Obtaining Mercy continued...
Arthur immediately recognizes the name but is still hesitant to open the door.
"It's late," says Arthur.
The boy notices the strange blurring of words - muffled, as if the sound is coming from inside a can.
"Can you help me?" asks the boy.
Arthur opens the door slightly, keeping the chain latched.
"How can I help?"
For a few seconds there is no reply. Then quietly, with an obvious effort, the boy says, "I need a place to stay."
Arthur unlatches the chain and opens the door.
The kid stands in the doorway with his head slightly bowed. Pale and skinny with jet-black hair and dark eyes that shine like drops of oil. He is wet from the rain and clearly exhausted.
"Would you like to come in and sit down?"
Adam looks up, and for the first time, gets a look at Arthur Nagel. He studies the man's warped features and realizes why he has never seen him outside of his room. If there had been any more space available for hurt inside his body, the sight of this heartbreaking little man would have filled it.
"Mr. Nagel I hate to bother you, but I have nowhere else to go."
To keep from falling, the boy leans against the doorjamb.
"Would you like something to drink? Some water or something?" asks Arthur.
Before the boy can answer, he drops facedown just inside the door.
*
Shadowed in the half-light of a table lamp, Arthur sits on the bed watching the boy. He reaches out with his left hand, gently pats the boy on the shoulder and whispers, "I want to help you."
Adam groans in his sleep and starts to cough again - blood on the pillow. Then he begins to mumble something - the same thing over and over. But he's shaking so bad it's difficult to make out the words. Arthur leans closer, putting an ear close to the boy's lips. What is he saying? Sounds like: "Please help me go. Please help me go." Yes that's it. Arthur is certain.
*
Time has stopped. Adam knows he is sinking - mind moving in dark circles - rolling in the blackness, sick and moving further away. It's getting harder to breathe, and it seems that his heart might stop at any time. All the while he is conscious of Arthur near him. He feels that everything is about to be decided - this madness, pain, and loneliness he has carried for too long is about to be eliminated.
He is ready to exit this place - tired of being a prisoner in his own ravaged body. This has been a long time coming. Now it is here. He feels calm, relieved. This is the man who will do it. Adam is sure of it.
*
Arthur stands over the boy for a long while, trying to make up his mind.
If God doesn't speak now, then God never speaks...
Nothing. Silence.
"Blessed are the merciful," says Arthur.
Adam opens his eyes as the pillow is lowered over his face. Arthur pushes down as hard as he can. There is a muffled sound as if the boy is trying to say something. But he does not fight. Arthur closes his eyes and holds the pillow in place until he is sure the boy is gone. Then he falls back across the bottom of the bed, and listens to the rain tap against the window.
He stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head - trying to clear his brain. He considers the word "friend." He thinks about the wall he has been busy constructing around himself for so many years - an ugly little freak determined to keep out all the hurt. An exclusive enclosure that became smaller and smaller until there was no room inside for anyone except Arthur Nagel.
Arthur pulls himself up to a sitting position on the side of the bed, reaches over and turns off the lamp. He begins to cry quietly, tears sliding down his misshapen face and splattering onto the linoleum floor.
Finally he stands up, walks over to the window and looks down at the rain-slicked alleyway. He pushes the window all the way to the top and lets the rain blow into the room. With the palms of his hands, he knocks the wire screen out of the frame and watches it sail into the alley below. For a few seconds he stares down at the hazy reflection of light on wet cobblestones, then he turns and walks to the closet.
Arthur takes out his guitar, walks back across the room, and props it next to the window. He pulls a chair over, climbs up, and lowers himself onto the windowsill - legs dangling over the edge of the building.
He reaches back and picks up his baby - the only comfort he's ever really known.
Closing his eyes, he leans lovingly over the smooth, wooden curves.
And from the eighth floor of a hotel somewhere on "Skid Row", a bluesman, balanced on a ledge, coaxes stiletto notes from an old guitar. He sings in mournful wails that cut through the haze like lightning - igniting the murky space with a supernatural fire that burns for a while - then goes cold.
