Broken Angels

14

They met in the church basement every week. Some weeks there were as few as three people attending, other times there were upwards of a dozen. Some people came back over and over again. Some came once, unburdened their sorrows, and never returned. The New Page Ministry asked for no fee, no donations. The door was always open-sometimes a knock came in the middle of the night, often on holidays-and there were always pastries and coffee for all. Smoking was definitely permitted.

They would not be meeting in the church basement for much longer. Contributions had been coming in steadily for a bright, airy space on Second Street. They were currently renovating the building-in the dry- wall stage at the moment, paint next. With any luck they would be able to meet there around the first of the year.

For now the basement of the church was a refuge, as it had been for years, a familiar place where tears were shed, outlooks renewed, and lives mended. For Pastor Roland Hannah it was a portal to the souls of his flock, the source of a river running deep into their hearts.

They had all been victims of a violent crime. Or were related to someone who had. Robberies, assault, burglary, rape, murder. Kensington was a hard part of the city, and hardly anyone walking the streets was untouched by wrongdoing. These people were the ones who wanted to talk about it, the folks who had been altered by the experience, the ones whose souls cried out for answers, for sense, for salvation.

Today six people sat in a semicircle on unfolded chairs.

"I didn't hear him," Sadie said. "He was quiet. He come up behind me, hit me over the head, stole my pocketbook, and ran."

Sadie Pierce was in her mid-seventies. She was a slight, skeletal woman with hands long knotted by arthritis, a head full of henna-dyed hair. She always dressed in bright red, head to toe. She had once been a singer, working the Catskill circuit in the fifties, known as the Scarlet Thrush.

"Have they recovered your belongings?" Roland asked.

Sadie glared, all the answer anyone needed. Everyone knew the police were neither inclined nor motivated to track down some old lady's taped and patched and frayed pocketbook, regardless of its contents.

"How are you faring?" Roland asked.

"Just so," she said. "There wasn't much money, but it was the personal items, you know? Pictures of my Henry. And then all my papers. You can't hardly buy a cup of coffee without your ID these days."

"Tell Charles what you need and we'll make sure you get bus fare to the appropriate agencies."

"Thank you, Pastor," Sadie said. "Bless you."

The meetings of the New Page Ministry were informal, but they always moved forward in a clockwise direction. If you wanted to speak, but needed the time to organize your thoughts, you sat to Pastor Roland's right. And so it went. Next to Sadie Pierce sat a man they all knew only by his first name, Sean.

In his twenties, quiet and respectful and unassuming, Sean had drifted into the group a year or so earlier, attending more than ten times. At first, not unlike the actions of someone entering a twelve-step program like Alcoholics or Gamblers Anonymous-unsure of his need for the group or the group's usefulness-Sean had hung around the periphery, hugging the walls, staying some days for just a few minutes. Eventually he got closer and closer. These days he sat with the group. He always left a small donation in the jar. He still had not told his story.

"Welcome back, Brother Sean," Roland said.

Sean reddened slightly, smiled. "Hi."

"How are you feeling?" Roland asked.

Sean cleared his throat. "Okay, I suppose."

Many months earlier Roland had given Sean a brochure for CBH, the Community Behavioral Health organization. He did not think Sean had made an appointment. Asking about it might make things worse, so Roland stayed his tongue.

"Is there anything you would like to share today?" Roland asked.

Sean hesitated. He wrung his hands. "No, I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll just listen."

"The good Lord loves a listener," Roland said. "Bless you, Brother Sean."

Roland turned to the woman next to Sean. Her name was Evelyn Reyes. She was a large woman, in her late forties, a diabetic who walked with the aid of a cane most days. She had never spoken before. Roland could tell that it was time. "Let us all welcome back Sister Evelyn."

"Welcome," they all said.

Evelyn looked up, from face to face. "I don't know if I can."

"You are in the house of the Lord, Sister Evelyn. You are among friends. Nothing can harm you here," Roland said. "Do you believe this to be true?"

She nodded.

"Please unburden your sorrows. When you are ready."

Tentatively, she began her story. "It started a long time ago." Her eyes welled with tears. Charles brought over a box of Kleenex, retreated, sat in his chair by the door. Evelyn grabbed a tissue, dabbed her eyes, mouthed a thank you to Charles. She took another long moment, continued. "We were a large family back then," she said. "Ten brothers and sisters. Twenty or so cousins. Over the years we all married, had children. We would have picnics every year, big family get-togethers."

"Where did you meet?" Roland asked.

"Sometimes in spring and summer we would meet at Belmont Plateau. But mostly we would meet at my house. You know, over on Jasper Street?"

Roland nodded. "Please go on."

"Well, my daughter Dina was just a little girl in those days. She had the biggest brown eyes. A shy smile. Kind of a tomboy, you know? Loved to play the boys' games."

Evelyn's brow furrowed. She took a deep breath.

"We didn't know it at the time," she continued, "but at some of these family gatherings she had… trouble with someone."

"With whom did she have trouble?" Roland asked.

"It was her uncle Edgar. Edgar Luna. My sister's husband. Ex- husband now. They would play together. Or at least that was what we thought at the time. He was an adult, but we didn't give it much mind. He was family, right?"

"Yes," Roland said.

"Over the years Dina got quieter and quieter. All through her young teenage years she didn't play much with friends, didn't go to the movies or the mall. We all thought it was a shy phase she was going through. You know how children can be."

"Oh my, yes," Roland said.

"Well, time passed. Dina grew up. Then, just a few years ago, she had a breakdown. Like a nervous condition. She couldn't work. She couldn't do much of anything. We couldn't afford any professional help for her, so we did the best we could."

"Of course you did."

"Then one day, not long ago, I found this. It was hidden on the top shelf of Dina's closet." Evelyn reached into her purse. She produced a letter written on bright pink paper, a child's stationery with sculpted edges. At the top were festive, brightly colored balloons. She unfolded the letter, handed it to Roland. It was addressed to God.

"She wrote this when she was only eight years old," Evelyn said.

Roland read the letter from start to finish. It was written in a child's innocent hand. It told a horrifying tale of repeated sexual abuse. Paragraph after paragraph detailed what Uncle Edgar had done to Dina in the basement of her own house. Roland felt the rage rise within. He asked the Lord for calm.

"This went on for years," Evelyn said.

"Which years were these?" Roland asked. He folded the letter, slipping it into his shirt pocket.

Evelyn thought for a moment. "Through the mid-nineties. Right until my daughter was thirteen. We never knew any of this. She had always been a quiet girl, even before the problems, you know? She kept her feelings to herself."

"What happened to Edgar?"

"My sister divorced him. He moved back to Winterton, New Jersey, where he was originally from. His parents passed a few years back, but he still lives there."

"You haven't seen him since?"

"No."

"Did Dina ever speak to you of these things?"

"No, Pastor. Never."

"How is your daughter faring of late?"

Evelyn's hands began to tremble. For a moment, the words seemed locked in her throat. Then: "My baby is dead, Pastor Roland. Last week she took pills. She took her life, as if it were hers to take. We put her in the ground over in York, where I'm from."

The shock that went around the room was tangible. No one spoke.

Roland reached out, held the woman, putting his arms around her big shoulders, embracing her as she unabashedly wept. Charles stood and left the room. In addition to the possibility of his emotions overcoming him, there was much to do now, much to prepare.

Roland sat back in his chair, gathered his thoughts. He held out his hands and they all linked together in a circle. "Let us entreat the Lord for the soul of Dina Reyes, and the souls of all who loved her," Roland said.

Everyone closed their eyes, began to silently pray.

When they were finished, Roland stood. "He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted."

"Amen," someone said.

Charles returned, stood in the doorway. Roland met his gaze. Of the many things with which Charles had trouble in this life-some of them simple tasks, many of them things most take for granted-working on a computer was not among them. The Lord had blessed Charles with the ability to navigate the deep mysteries of the Internet, an ability with which Roland had not been graced. Roland could tell that Charles had already found Winterton, New Jersey and printed out a map.

They would leave soon.