Just Mercy: A Novel (4 page)

FIVE

“I need to do this alone, Marty. You shouldn’t feel guilty about not coming with me.”

That was the last thing Bernie had said to him that morning before she left for Huntsville. And his response—“Of course I won’t”—had been truthful. He respected Bernie’s preference for doing things on her own and in her own way. It was the way she was, always had been. If she needed him to do something, he knew she would tell him. He liked that they were so different: her hair straight, his curly; her body short and soft, his tall and sinewy. He had always believed each of them had important, yet different, roles to play in their partnership as well. His was to keep the home ship steady, and though he knew that males in general were no better at it than females, the stalwart role came naturally for him. It was just who he was. He and Bernie balanced each other out, just as his parents had. She, like his mother, was the intuitive doer and he, like his father, was the thinker and meaning maker. Not that Bernie wasn’t his equal in the thinking department; in fact, he enjoyed thinking of himself as Jean Paul Sartre to her Simone de Beauvoir.

While they formed an equilibrium that, Martin reasoned, was essential to the healthy functioning of any system, sometimes he envied Bernie’s spontaneous earth mother passion. But on the few occasions when he wondered out loud if he might be deficient in the emotions department, she would say, “Come on, Marty, you’re the most well-adjusted one in this family.” He knew, of course, that that was only partially true. The whole truth was that Bernie was the most self-actualized and authentic person he knew. Or at least she had been until everything changed.

Right after Bernie left that morning, he removed the list of household chores from under the rainbow-colored Keep Austin Weird magnet on the refrigerator door. The list was in his handwriting and thus indecipherable to anyone but him. It wasn’t that he knew what things needed to be done around the house and added them to the list on his own. Bernie would always have to point them out first, and then he’d write them down.

He studied the list now. They were little chores, things no one but she would notice. Nothing too demanding. He was glad for something physical to do while he waited today. This wouldn’t be the best time to try to concentrate on something like preparing for the new philosophy course he was scheduled to teach in the fall semester. No, today, it was best to keep active.

He decided to tackle the outside chores first: hose out the garbage cans, wash the sliding glass doors to the deck with vinegar water and newspaper as per Bernie’s instructions, clean the barbecue grill, wipe down the deck furniture, drown the colony of fire ants in the backyard with Bernie’s mysterious mixture of dishwashing liquid and citrus oil, weed the flower bed in the back corner of the yard. He listened to pianist Van Cliburn play Rachmaninoff on his iPod as he worked and so the morning passed quickly. But by noon all his bones hurt. He wiped the sweat from his brow and blamed his discomfort on the sun sizzling over his head in the endless Texas sky. His khaki shorts hung low on his hips. He yanked them up, remembering what the doctor had said about his lack of appetite. But this wasn’t the time to think about that.

He bit into the turkey sandwich Bernie had left for him in the refrigerator.

“What will you eat for lunch?” he’d asked her before she left.

“I’ll pick up something,” she’d said.

Thank goodness he’d had the sense not to make a joke about the killer burgers that were served at the restaurant across the street from The Walls. He was still appalled at himself for even thinking about it.

He put his sandwich, the bulk of it untouched, back into the refrigerator and set about crossing off all the outside chores completed so far. He found he’d finished them all and was ready to tackle the inside ones, glad to be in the air-conditioning at this time of day. While he was cleaning the AC filters, he thought about how glad he was that Bernie wasn’t alone, that Regis was at Huntsville with her. Still, while he was dusting the ceiling fans, he found himself second-guessing his agreement not to go with her. But of course she would be fine.

While he was arranging the paint cans in the garage by color, setting aside for disposal the ones Bernie had labeled as being more than five years old, he wondered how Fin was doing. It was quite unlikely, he decided, that Bernie would see him there. While he was vacuuming the coils in back of the refrigerator, his thoughts turned to Annamaria. At that, all he could do was shake his head, turn up the volume on his iPod, and make a concerted effort not to worry about the children today. What was the point when Bernie did enough worrying for both of them?

It’s not that she worried in a futile way. He never thought of Bernie as an anxious person. In fact, his wife was the strongest, most courageous woman he’d ever known. And he’d known some powerful women in his lifetime, starting with his own mother and continuing to the present day with the few women professors in his philosophy department at The University of Texas at Austin who were tough as they come. They had to be to survive in his field, of course, but even they couldn’t hold a candle to his Bernie.

At five o’clock, after he’d finished cleaning the dead bugs from the light globes on the ceilings in the entryway and kitchen, he sat at the round oak table with his list. One chore remained undone. He’d saved the best for last.

He headed for the living room and the 1902 mahogany bookshelves that had sealed the deal for him when they decided to buy the house decades ago. He looked around the room for a few seconds, admiring the old oriental rug Bernie had found at a garage sale, the original dark woodwork, the way the eclectic mix of modern and traditional paintings blended so nicely with all their family pictures. Everything was impeccable, as usual, thanks to Bernie; even the multi-colored pillows on the dark maroon leather couch were lined up in sharp precision.

With the sound of Beethoven in the background, he set about his remaining task with relish, rearranging the existing volumes on the bookshelves in alphabetical order and making room for the books he’d finished reading. As he worked, he introduced the authors to each other, assuring them that they would make good neighbors and colleagues, and thought about the times when he and Bernie would sit out on the deck, reading. He favored philosophy books by Kant, Hegel, Marx, Foucault, and Kierkegaard, while she preferred the latest literary novel,
New Yorker
short story
,
or political commentary by the likes of Molly Ivins and Jim Hightower. Every so often, she would interrupt him to share some poignant or laugh-out-loud turn of phrase, like when Ivins wrote that if a certain Texas congressman’s IQ slipped any lower, you’d have to water him twice a day.

“What is intelligence?” he remembered asking her.

“When you can walk and chew gum at the same time. I doubt this guy can,” she’d retorted.

How he missed times like that, when he would ask her about some lofty concept just to hear her pithy Midwestern take on it, always practical. But that was all before. Before she stopped reading altogether. Before she quit engaging in causes about which she used to feel so passionate. Before she reverted to her old habit of trying to manage everyone and everything. Before Veronica was murdered.

It was a few minutes after six o’clock when Marty slipped the last book into its proper place on the bookshelf, right next to
The Other America
. He pulled Michael Harrington’s book out and caressed its cover, reliving the dinner debate it had spawned when Veronica had been assigned the book for school.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” she’d said, “to be trapped in a vicious cycle of poverty and not be able to get out of it.”

“Right,” Fin had chimed in.

“Can’t you guys see,” Annamaria had said, taking the opposite point of view as usual, “all that’s happened since that book was written? The Great Society, the War on Poverty, civil rights legislation. Social Security and Medicare have all but eliminated poverty among the elderly.”

“Come on, you can’t be serious,” Fin had said.

“What about all those high-rise public housing projects?” Veronica added.

“There but for the grace of God,” Bernie had said.

“You would see it that way,” Annamaria had retorted.

At that point Marty had chimed in, rubbing his chin in thoughtful reflection. “So what do you think about the argument that poverty is caused by cultural pathology?”

“Pretty funny,” Annamaria had said. “That was considered a liberal idea in the 1960s, and now it’s the conservatives who see it and the liberals are suddenly blind.”

“It’s not right to blame poor people for being poor.” Veronica’s voice had gone up several octaves higher by then.

“Critical thinking leads to right actions,” Marty had said.

“Follow your heart, is what I say,” Bernie had said.

As he put Harrington’s book back on the shelf, Marty thought about how many dinnertime discussions just like that one they’d had over the years. No matter the topic, the debates always played themselves out in a similar fashion, with members of the family assuming predictable roles. His favorite times were when he and Veronica continued the conversations while doing the dishes together. He remembered the last one as if it were yesterday. How tenacious Veronica had been that night.

“Health is a basic human right,” she’d declared with a certainty so characteristic of the young.

“Maybe access to health care could be considered a right, but not health itself,” he had countered.

“I
know
the difference, Dad,” she’d said.

Overcome with delight at his baby girl’s passion and knowledge about things most teenagers wouldn’t even bother to think about, he had folded her in his arms. “That’s my girl,” he’d said as she rested her head on his shoulder. No one could have known then that they had just finished the last debate they would ever have.

He swallowed hard to push down the lump in his throat. How could everything have changed in an instant? The worse part was when Bernie fell apart during the months right after Veronica was killed; she did nothing but clean, scrubbing down all the walls and ceilings—cleaning out every single closet, cabinet and drawer—mopping the floors every day—scrubbing the toilets and sinks several times a day. What a terrible time that had been. How hopeless he’d felt, how lost he was without Bernie to lean on. How relieved he’d been when her obsessive cleaning finally stopped, when she started cooking again. How hopeful he’d been when they started to have the kids over for dinner again on Friday nights. But even as, to this day, they gathered weekly around the same table where their debating skills were first honed, nothing had ever been the same again without Veronica.

He sighed and looked at his watch. Well, things were about to change again, and for the better. Soon he would have his Bernie back. They would go on vacations again, join or start a book club, reconnect with old friends, take walks around Town Lake. Maybe she’d renew her license and teach again, maybe even take a few classes at the university. He didn’t care if she still put herself in charge of everything. He could live with that.

At six thirty he went into the kitchen to microwave the plate of spaghetti with meatballs that Bernie had left for him in the refrigerator. But, finding he still wasn’t hungry, he sat down at the table with a cup of coffee instead. The coffee tasted bitter on his tongue, and he pushed it to the side. He read over the list of chores, looking for just one more to keep him busy. He told himself to relax. Bernie would call as soon as she could. Everything would be all right. He just needed to be patient. He picked up the latest philosophy journal and leafed through its pages but found it impossible to concentrate. Soon he found himself doing nothing but staring at the phone, willing it to ring. And when it did, he almost jumped out of his skin. He pulled himself together. This was it. A new chapter was about to begin.

“Dad, what the hell is going on? Has Mom called you yet?”

“I thought you were her,” he said with a heavy sigh. The last thing he needed right now were Annamaria’s hysterics.

“It’s after seven, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ll call you as soon I hear anything,” he said.

“There better not be a problem,” she said, “not again.”

“I’m sure nothing’s wrong.” He hoped nothing was.

“Right, nothing’s wrong, nothing’s ever wrong, is it, Dad? Well, not this time.”

“Try to calm down, okay?”

“At least Fin could call.”

“I’m hanging up now so Mom can get through.”

He cut off the phone before she could say anything else. It was always the same with Annamaria when it came to Raelynn Blackwell. Something would set her off: news coverage about another appeal filed or lost, another prominent figure speaking on Raelynn’s behalf, the setting of an execution date, another delay. It didn’t matter what it was. Just the mention of Raelynn Blackwell’s name would get her going. It often happened over dinner. And as soon as Annamaria started to rant, Fin would take her on, always with the same arguments: the death penalty wasn’t working; it would be a whole lot cheaper just to lock people up and pitch the key; it was only a matter of
when
it would be abolished, not
if
; it was immoral to murder anyone, whether by the state, a person, or an army. He always ended the same way: “Come on, it’s just plain inhumane.”

“Inhumane?” Annamaria would scream. “Don’t you see there’s nothing inhumane about going to sleep and not waking up? What about us?”

At that point, Bernie would typically intervene. “You know how I feel,” she would say. “Raelynn Blackwell needs to be punished. Doing the right thing is the only way this can end.”

Bernie’s words rang in Marty’s ears now. What if it didn’t end after tonight? What if he still didn’t get his wife back? Why hadn’t she called yet? Was she too upset to talk about what happened? He should have gone with her, made sure she was okay. At seven fifteen, he dropped his head onto the table, too tired to think anymore.