Exodus

Light penetrating translucent roofing panels faded to darkness before the December supper hour.  Winds rattling the heavy metal garage doors to the warehouse ceased.  Huddled over an elevated work bench beneath long fluorescent tubes, the fitter reached for a smooth small diameter pipe.  He glanced at the dated Harley Davidson mud flap, rubber nailed to the naked building studs.  He slowly twisted the pipe into a dimpled brass tube with numerous holes protruding along the silver plating.  Using a rubber mallet, he firmly drove the smaller straightening pipe further into the instrument.  As if fragile crystal, he gently settled the pair.

Worn oak steps leading to a loft over the pipe fitter’s office cracked with the falling temperature.  Various steel brushes, wrenches, and hammers hung ordered on the brick wall.  Mark glanced over his shoulder.  Racks of welding equipment, pipe, and stock steel bar lay silent.  Tanks of compressed argon, helium, carbon dioxide, and oxygen were securely strapped in each of three bays.  Arched iron rafters supported the century old Foster Pipe Works structure.

Mark instinctively wiped his oil saturated skin with the rag and tossed it aside.  He clasped a small mallet.  Tapping the hard rubber against the brass, he lifted the dent the size of his fingernail to a smooth cylindrical surface.  Suddenly, the shadow of an intruder crept into the halo of light over the benchtop. 

“Stand down, big brother!”  The intruder’s laugh appeased the fitter’s nerves.  “Is that the weapon of choice these days?  A flute?” 

Leo, two years his junior, waved Mark’s defense away.  He extended “loyalty” tattooed upon his right hand while “trust” hung onto the left. 

“Damn, brother,” Mark squeezed his junior’s hand.  “Don’t want me doin’ damage to your face!”  He smiled, tugging his stronger, more successful brother into an embrace.

Leo circled the bench and climbed onto a stool opposite his brother.  Mark twisted the inner pipe further to another dent in the brass.

“How’d you get in here?  I know you ain’t climbing oil drums outside to the loft.”  As kids, they’d trace rail tracks from home less than a mile to Fosters.  After strategically stacking empty fifty gallon drums, they’d climb through open windows above the loft.  Upon warmer days, it was an ideal place to hide and smoke.   

“Came in the side door.  You careless.  It was open.”  Leo manipulated a curved-nose plyer to point.  He casually asked an intrusive question. “You ever take tools or cash from old John Paul?”  He referenced the great grandson the present owner of the original Foster who initiated the business shortly after the Great War. 

“Nah.  He’s always taken me back.  He’s working me when I get out in a few months.” 

Leo rolled the shorter mouthpiece in his forefingers.  An embouchure hole embedded in a brass lip plate bared few nicks in the silver plating.  “Where’d you steal this from?”

“I didn’t.  Called in a favor.”

“A favor?  It’s beat up.  Guy probably gave it to ya, didn’t he?”

“John Paul’s working me full when I get out.”  Mark repeated softening another dent in the flute’s tubing.  “Center’s got me two days a week.  PO gets me out three days to work.”

Leo never had difficulty locating his brother.  Dropping out of a school of chaos, Mark unknowingly sought position and merit among the impoverished of his neighborhood.  Tough and agile though lacking instruction, he struggled to win high school wrestling matches.  Introverted, yet curious, he’d been told by an art teacher he’d be good creating in three-dimensional media.  He abandoned her vision to wither under peer criticism.  Collecting an occasional scar, wrestling on the street came easily until he discovered guns.  He leveraged dealers for respect. 

His mother, an independent, innocuous woman cared little about locating his errant father.  She cleaned office buildings at night and slept during the day.  On one particular evening, while wandering the financial district, Mark spied his mother operating a floor vac.  He negotiated a visit inside the brokerage.  Upon his late-night departure, a situation presented itself.  Ever opportunistic, the youth lifted a computer isolated from the fold and dashed. 

Where’d the police come from?  What possessed him to steal a computer?  Where would he take it?  Why’d the judge sentence him to six months in juvenile detention?  Why didn’t his family seek to have him released?  Why’d other juveniles offer him pills to distract his mind from these questions?  Why were men he’d never met suddenly interested in him on the outside?  How’d residents smuggle tiny whiskey bottles he’d seen in local liquor stores passed guards into the detention center?  Why were the same questions or variations on a theme endlessly recycling through his mind twenty-three years later? 

Rules controlled chaos in detention, but not disillusionment.  Mark grew more resilient, emboldened to threats.  He regressed following time served.  He raided medicine cabinets of aunts, uncles, friends for prescription drugs.  He received product from unknowns.  He shuffled pills to men who’d smuggled alcohol and tobacco to him while in detention.  They paid cash.  Cash secured independence.  Independence commanded respect, eventually empowerment.  Mark belonged to an intangible society he thought he understood.  But, he didn’t. 

One night, years later while attempting to provide for two daughters born to him, he’d hopped a bus destined to a distant municipality.  Mark located the pharmacy for which he’d been informed was an easy target.   Once inside, he unraveled a commodity sized empty potato chip bag.  Methodically, he arranged various allergy medications into his chip bag.  An amateur to casual customers, he’d mimic snacking on chips.  Once he stuffed his bag he needed to check out pass the cashier. 

“Hey man!” Mark failed acting cocky. “Sorry, I opened the bag.  My bad.”  The thief slapped a five on the countertop. “Abe’s got me covered!” He intended to saunter forward unimpeded.

The larger, aggressive cashier reached across the counter grasping the lifter’s coat.  Before the streaming surveillance, the wrestler instinctively spun to topple his antagonist.  One reactive, accurate punch propelled the brawny cashier into cigarettes neatly stacked behind him.  Cartons cascaded over his face onto his chest as the thief ran.  Theft, assault, narcotics, alcohol, Leo’s words, “You careless,” ricocheted in Mark’s mind.

The older introduced “pharmaceutical sales” to the younger.  However, the younger acted wiser, smarter, expanded sales, never careless and never caught.  He treated his people generously.  They responded with loyalty and trust.

“I got a place you can stay,” Leo offered without interrupting the fitter.

“With you?” Mark’s eyes, black pearls, glistened in the fluorescence.

“No.  That would be careless.” Leo positioned the short tube like a chess piece on the table.  “A quarter-flat off Mackey.  Priced right.  Within walking distance if you want to avoid Aces on the bus.”

“Too much fire power on the street,” the felon countered.

“Don’t worry about that.”  The business man spoke informally, inferring he’d provide protection.

Leo studied his brother maneuvering a delicate carbon steel spring into a key socket with the needle nose.  Scars pocked his fingers and veins wired his joints.  Occasional gray curled into his deep mat of black hair.  Leo focused on the two-inch scar above his brother’s right eye.  He recalled tipping the business scales in his favor.  Attempting to intimidate Leo in the kitchen, Mark approached aggressively.  Leo quickly shifted his advisory’s momentum sideways into the cabinets, tripping him such that Mark’s forehead braised the corner of the countertop.  Crimson cascaded across his face exposing arrogance and lack of logistics.  Leo secured complete separation and independence with Mark’s subsequent prison sentence. 

The pipe fitter’s tapping jarred Leo’s attention to the present.  Deep reddish purple machine coolant, permanently stained Mark’s denim sleeves.  It darkened his skin with an oily petro aroma.  Leo searched the felon’s attentive eyes for seams of anger.

Leo straightened his posture.  “How’s it going inside?”  He referred to the Center where Mark was transitioning with parole to public life.

“Okay.” Mark added nothing more while sealing a pad in a key.

“Gotta job for ya.”

“Your job’s gonna catch me dropping dirty.”

“You always catching shit like you’re catching a cold,” his younger brother poked laughing.  “What’s the matter with you, man?  I’m offering you a chance to get back in the game.  Get a little cash flow going.”

Mark dropped the flute and miniature screw driver.  He opened his palms as if to surrender.  “Brother, I’m 42.  There ain’t no more game for me.”

“I heard that before.  And here you are.  You gonna spin metal shavings all your life?  Now that’s a hard ass game.  Beat you up!” Leo relayed a reality check.

“Machines doin’ most the work.” The felon attempted to convince himself the job his brother portrayed was inaccurate.   

The businessman stepped down and replaced his stool.  “I gotta run.  Supper is waiting,” he grinned, “as I’m sure yours is.”  He walked back toward the entrance from which he came.  The felon heard, “It’s a stand-up offer.”

Mark pivoted to see his brother’s silhouette about to vanish in darkness.

“I didn’t know you enjoyed the flute.  Don’t think that one’s gonna play well.  Good night, Mark.” 

Mark watched his brother disappear as the metal door clamored behind him. 

 

       Novel and quaint, decades ago, Lucia’s Boutique, a small icon deteriorated with peeling paint, rotting wood, and cracked foundation.  Poverty, crime, abuse, bias took residence in the surrounding neighborhood.  With the emergence of the Rebellious Rose from a lot overgrown with weeds and trash, the neighborhood met resistance to depression, violence, mediocrity.  Against the peeling crimson paint, “Welcome” boldly chalked in the window proclaimed fresh beginnings, new creations.  “Feliz Navidad” encouraged new customers to revitalize their community.

Sunlight splashed along mirrors paneling the length of wall behind the stylists. Those awaiting service dealt gossip while considering amendments to intriguing twists.  Two stylists fashioned customers while injecting quips to keep the humor rolling.  He entered carrying velour fabric rolled into a tube.  Intruding upon the women’s retreat, Mark silenced the two waiting as he sat within their borders.  With backs to their guests, both stylists chattered nonsense as they continued their craft.  The more reserved of the two young business women, glimpsed the seated male.  Her guests’ eye contact indicated intrusion.  Her silent nod sent warning to her associate.

Vibrant, energetic, the more gregarious pressed forward, teaser in hand.  “Look what the dogs drug in.”  She snubbed him, continuing to work without interruption.  “This guy’s delusional.  Bizarre thinking we’re related in some way!”

“You seen this guy before?” her partner wanted to clarify.

“Yup.  Been about three years.” To the women waiting, she waved a curling iron like a wand.  “He’s harmless.”  She worked as if she could perform blindfolded with magical results.

Mark feared this disruption with his daughter might be public. He felt no option to the conversation in a manner he dreaded. 

“Then, honey, he ain’t worth your time today.”  The client’s eyes looked to erase him.  He met them in the mirror’s reflection.  “Think he wants a money.”

“He’s sniffing for cash, a bed, drugs, probably a woman.” The young artist teased as if acting on the short stage.  “Give him a job.  He’d mess it up.”  Jazmine accessed a spray bottle.  “Came to the wrong place!  You hear me, Mark?”

Perspiration bled from his palms.  She’d never spoken his first name publicly.  He discretely rubbed his palms upon his jeans.  He contemplated leaving, smoke some pot and settle his nerves.  He resigned to resist Jazmine’s design.

“We getting rich at this, Olivia?” Jazmine jeered.

“Payin’ our bills,” her partner confirmed cheering a rallying point.  “Makin’ rent!”

“Ah, you guys are doin’ good.  Best stylists in the city!” A dependable client receiving a weave testified. 

“I brought you something for Christmas,” Mark stuttered trying to avoid the mirrors forbidding his privacy.  Suffocating, he drew a breath.

“Don’t go leaving your trash in here.”  She commanded returning no eye contact, no interest in what he offered. 

As if required to respond in rebuttal before a jury, he felt all eyes in expectation upon him.  “I’m sorry.” Mark mumbled retreating to gaze upon the chalked window painted storefront.

The bleeding began.  Eyes became daggers.  She casually fired shots off the mirror.  “Sorry for what?  Lovin’ Jack D.?  Poppin’ pills for allergies you don’t have?  Smokin’ weed? Shootin’ anti-freeze?”

“I ain’t done heroin.” Mark intercepted.

“Excuse me, meth man.  Aging selfishly locked away in State prisons?”  A deep bellow roared from her gut.  “Oh, I don’t know, Mark.  What’s it been?  Fourteen years in my twenty-one?  Hell, you’re locked up once a month when you are free because you’re out catchin’ something?  Don’t fight no more because they beat your ass.”

“Watch your purses ladies!  Might be scoping ya out.”  His daughter raised her hands in open invitation.  “See anything ya like?”

She belittled twisting a dagger of anger.  “I think we’re safe.  He ain’t got no potato chip bag!”

 The felon had already glanced away anticipating humiliation.  Jazmine’s accusations triggered tension and no means to relieve it.  Bottles of hair treatments and body washes lined a far shelf.  No visible cash drawer caught his attention.

Jazmine paused from her recitation of violations, but Mark sat on edge.  Olivia stepped adjacent to join her partner predicting an escalation in trouble.

Very accommodating, Jazmine bowed to her client audience, “You are invited to hear me perform, tonight?”

“Tonight!” A woman easily entertained exclaimed. 

“Oh, I appreciate your excitement, Nina, but I’m not performing tonight.” Jazmine frowned tossing one brush in a pale while withdrawing another at her station.

“We’re with ya child!” An elder client cheered foreseeing a show about to begin.

Jazmine tapped her client’s shoulder begging pardon.  “Didn’t hear from you Mark?  You’d think a dad would want to see his daughter perform.” 

 

The show began.  “Not my dad!”  Building her case, his daughter presented motive. “He’d rather sweep drugs off a pharmacy’s shelves into an empty potato chip bag!”  Jazmine rolled her eyes in condemnation. 

“Say it isn’t true dear.” One of the women chuckled nervously.

 “True on my big night.  I gave up everything to practice.”  She stared her felon father face to face.  “Yes, over three years ago.  And here he is pouting he’s sorry.”

To force back tears, she recovered, attending to her customer. 

Jazmine replayed the orchestra performance from the gym floor.  She scanned the bleachers to find her mother, but no father.  Her nine-year-old sister sat piddling with her coat.  Jazmine desired her father’s validation before her peers and community.  She sought his appreciation and recognition for her talent to play the flute.  She recalled a second occasion while she rehearsed in the living room.  Her father, ranting of her miscues and tones, entered and demanded she put her irritating flute away.  “I’m practicing.” She retaliated in his aromatic cloud of bourbon.  As she lifted the flute to her lips, he struck her across her cheek forcing the mouthpiece into her embouchure slicing both lips, drawing blood over her teeth. 

Despite the physical wounds healing, Jazmine could taste the blood as she searched the audience for her father.  Distracted, she launched her thirty second solo two beats late.  Then she rushed to squeeze the music together.  She swept tears away with her sleeve.  Where was he?  She had talent to prove.

“Later, that same evening, I belted out so much Gospel; souls danced.  Folks in the stands swayed with praise.” Brush in hand, she testified.  “I wanted so badly for you to see how good I was as a singer, as a musician.  I wanted to impress, to overwhelm you so much you’d never think to raise your hand to strike me again.”

“You remember your daughter, Stella?  She is of the age I was then.  I love her voice. And you, you may never hear it.”  Jazmine faced the women with her promise.  “As long as I live, you will never lay a hand upon her.”

Disgust forced the felon to unroll the felt.  “Jaz, know I will never touch you or Stella in an aggressive way, ever.”

Jazmine invaded his space.  She went eye to eye with her father.  “You won’t ever touch us … in any way.  Ever!”

She cut the distance between she and her father.  “You ever dream of something, Mark?  Ever?”  Paralyzed upright, he choked to answer.  He had none.

            “Well, I had a dream.  And … you crushed it.  Killed it!”  Brush in hand a weapon to disarm any other, she thrust it toward him.  “You weren’t there.  You had every chance to be there.  Where were you?” she asked as if offering him a breath to escape her stranglehold.

            He failed to dignify himself in the smothering pause.  “I’m …”

            She glared at his forlorn face.

His fingers permanently stained by oil cradled the silver flute he repaired.

He struggled to form the words. “I’m sorry.” Losing eye contact, his body flushed with frustration.  Reconciliation underpinned pages of violations.  Without peace between them, little dignity, meaning, purpose in life was gone forever, … love impossibly absent. 

Battling emotions of anger, hate, loss, she eased away.  “You take your sorry ass outa my Rebellious Rose!”  Taking a punch to her gut, she delivered an identical to that of her father.  “And take that pawnshop piece of pipe with you.”

Agitated, Mark rolled the fabric over the silver instrument.  Discretely packing it to his side, he stepped through complete silence toward the door. Each step cracked tension.  Each distanced him from healing, forgiveness, peace, possibility.

Purging anger, Jazmine prayed for strength to move forward as her grandmother taught.  “God before me. Behind me.  Left of me.  Right of me.  With me.” 

Mark found irony; only he’d be climbing steps off a sinking sidewalk to a level plane of collapsing quadraplexes, many condemned, lining the street.  Red brick supported two apartments below, two above.  Rot claimed many boarded windows and doors.  The building with boarded windows appeared to have a black eye on the upper left while plywood sealed its lower entrance.  Mature oaks lining the alley towered over the flat roofs.  A mockingbird’s melody confirmed nature still resided here.  Dark, monstrous clouds churned the skies overhead while an eerie silence awaited wrath below.

A child’s tricycle wheels flipped up rested in the yard.  Navigating insect-riddled floorboards, Mark eased each step across the porch to the door.  Unlocked as management assured him, he opened the door to a bag stuffed with trash.  He pushed an antiquated switch.   Dreary lighting revealed mice droppings along baseboards.  He appraised a bedroom with a lampstand tilted over a single, stained mattress.  Four vinyl-canvassed chairs circled a table outlined in corroding steel.  Shelving with doors and others without hung in a recently swept kitchen.  A refrigerator and stove, both displaying patches of rust still functioned despite neglect.  Interest waned. He sat pulling his stocking cap over his ears.  As if smoking, he blew steam into the freezing room.  The gloom inside added contrast against the storm rumbling outside.

A screen door from the hallway slammed, startling him.  Always vigilant, adrenaline pumping, the felon secured the building entrance to flee if necessary. 

“Damn.  I hate it when you blow in like this!” Mark scolded his brother.  “What the hell!  Through the alley entrance!  What’s wrong with you?  Somebody gonna blow your ass up!”  The potential resident eased back into the suffocating space.

“All the windows boarded up in back.  Nothin’ secure.”  Bundled in a heavy ski jacket, Leo reported issues critical to him.

“Figured you weren’t comin’.”  The older drew a deep breath.

“What ya pay for this?” Leo’s tone implied any amount was excessive.

“Four-twenty, electric and gas.”  Mark watched the clouds press against the treetops.

“Told you I have work for you.  Pay’s good.”  The young business owner reissued his offer.

“Ain’t my game no more.” Mark imagined the barren limbs clapping, taunting him.  “I do stupid stuff, you get in trouble.  Catch myself more time.” 

 “Compared to this, what’s wrong with catching more time?” Leo scoffed lunging into a seat across the table.

“Right ...” One brother justified to the other.  “I live in a warm place.  Have rec.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Warm bed.  Screwed up roommate.  Loudspeakers telling me what to do, when.  Make seventy-one cents an hour mopping floors, cleaning toilets.  Everything but goin’ where I want to go and doin’ what I want to do.”

“And women!”  Leo impulsively added.  His contagious laughter spontaneously triggered Mark’s in relief.  Face flushing like it did when the two were boys, Leo emphasized pointing across the table. “And family … your girls.” 

Mark blew burdens into steam and pronounced. “That did not go so well.”

“What’d you do?” Leo begged clarification.

“I stopped by Rebellious Rose to visit Jaz.”

“You didn’t try to give her that flute?”  Leo teased lightheartedly.

Frustration ignited truth.  Leo struck a nerve.

“I stopped to say I was sorry.” 

“And offer her a janky flute?”

“Come on man.  You don’t understand.  History’s in that flute.”  Mark defended.  Of course, Leo wouldn’t understand.  He wasn’t there.  He never listened to the squawks, the sour notes, measures of errors, awkward fingerings transformed into recognizable tunes eventually pleasing the ear.  Leo had never heard music performed by one of his children.  Leo had never heard a child’s defining moment in performance.  But neither had Mark.  Anger roared with the distant thunder. 

“It’s not about the flute.  It’s about not being there.  It’s about fucking it up.”  Mark stood breathing heavily.  “I need to get outa here.”  As if cornered, he hastened through the doors and jumped off the porch.

“Mark!” Leo’s bark raced after him.  Mark paused desperate to stay in motion.

 “Hey, I don’t know what’s going on.  Maybe this helps.  Jazmine is singing at Sunrise Church tomorrow night.  Want to see her sing?  Go to the concert.  It’s at 7:30.”  Before Leo lost Mark’s attention, he relayed a twenty to his brother slapping it in his palm.  “Concert’s free, but they ask for a donation.  Be generous.”  Leo hoped to reduce the strife.  “Whatever it is you’re trying to do.  Try again, another way.” 

Thunderheads growled overhead.  Leo cut between buildings to his truck parked in the alley.  Mark ignored the ad-plastered bus stop.  Frustration strangled his muscular frame.  City blocks, foreign and hostile, closed upon him.  Bewildered, he questioned.  Who would turn on him next?  Who would he turn on?  He trusted no one.  Prison offered a bed, free meals, guys familiar to him, a doc when he need one.  But what’d he have to offer?  Nothing.    

Minimized between a high-rise office building and exclusive condominiums, Sunrise Church nestled in their shadows.  A century ago, under wealthier supporters, Sunshine represented longevity and prosperity, implied by faith.  However, the community came to understand a call to humbly ministered to the poor and homeless.  As real estate values rose, threats of eminent domain rose with them.  Economics pressured the faculties to close the church’s food kitchen and shelter. 

As the transitioning felon completed his half mile trek from the bus stop, he tallied cars lining the streets for the concert.  Snow flurries swirled in dying winds through the canyon of steel, stone, and glass.  Anxious he might be forced away from the event, he questioned the availability of seats.  Discouraged, he resigned to the possibility his daughter would never know he tried to see her.  He lumbered up the stone steps and pulled the enormous mahogany doors open.  He entered beneath mason arches symmetrically scaled between towering spires at each corner of the building.   The holy family enshrined in the nativity occupied the center vestibule between colorfully lit pines. Christmas celebrants packed the pews chattering and rustling programs.  Mark looked overhead to find the balcony crowded with people encroaching upon the organist.  Arrays of brass pipes from tallest to shortest aligned the perimeter.  Homeless sprinkled side aisles clustering around heat vents against exterior walls.  Careful to avoid stepping on anyone, Mark weaved to the base of a marble pillar at a protruding corner close to the main sanctuary.  He felt the cold stone catch him as he fell back and slid to the floor.  He breathed deeply relishing the warmth he ignored earlier while searching to recline.  Poinsettias, red and white, blanketed the sanctuary.  Hundreds of candles cast a soothing glow on the upper sanctum. 

Robed in gold satin gowns and royal stoles, the mixed choir ascended risers filling the front sanctuary.  Baritone pipes introducing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” softly rumbled the stone structure.   Bass voices muted the crowd.  Mark’s eyes locked upon Jazmine the upper left capstone.  Breathing deeply, he relaxed his eyes, and sighed to the One above, “It is good to be here.” 

Each selection drew boisterous praise from members of the audience often lengthening the pause before the next hymn.  The organ master governed the tempos of both audience and performers.  Composed, the director awaited the bass pipes to tremble vibrating those seated in walnut pews to silent devotion.  A pure, unwavering tonal “O” emerged like incense permeating souls encircling the female soloist.  A robust “holy night” settled hearts to rest in mercy as “the stars are brightly shining” cued a soft light to cast upon Jazmine, the lone voice.  With impeccable range, she dug into the cradling tones for “it is the night of our poor Savior’s birth.”  Tears welled in her father’s eyes pleading God to suspend this moment.  And for this moment, time seemed to slow.

Mark recalled; young, immature, irresponsible, arrogant, insecure, dropped school, one jail term previously served; he held his newborn daughter, a poor baby, for the first time.  He froze overwhelmed with tiny fingers, tiny toes that spread and curled.  Newborn eyes saw eyes of her father for the first time.  Tears chasing his, he nestled his daughter next to her mother.  He wore arrogance to cover his fears of bringing new life into the world.  He lacked dreams for her.  He lacked dreams for himself. 

Consumed, Mark wrapped his entire being around the female soloist.  Inspiring an audience doubtful of grace, Jazmine concluded her final note.  The choir erupted in refrain as the audience surged to their feet stirred to sing in unison.  Moved beyond speaking, Mark stood for once to be part of something bigger than himself.  His daughter’s spirit invited him to approach to be in her presence once again.  He clutched the flute he’d repaired like a toddler embracing a stuffed teddy for warmth and security.  Each key belonged to future compositions.

The pipes orchestrated a joyful blast near midnight.  Leading the praise, choir members infused their community clapping and dancing with “Joy to the World!”  Like a fan seeking a coveted selfie with a celebrity, Mark closed on Jazmine.  Joyful chaos impeded his progress.  The music amplified celebration and passionate requests for more.  Over the top of exuberant humanity, a father’s eyes met his daughter’s.  His sought mercy while hers were captivated with those who’d blessed her with support and care. 

For as exceptional as the night’s event was, Mark surrendered any possibility of time with his daughter.  Without rush, he drifted in an enormous body of people. Good cheer echoed off the domes high above.  A river of humanity carried him outside to the expansive stone vestibule. 

Mark could have chosen to walk a few blocks to catch the 809 bus which would drop him near the transition center, but he struggled to embed a mental recording of his daughter’s performance.  Wedges of cold, clear sky crowned the towering buildings lining the canyon through which the felon began his return.  He ignored department stores security lights and displays saturated with last minute holiday sales.  He whispered gratitude and thanksgiving for immersion into Jazmine’s music.  He prayed to reconcile and to begin anew with her in whatever way possible.  He embraced the flute beneath his coat as if a noteworthy composition might be hidden within.

 The crisp night air invigorated his soul.  Nearly four miles out, he noticed a compact car zip parallel to the curb just ahead.  While remaining keenly aware of the surroundings, he prepared for a possible altercation on the empty street.  The driver’s window descended.

“You out awfully late tonight!” Jazmine’s familiar voice defused his defense.  Her excitement coaxed a smile. “Takin’ the long road home?” 

“Tryin’ to hold onto somethin’ precious.  Tryin’ to memorize it.  Thought walkin’ back might keep it from slippin’ away too fast.” Mark hoped she’d accept that as a compliment.  He figured she had no idea how much her performance inspired him.

“Get in.  I’ll drive you back.”

He’d rather walk back to record the concert to his imagination, but perhaps the moment he’d requested to ‘suspend’ had not concluded.  He climbed into a car cluttered with curling irons, rollers, rinses, sprays, shampoos, and colorants.  He glanced with a skeptical eye.

“I never know what I may need!” She giggled, her face meticulously ornate.  “Payin’ a price to be out late, aren’t you?”  She referred to time expired on his pass to the outside. 

“Hope not.  Told my PO; I had family stuff.” Seemed strange after pursuing time out to see his daughter, she was driving him to the Center. 

“I’m proud of you for goin’ ahead.” Mark motioned his hand forward toward the windshield. “You were for real tonight.  You did it without me.” He referred to his lack of presence and support.

Arriving a block from the prison gates, she parked her car, engine running.  The silhouette of chain link fence topped with rolling barbed wired cast a faint shadow on frost collecting on the car.

“My mind is trying to hold your voice, every note, your words, the expressions on people’s faces, the candles.  I wished it never to end.” He stole a tear trickling down his cheek.  “You need to start your music dream, again.” He paused to bury his emotions.  “I’m not working for your Uncle Leo.  I’m not livin’ with guys in trouble.” He looked away ashamed of his insecurity.  “I have no home plan.  Saw somethin’ on Mackey.  Won’t be with your mother, not now.” 

Engine fans rattled above the heater. 

 Struggling to rise above disgrace, he seized her eyes and maintained contact.  “I need better words.”  He paused hoping some would come to him.  “You deserved better.  Girl, you lifted me up.  I never been this high before!”

“Come on, you been pretty high!” she grinned affectionately alluding to his habits.

“Don’t take me down, girl!” Both laughed savoring dignity with grace.

A gracious smile illuminated her face.   “Your words are perfect.”

A truck passed, bright lights blinded them.  Jazmine realizing the late hour, drove ahead and checked through the electronic gate.  She traced the circular drive under flood lights.  Her resident opened the door and stepped out. 

“Thank you.” He closed the passenger door. 

From behind the wheel, Jazmine trailed the felon’s steps.  She rolled the window down and shouted. “Hey?”  Mark turned to discover her waving him back toward the car.  He stood confused.

“The flute,” she hollered, “I want it!”

He walked through the shadow of the flag pole into light.  Wrapped in felt, he pulled the instrument from beneath his coat and handed it to her through the open window.  She unrolled the felt to expose the silver flute.

She fit her fingers over the ivory keys.  She gently touched the cold brass to her lips.  Holding it below the streetlamp, she determined the flute had had repairs.  “Perfect!” she proclaimed wildly.

With a humble nod, he began toward the entry station.  Jazmine called again.  He turned to face her.

“I don’t know if my heart has room for a dad.  But I’m moving stuff around for when you get out.”

He stood as if suspended, staring, attempting to process what he did not expect to hear.  He was broken.  His daughter’s elegant grace opened him to walk a different path, to search for something new within, to embrace the moments of grace he experienced that night to build wholeness again.

Pronounced scars over his eye, beneath his chin, and across his cheek softened.  Age backed off what seemed to be ten years.  His eyes glistened just enough to bend a supple smile.  Steam rose like smoke from his lips.

“I only need a little space.” Mark turned and entered the guarded checkpoint.

Merry Christmas!

Written by Tim Morrison  Ó 2019

Dedicated to those who provide grace in peace and forgiveness to those most in need of Thy mercy.