By V. Sylvain
Wearily, she counted the remaining stops before her own. The train ride from Manhattan to Queens had been torturously slow. Then the wait for her bus had taken an eternity. Despite her weariness her spirits were high. Today she had fasted and spent her break-times feeding on verses from the Bible. Even now, she found herself in silent communion with the Lord. Her stop was next. She prepared to leave the bus and walk the few remaining blocks to her home. To quell her urban-bred anxiety of the night, she thanked the Lord for His ceaseless protection. As the bus came to a stop, she silently quoted a reassuring verse from the Ninety-first Psalm, "For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways." She would not be making the journey home alone.
The bus was coming. He fingered the cold, smoothness of the gun hidden in his red-checkered jacket. His beige hat was pulled down low on his forehead. Despite his previous successes, he still felt jumpy--more so than usual. He should never have visited his grandmother today. She always managed to get under his skin with her tears and Jesus-talk and those eyes that saw into his soul. Had she been anyone other than his grandmother, he'd have told her what she could do with her God.
The bus stopped. He shrugged off his uneasiness. The weight of the loaded gun in his pocket buoyed his confidence. Pretending to be waiting for someone, he stood at the bus stop, studying the three passengers that were waiting to get off the bus. He dismissed the man whose overcoat strained against massive shoulders. The skinny youth wearing the shabby jacket did not look worth the effort. His eyes rested on the shoulder bag of the young woman. By the way she stood, he assumed she held another bag in her hand. He smiled inwardly. His prey had been scented.
The door of the bus opened, and the three stepped down onto the sidewalk. His breath caught for a second when he saw the bold sign on the side of the young woman's portfolio case. It read, "The Lord is my Shepherd." It was the same motto his grandmother had over her fireplace. He turned away and started walking slowly around the corner. He glanced back. He was immensely satisfied to see that the three went in different directions. To his great joy, the lamb followed the lion. Walking as slow as possible, he led the way into the shadowed block. At his snail's pace, she would be forced to pass him. His fingers found their positions on the gun as he waited for the right moment to strike.
Why hadn't she caught up with him? They were already several yards into the deserted block. He glanced back, slowing down even more. She adjusted her pace to his! Was she wise to him? It wasn't as far into the block as he had wanted, but it was far enough. She would not escape him.
He rounded on her, jamming his gun beneath her breast. She stared at him in disbelief. His word slurred together as he demanded all of her money and jewelry. She looked down at the offensive gun and pushed it down with her right hand. She jerked her hand away from the gun as though the cold metal had burned her. Was she crazy? Swearing, he brought the gun up again. She didn't move. She just stood there with that case between them. Why didn't she beg? He wanted her to beg. Didn't she know he held her life in his hands? He brought his face closer to hers. Her eyes fixed on his and did not blink.
His hand trembled with the weight of the gun. His words slurred as he repeatedly rasped out his demands. What was she doing to him? He hated her. He hated those eyes that seemed to pierce through to his very soul. Without warning, he struck her across the face with the gun. The gun bounced off her glasses, never reaching the softness of her cheek. Those eyes were still there, reaching for him. The hunter became the hunted as he turned in terror from his prey and fled into the darkness.
. . .
She stood there trembling, watching the fleeing figure of the mugger as he disappeared. Her lips moved, her words audible only to the Shepherd whose invisible hand had delivered her from the jaws of the lion.
Copyright (c) 1999 V. Sylvain
