Cheap Grace
By George Halitzka
PART I
The bicycle in the window downtown was all pink, with white plastic streamers coming from the handlebars and a basket on the front. It only cost thirty dollars, but to a six-year-old like Lyla Kendall, it might as well have been thirty thousand. She saw it for the first time in May when Grandpa and Grandma took her for ice cream, and it was all she could talk about the rest of the day.
“Grandpa! It has a basket on the front, just like yours. Did you see those strings on the handle bars? That’s so when I ride real fast, they'll fly like the wind! And it's pink, even the seat. Pink’s my favorite color, Grandma, just like you!”
Grandma and Grandpa ate their ice cream in silence. “Can I get it? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?”
Grandpa shook his head. “Lyla, if you really want the bike, you'll have to save your allowance.”
“But that'll take forever!” A sudden brainstorm: “Can I have a raise?”
Lyla sighed as Grandpa shook his head again. But as soon as she got home, she knew what she had to do: she placed her piggy bank carefully atop her dresser, ready to collect her earnings.
Summer vacation was filled with swimming, riding with Grandpa on the tractor, and hide-and-seek in the barn. Yet she never forgot about her bike. It took three months of allowance and some extra chores—with occasional lapses at the candy store—but her piggy bank grew heavier and heavier.
Then one cloudy Wednesday, Lyla spent the morning thinking of ways to make more money. She'd given up on the lemonade stand after she sold two cups to Grandma and the Nelson kids stole four. But why couldn't she rent herself out to do chores? Grandma said she was a big help—maybe she could make extra allowance from other people! She scrawled a sign listing her services and went to stand at the foot of the driveway.
Four cars passed while Lyla stood by the mailbox, but clearly, no one needed a "Purfeshunl Bed Makr." Then right after the last car drove by, Lyla saw Grandma hurrying straight towards her.
The look on Grandma’s face was severe. “Lyla Grace Kendall, how many times have I told you not to leave the house without my permission?”
“It was just for a minute, Grandma—”
“I’ve been looking all over the house for twenty. What do you think you're doing?”
“Making money for my bike—”
“You get back inside the house, young lady! What if somebody had stopped? Haven’t I told you never to get into a car with strangers?”
Lyla focused her eyes on the ground. Grandma sighed. “Sick people steal little girls, Lyla! Look at me.” She reached down for Lyla's chin. “I love you, sweetheart. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. I'll find something for the ‘Perfeshunal Bed Makr’ to do in the house, okay?” Lyla nodded, eyes still downcast. “Here, give Grandma a hug.”
Grandma took Lyla's hand in hers. Her last words as they started up the driveway were “Sweetheart, please don't try selling yourself by the road anymore.”
= = = = =
Lyla squinted at the light coming in through broken window blinds. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to return to the vivid 25-year-old memories for a minute more, but Grandma's face was gone. She wondered what had happened to the old lady. Probably stuck at some nursing home in Oberlin, living in her past.
Lyla wished she could live there, too.
She dragged herself into the kitchen to see if there would be breakfast. No milk. That smelly balding white guy who looked like Mr. Bean! He must have drunk it while she was in the bathroom. She reached for her smokes instead--could've sworn there were more than four yesterday. Whatshisface—Marty; that's it—such an idiot. Always wanted more than he paid for. She wasn't good with names; all the men ran together after a while.
But Lyla could still remember her first john--said he was “Mr. Tyler.” He stood out in her memory, a three-dimensional image more real than life.
Back then, she was faintly repulsed by the whole procedure—it hurt sometimes—but “Mr. Tyler” liked the nervous schoolgirl thing. She was dumb enough to imagine “what if” he liked her and came back. What if he actually began to fall for her; to want a life with her; to look at her as something besides a welcoming vagina?
Of course, they never did. They paid their money and left, bought her body for a night while they destroyed her soul. “Capitalism at its finest”: that's what Devin used to say in her younger years.
But a decade and a half later, after two abortions and three attacks of something she hoped wasn't herpes, Lyla harbored no delusions about men staying around. She’d always been “plain,” and now her sweet slim figure was giving way to the inevitable sags. No man except the most desperate would find her attractive. No sane person would date a member of the oldest profession. Lyla Kendall was nothing but a thirty-dollar whore.
That's why Mr. Bean's stunt double was drinking her milk last night. That's why cigarette papers of varying contents surrounded her to dull the daily living death. That’s why she was left hopeless, destitute, and alone in a $400-a-month roach-infested apartment, waiting for it all to end.
As Lyla turned on the TV and lit her first morning smoke, she laughed bitterly, thinking of Grandma's age-old warning about getting into cars with strangers. Sure enough, she was selling herself by the road—but people were buying, and it wasn't for “Purfeshunl Bed-Making,” and Grandma wasn't around to make her come inside anymore.
= = = = =
An hour later, Lyla walked down the urine-stained stairway outside her apartment. Cereal was the only thing in the cupboard, so she needed milk. The penny jar had yielded $2.71.
But as Lyla stepped outside into her building’s mildewed entryway, two hands immediately grabbed her threadbare coat and slammed her into the wall. The first thing she saw was the cocked fist; she tried to dodge. The next thing she saw was Devin's gap-toothed sneer. “Who do you think you are?” he screamed. The fist landed; her head cracked into cinderblocks.
Lyla laughed. The facade of fearlessness was the only way to survive.
“What are you laughing at?” Devin shoved her against the filthy wall. “What's so funny?”
“Careful, Devin. You're gonna damage your merchandise.”
“Look, you little tramp—”
“Can't you just knock on my door? That's what the customers do.”
He flung her against the mildew again. What was he mad about today? Minor beatings from Devin were a fact of life, but they had a reason. Mr. Bean always left more than satisfied. There was nobody else last night, except—
“I don't care what's wrong with him!” shouted Devin. “If a john has cash—”
“He had sores all over! They were bleeding; probably got AIDS—”
“So make him wear a rubber. You don't look so great yourself these days.”
“No way.”
“You're a worn-out thirty-dollar whore!” Devin was screaming. “You take what you can get!”
“At least I still got my self-respect—”
“I’m done messing with you. If you ever embarrass me with a customer again—”
But then Devin was cut off by a loud voice ringing out to the entire street. It overwhelmed the passing cars and the random shouts from doorways. It penetrated the din and commanded attention. “Thief!” cried the voice. “Step away, thief!”
Devin whirled to look for the source—and a filthy slushball smacked him in the face.
“Step away!” boomed the voice again, lobbing another bomb. The frozen missile hit Devin’s coat and splashed onto Lyla.
Jericho Caithert was the neighborhood prophet of doom. His greasy gray hair blew in the wind; his coat billowed behind him like a Biblical robe. His finger pointed at Devin with a horrible indictment. "You have not paid for what you claim!" he growled.
“You crazy sack of—” Devin muttered.
“Thief!” Jericho nailed him in the forehead again as he strode across the street, ignoring traffic. Lyla wanted to laugh; to run—but she seemed mutely frozen in place.
“What do you think I stole, your shopping cart?” Devin shouted.
“Innocence! You steal innocence!” He squashed a handful of slush directly against Devin's coat. “Wear your filth!”
Devin looked up at the prophet’s bulk at close range. He flinched—his temper was better suited to half-starved hookers. “You poor dumb slob. Just wait, old man. You wait,” he blustered.
“Go! Make your plans,” Jericho cried. He lowered his face within inches of Devin's. “But beware the untold fury of mercy.”
Devin backed away; he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and caught himself. “I don't throw snowballs, old man. You wait. You wait.” He tried to swagger down the street, but he was still wiping dirty water from his eyes.
Lyla was frozen, unable to move. Jericho turned in her direction. He pointed a finger of judgment at her and raised his remaining snowball skyward. Lyla covered her face and winced, expecting to feel cold ice on bone.
Then as she finally dared a glance, Jericho turned away and hurled the slushball against the sidewalk, sending ice skittering in all directions.
“I won't throw the first,” he said quietly.
The prophet took a metal flask from inside his coat; reached over Lyla's head and poured out warm water. She was still unable to move—just watched the liquid drip down in front of her eyes. Then he took out a handkerchief and gently wiped the slushy grime from her cheeks. “The love makes you clean, daughter,” he said.
Lyla had no idea how to react . . . so she laughed. “I didn't know you felt that way, Jerry. But even when you love me, you pay like everybody else.”
“Yes,” he nodded slowly. “Yes, but will I pay enough?” Jericho looked into her eyes for a long moment. Then he slowly turned and walked down the street.
= = = = =
Thirty bucks. That's how much a one-way Greyhound ticket to Chicago cost in 1993.
Lyla was barely sixteen at the time. There was no particular reason why she went to Chicago—the day she stole the money from Samantha’s purse, the next bus just happened to go there.
But fifteen years later, as she walked through wet snowflakes with $2.71 in her pocket, the night she got off the bus played vividly in her mind.
She could see the graffitied walls of the station, the scary drunk looking her up and down; the constant stream of people and noise outside the doors . . . sixteen-year-old Lyla was paralyzed with terror.
But then suddenly, something caught her attention. Across the terminal, a girl about Lyla's age was waiting to board her bus. She was beautiful: porcelain skin, long blonde hair, deep green eyes.
The girl was saying goodbye to an old man—perhaps her grandfather? She was clearly nervous, afraid of something. She kept glancing towards the entrance while they hugged, then dried her eyes and stepped quickly through the door of her bus.
But as the girl turned to board, Lyla saw the other side of her beauty. A mass of cuts covered one entire side of her face. There were three-inch-long scabs, other slashes still oozing red. She was a patchwork of stitches and gashes, obviously done with purpose—the work of a malevolent surgeon with a jagged blade. In a moment, the girl was through the door, but the two sides of her face, beautiful and disfigured, were imprinted in Lyla’s nightmares forever. She actually wanted to vomit.
The old man was about to leave the station when he saw Lyla. Suddenly, he turned and marched towards her. She wanted to run, but was frozen by his horrible gaze. He pointed a finger of judgment and cried, “Three years, daughter! Three years on the streets have scarred forever. Jericho Caithert has spoken!”
He dropped the accusing finger and approached her with gentleness. “So beware,” he said softly. “Beware the horrible tyranny of love.”
He lowered his mesmerizing eyes just long enough for Lyla to run. Running in animal terror, away from the scary man and the girl with the scary face, she found herself at the station entrance. In her rush, she bumped into a man who was surveying the crowd, looking for someone—as she discovered later, looking for the girl with two faces.
His face was set in a grim line until he saw Lyla. Then he relaxed into a gap-toothed, hungry smile and spoke to her with artificial kindness. “You look scared. Is everything all right?”
That was how Lyla ran into the arms of her slavemaster.
= = = = =
Minutes later, as Devin disarmed her with questions, she poured out her story. He offered to let her spend the night at his place. She was too naive to ask questions, and rather infatuated with the first man to treat her humanly since Grandpa died.
On the first day, Devin listened to her cry, then gave her drugs to numb the pain. On the second day, he whispered sweet nothings in her ear, then took her innocence. She listened to his confessions of undying love and returned them. She was sure Devin was not only her savior from the streets, but the love of her life.
On the third day, he asked her to watch a video with him—a porn flick—and act out what they saw. Why not? If he wanted to see her fly to the moon, she would have done it. Besides, after the previous night, what was the point of prudish ideals?
After a week, he said a man named Mr. Tyler wanted to “meet” her. Lyla resisted. Devin sweet-talked her. When that didn’t work, he threatened to kick her out on the street. When that didn’t work, he told her he couldn’t love her anymore if she wouldn’t do this one little thing.
She went, as a one-time favor to her savior and lover.
Back in the present, fifteen years later, as a much older Lyla walked into the store to buy her milk, she remembered Jericho Caithert's words: “Beware the horrible tyranny of love.” Sure enough, “love” had enslaved her; stolen her life. And as Lyla Grace Kendall pushed through the liquor store’s entrance on the way to trade her pennies for milk, she felt like crying.
But that was a sign of weakness. So instead, she laughed bitterly.
= = = = =
PART II
“Grandpa! Grandma, I did it! Thirty dollars and sixteen cents! I can get my bike, the pink one with the streamers! Can we go to the store? Right now? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?” Lyla stood in the kitchen doorway, breathless.
Grandpa stood up with a smile. “Let's see, sugar.”
Lyla dashed up her bedroom, where a shattered piggybank lay next to a mountain of coins. Grandpa counted slowly, but finally said, “I’m sorry, Lyla honey, but you miscounted.”
Lyla's jaw dropped. “But I did it two times, real careful!”
Grandpa took a bill from his wallet and laid it down with the coins. “You really have thirty-five dollars and sixteen cents,” he said, with a smile.
“Grandpa, that was kinda mean,” said Lyla reproachfully.
“Your Granddad just gave you a present, young lady,” said Grandma. “What do you say?”
“Can we get my bike now?”
First grade began the next week, but as soon as the bus dropped her off every day, Lyla ran straight to the barn where her shining pink bicycle was kept. She loved everything about the new treasure—especially tearing down the driveway at breakneck speeds.
Yet somehow, she never fell. It was like the girl and her bike were protected by a charm; held upright by a greater force.
Lyla never thought about that, though—she simply loved her rides. The best part of all was the streamers. They really did fly in the wind, as though propelling her forward as she pedaled passionately. She rode every day until Grandma called her for dinner.
= = = = =
“I’m riding!” sang Lyla, as she tossed her bookbag into the kitchen.
There was no answer.
“Grandma! I’m riding!”
Where was Grandma? It was fall now, the leaves were changing and good riding days would be gone soon! Lyla ran into the dining room: no Grandma. Then she skipped into the living room.
There, Lyla froze.
Grandma sat on the couch, lights off, holding a wadded kleenex in one hand and an ancient picture frame in the other. She started straight ahead without moving.
“Grandma?”
“Lyla . . . I didn't hear you come in.” The voice came from another person, another time; from somewhere beyond the comfortable worn living room.
Lyla looked at her. “Grandma? What's wrong?”
“Sweetheart . . . something's happened.”
“What?”
Grandma bit her lip. “Your Grandpa . . . ”
“Is he sick?”
“Honey, his heart . . . he fell next to the tractor at lunchtime, and the paramedics couldn’t . . . ” Grandma's body was suddenly wracked by huge sobs.
She didn't know why—except that she couldn't understand and she didn't want to feel and the only other thing to do was cry.
But after an eternity of silence . . . Lyla laughed.
= = = = =
Things changed on the Kendall farm. On the day of the funeral, Lyla was introduced for the first time to her father.
He talked to Lyla like she was two years old and hard of hearing. When he tried to give her a hug, he smelled of smoke and stale liquor. He brought a woman named Samantha with him—a fat lady with big hair and too much makeup. “Daddy” helped Grandma with the farm chores for three days before he started spending most of his time in front of the TV with a beer in his hand.
Two weeks later, Lyla heard a loud argument downstairs after Grandma tucked her into bed. Grandma wanted Daddy and Samantha to leave. They refused; said she was going to need help on the farm. She told them they were no help. Lyla always remembered the sounds that came next—things she'd only heard during scary TV shows.
The next day, Grandma stayed in her room moaning softly, and Samantha sent her to school without breakfast. Lyla wet her pants that day in class. Following a severe after-school beating, Samantha made her wear a diaper.
It was a week before Lyla was allowed to play outside. Finally, on a dreary afternoon threatening rain, she ran to her bicycle. It was her chance to escape to the time when she could go inside and find Grandma humming as she made supper or hear Grandpa's gravelly voice saying grace. She rode that day with the passion of an impossible dream. She streaked towards the house, streamers flying. Her spirit rose above the house and its new horrors; the trees and grass whipped by. She seemed to forget all that had happened since Grandpa went to heaven . . .
Until suddenly, she was lying on the gravel, skinned and bleeding. One of Daddy's beer bottles lay half-buried in the gravel, thrown in the perfect position to upset a speeding bicycle.
Lyla did not cry, but stared at the bottle for a long time. Rain began to fall, but she hardly noticed. Finally, as the drops pelted down harder, Lyla painfully limped with her bicycle to the barn.
She never rode it again.
= = = = =
The bruises from Devin still hurt, but the customers wouldn’t wait. Just after nine o’clock at night, a much-older Lyla Grace Kendall went outside to advertise her services on the curb.
A street light fuzzed in her vision and seemed to sway; she felt a queasy. She was definitely sick—maybe it was the flu—but didn't dare stay inside after the confrontation with her pimp.
Cars drove by, looking for love cheap and easy. But they all continued on once they got a good look at her. On her right, a homeless guy was sprawled on the sidewalk holding a bottle.
She ignored him—no money, even for love. But then he spoke softly:
“Come drink with me, daughter.”
It was Jericho Caithert's voice. But this was strange—he was always walking and preaching and pronouncing curses of doom. Was he actually drinking? Had Jerry fallen off the wagon?
“Sit and eat,” he commanded.
Lyla laughed and turned away. But then he looked at her with penetrating eyes, and she couldn’t leave. He tore a slice of white bred carefully in half, and handed it to her. She didn't know what to do except eat it.
“Still no thanks for your savior?” he asked.
A laugh. “Anybody can throw slushballs.”
“But not anybody will pay.”
“Not tonight.” She laughed and showed off a flabby thigh. “You got money? I’d even do you.”
He shook his head sadly.
“Old friend's discount. Fifteen bucks.”
He ignored her. Silence.
“Take some blood.” It was a command, not an offer. Jericho held out a bottle of cheap red wine.
“Blood, huh? Why not?” Maybe it would settle her stomach. She reached for the bottle and poured a swallow into her mouth, but it just made her more nauseous.
He saw the sickened expression on her face. “Have no fear, daughter. The blood is never poured in vain.”
“Are you drunk, Jerry?”
For perhaps the first time and last time, Jericho Caithert laughed. “Not on wine, daughter,” he said. “Not on wine.” But then in complete seriousness, he took the bottle from her. “I cannot let the cup pass from me.”
Lyla stared.
Suddenly, a car honked from the street. Neither Jericho nor Lyla moved.
It honked again. “How much for you?” called a rough voice. Jericho finally broke his gaze, and Lyla turned to face the love-buyer.
As she walked towards the car, the prophet whispered quietly, “Couldn't you wait with me for an hour?”
= = = = =
Behind the wheel of an ancient Cadillac was a huge man hidden in the shadows. She forced a smile. “Looking for love, stranger?”
The man smiled back—a horrible, vicious smile. Her customer was last night’s disease-ridden nightmare, returning to take whatever he wanted.
“Get in, whore,” he said. “I’ll give you ten bucks. If you're good.”
Clearly, he had talked to Devin. How could she say no?
Stomach turning, she climbed into the passenger side. Without prelude, he unzipped and offered himself. She had done this a hundred times before, but never like this. She closed her eyes to ignore the bleeding sores; the smell; the smile.
And in the next moment—just before she committed the unspeakable act—she vomited white bread and red wine.
For a moment, her customer froze and stared down at the mess coating him. Then before he could react, Lyla leaped from the car and ran down the street. As if in a dream, she heard the man’s voice shouting Devin’s name behind her; shouting to have the vomiting prostitute punished.
She ran for her life.
Lyla made it as far as the door to her own building. There she fell—and vomited again. As her eyes involuntarily drifted closed, she discovered she was roasting in the bitter night air. Definitely running a temperature, she noted with detachment. Then her consciousness faded.
She raced through fevered hallucinatory dreams. She saw Grandpa standing by the tractor—no; not Grandpa! Her mind shifted to Jericho Caithert. Their first meeting in the bus station; his burning eyes. His preaching on the streets, warning against “the terrible fury of mercy.” Yelling at the johns who stopped to pick up Lyla's coworkers. Daring to tell the dealers they were earning blood money.
Suddenly, vividly, Lyla was sitting in a nursing home in Oberlin, laughing as she told Grandma about Jericho Caithert. He didn't panhandle—only took money for odd jobs. He never hit the bottle (until tonight). She laughed hysterically—the only reason he lived on the streets was that he was crazy, plain and simple! Grandma laughed with her, and said, as only she could, “Jericho Caithert sounds like a rare bird!”
She saw the prophet taking a bag full of groceries to Keesha across the hall when she couldn’t work the streets because of the baby. She saw him calling the police from a pay phone when a drug deal went sour. She saw him running down an alley shouting; waving his arms while another pimp beat one of his girls. She saw him, tears rolling down his cheeks, cradling a mortally wounded gangbanger as he died. She saw his gentle goodbye to the two-faced girl in the bus station, who’d discovered the horrible tyranny of love at the end of a butcher knife.
But then Jericho dissolved; Grandma dissolved; the dream was a nightmare. She saw Devin screaming at her; pushing her; beating her—
She was awake. The first thing she heard was, “Get up, you worthless slut!” And the first thing she felt was Devin’s heavy boot kicking her in the side—hard.
= = = = =
Her bare feet were numb on the cold pavement as she used the wall for support. Devin drew back a fist and slammed it into her gut. She fell to her hands and knees.
“You messed with the wrong man too many times.” He took careful aim and landed a boot kick in her midsection. “I’m through with you, woman. You're done.”
Then he drew a long, serrated knife from his waistband.
Lyla staggered to her feet; terror gripped her. Devin would never cut a girl he wanted to sell. She was a dead woman.
He laughed—a huge, powerful, terrifying laugh. “Not gonna chuckle in my face this time, are you, girl? Are you?” He was toying with his prey.
“Devin, I swear. I was sick—”
“Find somebody who cares.” Another feint with the knife. She saw stars as he slammed a fist into her head.
There was nowhere to run. Her diseased customer stood in the background, watching the fun with a broad smile.
Then Devin plunged at her face with the knife. She reached up and felt her cheek—there was a long jagged line of warm red wetness. Desperately, she cried, “Devin, you're damaging the merchandise—”
“What a shame. Wish I had a mirror. I'd make you look before I did you.”
Lyla was backed up against a brick wall. She looked around wildly.
Devin slashed again; the other cheek stung like fire. “Devin, they'll catch you—”
“Sorry, honey. Nobody's gonna care when a thirty-dollar whore comes up missing.” He laughed.
She was cornered: he was triumphant. Devin raised the knife mightily. Lyla wanted to close her eyes; wanted to wake from another hallucinatory dream; wanted to hear her Grandmother’s voice again; wanted to pray for the first time in 25 years—
And then without warning, a penetrating voice rang out from the shadows:
“Beware the terrible fury of mercy!”
= = = = =
As Devin told the police later, it was completely self-defense. To Lyla, it was a dance; a terrible ballet of slowness and precision. Jericho appeared in the light. He was running; running like the wind; hair blowing like the streamers on a bicycle; legs carrying him above the horror to an impossible dream. Devin turned, weapon raised, to meet the charging prophet.
Jericho shouted mightily. Devin screamed; horrified at the sight. In the silhouette of a street lamp, Jericho seemed haloed with holiness and larger than life. He never slowed down; never stopped screaming; kept running straight towards Devin . . .
And the only sign it was over was a sudden end to his battle cry as the men met. When Jericho fell to the street, you couldn't even see the hilt where the knife smashed into his gut.
As the sirens swung into view at the end of the block, it was no surprise for the officers to see a homeless bum dead from a knife wound. They took Devin into custody out of habit, but knew the charges would never stick. It was all routine; nothing worth reporting.
The sight of a cheap hooker crying over the bum’s body, however, was unusual. That made for good conversation over donuts.
= = = = =
When a person dies in the city, a makeshift shrine is sometimes erected by people who loved him. The next day, in the place where Jericho Caithert fell, a worn-out old whore with fresh scars on her cheeks laid a wreath of plastic flowers on the sidewalk. No one dared move it until the Chicago winds blew it away.
But Jericho Caithert’s greater legacy left on a bus to Oberlin. And beneath her shirt, next to her heart, she carried her most treasured possession.
It was a tattered envelope she’d found in the holy man’s pocket after he died. It contained thirty dollars in coins. While Devin was under arrest, unable to stop her, she’d exchanged them for a bus ticket out of hell.
Then as she boarded the Greyhound, she gently took out the envelope the prophet had left her and studied it again. On it Jericho Caithert had printed in red ink four words that made her weep as though her heart would break.
“LYLA GRACE KENDALL—PAID.”
Copyright © 2009 by George Halitzka. All rights reserved.