Body Disclaimers, etc., in Chapter 1 --

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THE QUALITY OF MERCY

by Yahtzee

Yahtzee63@aol.com

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Chapter 7: "Oh Happy Day"

"I bet I know what you're thinking," Gunn says.

Wesley makes no reply. This is partly because he's concentrating on holding himself as still as possible; Gunn has made many modifications to his vehicle over the years, but apparently putting in decent shock absorbers was a low priority. And the roads in this part of town do not seem to be in the best repair. Therefore this trip is not ideal for a man still recovering from a gunshot wound.

This is also partly because he's pretty sure Gunn does, in fact, know what he's thinking.

"You're thinking that you are the only white man in a five-mile radius," Gunn says.

"Not at all," Wesley protests automatically, though Gunn is fairly close. The difference that nags at him as they drive past people standing on street corners or leaning out windows -- that's something that goes far deeper than the skin. It's not race, but class, that sets Wesley apart from these people.

Cordelia would laugh at him for this, Wesley thinks. He can just hear her. "Weren't you the guy who lived off leftover hors d'oeuvres for two months? You're not exactly Donald Trump, you know."

But Cordelia is an American, and she thinks that class is a matter of bank accounts rather than breeding. Wesley knows better. Class is more than wealth; it is an entire way of looking at the world, of estimating your worth and that of those around you, of forming your expectations. The last two years have taught him a great deal about poverty, and Wesley does not expect to ever be rich again unless his father, during some uncharacteristic burst of generosity, puts Wesley back in his will before dying. But he will be upper-class his entire life, and upper-class is exactly what this neighborhood is not.

"Have it your way," Gunn says, sunnily enough. He's apparently getting a kick out of this; the man takes a perverse pleasure in taking Wesley out of his depths. If Wesley were any less fond of Gunn, this would be annoying in the extreme. As it is, Wesley just sighs and concentrates on keeping still.

It helps him to keep from thinking about the vote this morning.

Short straw. Wesley chose the short straw, and he has no regrets, he tells himself firmly. None.

It isn't that he doesn't want Angel back -- he does, way down deep, in an almost desperate, craven way. Angel was the one who gave him a chance when no one else would, the one who trusted him and gave him some credit before anybody else. Angel remembers Wesley at his very worst, and yet he chose not to remember that --

Wesley cuts off that line of thinking, forces himself to remember the cold, forbidding figure who barged into their offices to threaten them. To think about yellowing old texts in the Council library that talked about a killer who liked to carve a cross into the flesh of his victims, one final act of pain and defilement before they died.

That is the Angel who has dominated most of the past 250 years. And that is the Angel who must never be near them, not ever again.

Angel's humble, bowed head flashes before him briefly; he doesn't seem to be the same person at all as the one Wesley's so scared of. Gunn's words from before ring in his ears: Angel's trying to live right.

Wesley has no more use for trying.

Gunn cuts the wheels and pulls into a driveway. "Here we go, now," Gunn says, then leans out his open window to call. "Mama Jeane? Who's home?"

The house is tiny, and the roof is low, with shingles that have seen too many years. Each window is covered with scrolling ironwork, twisted into curlicues meant to disguise the fact that these are burglar bars. But the paint is fresh, brilliant sunshine-yellow, and behind all those burglar bars are curtains that gleam white in the twilight. Despite the surroundings, Wesley immediately understands that this is a happy home.

Some clicking behind the door -- the unfastening of locks, Wesley realizes -- and suddenly people begin to pour out. Two little children come first, yelling, "Charlie! Charlie!" Gunn shoots Wesley a sideways glance; Wesley is, by now, adept enough in reading Gunn's expressions to know this means the name 'Charlie' is never to be used anywhere else, least of all by Wesley himself.

A teenage girl appears next and waves at them from the porch. "About time! We haven't seen you in a month of Sundays."

"I know it," Gunn says apologetically. "Where's Mama Jeane?"

"Look who's come home," says a soft voice from the doorway. And out steps a old woman -- not extremely aged, but gray-haired and stooped nonetheless. She is leaning on a metal cane, one of those with a four-footed stand at the very bottom. Her housedress is bright with blue flowers. "Charles. Give your Mama Jeane a kiss."

Gunn obeys instantly, shrugging off the two kids who had attached themselves to his Lakers sweatshirt. The children immediately notice Wesley and stare at him. Wesley smiles a bit awkwardly. "Hello there," he says, forcing a little cheeriness into his voice.

It doesn't work. They just keep staring. Wesley has never been much with children.

"I don't know why, but I thought you might come by tonight," Mama Jeane says with that soft voice. "Made your favorite. Turkey and dressing."

"Yes!" Gunn says with fists in the air, winning laughter from Mama Jeane and the teenage girl.

Mama Jeane then looks over at Wesley. "Who have you brought for dinner?"

"This is Wesley," Gunn says, holding out one hand to present Wesley as though he were a game-show prize. "He works with me at the detective agency. Best friend in the world." He tosses the phrase off so lightly that he can have no idea how glad Wesley is to hear it.

Wesley walks to the porch, using his own cane as little as possible, and holds out his hand to shake. Mama Jeane takes it in her own -- her skin is as soft as a baby's -- and keeps it for a minute as she looks into his eyes. Her own gaze is steady, searching, and Wesley is overcome with a feeling he's only had a couple of times in his life -- at Oxford, when first conferring with a fearsome don in the history department, and at the Council, when meeting the Watcher who would choose who entered the training program and who did not. In other words, Wesley is keenly aware that he is faced with a formidable personality and searching intelligence.

But this is the first time he has not been found wanting. Mama Jeane smiles, an expression of such warmth that Wesley feels himself starting to grin in return. "Do you like dressing?" she says.

"Is that stuffing?" Wesley says, completely forgetting all the pleasure-to-meet-you niceties.

"Not quite," Mama Jeane says, bringing her hand up to his shoulder to draw him inside. "But you've got the right idea."

And so it is no more than five minutes later that they are all seated around a table in Mama Jeane's tiny kitchen. The table is lightweight with metal legs, and it would easily slide on the linoleum floor were it not laden down with so much food. Turkey and a pan of dressing are on the table, as are string beans and pecan pie. A few casserole dishes are heaped high with stuff Wesley does not recognize but, from the aroma, is eager to try. Right in front of him is a small gravy boat and a basket of rolls.

Just as Wesley prepares to take the first roll, Mama Jeane says, "Now take hands." Abashed, Wesley holds the hands of those around him -- Gunn on his left, the little girl named Martha on his right -- and bows his head as Mama Jeane prays. "Our Heavenly Father, thank you so for the blessings we have received and the good food on this table. Thank you for keeping us all safe, and bringing Charles back to us this evening. And thank you for letting us have our new friend Wesley with us tonight. In Jesus' name we pray."

Everyone says amen and, with no more ceremony, begins digging in. Wesley has only recently gotten the doctor's go-ahead to eat whatever he wishes, but he hasn't been taking advantage of the freedom. He's had little enough appetite, these past few weeks. But now he starts piling his plate high; the food laid before him just smells too good to even think of passing up. He wonders if perhaps he's being greedy when little Martha stares up at him, but then she says, "You don't talk like we do. Where are you from?"

"I'm from England," Wesley offers, studying the gravy boat for a minute before dousing his rolls with the stuff.

Martha grins. "I never met anybody from another whole country before."

"That's not true, baby," Mama Jeane says. "You remember Mr. Eduardo from the market, don't you? He is from Guatemala." She says this very carefully, pronouncing the country's name just so. "We can look that up in the atlas tonight, maybe."

"So how did you end up working with this fool?" says the teenage girl, Debra, as she nudges Gunn hard in the shoulder.

He nudges back and smiles at Wesley. "It's a long story, ain't it? Why don't you tell the people?"

Wesley would like to glare at Gunn, who has successfully avoided making up a cover story that doesn't include any of the real details of their work. Now it's up to Wesley to come up with a version of events that doesn't involve Angel.

And there he goes, thinking about Angel again. The sooner he can stop that, the better.

Wesley takes a bite of one gravy-soaked roll just to buy himself a moment to think --

-- and in that moment, the gravy hits Wesley's tongue, and he realizes that every bite of English food he has ever taken was a just a pale imitation of what food could and should actually be, but that his long deprivation is over at last --

"Mama Jeane!" protests the little boy, Cedric. "We're not supposed to have our mouths that full at the table!"

Before Wesley can even be embarrassed, Mama Jeane laughs. "Special exception if you're really hungry. And I think Wesley is. Aren't you, honey?"

Wesley nods and keeps eating. Gunn rolls his eyes, but he too is tucking into the dressing with enjoyment. "You're having dinner awful early tonight, aren't you?"

"We have a visiting pastor," Mama Jeane says placidly. "So services start a little earlier tonight. He's supposed to be very deep in the Word, Charles. I'm glad you two will get to hear him."

"We -- um --" Gunn's eyes are a little wide, and Wesley realizes that that this is a trap Mama Jeane has been waiting to spring for a while. Gunn tries to escape. "I'm not dressed for church. Look at this sweatshirt. I mean, c'mon."

"I know it must be comfortable," Mama Jeane says. "But it wouldn't do you harm to try and spruce yourself up a bit from time to time. Your friend certainly knows how to look nice." Wesley feels unduly proud of himself -- a bit like the favorite child, or the way he imagines that would feel.

"Don't worry about that sweatshirt," Debra says. "Luke left a sweater over here that ought to do you just fine."

Gunn tries one last time. "I'm sure Wesley doesn't want to --"

"It's all right," Wesley says. "Thank you for inviting me."

Gunn shoots him a look. Wesley ignores him and digs further into a casserole that has lifted the humble carrot to loftier heights. He has known Mama Jeane for only a few minutes, and he already knows he would do almost anything before letting Mama Jeane down.

**

An hour and a half later, Wesley is wishing he could have let her down.

What's his problem? Well, for one, he had just felt too upper-class for his surroundings. Now, in this church, Wesley is the whitest white man who has ever walked the face of the earth, and he is sure that he stands out like a spotlight. This discomfort is relatively minor, though. Mama Jeane has attached herself firmly to his arm, despite the fact that his crutch means he is poor support for her. And apparently where Mama Jeane approves, few will disapprove; Wesley's been smiled at more in the past fifteen minutes than he has in -- well, perhaps ever.

The main difficulty is the fact that he has to listen to this sermon. Wesley's entire religious upbringing was an exercise in hypocrisy. His father had said that religion was bunk, a bunch of fairy tales made up for the many who could not bear the darker truths of the supernatural world. They had attended services only as a matter of keeping up appearances, and this they had done faithfully, once a week, every week, until Wesley went to university and put such things behind him. Although Wesley has never shared his father's venom toward religion, he's never had any curiosity about it either.

But then, he's associated religion with the Church of England, and an enormous, cold room with vaulted ceilings and stone floors, and sermons that consist of so much droning. His key memories of church are of pews that hurt his knees and shiny new shoes that hurt his feet and a deep, somnolent silence.

Not this --

"Do you FEEL the spirit deep inside you?" the preacher cries.

The crowd roars, and some people even spring to their feet. They don't just answer the question -- they call to God, they praise him, they are unashamed of their voices or their bodies. They are transported by something -- some feeling that is sadly foreign to Wesley -- and he feels more the outsider than ever because of it.

"You can't feel that spirit when you let hatred inside your heart," the preacher says, shaking his head. Some people shout, no, no. The preacher continues his pacing in the front of the room -- a tiny chapel that, Wesley was astonished to see, was set up in the back of a strip mall. Instead of a small, quiet man with a meek voice and meeker disposition, this preacher is an imposing figure. He is both tall and broad, and he is wearing not vestments but a black suit. He paces the whole time he talks, flipping his microphone cord out of his way as he turns, as though he had too much energy stored in his body to even think about standing still.

"No, you can't. You have to be open to Christ's love to feel that spirit. You have to let GO of all the things standing between you and God. All that hate and anger you got bottled up inside you -- you got to let it go. All that fear you have about what the day may bring -- you got to let it go. All that pride that keeps you from coming before God, telling him your burdens --"

"You got to let it go!" The audience has caught the chorus now, and Wesley is startled when Gunn, Mama Jeane and the kids shout it out too.

"You have to open yourself up to His love!" the preacher yells. "Are you READY for the love of God?"

The crowd is cheering now, and the preacher motions to the choir -- a surprisingly large number of people, all of whom are in brilliant red-and-yellow robes. Debra, who is sitting up front at an electronic keyboard, begins to play a tune Wesley does not recognize. He is apparently the only one, though, as everyone else gets to their feet with the choir and begins stepping back and forth to the beat. The only ones left seated are Wesley and Mama Jeane, their two canes on either side of them.

"Oh happy day -- Oh happy day --"

The choir is amazing, Wesley thinks. They're not only in perfect tune but bringing forth levels of harmony he'd never thought to hear in from amateurs, much less a group in this tiny place. The crowd chimes in, even Gunn with his ragged voice, all of them calling out the words.

"When Jesus washed -- washed my sins away --"

In his ear, Mama Jeane whispers, "Aren't you going to sing, honey?"

"I don't know the words." Besides, it's better just to listen. Not to ruin it with his own wretched singing.

Mama Jeane takes a mimeographed sheet from the empty chair next to her and holds it out. There are the words to the hymn, printed in the honest-to-God purple of a mimeograph, a machine Wesley had thought was all but extinct. "Here you go. Let's us sing together."

The crowd around them cries out, "He taught me how to wash, to wash --"

"I can't," Wesley says, feeling suddenly small.

"Why can't you?"

The crowd sings, "To fight and pray, fight and pray --"

Wesley tries to think of an excuse, then just blurts out the truth. "I can't sing at all, really. I'm no good at it."

"Oh, baby. God doesn't care if you're any good at it," Mama Jeane says softly. "He only cares that you try."

"And He taught me how to live rejoicing, yes, He did --"

Mama Jeane's words run together with the words of the song -- for one moment, it seems as though she is a part of the song -- and Wesley unexpectedly feels a lump in his throat.

All that fear and anger rush out of him, and he is open to something -- maybe it's the love of God, maybe it's just the emotion in the room, or maybe it's something else altogether.

But it is with joy in his heart, and confidence in his future, that Wesley finally begins to sing.

"Oh, happy day --"

**

Wesley visits at Mama Jeane's for a good hour after the service is over, and it is only after much laughter and many glasses of iced tea that Gunn is able to tow him out to the truck. Mama Jeane waves at them from the porch, a child tucked under each arm.

"You bring Wesley back real soon," Mama Jeane admonishes Gunn. "He could use some fattening up."

"Won't take him long, the way he eats," Cedric says, and it is a measure of how comfortable Wesley already feels with them that he joins in the general laughter.

"We'll be back real soon," Gunn promises. "G'night, Mama Jeane. Love you."

"Love you too, baby. Bye now."

Wesley keeps waving after her until the truck turns the corner. "Ain't she something?" Gunn says, grinning over at him.

"Indeed," Wesley says. "I really would like to come back sometime."

"Name the day," Gunn says. "And, oh, man, someday we gotta spring Cordy on 'em."

Wesley laughs, but already his mind is turning to more serious subjects. "Speaking of Cordelia, did you bring your cell phone tonight? I've forgotten mine."

"I got it," Gunn says, motioning toward the glove compartment. "What? You gonna call Cordy, tell her she missed out on some mean sweet-potato casserole?"

"You're right about the first part," Wesley says, dialing Cordelia's number almost without thinking about it.

She answers on the second ring, and her voice is slightly tinny. "Hello?"

"Cordelia? It's Wesley."

"Oh, right. Yeah. I was hoping to talk to you --"

Her voice is a little strange, but Wesley barely even registers that as he says, "Good news."

She hesitates before asking, "What's that?"

"You needn't worry about your vote. About Angel, I mean. I -- I've changed my mind."

Gunn stares over at him, but Wesley ignores this. Cordelia says, "What does that mean?"

Stupid, to insist on anonymous voting and then forget about it. "Cordelia, I was the 'no' vote. But I've changed my mind. I'm willing to take Angel on."

She is silent for a moment, and Wesley continues, "I know it won't be easy. I know it won't ever be the same. But we just can't let our fears about the past control us forever. I'm still mad as hell, but -- I'm willing to try to remember the good. And maybe we can take it from there. So don't tie yourself up in knots any longer."

"Gotcha," Cordelia says. Her voice is definitely dull now.

Wesley frowns. "Is something else the matter?"

"It's -- it's just that --" She seems to brighten. "I got the commercial."

"That's marvelous!" He takes the receiver from his face, says to Gunn, "Cordelia got the part!"

"Outstanding!" Gunn yells, and honks the horn once in general celebration, earning glares from some passers-by.

"Well, that's splendid news. Splendid. I suppose things are looking up at that."

"Guess so," Cordelia says, her enthusiasm still muted. "I'm glad --"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad the decision's made," she says. "See you tomorrow."

The phone clicks off, and Wesley is pretty sure something's off with Cordy's reaction, but he'll worry about that later. Gunn is shaking his head as he smiles and says to Wesley, "Leave it to Mama Jeane."

"She's quite a woman," Wesley says.

"Yeah, we gotta take Cordy by there sometime," Gunn says.

"Or Angel," Wesley offers. "What do you think Mama Jeane would make of Angel?"

Gunn looks skeptical, but he says, "Might be worth finding out."

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Concluded in Chapter 8