Just Mercy: A Novel (9 page)

FOURTEEN

The back of Marty’s head tapped against the rocking chair’s undulating pinewood carving, keeping time with the antique winged-back’s rhythmic creaking. He gripped the scratched and worn armrests upon which Bernie’s much-beloved Swedish-Norwegian grandmother had once rested her hands and tried his best to pay attention to what Bernie was saying. But his mind kept alternating between guilt—he should have told her his news long ago, but since it was too late for that, he should have at least told her as soon as she got home today—and exoneration—she had too much on her plate already, she was working so hard and was close, very close, to figuring it all out, so it wouldn’t be right to distract her now. He concluded that he should listen to her tell him what happened at Gatesville today, and then he would give her his news. He couldn’t live with himself any longer if he didn’t. It had to be done today, no matter what.

“You should have seen the guard,” he heard her say. “He was this big, burly round-faced guy, don’t you know, just like you expect prison guards to look. He handed Raelynn his own handkerchief, and I swear I could see these big tears in his eyes. Like she was his friend or something. And just when I was thinking how this same man was going to put her back in a tiny cell and strip-search her after we left, Raelynn said, out of the blue—almost like she knew what I was thinking—‘they’re good, hardworking people, Mrs. Baker, they’re just doing their jobs.’”

That caught Marty’s attention. It was just the diversion he needed. He stopped rocking and leaned forward, following the familiar and comfortable road to intellectualizing that lay in front of him.

“Interesting question,” he said, “whether good people can participate in bad things and still remain good.”

“You mean like me still thinking this is the right punishment?”

“No, actually,” he said. “I was associating the death-row guard with Hitler’s Gestapo.”

“Come
on,
Marty.”

“Hear me out,” he said, allowing his thoughts a mind of their own, gladly succumbing to their demand for expression. “The comparison isn’t so far-fetched. As I tell my students, we can begin to fathom how good people can participate in bad deeds when we understand that Hitler’s soldiers who did their jobs by day were still loving fathers and husbands by night. Institutionalized evil relies on the cooperation and support of good people… or on good people turning a blind eye and doing nothing. Like the guard.”

“This is different, Marty. The guard seemed to
care
for Raelynn. All I’m saying is that it seems like his job would be a lot easier if he didn’t.”

He heard the irritation in her voice, and even though he felt bad about once again retreating into philosophy and leaving her to carry the emotional load for both of them, maybe today such avoidance could reasonably be justified.

“Makes sense,” he agreed, but only half-heartedly.

She nodded and he resumed his rocking, resigned to wait until she told him everything, determined not to interrupt anymore, not to spoil things for her.

“Don’t tell Annamaria I said this,” she went on, “but I think Raelynn is a good person. She took good care of her younger brothers and sister.”

“Like you.” He rubbed his chin and refrained from saying what he was thinking, that he was reminded of how crime victims sometimes identified with the aggressor as a way to cope with trauma. But of course he wasn’t suggesting anything like that about Bernie. She was his wife, not a mental-health case.

“Sort of,” she said, “but when Mom died, I still had Dad. And the rest of us had each other. Raelynn lost her whole family.”

The sad look on Bernie’s face made Marty wonder if she had crossed a threshold, had now moved to a place that was beyond his capacity to understand, much less to go to himself.

“You’ve forgiven her,” he said. At least that much he could understand, or he thought he could.

Bernie nodded. He leaned toward her and ran his fingers along the top of her hand, glad he’d heard her out. Now that she’d gotten to the place she’d worked so hard to get to, his news wouldn’t be a distraction.

“So, that’s it,” he said.

Bernie laid her hand on top of his. She looked thoughtful, as if there was more to be said. “I’m not sure. Regis keeps saying it’s a process. He says this work I’m doing is sloppy, sometimes very sloppy.”

Marty felt deflated. What was she saying? Was she going back to Gatesville again? “So… what does that mean?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just want to be done with death.”

Marty’s chest collapsed. “If only we could be,” he said. “If only we could be.”

He grabbed the armrests of the rocking chair and pushed himself up, doing everything in his power to feign casualness so as not to expose the creeping panic he felt inside. He mumbled reassuring things: He had to go to the bathroom. He was going downstairs to get them something to eat. He’d be back in a few minutes. And then, with labored steps, he fled the room.

***

Bernadette switched on the nightstand lamp and lay on the double bed. No wonder Marty needed a break. No doubt everything she’d told him about her meeting with Raelynn Blackwell had been a lot for him to absorb. She breathed in the pungent lemony smell of furniture polish and thought about how she always kept this room in pristine condition, even though it had yet to host a single guest. It had been a breakthrough for her to suggest that they talk in here today—so big a one, in fact, that she hadn’t stopped to consider how hard it might be for Marty to be in the room that used to be Veronica’s bedroom; as far as she knew, he’d never set foot in it since it had been redecorated. That was probably another reason he needed a break.

She glanced at the green and tan striped bedspread. It matched the rest of the color scheme so perfectly that even Annamaria had commented on how sophisticated a guest room they had created. But never once had Bernadette ever considered it anyone’s room but Veronica’s. It didn’t matter that the once-purple ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stars was now a neutral off-white. Or that the hot pink walls Veronica had loved—the hotter the better—were now a stylish pale green. Or that her posters—Madonna with flying red corkscrew curls, the Spice Girls in hot and energetic poses, and Ricky Martin dressed all in black in what Veronica called his “most extreme to-die-for-sexy attitude”—had long ago been replaced by scenes of the Texas Hill Country.

Veronica’s antique cedar chest stood in the corner shimmering like a living thing now in the last rays of the day’s sun. Nine years ago they’d locked their dead daughter’s most precious things in the chest, where they had remained locked up ever since. The chest evoked Veronica’s presence for Bernadette—just what she needed today.

“I think I’ve forgiven her now,” she whispered.

For a fleeting second, she saw the glow-in-the-dark stars back on the ceiling, twinkling down at her. But when she blinked, they were gone, replaced by a sense of uneasiness about something Raelynn had said that day: “If Jesus wants me to see Ma before I die, he will bring her to me.”

But if Raelynn’s mother had made no attempt to contact her daughter before, why would she do so now? Raelynn was bound to be disappointed, and what would happen to her faith then? The question had barely formed in Bernadette’s mind when she knew what had to be done—and that she was the only one who would do it.

***

Marty pressed his back against the kitchen counter. He’d meant to tell Bernie before, and now he would. He had to. Even if it placed an added burden on her. Even though it seemed like she was at some new critical juncture with Raelynn Blackwell. He’d withheld the news for far too long already. He knew Bernie wouldn’t take it well. And not just because what he had to tell her was difficult or she didn’t need more to worry about right now, but because the two of them had promised never to keep secrets from each other, and yet that’s just what he had done.

He gave himself a few more minutes to think, to prepare, before going back upstairs. He told himself to be sure to give her time to react, to not expect her to understand or forgive him right away just because he felt bad about not telling her. But she would understand. Eventually, she would. She always did. Mostly, he told himself not to worry that she would fall apart again. Hadn’t she proven once and for all how strong she was by pulling herself together and finding the bravery and muscular courage to see things through with Raelynn Blackwell? He retrieved a couple of sodas from the refrigerator and put some snacks—slices of apple and pieces of sharp cheddar cheese, a cup of cashews—on a tray. He was ready, as ready as he was ever going to be.

“There you are,” Bernie said as he walked back into the guest room.

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pausing to give himself a few minutes more to gather his courage.

“So,” he said as he lowered himself into the rocking chair.

“I know what to do next,” she said.

To his dismay, Marty realized that Bernie had interpreted his hesitation as an invitation for her to continue with her story. He sat back in the chair and started rocking, not sure if he was glad for or dismayed by the delay, whether waiting a while longer would make it easier or harder for him to tell her.

***

“I have to help Rae now,” Bernadette said.

“Rae?”

She smiled and nodded. “I’m going to find her mother.”

“You
what
?”

“So Rae can make peace with her.”

When Marty reached for her hands and pressed them to his lips as if they were precious jewels, Bernadette sensed a desperation in him that made her stop talking and pay attention.
In the soft glow of the lamp, his cheeks looked sunken and the flecks of gray in his thinning hair much more pronounced than usual. And yet, in the dusk-filled room, the calf muscles in his long, lean legs still looked strong, his body still athletic from years of jogging. Her face flushed with love for him. He was sweet and caring no matter how hard he tried to hide it under all those layers of rationalizing and intellectualizing. There was no one more loyal and devoted than her Marty. He always stood by her side, no matter what. She was sure he would be willing to help her find Rae’s mother now. All she had to do was ask.

“Bernie,” he said, “you know I love you, don’t you?”

What an absurd question. She was about to protest that she had never doubted his love, not even for a second, but something in his face made her hang back. Maybe it was the shadows in the room that made his eyes look haunted. But why was his jaw set so tight? She noted the slowness of his motions when he rubbed his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged. Even though the polo shirt and drawstring shorts he was wearing usually gave him a noticeably youthful appearance, right now he looked every one of his sixty years and more, as if the life had been sucked out of him, just like she’d described him to Rae.

“You’re upset with me,” she said.

“Not at all.”

“You think I shouldn’t try to help her.”

“You need to do what you need to do.”

“So you don’t think I’m crazy.”

“I think you’re courageous.”

“You’ll help me, then?”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said.

“You a burden? But I’m the one who …” Something in his eyes, something she’d never seen before, made her stop again. He bowed his head and pressed his hands together, then brushed his lips with his fingertips the way he used to at Mass when walking down the aisle to take Holy Communion.

“I’m sorry, Bernie. I know this isn’t a good time. You have enough to…” His voice trailed off, and he looked up at the ceiling.

“What is it, Marty?”

A string of scenarios flashed through her head, each one she discarded immediately replaced by an even more frightening one. Maybe he had something more to say about Rae, but what could cause him this much distress? Maybe state budget cuts threatened his position at the university. But that was impossible. He was a full professor. With tenure. And if something had happened to one of the kids or Patty, how would that make
him
a burden?

She frowned and leaned forward, hands on her knees. “Look at me, Marty,” she said, her eyes flashing. “I’m not getting up until you tell me why you said you don’t want to be a burden.”

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Then why has all the blood drained from your face?”

He bit his lower lip. His shoulders rose and then fell. “I don’t want you to worry.”

”Okay, Marty.” She slapped her knees with the heels of her hands. “How about I promise not to worry? Honest. No matter what it is, I will not worry. Just tell me.”

“I know you,” he said, brushing a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. “You’ll worry even if I tell you the treatment is successful over ninety percent of the time.”

“What treatment? For who, Marty? You? Or one of the kids?”

“Prostate cancer is common for men my age.”

Cancer? What was he saying? How could she not have known? She twisted a clump of her hair so hard that her scalp stung and the blood throbbed in her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “How? When?”

“I should have told you.”

When Marty hung his head and his shoulders slumped forward, it was more than Bernadette could bear, and she flew across the space between them and threw her arms around his neck. She felt him stiffen.

“Don’t shut me out, Marty.”

But wasn’t she the one who had shut him out? Hadn’t she been so obsessed with Rae that she had neglected this beautiful man who loved her and who she loved more than life itself? No wonder he hadn’t told her he was sick. No wonder he didn’t want to burden her. She had made him feel that way.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here now.”

His trembling fingers gripped her hair and he collapsed against her, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. She felt the beating of his heart next to hers, heard his halting breath in her ear. Then he gasped and, like the sudden bursting of a dam, began to sob, sounding just the way he had at Veronica’s funeral.