Mercy of St Jude (20 page)

“Watch that mouth, you saucy brat,” Joe replied. Unlike Mercedes and Callum, Joe rarely opened a book.

“Joseph, my duck, you wouldn't know a fraction if it bit you on the arse.”

“Mercedes!” Callum turned abruptly from the window.

“That's enough.”

“Ah, Cal,” Joe jumped in, “sure me and Merce are only joking.” “I just think she should be a bit more careful what comes out of her.”

“So what? She's the only bit of life in here most days, what with the old man either drunk or hungover and yourself so serious all the time. Leave it alone.”

In truth, Callum didn't mind his sister's exuberance. She seemed blissfully unaware of what a boring place St. Jude was, always running in or out, playing ball with her friends, scaling the cliffs or chasing seagulls along the shore.

“Never mind me,” she said. “Where's my book? I'll be late if I don't get going.”

Callum gestured towards the top of the wood stove. “Up there. Drying off.”

She stretched up to retrieve it. “Ugh! Smells like it was soaking in whiskey. What am I going to tell Miss McCarthy?”

“Now, Merce, there was an accident and something got spilled on it.”

“Right! And was his nibs in the room? Huh? I suppose he's still sleeping it off.”

The innocent five-year-old who had cried for her father had long since abandoned any illusions about him. For the most part, Mercedes ignored Farley, but this time he'd gone too far. Nothing was more serious to Mercedes than school. Always at the top of her class, she had dreams of becoming a teacher herself someday. Callum planned to do everything he could to make that happen.

“You knows he can't see that well anymore, Merce. Leave it and have some tea.”

“If he can't see, what's he doing buying a truck?”

“Don't talk to me about that darn truck.” Callum's voice was beyond exasperated. “To think of all the things we could have done with that money.”

Two months earlier, Farley's only brother had died and left him over four hundred dollars. The next thing they knew, Farley was driving up the lane in Mona Burke's truck, an old Chevy that hadn't been used since her husband died. Callum had tried to make him return it but Farley wouldn't hear of it. Knowing his father would soon drink the remaining money, Callum had taken what was left and set it aside to have plumbing and electricity put in the house. At least they'd get something useful out of it.

“I didn't even know he could drive,” said Joe.

“Sure he can't. Have you seen the dents he's after putting in it?” Mercedes shoved her feet into her rubber boots and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Hand me that toast, will you, it'll do till dinner. And keep him away from my books, okay, Callum?”

He nodded, understanding her frustration. Despite having to quit school to care for Mercedes and then find a job, he did all he could to educate himself. Mercedes gave him any books she got her hands on, which they would discuss when no one else was around. “I will, I promise. Here, put this on.”

Ignoring the hat he held out, she stuffed the toast in her mouth, pulled on her mitts and hurried off. Callum watched as she ran down the snow-packed lane, her long dark hair sticking out in tufts and strands as the wind's current worked to force her backwards.

“Hope we can afford to get her out of here when the time comes,” said Joe.

“If we went to New York and got jobs we could save enough to send her off to the college to become a teacher like she talks about,” answered Callum.

Joe eyed his brother. “I knows I'm not book-smart like the two of you, but I'm no dunce either. So let me get this straight.

If we had enough money to get to New York, we could make enough money to get her out of here? That makes no sense, Cal.”

Callum watched his sister's retreating back outlined against the choppy sea spitting in the distance. “I got enough money to go,” he said.

Joe's mouth fell open. “What? Where? I mean, how did you get it?”

“Well, I'm crewing for Murphy going on eight years now, and I've been putting a little bit away almost every month for the last four of them. I got enough for the two of us to get there and not starve for a bit. Of course, we won't be living in luxury like we are here.” Callum scanned the dilapidated kitchen. They did their best to keep it liveable, especially Mercedes, but they weren't miracle workers. “Seriously, Bill Doyle's brother is there and Bill says Don would sponsor us and help us out till we got set up, maybe even point us in the right direction for some work.”

“You been mulling this over for a while, haven't you?”

“Started back when Frank left. A couple of years later I asked Charlie Murphy if I could have some pay in real money. He didn't mind once I agreed to take a bit less.”

Joe thought a second. “So, was it your money that come up with that new coat for Merce that was supposed to be from the church?”

Callum nodded. “But I couldn't let the old man know. He'd spend every last cent if he thought I had any money stashed away.”

“But why didn't you say anything before now?”

Callum had not set out to hide the money from his brother, but Joe had a hard time keeping things quiet. Callum didn't trust that he wouldn't let it slip out in front of Farley. The truth was he worried about Joe, fearing shades of their father in his occasional drinking binges. On the other hand, he knew Joe wasn't mean or lazy, and could just as easily be influenced by good as by bad. Callum hoped that a stable job and a paycheque might bring out the best in his younger brother.

“I didn't want to be getting your hopes up till I saved enough for the two of us. And,” he added uneasily, “for Merce to get a bit older. I couldn't stand to leave her when she was so little. But she's growing up and can take care of herself now.”

Joe nudged Callum. “Imagine the two of us in a great city like that. Lots of pretty women too, I bet.”

Callum could feel the blush spreading. He always claimed he was too busy raising Mercedes and running the house to have a girlfriend, but the real reason lay in his irrational fear of women. He went practically mute in the presence of any woman under fifty. It was an insecurity he could not talk him- self out of, although the Lord knew he tried, going so far as staring into a mirror and trying the words out on his tongue. But the mere pretence sent him into a cold sweat, and even though he knew people said he was handsome, he also knew any girl in her right mind would not want to be seen with the wild-eyed reflection looking back at him.

Joe was too excited to notice. “New York! Jesus Mary, that'd be something.”

“I know. I've been dreaming about it for months. But if we go we should be on the road by spring, maybe get on a construction crew before they got everybody hired.”

Joe hesitated. “You sure them two will be all right? Nothing makes her madder than when he starts to crack up from the liquor.”

“If he'd just lay off the hard stuff, a few beers don't affect him so bad.”

“We'll have a long talk with her before we goes,” said Joe.

“And we'll use the last of that money to get the place fixed up,” said Callum, “make it more modern.”

“I'm sure they'll be fine.”

Callum folded his arms. “That's it then. We're going, right?”

A huge grin spread across Joe's face. “I'll be the first one on the boat.”

11

Two years after arriving in New York, Callum was heading back to Newfoundland. He hadn't intended to make the trip so soon, especially since he'd recently gotten married, but the last few letters he'd received from Mercedes had made him increasingly anxious. Paddy Griffin had returned to St. Jude. Not only that, he and Farley had become drinking buddies, hanging around Patron's together before ending up at the house where they drank late into the night.

“…he's so creepy,” Mercedes wrote. “He sneaks up behind me and tries to tickle me, and then he laughs like it's a game we're both playing…”

Callum had written her immediately and told her to get out, to go to Burke's and ask if she could stay there. He had included money to cover her expenses, money he'd been saving so she could go to school and become a teacher.

He found it odd that she didn't mention the money or Burke's when she wrote back. “…and he's always watching me. He doesn't even look away when I catch him, just keeps staring at me with this weird look on his face. And Dad's getting so blind and so gone in the head that he doesn't know who's who half the time, just keeps talking about going away, moving to Toronto to go to work…”

And then came the last letter, the one that sent Callum's heart racing. “…I told him if he touched me again, I'd cut the paws off him, and I told him to get out and stay out, that if he came back I'd get the police on him. I wish you were here, Callum. I know you can't come all this way but I told Paddy you were coming anyway and he'd better steer clear. He got this awful look in his eyes that kind of scared me...”

Callum was starting to panic. He remembered the rumours about Paddy, his penchant for young girls, even his own daughters apparently. When he tried to call Burke's store to get a message to Mercedes the operator said the telephone lines had been down for a while and she didn't know when they'd be up again. He would have talked to Joe but his brother had just found out that his baby girl had leukemia and he was spending all his time at the hospital with her. And Callum didn't feel comfortable discussing it with his wife. It was too sordid, his father's drinking, a ne'er-do-well staying at the house, his sister caught in the middle. Feeling cut off and desperate, he sent a telegram to Mercedes saying he would be home in a couple of weeks. Judith was not pleased.

The thought of returning to St. Jude left Callum feeling curiously empty. Besides his sister, he had few fond memories of the place. His bones remembered the frigid slush of winter, the throb of muscles that couldn't seem to thaw for days on end, the unrelenting chill of February mornings. He could recall only one season. It was as if he hadn't lived a life there worth remembering.

Still, he did not consider New York his home either.

Nevertheless, it was because of his New York connections that Callum was able to get an early start. A cargo ship belonging to one of the company's suppliers was only too happy to accommodate Jim Maclean's son-in-law. The voyage took four nauseating days that had him kissing the ground when they docked. From there, he hitched a ride in the back of a truck headed to Port-aux-Basques, then walked the last few miles. As gust after gust of wet wind whipped into him, he pushed forward toward St. Jude. The foul weather didn't bother him. He was grateful to be off the ship.

A weak light straining through the woods was Callum's first sign of home. Cutting through the footpath at the rear, he came upon his father's truck. Callum wondered if it was still working given Farley's failing eyesight.

Through the warped glass of the bare kitchen window he saw his father sitting at the table. His face was unshaven, his white hair wild and dirty. He was looking outside but with a stare so vacant Callum couldn't tell if he'd been seen, let alone recognized.

With the storm growing fiercer by the second, Callum hurried to the front door. It squealed as he opened it, then, once he'd stepped inside, was immediately slammed shut by the wind. He looked around the large porch, the back half of which had served as his bedroom most of his life. In the corner was his old daybed. For all its age, he'd always thought it was the most comfortable place to sleep in the house.

“What? Who's that?” he heard Farley shout.

The first thing Callum noticed when he entered the kitchen was the change in his father. Although he'd never been a large man, Farley had become almost skeletal. His body seemed to be shrinking in on itself. The kitchen was in rough shape as well. Crusted dishes and greasy pots covered the counter, and some sort of soup or stew had spilled across the table and onto Farley's lap and the floor.

“Hello, Dad. It's me – Callum.”

Farley squinted at him, half blind and fully drunk. His head wavered about, the bloodshot eyes trying to focus. “What's that…that black shit all over your face?”

Callum rubbed his chin, the whiskers starting to soften nicely after five days. “Thought I'd grow a beard, see if you'd recognize me.”

His father grunted, which set him off on a great coughing spree, his face swelling so his veins looked ready to rupture. Eventually he hawked a wad of spit into a tin cup next to a near-empty bottle of rum. Wiping his mouth with one hand, Farley picked up the bottle with the other. With shaking hands he poured half of what was left into his glass and slugged it back. Then he poured the rest.

“I think you had enough, Dad.”

Farley slammed the bottle onto the table. “You don't be telling me what to do.” He drained the glass. At first it didn't seem to faze him, but then, out of nowhere, his eyes glazed over and he slumped face first across the filthy table.