used dried-up chewing gum. But being the dedicated addict that I was, I continued to smoke the little cancer stick anyways. (It seemed like such a huge waste to put it out.)

I went into the living room and found the remote, eager to lose myself in the land of the idiot box (Ah, the Blessed Brain-Liquefier!) anything to distract me from the hollowness that felt as though it might consume me if I thought about it long enough.

But I grew more and more restless as I flipped through one channel after the next, finding nothing interesting enough to maintain a consistent level of distraction. I was running from the galloping horse of deep depression and it was on the verge of overtaking me.

I got up and went over to our modest bookshelf. Not much to choose from. A few beat to shit paperbacks that even Half-Price wouldn’t trade in, and some of those
God’s Little Instruction Booklets
that Des always loved.  There was only one book on this shelf that held any appeal to me in my current state of mind.

I sighed and took Des’ leather bound Bible from its designated slot. A small dust bunny fell off the top and floated down onto the shelf rung closest to the floor.

“Alright, God, if You’ve got something to show me that wasn’t addressed in all the sacrament services in first ward, then this is Your one chance. It’s the only shot I’m giving You.

I stayed up until almost dawn reading.

I sat up on my bed, tired as hell, but not wanting to sleep just yet. I had something to say.

“I don’t know why You do the things You do, God. I guess it’ll just have to stay beyond my scope of understanding. But tonight, I’m going to keep the promise I made to Desiree. I’m willing to try things Your way for awhile. If You’re willing to take me, God, I’m Yours... So… ”

I stopped in mid-sentence, thinking:
Why does this feel like such a big deal?

“Jesus Christ, I ask You to come into my heart. You are my Lord and my Savior. I know this now. I accept Your death on the cross for my sins...”

I’ve never been able to find words that fully and justly describe what I felt next. It was like being struck by a crashing wave of warmth. It was similar to Tessa’s touch on my shoulder, but on a much larger scale.

Have you ever felt that fiercely wholesome rush you get when you help someone out who’s in a really desperate situation? Maybe you take a family into your home when theirs has burned down, or maybe you just help your eighty-five year old neighbor carry her groceries from her car to her kitchen. Or hell, maybe you just slip a bum a few bucks instead of the standard loose change as you walk by. Take that feeling, that feeling of self-worth, that feeling of knowing you’re not a bad person, and magnify it times fifty.

Something about me changed. Something within. Suddenly, I felt as though my life was actually worth living. I had purpose.

I stood up and almost fell over. I felt punch-drunk, tipsy maybe, but then again I’d stayed up way past my normal bedtime. I collapsed back onto the bed and fell asleep with my clothes on.

*          *          *

“That’s awesome,” Aaron said, a genuine smile touching his face. “It’s the best decision you’ll ever make in your life.”

As I expected, he stopped by the next day to see how my trip to Newark had gone, and I told him everything.

“But there’s also another reason I came,” he said, his tone turning more anxious and grave.

“Godwin?” I asked.

He nodded. “It’s not safe for you to stay here anymore. Dad found out yesterday that Louis has put a price on all four of our heads. A half-million each for us three guys, and a full million for Tessa, but only if she’s brought back alive.

“We should be able to fit whatever you’ll need in the immediate future into my car. I can send a team of movers to put the rest of the stuff in storage later.”

Surprised and indignant, I asked, “You want me to move out
tonight?
”

“Jeshua, Louis put the order out three days ago. It’s amazing someone hasn’t already tried to cash in on it. Especially since he knows where you live.”

“Okay, dude... Listen to me,” I said, gritting my teeth, “I can’t just grab some shit and leave everything behind. I know you grew up with a dad who was an FBI agent who got bumped around from one city to the next and you can handle shit like this, but this is only the second place that I’ve ever lived!”

He remained silent, correctly assuming that I wasn’t finished, and was already preparing his rebuttal in the back of his mind while he listened to me, which irritated me all the more.

“What about work? Staten Island’s not really a feasible commute, you know.”

“Louis probably knows where you work too. If he doesn’t, it shouldn’t be too hard for him to find out. What’s to stop someone from walking in and finding the bartender with the Jeshua nametag and shooting you down, right there, in front of everybody? How close would he have to get to you before you felt his intentions? Or if that scenario’s too risky for a hitman, a pro, what would stop him from waiting out back behind the bar until you got off work?”

“You’re talking about going underground, living on the run. What about your place? Does—“

“I’m almost positive he has no idea where I live. Louis can’t see me anymore, at least not through his black magic. And now that you’re saved, I strongly doubt he can look upon you either.”

I sat on the arm of the couch, feeling as though Aaron’s logic was backing me into a corner.

“Alright,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “But I’m not going to just flake out on them at the bar. They’ve been good to me over the years and deserve a little notice. I don’t know. Three days maybe. I can commute for that long at least.”

“That’s very dangerous, Jesh—“

“I don’t care! I’m not going to just stop showing up,” I protested, then after a brief pause, “You can help me move out, I guess tonight, but I’m not going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder... So promise me... the next time the opportunity presents itself, we’ll find Godwin and take him out for good. Permanently.”

“I can promise that we’ll try. But if a bullet through the head didn’t kill him, then what do you think will?” 

Try as I might, I couldn’t find an answer for him. Then my eyes fell upon the twin swords leaning against the bookcase in their midnight black scabbards.

*          *          *

My manager, DeShaun, didn’t like only being given three days notice (they were short-staffed after all) but took the news amiably enough. I fabricated a story about moving back to Dallas to stay with my dear, sweet sick mother. Yep, cue the fuckin’ violins.

On my third and final night there, a slow Wednesday, a guy in a light gray suit somewhere in his thirties strolled into the place about an hour before closing. I detected his attitude even before he emerged completely from the revolving door. He was one of those who consider themselves to be the supreme form of life on this planet, everyone else consisting of so many cockroaches in need of a good boot-squishing.

He took a stool and with a thick New England accent, said, “Mah-guh-eeta on deh rocks.”

“Salt?” I asked.

“Yeh,” he answered. Something else struck me about him. He tugged at his over-starched collar and fidgeted in his suit like it itched him. Unless this guy had just escaped a funeral or a wedding, he had no business wearing anything other than his usual t-shirt and jeans.

“Say, pal, aim lookin fuh somebody. Ehhh, a guy that wuks heh. Name’s Jesh-oo-ah. You know im?”

Never in all the time I’d worked there was I glad to have a nametag which said: PHIL. The owner of the bar had a pet peeve about nicknames on our tags.

“Yeah,” I told him, “He quit a few days ago. Heard he was moving back to Texas.”

“That so?” he asked.

I knew he didn’t believe me. I scanned him, hard.

He was unarmed, but that didn’t change what he was. He didn’t consider tonight to be the
Big Show
. Tonight was just for reconnaissance.

“So how did you know him?” I asked, feeling glad I was the only bartender closing that night.

“Oh. I don’t know ‘em. I’m just an acquaintance of an acquaintance you might say.”

“Ah,” I responded, as if that answered my question. I finished shaking the ‘rita, not forgetting to salt the lip of the glass.

“Thank you, suh,” he said as I handed it to him.

He finished his drink quickly, feigning interest in the Knicks game that played on the large screen TV.

Bastard didn’t even leave a tip.

*          *          *

In the first six weeks of living with Aaron, I searched all over the greater New York metropolitan area for a place that taught sword fighting. Not fencing—those were easy enough to find. After scouring the internet, I finally found a place in the Bronx, a martial arts dojo that specialized in Ninjitsu weapons training. Their site boasted they had instructed several stuntmen and even a few movie stars in the art of Japanese samurai sword fighting.

I called and spoke to the owner, who seemed capable of speaking only broken English. He told me when to come by and seemed eager to look at the swords I’d inherited from my recently deceased grandfather.

I drove out in my little coupe and carried the swords into his establishment, which were hidden away inside a duffel bag (if you have anything of value, never walk through the Bronx with it openly displayed for all to see—just don’t.)

I opened the glass door and was greeted with the sour smell of sweat. The place smelled like a high school gym, which sparked obscure feelings of anti-nostalgia for me.

An Asian man, just slightly shorter than myself, probably somewhere in his fifties, approached me and said, “Hello. . . You tuh man wit soads?”

“Yeah, that’s me. I got em right here.”

He smiled big and gestured with his hands that he wanted to see them. I unzipped the bag and handed them over.

He unsheathed one of the blades, handing me its solid black scabbard. He analyzed the sword with critical eyes, turning it this way and that in the light. I scanned him and learned he was looking for imperfections, signs of wear or abuse. He was also puzzled because he saw no markings on the weapon’s blade or hilt showing who’d made it. Artists like to take credit for their work and he considered this sword to be especially beautiful, a fine display of craftsmanship.