Something unexpected happened: A scent wafted past SR's nose. He knew that scent: He smelled it at least every Sunday morning. Damn! he thought. Damn! Not now! Why did she have to come now? The next breeze carried more of the scent past SR's nose. She smelled afraid. Very afraid. Opening his eyes, he fumbled for a grip on the lamp post, just managing to catch himself before he fell. He spun around and saw her, sitting on the railing on the side of the bridge that faced the bay. SR could hear the slight huffs she was making as she cried. Growling, SR jumped off his railing and began storming toward her. She almost immediately heard him. Her head snapped around to see who was making the noise. A vodor crackled to life. "Who is there? Stay away!" SR stopped. "It's just me: SR Foxley. The guy who lives across the street." The vixen-in-the-yellow-dress's golden eyes were wide with fright and she was visibly trembling. "Stay away! Or I'll jump!" SR's teeth were bared in his anger. "Look. I'm not going to try to stop you. I just want to go and sit over there," he said, indicating a spot on the railing about twenty feet to the right of the other suicidal fox. "Just don't come near me!" SR shook his head, still growling, and walked loudly to the place he had pointed out earlier. He climbed the short railing and sat upon it, facing the bay with elbows on knees and tail hanging limply over the back, the weight of his head and muzzle supported by his paws. They remained that way for several minutes, SR angrily growling and watching the few ships that were on the waters on this frosty Christmas Eve, and the vixen gripping the railing in both forepaws, staring wide-eyed at SR. At last, the vixen's vodor broke the silence. "What do you want?" SR looked angrily in her direction, as if noticing her for the first time. "What do I want? What do you think I want? Damnit! Just a few minutes ago, I was about to make one hell of a long swan-dive into a much-too-shallow river, and then you had to come along all weeping and crying like that! Why couldn't you wait twenty minutes? By that time I could have been a frozen fur-ball!" He turned back to the bay, his growling continuing. The vixen was taken aback and her jaw dropped on its own accord. Her resolve broke and she was reduced to sobbing again, the confused vodor making crackling noises. SR simply shook his head, marvelling at how shallow this woman seemed. At last she began to gain control of herself, becoming angry to counter her embarrassment. "I'm sorry Mr. Foxley, but I didn't know you had this section of the bridge reserved." SR flashed her a look of distaste. "Oh, very funny! Aren't you the comedian? Do you really want to see me die right now?" "I'll beat you to the water." "What the hell is your problem?" "What do you care?" "I don't." SR shook his head, not knowing what to say and returning his gaze to the bay. The vixen paused. "Well, you wanted to jump. So do it." SR glared back at her narrowly. "What kind of sick bitch are you, anyway?" "That's exactly what I am: a sick bitch." Although the vodor could portray no emotion, her trembling and wild shrieks and yips did the job well-- even more than a voice could have, because SR was also partially a red fox, and seemed to instinctively understand that sort of language. She caught her breath and forced the vodor to make intelligible words. "What kind of spineless coward are you?" SR smiled broadly in her direction. He jumped up, standing on the cold iron railing on the balls of his feet. Facing the bay and barely balancing, he took a great bow before shouting as loud as his lungs could manage. "Listen everybody! The Sick Bitch has just uncovered the Spineless Coward, and would like to see him make his grand exit from this world! Shall we appease her?" He held his arms wide in preparation for the jump. The vixen was crying again, yet managed to make her vodor function. "What is wrong with you?" SR let his arms drop, turning his crazed eyes to face the vixen. He spoke through bared teeth. "My dear lady, do you even care?" There was a long pause, then her vodor cut through the silence. "Yes." This caught SR off guard. He faltered for a moment before catching his balance, then asked in disbelief, "Why?" "Because I want to help." SR's maniacal smile returned and he laughed loudly and rudely. He turned back to the unmoved audience of the bay, shouting. "And now the Sick Bitch wants to cure the poor Spineless Coward! Oh, isn't this rich!" She was sobbing again. SR did not relent. Jumping down from the railing onto the street, he angrily approached her. "Listen, you little bitch, do you really think you could help someone who has told every friend he's ever had to burn in the depths of hell? Would you really want to? Yes-- I am coming over there, and if you don't like it, then you'll just have to jump. I'll be right behind you. I can smell that you were at the little fire the Human Firsters put on tonight. Did you know that I spent a good portion of my life fighting for their cause? Hell! I planned on making a living preaching that sort of doctrine!" SR was standing beside her now. She was cowering, hiding her face from him. "Now, why on earth would you want to help someone like that? This is justice, damnit! I deserve to die! I've earned it! What do you..." SR literally choked when the scent finally registered itself in his nose. At the same time, the vixen turned her head, inadvertently showing SR the source of the odor. The fur on the left side of her face was matted with her own blood. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, and the ear was severely mauled. In his rage, SR hadn't noticed that this woman had very recently been beaten within inches of her life. And she wanted to help him. SR caught himself on the railing as his knees failed. For a moment, the mental blow rendered him speechless, and almost senseless. At last, in a much-subdued whisper, he spoke. "My God. What happened to your face?" She turned her head in a vain attempt to conceal the wound. For nearly a minute, her shoulders heaved as she cried bitterly, the confused vodor crackling erratically. Finally, she was able to control herself enough to make the machine work. "The Human Firsters. They did this." SR was wracked with guilt. "Oh, my God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He hung his head, leaning heavily with both paws on the railing. "Please, we've got to get you to a hospital." He reached for her shoulder with his left paw. She shrugged his gesture away. "No." She sniffed, stopping her sobbing, and drawing in a few shuddering breaths. "No. There's nothing left for me. It's better that I die." SR looked down at her. "Why?" She looked up, into his eyes. "Do you care?" He didn't need long to consider. "Yes. I do. Now." The vixen smiled weakly. "Thanks." She patted the railing beside her. "Have a seat." SR gladly did so. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, then her vodor began. "I used to be a part of the perfect marriage. I lived in a little suburb of Boston. I had two children and a wonderful husband. We had a nice three-story house with stained-glass windows in the foyer. My mother-in-law lived there as well, because she was too old to care for herself. I used to direct the choir in the church. Now and then I even had the chance to sing in a local opera or two. Oh, I loved to sing so much!" Her mood considerably darkened. "And then it happened. I got the Flu, and a month later, SCABS. My husband divorced me, and the courts granted him full custody. For a while, I was able to at least provide for myself and pay for a little apartment by doing voice-over parts for commercials and background vocals for musical recordings. And then this damned disease even took my voice away!" For a while, she could do nothing but cry as her vodor crackled sporadically. After a minute, she continued her narrative. "I nearly starved. I spent some time in a few SCAB-friendly homeless shelters, but you can go crazy in those places. Finally, I met Pastor Meier. You know him? He's the man who looked a little like a badger who used to run the church at 45 Gnade Street?" SR nodded quickly, noting that she was referring to him in the past tense. Not a good sign. She returned her gaze to the silent bay. "About a year ago, he took me in. Whenever I asked him why he did that, he always said it was because he needed someone who wasn't tone-deaf to lead the choir. He never was good at lying-- There are people in that choir who could easily lead the latest Broadway plays, if they would hire SCABS. But he gave me a place to stay for free, and even paid me for waving my arms in front of the group. Oh, I loved him so much. He used to sit patiently in the confessional for hours as I would waste his time talking about my problems." At this point, she was unable to keep from crying. SR put his left arm around her shoulder. She did not push away. For the next few minutes, the vodor crackled and popped as she tried, with herculean effort, to control her emotions enough to complete her story. "This evening, I was finishing setting up the last of the chairs to get ready for the Christmas Eve spiritual when several people shouted outside. A moment later, someone threw a brick through one of the windows and a fire-bomb followed that. They beat me till I was unconscious and left me in the church to die in the flames. They dragged... Pastor Meier out... front... and..." Here, the vodor only made odd snapping a sizzling sounds as the vixen, wracked with emotional trauma, was no longer able to force it to speak for her. She took several desperate breaths and attempted to clear her thoughts to at least finish her sentence. Finally, out of frustration she yanked the thing from the chain around her neck and hurled it over the side of the bridge. She buried her face in her paws, shoulders heaving. SR watched the small box glitter as it fell, finally landing with an almost inaudible "splash" in the river far below. It was more than obvious what had happened. SR had read and heard about many such occasions throughout the course of his life. He had even been friends with people who planned them. But this woman needed to finish her story, so he spoke. "They killed him, didn't they?" She nodded. This was not the whole story, of course. Her scent betrayed enough of this night's history to know the full extent to which the mob had abused her. For a group of people who could sleep at night after murdering SCABS, sexual abuse was not much more of a stretch to their conscience. But out of respect for the vixen crying in his arms, SR did not mention this extra knowledge. Over and over again, he whispered "I'm sorry" in her good ear. About ten minutes later she finished venting part of her sorrow. SR knew that if she lived to see tomorrow, then this would not be the last time that her mind would call her back to those dreadful events. But at least for now, it was over. He took his arm away from her shoulders and put it into his left pocket. In that pocket he carried-- and had carried since the time he left his parents' home-- the vodor his brother William had given him as he walked out the door. He fingered it now, ponderously. With the demise of the church, it was the last concrete thing he had that linked him to his family. In a moment, he made decision and pulled it from his pocket, offering it to the vixen without looking at her. She looked confused for a moment, then took it gratefully. A few moments later it snapped to life. "Thank you," it said, in a voice more feminine than the vixen's previous vodor had made. SR smiled. William must have paid top-dollar to purchase one of the fancier models that could produce a bit (and only a bit) of voice inflection in gender-specific tones. The vixen also seemed a little surprised at the machine's tone. For a moment, she smiled. The two foxes sat in silence for the next few minutes, the river making nearly inaudible lapping noises as it swirled around the bridge's concrete supporting pillars. After a while, the vixen-in-the-yellow-dress turned to SR. "Well, what's your story" SR was startled, despite the vodor's soft tones. "Pardon?" "I told you mine. Why are you going to kill yourself tonight?" SR looked dejectedly away, over the bay. "Oh... It's nothing special. My parents kicked me out after I got SCABS." She stared directly at his face for nearly thirty seconds after that. SR avoided eye contact, and remained firmly staring out into the bay. At last, she, too, looked distantly in that direction. "That must have been hard, coming from that church. Was your father a pastor?" SR gasped, blinking at the vixen. "Uh... yes. How did you know?" She sighed. "It wasn't that hard. I've seen you come and go from your apartment for almost a year now. I've noticed each time the way you stand and stare distantly at the church. And..." She looked at SR. "you're also sitting next to a former member." SR reeled at that for a bit, but was eventually again overcome with the sorrow of the situation. He watched the vixen. She seemed very distant, staring at nothing and everything on the horizon, considering her fate. SR spoke. "You don't want to do this, do you?" She bowed her head. "No." No one spoke for the next few minutes. SR, like the vixen, began to gaze at distant objects without really seeing any of them. "Me neither," he whispered, too quiet for the vixen to hear. Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, SR wanted to do something for this person. Something-- anything-- that might somehow lessen the pain she was feeling. He jogged his brain, trying to come up with an idea. After several minutes, he resigned to the hopelessness he felt-- there was nothing he could do. She would not accept medical attention, and in a few minutes, both of them would be dead. He could see no way to avoid this fate. SR let his mind and gaze wander. He looked to his left. There he could see the neat rows of buildings and the steam still rising from the site of the fire on Gnade Street. Turning back to the bay, he could see the waters growing slightly choppy as white-capped waves warned of an approaching storm. The few boats that were on the water seemed to handle it without any trouble. Then, out of the corner of his eye, SR saw something different. He leaned forward to get a better look, but it was already gone. The vixen didn't seem to notice his movement. For a spit-second, SR could have sworn that he saw a woman in a yellow dress rowing a small boat to one of the small islands in the bay. He leaned back, not knowing what to think of that. His mind again began to wander. Gnade Street. What a peculiar name. It must have come from Germany. In German, 'gnade' means grace... or... mercy. SR sat bolt upright as the idea gripped him. This time the vixen noticed. She looked inquisitively at him. "What is it?" SR didn't look at her. "What is your name?" "What?" "What is your name?" "Oh... Anne." SR huffed in disbelief. He had to ask another question: "The house in the suburbs where you used to live: What was the address?" "Um... it's kind of a strange coincidence, really. It was 45 Gnade Street, just like the church." SR opened his mouth wide, shaking his head and looking upward at the moon, who was smiling overhead. The vixen was growing annoyed. "What is it?" "Ssh! Give me a minute-- let me see if I can remember." Anne frowned and turned back to the ocean. SR wracked his brain-- if only he could remember! At last, the words surfaced, and SR smiled widely: There was something he could do. It might not help, but it was something. He was not one to sing often, and especially not in public without an accompaniment. But as the beat of that song began to sound in his ears, he knew that this was something he needed to do. He cleared his throat quietly and began: looking down on empty streets, all she can see are the dreams all made solid are the dreams all made real all of the buildings, all of the cars were once just a dream in somebody's head she pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam she pictures a soul with no leak at the seam lets take the boat out wait until darkness let's take the boat out wait until darkness comes By this time, Anne was staring wide-eyed at SR. He couldn't be completely sure, but he would almost swear that she, too, was hearing the drums and guitars play Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street." Both foxes were breathing heavily, unable to really believe the phantom sounds reaching their ears. nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey nowhere in the suburbs in the cold light of day there in the midst of it so alive and alone words support like bone dreaming of mercy street wear your inside out dreaming of mercy in your daddy's arms again dreaming of mercy street swear they moved that sign dreaming of mercy in your daddy's arms SR was startled to the point that he almost couldn't continue. During the chorus, Anne had removed her vodor and quietly 'whined' in harmony with the the words SR was singing. SCABS may have stolen her ability to create words with her vocal cords, but she could definitely still sing! When the chorus was over, she reached out and tightly gripped SR around the chest with both paws, crying thankful tears. Slowly, SR moved his arms around her shuddering form, fighting his own emotions. My God, he thought, this woman is brave! But the song must continue. pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth tugging at the darkness, word upon word confessing all the secret things in the warm velvet box to the priest-- he's the doctor he can handle the shocks dreaming of the tenderness, the tremble in the hips of kissing Mary's lips dreaming of mercy street wear your inside out dreaming of mercy in your daddy's arms again dreaming of mercy street swear they moved that sign looking for mercy in your daddy's arms It's hard to describe exactly what happened at that point. SR and Anne were holding each other tightly, eyes closed as they slowly rocked back and forth to the sound of their own hearts crying out in the darkness for the mercy neither had been able to find in life, with only God and the solitary moon witnessing their pleading, inaudible cries. SR was unable to finish the song, being moved beyond words. And something was born between the foxes-- a bond that perhaps would go even beyond death. But perhaps most revealing of all... for the first time since walking out of his parents' home at 45 Gnade Street... SR cried... and he was happy. Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
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