The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (5 page)

“So here’s what I don’t get
,” Porter started one night as they both huddled over their homework. “Why is West Virginia the one state the rest of the nation picks on?”

“
You really think so?” asked Connie in a doubting tone.

“
Absolutely!” came Porter’s quick response.  “This Sunday at Mass, I want you to introduce me to someone I’ve never met, and when they ask ‘Where are you from?’, I’ll say West Virginia.  Then you watch their face.  They'll seemed confused because I have all my teeth and my clothes don’t have holes in them.  And I guarantee you they will come up with some inbred joke. Or they’ll give one of those sighs like ‘Oooh really’, like it’s a question and a put down all in one.”

“Those hillbillies
,” Porter continued, “are strong, loyal, and fiercely independent people who are not married to their sisters.  And most of them do have all their teeth,” he said with a chuckle.  “I think the stereotypes exist because we are a poor state who has no real heritage that we identify with.  We’re kinda left out.  We’re not high society, the New America society, Western society…none of them.  But that really doesn’t matter to most of us because our family and our land mean more to us than any status symbol.  It only matters when the national news picks up one of those crazy stories about idiot white trash doing what fools everywhere do.  But after years of this stupidity we’re like shell-shocked veterans.  We’re edgy and expect the worse when talking to strangers about our West Virginia home.  I mean, we don’t really care that we’re not home to the Kennedy or Vanderbilt generations. Which is why I can’t understand how the extremely conservative and bible-believing people elected that carpet-bagging, liberal, blue blood Jay Rockefeller.  My guess is his money and influence got him in as governor and now he’ll be in for life in the U.S. Senate.  That just shows the state’s insecurity with who it is.  It’s like they are blessed by the presence of this connected man and his mere existence.” 

Connie now understood why Porter’s dad called him Zipper.  “That’s the most
worked up I’ve seen you get about anything Porter.  You need to apply that same passion to something that makes a difference in your world.  People with a passion for something are the real change in our world you know.”

“Yea
h, like Hitler,” laughed Porter, quite amused with himself.

Connie ignored his joke and continued
, “Like Father Ryan says, we are God’s hands of mercy on earth.  You just have to find your ‘thing’ and go after it with all you’ve got.”

“Totally agree
,” said Porter, as his mind conjured images of his last day in West Virginia. “I'd like to be the hand of mercy around Holland's throat."

Connie
said nothing as she chose to avoid Porter's gaze.

Chapter
5

Rebirth

June 1999

The Holy Mother bar was not upscale, nor was it a dive.  The patrons who entered the saloon style doors were the new America; brought together by their love of beer, a welcoming atmosphere, and St. Timothy's Catholic church located one block away.  The high-end clientele discussed city and state politics, while the working class discussed sports, women, and the baser elements of their world.  Sprinkled among both groups were Latinos.  The only black people in the bar were lost.

The solid walnut bar
in the center of the main room was stained a deep natural brown and trimmed with a thick coat of high gloss black paint.  The few chips in its trim were the evidence it was well loved.  Connie’s friend, Geoff Kelecius, a native Chicagoan and an exceptionally devout Catholic, opened his watering hole after his search for pubs that attracted modern day versions of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis turned up empty.

His dream was
to mimic the great Irish pub traditions where beer, song, and friendships flourished.  If there was to be a third place after work and home, Geoff wanted the Holy Mother to be it. Where most coffee shops served police officers in uniform without charge, Geoff, in keeping with his faith, did the same for priests.  Halloween and Fat Tuesday were the only times when he found it difficult to discern a true man of the cloth from a reveler.  But Geoff knew most of the priests in the diocese, and only a few drank with women dressed as sexy nurses. 

That his establishment profited on the sin of d
runkenness did not bother Geoff.  "All things in moderation," he would often say when challenged by his more conservative friends as to how he justified his work.  "God gave us hops, barley, and grapes.  I celebrate what our Lord has gifted us with.  If others abuse His good gifts, that is on their conscience, not mine." But more frequently than he would admit, Geoff had evangelized his drunk patrons; telling them about the peace found through Christ and not at the bottom of a bottle.  However, in twenty years, he could only count two sinners who had listened and closed their tabs.

Geoff had taken Porter
to Mass many mornings and had even hired him on occasion as an off-the-books driver for food pickups of his customers’ favorites, or for home deliveries of hard to acquire, top shelf alcohol.  This bond allowed Porter entry into the bar from age 16 and the occasional drink since 18.

Now 22, Porter frequented the Mother several nights a week to people watch. 
As a quasi-employee, he had unrestricted access to the bar and perched himself on a stool against the emergency fire door exit.  The tv screens
full of soccer, basketball, and hockey were only background noise for most of the patrons who were there to find companionship on this Thursday night; much to Geoff's chagrin.  Porter cared for none of it.  He was locked in on the eyes of a jealous boyfriend.

Porter knew that o
bserving the subtle changes in life separates those who are really alive from those who are merely passing through life.  Only eight years removed from the hills, Porter still retained his keen sense of observation.  Tonight, Porter sensed something peculiar about the couple's interaction.  A subtle meekness and fear in the woman.  A domineering presence in the man.  Nothing especially detectable, yet there.

The man appeared to be in the trades, but likely in a lower level management position.  His attire was neater, longer sleeved
, and less wrinkled than the average Joe who put a Bears jersey on and came in looking for a hook-up.  But he lacked the look of an actual professional whose day consisted of constant interaction with others dressed in $1,000 outfits.   His suit was the untailored, off-the-rack variety from Sears, or JCPenney at best, and his watch was the $25 variety.  The tie, still securely fixed to his neck was the sure tell that he was a poser.  Porter knew any self-respecting professional loosens his tie after 10 hours; especially when headed to the bar.  That act was as much for comfort as a sign to others that he was a real pro. 

Porter knew the professional look well as his days were filled getting barked at and running orders for sweaty, caffeinated, and cocaine driven assholes on the floor of the Chicago Board of Exchange.  During the day, their clothes
were a close second to profit as the most important thing to them.  All of life was a competition with the traders.  Most never associated with one another outside of the CBOE, so wearing the finest functional tailored suit during the trading hours was how the money men measured who was the top dog. 

The woman had a quiet beauty and her attire displayed an elegance which showed she took pride in her appearance.  Porter
surmised she was a professional of sorts, possibly an accountant or lawyer, able to afford what she wanted.  But her beauty showed signs of fatigue.  Worry lines were beginning to extend from her eyes and were premature for a woman in her late twenties. 

As Porter continued his observation, he noticed the
man make quick glances down and across the bar to the young bucks who were saddled up for a few rounds.  Porter sensed the man's agitation building as he noticed several of them paying particular attention to his companion. The woman noticed and appreciated the acts of interest and kept eye contact a bit longer than was acceptable to her man.

In the next moment, Porter caught what no one else did. 
Presuming the loud environment would keep others from focusing on them, the man dealt his girlfriend a rabbit punch to the ribs.  She winced and bent at the waist to catch her breath.  But as quickly as she had doubled over, she regained her composure and sat up again as if nothing happened.  Her short quick breaths told Porter she was hurting; her fast recovery told him this was not the first time she had felt his fists.

What i
s it with abused women
, Porter thought.
Why do they stay?  Was this guy her first and now she feels loyal to him
?  There were no rings on their fingers, so marriage wasn’t keeping her in it. 
Was he loaded and giving her a lifestyle she could otherwise not afford
? 
Doubtful
, he thought.  Instinctively, Porter leaned over the bar where Geoff was pouring a pint of Guinness.  Coming closer in order to hear him over the noise, Geoff asked, "What's up?"

"Hey, do you know the couple just over your left shoulder?"

"Sort of," said Geoff as he glanced back to see the pair.  "Beth Hall comes in here about once a week.  Jim is her boyfriend, but he's only here once a month or so.  Probably after he gets paid.  Why?  Something going on?"

"No
," Porter said quickly.  "I have just seen her a good bit, but never him.  Just asking."

With a smile, Geoff
said, "Just asking, huh?"

"Yes
," answered Porter, understanding Geoff's implication.  "Just asking."

Porter had grown into
the frame of his father.  At six feet one inch tall and 205 pounds, his physique was enough to deter those on either side of that height from choosing him as an easy target.  Due to the early high school ass-kickings he had received, Porter resolved to improve his self-defense.  His sophomore geometry classmate, Arnie Goldberg introduced him to the discipline of Krav Maga at his father's gym, and for the past seven years, Porter had dedicated six days a week to a regimen of cardio, weights, yoga, and at least three days of Krav Maga. Sunday was reserved for sleeping, the occasional Mass, and joining in the soccer games with the Hispanic population in Lincoln Park.  This information would have been helpful to the unsuspecting Jim.

The rib punch had eroded the night’s joy for Beth.  Last call was the extinguisher of Jim’s. 
Beth paid their tab while Jim made a pit stop at the restroom.  Unsure of his next move, Porter sprinted to his car just outside the bar where he retrieved his lead pipe and waited in the shadows for them to exit.  When they did, Porter kept a twenty yard buffer, as the couple walked towards the parking deck.

As
Beth approached the rear of the car on the ground floor level, Jim positioned himself a few steps behind her.  Without warning, Jim opened his right palm, drew his arm back as though it were a baseball bat and swung at the back of Beth's head.  The unexpected impact caused Beth to lose her balance.  As she stumbled to the ground, Jim glanced around to see if others were looking, and pulled his foot back for a kick.  Just as he was unleashing his leg towards Beth, Jim caught sight of Porter and stopped its forward progress.  A menacing grin covered Porter’s face.

“
What exactly were you going to do there?” Porter asked rhetorically.  “What’d she do?  Steal something?  Kill your cat?” he said with a smile; unsure why he had tried to inject humor into the encounter.

C
learly frustrated that he had been unable to finish what he started, Jim retorted “Don’t worry about it,” and then to Beth he snapped, “Get in the car!”  Beth stood slowly keeping her head low and avoiding eye contact with either man.

“You ok
ay ma’am?” Porter asked sincerely.

“Hey, I said
don’t worry about it,” barked Jim more impassioned than the first time.

“I’ll be the judge of that
,” said Porter as he now stood within ten feet of the couple, his pipe tucked in the back of his pants.  “See, what it looks like to me is that you’ve got some sort of control over this beautiful young lady.  What is it?  Are you her sugar daddy?"  Porter chuckled in disbelief at what he had just said.  "No, probably not.  The way you’re dressed, I'm guessing she's yours.” 

"Get in
the car Beth," Jim said, even angrier than before, but now with a hint of panic.

Tapping his right temple
with his index finger in a show of understanding, Porter said, “I got it now.  You’re one of those insecure types who poured on just enough charm to earn her trust.  Then somehow got her to sleep with you, God knows she could do better, and now she feels like she’d be a failure if she quit the relationship.  But she’s better than you. You know it.  And it’s driving you crazy.”

“Fuck you, asshole
!” responded Jim, who did not move closer to Porter or to his car.  “You don’t know shit.  So just fuckin' leave!”

“Is that what you want
Beth?” Porter asked, startling the woman with the use of her name.  But she offered no response except for alternating looks between Porter and Jim.

Porter
then foretold her future, “You know Beth, he’s just going to keep doing this.  You’ll be stuck with this dipshit who’ll get worse as he gets older.  In a couple of years you’ll have two kids and then you’ll really be in too deep to leave him.  But how long will it be until these small beatings turn in to real blood baths?  And if he’ll do it to you, you know your kids are gonna get it.”

At this
, her countenance changed.  Beth's eyes were now more focused, as if her mind was processing something it knew, but had not wanted to recognize as truth.  She stood a little taller and backed away from her car door. 

Jim
exploded. “Beth, get in the fucking car!  This punk doesn’t know us.”  When she didn’t move, he turned his rage to Porter.  Like the high school bullies Porter had encountered, Jim moved slowly but aggressively toward him thinking this would back him down. Porter did not move. 

As Jim approached, Porter
consumed the light and his environment, attempting to inform his senses of all that he could use to his advantage.  The car’s bumper was just over Jim’s left shoulder.  The wall of the parking garage was to his left about five feet away, and a three foot traffic pole was just to Porter’s right. 

“Beth, when I’m done with your boy here, we’ll take your car, pack your stuff, and get you safe.”  With his head slightly turned up and a
new sense of bravado, Porter looked at Jim and baited him with one last quip. “This shouldn't take long...Jim's not been in a real fight since his sister kicked his ass."

Jim bellowed a battle cry and
lunged at Porter with one step.  Beth screamed.  Neither phased Porter.  His world had slowed down and his eyes never left Jim's torso.  As if he could sense each move before it happened, Porter began his assault. 

Porter stepped back
one pace and let Jim's momentum throw his center of gravity forward.  With a quick left step forward, Porter swung his right elbow in a round house fashion and met Jim’s nose, instantly shattering it.  Crumpled on the ground and wailing in agony, Porter watched as blood flowed down and over Jim's mouth and neck.  Beth wept, but did not come to Jim's aid. 

It can’t be this easy
,
thought Porter.
I didn’t even get to use my pipe.
  One punch had landed his foe on the deck. 
Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of real struggle
?

The
struggle would be moving Jim, who was writhing in pain directly behind Beth's car.  Assured that Jim was debilitated, Porter bent over him and said, “Ok Jim, I need you to move ‘cause I’ve gotta drive Beth home.  So get up or roll over there,” pointing to his left against the garage wall.

Anticipat
ing no resistance from Jim, Porter was wholly surprised when Jim’s left foot connected with his ball sack.  The excruciating pain provided Porter his opportunity to writhe on the deck.  Fortunately for Porter, the kick was Jim's one last attempt to salvage his pride and nothing more.