T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

A veiled beam from the window cast Kay’s features into translucent depths. The bandage across her forehead gleamed with a color beyond white. Wynn clutched at her words and the moment with desperation.

“What those people down there in the valley showed me was the slow and steady demise of the local branch bank. So gradual it would be very easy to ignore the trend. But over time a lot of those branches were closing down. Traditionally, our local banks were there to serve the community . They maintained branches in lower income areas because their bank served as an anchor to the local businesses and tradespeople. Only now these branches were disappearing. Why? Because these huge mega-banks don’t care overmuch about the local community. They exist to serve their shareholders. And these small branches did not turn sufficient profit. The result was, the low-rent branches were shutting down, and their places taken by what I call the financial tapeworms. Credit unions, check-cashing offices, pawn shops, car equity loan offices, storefronts offering second mortgages. All of these have one thing in common; they live by usury. These newcomers, these sharks , charge higher interest rates than the credit card companies. They care nothing for who they consume. They destroy families. They destroy communities. And they exist because the banks are retreating, leaving a vacuum for these demons to fill.”

The outer door opened, and noise filtered in from outside. Wynn leaned in tight, not wanting anybody or anything to interfere.

Kay did the same, coming in close enough for him to see amber flecks in what he had previously thought were utterly dark eyes. “That’s when I met Graham. I started attending a Bible study on Capitol Hill. He was there. You learn pretty fast not to talk shop at one of these things. People get very prickly at the idea of being hit while their guard is down. I had to hunt him out.”

The figure hovering just beyond Wynn’s peripheral vision said, “Excuse me, Congressman.”

“Be right with you.”

“But sir, your-”

Wynn raised a single threatening finger. “Back off.” To Kay, “Go on.”

“Maybe it was just how I caught Graham, walking away from the group, telling him I’d heard he was involved in financial reform. But he refused to talk with me about it that day. It was like he could look inside me and see all the convoluted motives, all the internal conflicts of interest. You know what I mean?”

Wynn gave her a tight nod of understanding. He knew.

“So he tells me, and remember now, he’s talking to somebody on the appropriations committee, a senior senator with significant clout. Somebody who can really wind his clock, for good or bad. But what he says to me is, Your doubt is written all over your face and there’s nothing I can say that will convince you.”

“He said that?”

“He did indeed. He goes on, If this is your cross, the Lord will have to be the one to tell you. Not me. Then he just turned and walked away.”

The aide was almost dancing with nerves. “Congressman, please. Sir, the limo’s waiting and the police escort is downstairs and your flight to Washington leaves in just over an hour.”

Kay rose to her feet, waited for Wynn to stand, then hugged him fiercely. When she finally released him, she smiled and said, “Hard to argue with that, isn’t it?”

Friday

Friday evening Washington time, early Saturday morning Roman time, Jackie limped past the Dulles Airport customs barrier. Instantly she was enveloped by a jubilant Good Friday din. The religious among the waiting throng stood out like shiny new pennies. Young boys tugged futilely at the collars of their first suits and chased pink-frocked girls in patent leather shoes. Parents holding ribbon-bedecked flowers hugged and welcomed family with tears and words in two dozen different tongues. Jackie pushed her trolley with her ears still ringing from the bells that had awakened her that same morning in Rome. Thousands and thousands of bells, tolling continuously from the moment she woke until the taxi took her to the airport. She had slept her way across the Atlantic, dreaming of music that was a welcome for many but only a farewell for her.

Jackie’s previous morning had been spent in slumber and solitude. She had risen just after noon and felt the pain returning, but decided not to take another pill. Her room had been lost down some Trastevere alley, high enough to transform the street noise into a continuous clatter rising from a stone forest. The chamber was dingy and old, the walls yellow and cracked. The shutter would not open. Downstairs the church ran a soup kitchen, and the smells finally enticed her to endure the agony of dressing. Every motion had brought new throbs from her shoulder. She had descended the four flights by gripping the stair rail and timing each step to her breaths.

She took her place in the menza line with the poor and the homeless. Her shoulder and leg throbbed constantly, bowing her slightly, adding a shuffling gait to her walk. There were hundreds of people and she heard a rainbow of tongues. Volunteers brought food to the tables. Jackie spooned up pasta and broth, then ate every scrap of her roast chicken with peas. When she looked around, no one met her eyes. Even so, she felt a comfortable bond with this place and these people. Her pain might be better hidden, but she understood.

“Jackie, welcome.” Anna smiled to all the table as she touched Jackie’s good shoulder. “Everything hurts, yes? But while you slept the doctor came, she says all is fine.”

“This is some operation.”

“Sant’Egidio started here with this kitchen. Now we are all the world over. We study the Word of God, we pray for peace, we feed the poor, we speak for all who have no voice.”

“What about the conference in Washington, and the one now in Cairo?”

“Many conferences.” Anna found cheer in the words. “All are the same. We feed the poor and we pray for peace.”

After lunch, Jackie used her credit card and the phone in a neighboring café to call Esther. The older woman was suitably horrified by news of her moped attackers, and reluctantly agreed to try to pass on the warning to Wynn. Afterward Jackie found herself unwilling to return to her room and the slats of light and the imprisoning bed. Instead she walked to the church piazza. She moved slowly, favoring her wounded side. She sat on the waist-high bench shelf running along the piazza’s western wall, joined there by dozens of other homeless and lost. The shadows and the church bells were the only clock they needed, counting out just another empty day.

After a time she stretched out on the stone bench and dozed until shadows draped the square in coming dusk. Upon awakening she crossed to a neighboring alley market and bought an olive ciabatta , cheese, grapes, and bottled water. As she was finishing her meal, the church bells pealed their nightly invitation. She found herself joining the throngs approaching the church, her internal protests the meagerest of whines.

Anna stood just inside the doorway, smiling a welcome. “You are feeling better?”

“Not really.”

“Ah.” The smile gentled but did not fade. “Perhaps you are not just speaking of your outside wounds, yes?” Anna matched her own pace to Jackie’s shuffling gait. “Perhaps the question is not what you face, but what you choose to face alone . You understand?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course, life is possible without God. So many desperate people, they survive with nothing but themselves. But hope? Who can stand alone and still know this?”

Her smile was so infectious, Jackie found the response came easily. “I’m missing the connection here.”