Mercy (23 page)

"Take it up with the mayor," Cam suggested, hauling his prisoner to his fee t. "Come on."

Jamie stood up from his stool. The man pursed his cheeks and spat at Jamie, a glob of saliva landing on the left side of his neck. "I may have taken a l ife," Jamie said softly to the man. "But it wasn't much of one." Then he loo ked up at Cam. "Thank you."

Any compassion he'd felt for Jamie MacDonald five minutes ago had vanish ed, and Cam did not even remember trying to make polite conversation wit h him over the morning paper. He did not remember the moment when he rea lized that, amazingly, Jamie

seemed to welcome an unprovoked attack. All he could see was the milling cr owd outside the restaurant and the bent head of the sobbing psycho in front of him. All he could feel was his heart pumping out adrenaline in a rush t hat reminded him of making love to Mia. Cam glared at Jamie, redirecting th e anger and the blame. "If this happens again in my town," he said heatedly

, "I'll let him shoot."

Cam sat in his boxers on the couch in the flower shop, reading a paper from three days ago that had been wrapped around a root ball. Mia had stepped o ut to get them some food--even Romeo and Juliet, she'd said, had stopped fo r dinner. The front page was missing, so he scanned the World Briefs, the t iny snippets of stories that always left you wondering what hadn't been sai d.

An oil tanker had sunk near Alaska; the IRA had confessed to setting a bo mb at a Devonshire post office; and on a German army base in Fulda, a GI had beheaded the man who was having an affair with his wife. Cam pulled the paper closer. The U.S. soldier had suspected his wife of adult ery, had chopped off the head of his rival, and had placed it in a plastic ba g beside his wife's hospital bed. His wife was being treated for complication s in pregnancy.

The soldier had submitted quietly to the arrest. The headless body of the ot her man was found in a phone booth at an army airfield.

Cam stood up and walked away from the couch, stepping on the wrinkled pape r that had fallen beneath his feet. "Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck." He walked into the storeroom and stood in the bathroom in front of the tiny m irror. It was chipped in the corner and there was very little direct light, b ut Cam had no trouble making out the stark lines of his face. He did not see a police chief, or a clan chief, or a husband. He did not see a family man, or a good citizen, or anyone else he could respect. He recognized the anger in his eyes, the dare-me attitude that mocked anyon e for criticizing his right to do something he wanted for once in his whole damn life. He saw a flush on his cheeks and a

Jodi Picoult

burn in his eyes that he remembered as signs of falling in love. He knew that he would no more walk through the adjoining curtain and ask Mi a to leave his life than he would relish cutting off his left arm. He told himself he could not change what had already been done.

Then Cam left the bathroom and glanced at the desk, where Allie had a frame d photo of the two of them, kneeling in the sand dunes on Nantucket. He pic ked up the picture, rubbing his thumb over the glass, choosing not to look at Allie but instead at his own image. He frowned at the photo. Was it just his imagination, or did his smile seem forced?

He had not thought of Allie during these past three days; he had not allowe d himself to do so. But she was coming home and he had never wanted to hurt her and he loved Mia and he could not have it all.

He did not want to put Mia through the inevitable confrontation that would come. He thought of the two of them as he had once before, on a catamaran i n the hot sun, and knew that although he was chained to his town and his ci rcumstances, Mia was free to fly.

It was what made her so attractive.

If you loved someone, really loved them, would you let them go?

Out of nowhere, Cam thought of Jamie MacDonald.

Feeling the room close in around him, Cam tossed the photograph back on All ie's desk, cracking the glass of its frame. He pulled his pants from the co uch and stepped into them; he buttoned up his shirt. He was just tucking it in when Mia opened the door of the flower shop.

She brought winter with her, wrapped in loose, flighty threads around her t hin parka. "I got ham and cheese and a meatball sub."

"I can't do this," Cam said.

Mia dropped the paper bag and took a step toward him.

He held up his hands. "I can't," he said, his voice breaking. He did not let himself touch her as he passed, but she followed him just a fraction of mov ement behind, like a shadow he could not shake.

w\

atchell Spitlick and his wife, Marie, had owned The Pickle Barrel, a mom-a nd-pop store in the center of Cummington.

159

When they retired last year, the Spitlicks had taken the trappings of their tr ade and resurrected the place they'd run for forty-five years in their own hou se.

Allie sat beside a huge white freezer that was not functional but still urged her in bold print to drink Moxie. She held a sweating glass of iced tea in h er left hand; her right hand stroked a blind tabby cat that made its way from place to place by bumping into the furniture. Watchell was smiling at her fr om a cracked leather chair; Marie perched lightly on a stack of fabric bolts.

"This is quite a collection," Allie said politely.

"Well"--Watchell nodded--"you never know what people are going to need." He beamed at her.

Marie tapped his knee. "Now, Bud, Mrs. MacDonald didn't come to talk busin ess." She frowned at Allie. "What did bring you here, dear?" Before Allie could answer, Marie smacked herself lightly on the forehead. "How stupid o f me. You must be a relative of Jamie's, and he's not at home." She darted to a bookshelf stacked with Farina and health tonics and an assortment of pipe cleaners, and began to rummage behind the clutter. "I know Maggie le ft me a key, it's here somewhere . . . Remember, Bud, when we watered the plants for them last summer--"

"Mrs. Spitlick," Allie interrupted, "I have a key to the house." She set her tea down on a tremendous barrel that served as a coffee table. "I need to s peak to you about Jamie and Maggie."

"Terrific kids," Watchell boomed.

"We love them like our own," Marie added.

Allie opened her mouth to break the unfortunate news, but then knotted her h ands in her lap. "I wonder ..." she said carefully. "I'm a distant cousin of Jamie's, and I haven't seen him in years." She offered her most ingenuous s mile. "What's he like, now?"

"Oh," Marie said, fluttering back to her fabric seat. "You've never known t he like. Jamie's got a good solid head on his shoulders. Works with compute rs or something or other, you know that fancy stuff I can't get into my hea d. Shovels our driveway out all winter because he doesn't want Watchell to exert himself."

Allie was smiling so hard her face was beginning to hurt. "And has he been married long?"

Marie and Watchell exchanged a look. "You haven't met Maggie, then?" Mar ie said.

Allie shook her head. "I--No. This is a surprise visit." Marie pursed her lips. "There isn't another pair like those two. Joined at the hip, you'd think. Why, I remember when Maggie first moved into the hous e--Jamie had been a bachelor for a few years--they holed up in there for da ys at a time. Watchell and I would see the pizza delivery trucks coming and going, and every now and again I'd notice a flash across the upstairs wind ows, one of them chasing the other." She smiled, her eyes crinkling in the corners. "Don't think anyone ever told Jamie the honeymoon was supposed to end after a couple of weeks."

"You know them well, then."

"Oh, yes," Marie said.

"And Jamie's devoted to Maggie?"

"Like nothing I've ever seen."

Allie stood up. "I think I'll wait back at the house," she said, mentally check ing the Spitlicks off as viable character witnesses.

Watchell peered out the window toward Jamie's house. "You been waiting long

? Seems I don't recall seeing a car there for a couple of days."

"That's why I came to check with you," Allie improvised. "Jamie must have fo rgotten I was coming." She could feel the blush of her lies staining the col lar of her turtleneck.

"Oh, I hope that's all it is." Marie looked at her husband. "You don't think anything's happened to Maggie?"

The words stopped Allie in the middle of shrugging into her coat. "What d o you mean?"

"She's been ill," Marie said. "Cancer." She whispered the word as if it migh t creep over the threshold of her own house. She began to walk Allie to the front door. "It's a good thing you're here, if that's the case. Family's a b lessing." She turned toward the living room. "Bud, you walk Mrs. MacDonald b ack."

"Oh, I'm fine," Allie protested.

"It's dark and I won't hear of anything else," Marie said. Allie waited for Watchell Spitlick to zip up his jacket, then offer her his a rm down the concrete front steps. Allie was several steps across the lawn whe n she realized that her escort had stopped moving. Watchell was staring at th e bare curb in front of Jamie's house as if there was something there.

"Few months ago," he said, his words coming out in round puffs of cold brea th, "Maggie took a bad turn in the middle of the night. Some kind of reacti on to the medicine she was on, screwed up her lungs so's she couldn't breat he on her own. Ambulance came, must've been two in the morning, and when th ey brought Maggie out on this fold-up stretcher, Jamie was standing right n ext to her. He wasn't wearing a stitch, and he didn't seem to even notice. I can't look at that house anymore without seeing those flashing red lights all over the street, and Jamie, bare-ass naked, kissing Maggie as if he co uld breathe his own life into her."

Allie opened her mouth to speak, but could not find any words. Watchell us hered her across Jamie's front lawn. "There you go," he said, waiting unti l Allie had unlocked the door. "You make sure to call when Jamie gets home

." He smiled. "We want to know everything's all right." On Sunday, Cam had every intention of going to Mass. He put on his nicest s uit and his red tartan tie and he parked in a spot that wasn't too ridiculo usly far from the church. He spoke to his great-aunt Chloe and he helped hi s dispatcher, who was nine months pregnant, waddle up the hill in the cente r of town. He explained to everyone who asked that Allie was out of town on a family errand, but he didn't go into any more detail. When he saw Jamie MacDonald himself helping Angus up the steps that led to the church, he eve n smiled.

He wanted to be cleansed. He could remember being forced, as a kid, into sit ting through Sunday Mass. He had spent most of the time thinking about his n ew basketball, or about the pickup game of ice hockey over at Dundee Pond th at started at noon, but he had always left the church feeling a little light er, breathing a little easier. At the time, he had not given in to the spiri tuality of religion, but had simply seen the church itself as a wonderful ma chine in a Dr. Seuss book, the kind where you walked in one end and popped o ut the other, a whole different color or shape or set of beliefs in your mind. Cam had not gone to confession this past Saturday. He hadn't wanted to. He f elt that if he spoke of the feelings he had for Mia,

they'd lessen in intensity, their color and vibrance growing paler and paler as the words diffused in the air.

He walked through the main double doors of the church and was handed a pam phlet detailing the order of the Mass. But there was a backlog of people w aiting to get into the pews, and Cam stepped out of line, hoping for a few more minutes of the cool autumn air.

He stood at the top step, which was worn down in the center from years of p iety. Spread at his feet was his town. His, as it had been his father's and his grandfather's. He knew every street in Wheelock and every resident. He knew which shopkeeper on Main Street was the first to shovel the walk afte r a snowstorm. He knew which kids he'd find drinking beer behind the bleach ers of the high school on the longest, reddest night of the summer. He let his eyes sweep from left to right, from the coffee shop to the post o ffice to the station, where Zandy was just letting himself in. He looked dow n at the bottom of the church steps and saw Mia.

He had not known she was Catholic, a thought which pounded dully in his hea d. He knew that she was allergic to chocolate, that her skin was very sensi tive to cold, that she had a small square birthmark on her right thigh, but he did not know her religion. He did not even know where she had been born

, or her middle name.

In spite of his willpower, he started to walk down the steps of the church. She was gone before he reached the bottom. Cam stretched his hand out, aware that people were watching and starting to whisper. He touched only the thin

, chilly air. And he walked back to his car, thinking that he hadn't really wanted to go to Mass at all.

Mia felt awful, so she knew she was in love. Her head swam, her shoulders ached, her skin no longer seemed to fit. She spent hours making flower a rrangements without a single splash of color. At the Inn she turned on th e TV and watched reruns of "The Love Connection" with Kafka curled on her belly. She wished she'd never come to Wheelock. She could not believe sh e had wasted so many years before arriving.

163

Yet what she loved most about Cameron MacDonald was not the way he looked in the waving light of a candle, or the image of his straight red hair mix ed and tumbled with her own. It was what he represented that was so attrac tive: a steady mortgage, a niche, unequivocal respect. Cam had a place in the world that was unshakable. Granted, it had been carved for him by his ancestors, and it involved a life that by definition excluded Mia herself, but it was very seductive to someone who had grown up never really knowin g where she fit in.

She pictured each of his conditional titles as another string tethering Cam firmly to the ground: clan chief, police chief, friend, confidant. Ask anyon e in the town who Cam was, and they'd be able to give you an answer: He's my cousin. He's the laird of Carrymuir. He's my husband,

Mia moved Kafka off her lap and curled into a ball. She closed her eyes, maki ng certain that she could picture Cam as she had last seen him, standing in t he doors of the church: his hair windblown, his tie flying back over his shou lder, his hands fisted at his sides as if he could actually fight what he was feeling.