Sweet Mercy (19 page)

A
nnie stood on tiptoe at the kitchen window, peering out. “Someone here for you, Eve, honey.”

I looked out over her shoulder. “He's here for something to eat, and you know it, Annie.”

“Uh-huh. That too,” she said. “I'll fix him up a tray of these leftovers.”

He sat on the grass, watching me nonchalantly as I approached. “Hope you don't mind warmed-over oatmeal and toast,” I said, handing him the tray. “You're early today. Lunch isn't ready.”

“Beggars can't be choosers.” He winked. “Can you sit for a time?”

I looked at the kitchen window where Annie was waving me down to the grass. “I guess I can. For a little while.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes while he ate the oatmeal. I couldn't help staring at his hands as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. They were fine, strong hands, and they were probably equally at home holding a book, a hammer, even a gun. I remembered how he'd shot the ducks at the
carnival while Marcus had missed. He'd gone to college and read who-knew-how-many books about history. Now, he was doing day labor.

Who are you, Link?
I wondered. I didn't even know his name.

“So is there anything new with you and the folks?” he asked, scraping the last of the oatmeal from the bottom of the bowl.

“New?” I echoed.

“Yeah. Haven't seen you in a few days, so I was just wondering.”

I shook my head, looked away. “No. Nothing's new.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason.” He took a bit of toast, chewing thoughtfully. “I'm just making conversation, Eve.”

I cleared my throat, thought a moment, finally settled on something to say. “My sister's coming to visit soon.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Maybe you can meet her.”

“I'd like that.”

“She's married.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She's got two kids.”

He nodded, finished off the toast. He set aside the plate and bowl and wiped his hands on the bib of his overalls. “Bet she's not half as pretty as you are.”

My heart thumped. No one had ever told me I was pretty before, not even Marcus. The words sounded strange in my ears. I lifted my eyes to Link's and when they met, I had to admit to myself what I'd been trying to suppress ever since
Daddy told me we were leaving. Of all the things I didn't want to leave behind in Mercy, Ohio, the one thing I didn't want to leave most of all was Link.

“You're just saying that,” I whispered.

“I never say anything that isn't true.”

“Cassandra's beautiful. You just wait and see.”

“I don't have to wait for anything. I already know.”

I fidgeted on the grass, looked out toward the river. Soon I would tell him we were leaving, though I would never be able to tell him why.

“I heard you and your father brought some food out to the camp last Friday.”

“Yeah, we did.” I nodded.

“That was good of you. The men appreciated it.”

I shrugged. “It was Uncle Cy's food.”

“But your idea.”

One I wished I'd never had. If only we could have gone on living without knowing. It was the knowing that changed everything and was driving us away.

“I asked Cecil to hold some back for you. Did you get it?”

“I did, thanks.”

I took a deep breath. My heart had settled back into rhythm. “You got work today?” I asked.

He fingered a pebble he'd found in the grass, tossed it across the lawn. “Not today. Prospects aren't always very good around here.”

“I don't know why you stay.”

“It's where I'm supposed to be.”

He'd told me that before. I didn't understand it then and I didn't understand it now. It seemed like someone in his position could travel just about anywhere.

“How long do you think things are going to be the way they are now? I mean, in the way of jobs?” I asked.

“A good long while, I imagine. The future looks pretty bleak.”

I had to agree. The country's future. His future. Mine.

“Do you think you'll ever go back to college?”

“God willing and the Little Miami don't rise.” He laughed lightly at that. Then, more seriously, “I don't intend to be a bum my whole life, you know.”

The crash had made him a bum, but he was a beautiful bum. I wanted to touch the hand that had held the spoon, but I didn't dare. I hardly dared look at him, knowing which way my heart was leaning.

“Well, I'd better get back to helping Annie with lunch.”

I rose.

“Eve?”

I waited but didn't respond.

“You sure you're all right? You seem . . . I don't know . . . distracted or something.”

“Sure. I'm all right.”

“Nothing's wrong then?” He unfolded himself to his full height and cupped my chin in the palm of his hand. He lifted my face so that I had to look him in the eye. “You can tell me,” he said.

“Nothing's wrong,” I whispered. I wanted to sink my head into his shoulder and take refuge there. I wanted to feel his arms around me and to hear him tell me I didn't have to be afraid. But instead I withdrew, turning away.

“Eve . . .”

“It's all right, Link. I've got to go. I'll talk to you later.”

One day he'd go back to school and make something of
himself. One day he'd marry a beautiful woman and have beautiful children, and he'd be happy. I hoped so. For his sake, I hoped so.

I moved across the lawn toward the kitchen, wondering at all the marvelous things people might be, if not for the circumstances that pulled them down.

T
he knock on the door was so subtle I thought perhaps I had dreamed it. Eyelids half open, I listened a moment before rolling over in bed in the still-dark room.

Another knock, louder this time, followed by my mother's voice. “Eve?”

I moaned, sat up in bed. “Come in, Mother.”

The door to our adjoining bathroom opened and Mother padded across the room in her slippers and light cotton robe.

“What time is it?” I asked sleepily.

“Nearly six,” Mother said. “Listen, Eve, we've just received some bad news. . . .” She paused as she sat down on the edge of my bed. In those few seconds, I envisioned every possible scenario, most of them revolving around the secret, all of them having to do with tragedy.

“What is it?” I pressed.

“Aunt Cora died in the night.”

I lifted both hands to my mouth and squeezed my fingers together. “Oh no,” I whispered. “How awful. Does Jones know?”

“Yes. Cyrus received the call about a half hour ago. He's already packing and getting ready to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“New York. He'll accompany her body back on the train.”

“He's leaving this morning?”

“Yes. On the first train out. While he's gone, Daddy and I will cover at the front desk. Your help will be needed down at the Eatery. It's just for a few days, of course.”

“Sure, Mother,” I said. “Whatever I can do to help.”

“You might want to get up now, so you have time to give your condolences to Uncle Cy before he leaves.”

I nodded and pushed back the covers.

Mother stood and wrapped her arms around herself. “Poor Cyrus,” she said. “It'll be the second wife he's buried. Such a hard lot for a good man like him. With no children of his own, he has so little to ease his grief.”

“I wonder,” I said absently, almost to myself, “what Jones will do now.”

Mother looked at me in the dim light and shook her head. “Stay here, of course. Keep doing what he's doing. Why should that change?”

“He isn't Uncle Cy's son.”

“No, but I should think he'd always have a place here, if I know Cy.”

But you don't know Uncle Cy,
I thought.
Not really. Not like I do.

Mother let her hands fall to her side and seemed to steel herself with a deep breath. “Well,” she said, “get dressed and meet us downstairs so we can see Cyrus off to the train. Daddy's going to give him a lift and then he'll come on back and we can have breakfast.”

Ten minutes later I was on my way downstairs. Mother and Daddy were at the front door waiting. Daddy fingered his car keys while Mother dabbed quietly at her eyes with one of Daddy's handkerchiefs. Uncle Cy was at the desk, giving last-minute instructions to Thomas. He was dressed neatly in a gray cotton suit and wing-tip shoes; a single suitcase sat on the floor at his feet. His cheeks were crimson and his mouth drawn down, and he spoke with a certain urgency and like a man who was angry, which he very well might have been. He'd been dealt a rotten hand, after all.

Finally he picked up his fedora from the desk and settled it on his head. He turned and looked startled as he realized for the first time that I was there. For a moment neither of us spoke. His expression became one of annoyance, as though I were little more than a roadblock between him and the door.

I drew in a deep breath and said, “I'm very sorry about Aunt Cora, Uncle Cy.”

He nodded curtly. “Thank you, Eve. Did your mother tell you about the work arrangements?”

“Yes, she told me.”

“Do whatever needs to be done and don't cause any trouble while I'm gone.”

I was taken aback and momentarily silenced. Then I said, “I won't cause any trouble, Uncle Cy.” I wasn't a child who needed a reminder to behave. I hadn't caused a moment of trouble since we'd arrived, and I had no intention of causing any while he was away.

Only as his gaze bore into me did I begin to understand. Of course. The secret. The knowledge. I realized the power I had in that knowledge, and I realized too that Uncle Cy was
afraid. One word from me to the right people and I could bring this whole place down.

He picked up his suitcase and stepped around me to the door. “You ready, Drew?”

“I'm ready. But don't worry, Cy. There's plenty of time before the train pulls out.” Daddy kissed Mother's cheek and settled his own worn fedora on his head. Then the two men disappeared through the front door.

“Poor Cy,” Mother said again.

“Jones isn't going with him?”

“No. Cy's going alone.”

“How come?”

“How come Jones isn't going?”

I nodded.

“Apparently, he wanted to stay here.”

“Sure he did,” I whispered.

“What, Eve?”

I hesitated. “Nothing.”

Mother sniffed and tucked her handkerchief into her skirt pocket. “Well, I'm going to see if Annie has the coffee on. Do you want to join me?”

“In a few minutes.”

She stopped briefly to talk with Thomas on the way back to the kitchen. He smiled at her politely as they exchanged a few murmured words. When she left, Thomas peered at me over the round lenses of his glasses. His smile had disappeared, and the look in his eye told me he'd be watching and waiting for me to do something wrong in my uncle's absence. I narrowed my eyes at him and turned away to the window.

Like Mother, Thomas had no idea. Uncle Cy wasn't telling me to be good; he was telling me to be quiet.

The door to the apartment was closed. On the other side, a radio played something fierce and loud. I heard violins screeching, horns bellowing, cymbals crashing.

I knocked. No answer. I thought maybe Jones couldn't hear me over the music, so I knocked louder. Still no answer.

I almost turned away but something told me to stay. I knocked again. The music stopped abruptly. “Who is it?”

“It's me. Eve.”

Silence. Then footsteps as he walked across the hardwood floor. The door squeaked open a crack and there was Jones, his red eyes staring out from behind the magnifying lenses of his glasses. He looked at me but said nothing.

“I've come to tell you how sorry I am about your mother.” I waited. It was obvious he wasn't going to invite me in. “I just wanted you to know that,” I finished awkwardly.

“Thank you, Eve.”

His voice was strained and barely audible, but he hadn't cried. That much I knew. He appeared more ghostlike than ever, as though all the lifeblood had been sucked out of him, but he hadn't yet shed a tear.

“Uncle Cy didn't want you to go with him, did he?” I asked.

“It wasn't discussed,” Jones said flatly.

“He should have let you go. She was your mother.”

He shrugged resignedly. “My going with him wouldn't change anything. She'd still be dead.”

I had no response.

He removed his glasses, folded them, and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “When are you leaving?”

“What?”

“You know, going back to St. Paul.”

“Oh.” I nodded. Of course he knew. He'd been there when Daddy had confronted Uncle Cy and our future had been set. “Soon. A week, maybe less. We'll probably caravan with Cassandra and her family on their way back up.”

He lifted his chin a notch. “You'll be here for the funeral?”

“I . . . I don't know. When will it be?”

“Soon as the body gets here, I suspect.”

I grimaced at his choice of words. “How long will Uncle Cy be gone?”

“Four, maybe five days.”

“Then I imagine we'll be here.”

“I'd like it if you were at the service.”

I smiled sadly. “Then I'll try to be there.”

He looked down, shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“Jones?”

“Uh-huh?”

“What will you do now?”

He looked up, not at me but somewhere over my shoulder. “Some wide open spaces out there are calling my name, with nothing holding me back now. I best get busy.” He held out a thumb like he was waving down cars. He actually smiled.

“I think I'm going to miss you, Jones.”

He sniffed shyly. A corner of his mouth drew back. “I think you'll be all right.”

“Jones?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Can I hug you good-bye?”

“I'm not leaving yet.”

“Can I hug you anyway?”

“What for?”

“Because that's what people do when someone dies.”

Jones hesitated, rubbed his jaw. “I guess they do. All right, then.”

He opened the door a little wider. I took a step toward him and lifted my arms around his neck. He didn't hug me back, but he let me cling to him for a long moment. The way his shoulders trembled I was sure it was the first time he'd been held by anyone other than his own mother.