Mercy of St Jude (7 page)

Gerry wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. “You're right, Ma. Of course you know them all better than me. You've been around here forever, haven't you, girl?” He yawns again. “Lord, I don't think I'm going to last much longer tonight.”

“Right? ‘Course I'm right,” she says, still sawing the loaf of bread which has begun to crumple under the pressure. “Goes around comes around. We all gets what's coming to us sooner or later. And the Hanns got what was coming to them that time, by the Lord. The whole thing was all for naught, the rushed wedding, getting everybody all worked up, hurt feelings everywhere. That Beth had the wedding so she could have the baby, and Lucinda didn't see fit to add one more person to the guest list. Just one. Me. Didn't have to have the whole kit and caboodle. But no. Had that whole frigging Green clan, youngsters and all. Boiled me. And look what happened - wedding was all for nothing. Hah! Maybe if they weren't so mean, maybe God would have spared that baby. Then again, do the world want more of that lot gracing the earth? Plenty Hanns already. Turning their fat arses away from us. I done the right thing, though. First thing next day I bought a Mass for that dead baby. Lot of good it did him. All the masses in the world wouldn't get him into heaven. Limbo-Larry forever. One less I'll see when I gets there.”

His mother's cheeks are rosy under her grey waves. She could easily pass for a sweet little old lady if she didn't open her mouth. It doesn't help that she's been into the booze. It always revs her up to life's injustices, real and imagined.

Out of nowhere, the image strikes. Close up this time. Again, more vivid than is possible. Emerald eyes. Lips like raspberries on fresh snow. Firm chin, the smooth white skin of her neck, her body so close, so out of reach. And those eyes, those eyes…

His mother has a point. Life is full of injustice.

4

1999

“I don't remember her ever going into a hospital before that day. Even when you girls were born, she'd wait till I got home to come see you.” Lucinda's sigh is extra long. “We were all heartbroken, especially Beth, but Mercedes blamed herself. And we could never talk sense to her.”

“Guilt is a powerful thing,” says Annie. “It doesn't always make sense.” She feels a pang of remorse run through her, for herself, for her mother and Mercedes, for Beth and her baby, the helpless infant in perpetual limbo. That particular concept no longer worries Annie, however. She has long ceased believing in limbo and purgatory. Hell is another matter.

“Hard to believe she's gone.” Joe stands abruptly. “I think I'll go sit with her for a bit. Keep Dermot and the boys company.”

Joe has hardly left when Pat and Aiden bounce in, making as much noise as two strapping young men can make after spending an evening pent up with a corpse.

“Thought you were keeping the vigil,” Annie says, relieved to see them.

“Uncle Joe wanted to say his goodbyes,” says Pat, scratching his unruly head.

Aiden sizes him up. “My brother, the Viking.”

“Just call me Leif.” Pat looks him up and down. “And by the way, you're no fucking oil painting yourself.” He says it low and out of the side of his mouth so Lucinda, who is moving the cups from the drying rack into the cupboard, won't hear.

Aiden pats his neatly combed hair. “Prettier than you. Always have been.”

“And me,” Annie adds dryly. “Remember when old man Canning caught us raiding his rhubarb patch? He called me and Pat delinquents, while you managed to talk your way into getting paid to harvest the whole frigging crop.”

“I never met a person could lie like you.” There is admiration in Pat's voice.

“It's a gift from God,” says Aiden.

Lucinda shuts the cupboard door hard. “You can leave God out of it.”

“What do you say, Aiden?” Pat flops down into a chair. “Time to raise a toast to Great-Auntie Merce.”

Lucinda frowns at him. “Like you two got so many fond memories of her.”

“I'm fond of anybody gets me out of jail,” says Aiden. “Almost drove me nuts after, mind you, nagging day in and day out till I went back to school.” His tone is a mix of pride and exasperation. “I still wonder why she showed at that parole hearing.”

“I told you, she wanted to get you off my boat and away from me,” says Pat.

“Nah. Probably just some latent maternal instinct,” says Annie.

Aiden laughs. “Doubtful. But it was good of her to stand up for me.”

“I suppose it was,” Annie concedes. “Even if she never let you forget it.”

Pat's foot is jigging up and down, his body almost vibrating with pent up energy. “Made you her grateful little slave, she did. And you fell for it.”

Aiden's mouth tenses. “Kiss my arse, Pat.”

Pat jumps to his feet, pushing his chair back so hard it tips over. “Well, you know what I figured out? That run-in with the cops? That was all Mercedes' fault.”

“Shut the hell up,” says Aiden.

“How could that poor woman be responsible for such a fiasco?” Lucinda asks.

“‘Poor woman', my foot.” Pat picks up the chair and slams it back into an upright position. “Mercedes Hann called the cops on her very own family.”

That shut everyone up.

1997

Annie had lived in Calgary for three years before she returned home for a Christmas visit. She'd been back at other times, of course, but she made a point of avoiding the big occasions. That year, however, Lucinda happened to mention that Sadie was going to Toronto to spend the holidays with Gerry. The coast was clear.

Or so she thought until she bumped into Sadie outside the post office.

“Mrs. Griffin?” Annie looked nervously around. “What are you doing here?”

Sadie frowned. “I lives here, don't I?”

“But you're supposed to be in Toronto.”

“Oh, poor Gerard, he ended up in the hospital, he did.”

“Hospital?” Annie noticed that her voice was shrill.

“Yes, the hospital.” Sadie looked slyly up at her, as if waiting for a response.

One look at Sadie's smug old face and Annie knew there couldn't be much wrong with Gerry, otherwise Sadie would not be standing there baiting her. “Too bad you missed your trip,” she said in her most offhand manner and started to walk away.

“His appendix it was.” Sadie's voice carried clearly across the short distance. “Will I tell him you were asking after him?”

The bitch. The rotten miserable old bitch. Annie kept walking.

Determined to put Sadie and Gerry out of her mind, she threw herself into all the holiday traditions, carolling in the evening and Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, early morning presents and turkey dinner on Christmas day, followed by a never ending game of Auction that night. The last tradition was her father's annual Boxing Day party.

People started to trickle in midway through the afternoon. Her Uncle Frank and Aunt Kitty arrived with Pat, who was already in such high spirits that he almost spilled the container of cod tongues he'd brought to fry up for the crowd later on. Aiden was delayed, Pat said, busy fending off some girl from the night before. Mercedes appeared for her obligatory visit early in the evening. Heavy-drinking revelry, off-colour sing-alongs and long-winded recitals were not her cup of tea.

By six o'clock, the place was packed, most of them jammed into the living room where Melva Murphy was singing “Butcher Boy.” Not being a fan of the maudlin love song, Annie slipped away to the kitchen for another drink.

Lucinda and Pat were at the stove, discussing how to bump up the pot of turkey soup so they'd have enough to feed the crowd, which was bigger than usual this year. The air was pungent with aromas of roast turkey and Newfoundland savory.

“I'll fry up some onion and sausage. Then we can add some macaroni and a couple of cans of tomatoes,” said Pat, taking a long sharp knife and a can opener from the drawer.

Dermot was at the counter, frowning at all the empty bottles.

“Relax, Derm.” Lucinda's voice was deadpan. “There's lots of homemade wine.”

“God no, Mom,” said Annie. “We can't risk people drinking that stuff.”

Dermot shuddered. “Yes, that was a right awful batch, wasn't it? Come on, Luce, we has one party a year. Least we can do is put it on right, especially with Annie home.”

Lucinda shrugged. “Sure it doesn't matter. It's too late to buy more.”

Pat looked up from the can of tomatoes he was opening. “Why don't I run home and get some of Dad's New Year's stash? You can put it back later.”

Dermot brightened. “Grand idea, Pat. But you can't be getting behind the wheel.”

Pat claimed total sobriety, but Dermot would hear nothing of it.

“Fine, Aiden can drive me. He finally got his license and he just got here so he don't have a sign on him. I'll finish this and then we'll go.” Pat slashed the knife back and forth through the tomatoes in the can then dumped them into the soup. He turned, knife in hand, tomato juice dripping to the floor, just as Mercedes walked into the kitchen.

Mercedes stopped, her eyes on the knife. Her normally pale face went white.

“You okay, Aunt Merce?” Pat reached out to her but then noticed the mess he was making and grabbed a tea towel. After wiping the floor he stood back up, dirty knife in one hand, soiled cloth in the other. He dropped them both into the sink.

Mercedes looked startled for a second, then her gaze shifted to Pat's face and her mouth assumed its usual scowl of displeasure where he was concerned. “A fine mess,” she muttered, although her voice lacked its usual conviction.

For a moment, Pat looked hurt. Then he brushed past her to go find Aiden.

Mercedes buttoned her coat up to her neck and surveyed the counter. “Looks like an early night. Just as well. There's way too much drinking on God's birthday anyway.”

Bold with drink and beyond caring, Annie grabbed a jug of water and raised it high. “Jesus have mercy on us and turn this here water into wine. In the name of the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost, Amen.”

Lucinda took the jug from her hand. “Don't be sacrilegious, Annie.”

“I see they're teaching you some fine habits out in Alberta,” Mercedes scolded. “What else could you expect in a province led by the likes of that heathen Klein?”

Annie's urge to spar died a quick death. She and Mercedes rarely spoke anymore and she had no desire to change that. She went to the stove to stir the soup.

“Now, Mercedes,” said Dermot. “Jesus don't mind a little celebration.”

“If you run out of liquor, the celebrating will be over whether you like it or not.”

“No worry there. We got our Pat on the case.” He took Lucinda's arm. “Come on down to the basement and we'll see if there's something hid away.”

“Never known that boy to run out of drink, Irish Paddy that he is,” Mercedes called after them as they went to the stairs.

At the front door she came face to face with Pat, truck keys in hand. “You've no sense, have you?” she bit into him. “Put those keys away, you loaded sot!”

The combination of booze and resentment made for a long-avoided confrontation.

“Jesus, look who it is, Mother Mary Fucking Mercedes! Leave me alone and mind your own goddamn business. You'd drive Christ himself to the bottle, you would.”

Mercedes glared at him. “Driving in your condition! You better watch out, you good-for-nothing fool.” She charged from the house, almost bumping into Sadie Griffin who was listening intently on the other side of the door.

Sadie moved to get past Pat, who stepped sideways to stand in her way.

He folded his arms across his chest. “What the hell do you want?”

Sadie pushed an envelope at him. “I found this card to Lucinda among my mail.”

“Been no mail for days. What were you doing, you old biddy, steaming it open?”

“How dare you?” Sadie stammered. “If my Gerard was here, he'd—”

“If he was here, I'd knock the face off him.” He jabbed the keys in front of her face. “Now get home out of it.”

Sadie's mouth opened and closed several times, then she bolted down the lane.

Pat went inside and slammed the door. The room had become uncommonly quiet.

“What the hell are you gawking at?” he shouted at the crowd, his good spirits gone the way of Mercedes and Sadie. “Aiden, come on, let's go.”

“Hang on, I'm starving. I barely got a chance to eat since yesterday.”

Pat stood impatiently while Aiden made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea. Twenty minutes later, finally finished, he had to go to the bathroom. Pat waited, his body lodged against the door until Aiden sauntered down the stairs tucking his shirt into his jeans. “Hold on to your drawers, Pat. Can't be going off half-cocked now, can we?”

“Christ's sake,” Pat muttered, pushing him out the door and towards the truck.