Sweet Mercy (23 page)

We spent a few awkward seconds staring at each other, each waiting for the other to say something. Then I blurted, “So tell me. What is it?”

He fidgeted, shifting his feet on the pebbly beach. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, though he finally settled on hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his worn tan slacks. “I don't know how to say it, so I'm just going to say it.”

I waited.

He drew in a deep breath, all of which rushed out as he said, “Come Saturday night, I want you to be in your room by ten o'clock, and once you're there I don't want you to come out again until morning.”

Just as quickly as he started, he stopped. His jaw snapped shut and beads of sweat broke out along his brow, as though his announcement had raised his temperature and ignited a fever. For a moment I didn't respond, but then a loud sharp laugh escaped me that surprised us both. “What are you talking about?” I cried.

“I can't explain but—”

“You want me to go to my room on Saturday night and not come out?”

“Yes. I can't explain, Eve, but—”

“Well, it just so happens that I'm not going to be here on Saturday night because we're leaving Saturday morning.” As soon as I spoke, I gasped and raised a hand to my lips. But it was too late; the words were already out in the open.

Link frowned so deeply all his features seemed to gather at the center of his face. “You're leaving on Saturday?”

I nodded hesitantly.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I lowered my hand from my mouth. When I spoke, it was in a whisper. “We're going home. When Cassandra leaves, we're going back with her.”

“You're going back to Minnesota?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Why are you going back?”

I didn't want to lie but I had no choice. “Daddy wants to go home, is all. He's not happy here.”

His eyes spoke of disbelief as his face reddened. “Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?”

“I . . . I don't really know, Link.”

“When did your daddy decide to leave?”

“Some days back. About a week ago, maybe.”

“Well, were you ever going to tell me or were you just going to disappear?”

I shook my head. Tears pressed against my eyes. I couldn't answer.

Link looked aside and kicked at the stones at his feet. When he looked back at me, his eyes were steely. His mouth twitched. “Maybe it's for the best,” he said. “Good-bye, Eve.”

He turned and left before I could respond. Through my tears, I watched him walk away, a lone figure moving in waves across the island.

I
spent Friday saying good-bye. Good-bye to my room, to the view out the window, to the green lawn where the guests lounged and strolled and played croquet. Good-bye to the dining room, the front porch and its rocking chairs, the footbridge arching over the narrow tributary to the island. Good-bye to the island itself, the pebbly beach, the vast cool waters of the Little Miami, the boats and picnic tables, the pavilion and the dance floor. Good-bye to ghosts and good-bye to memories. Good-bye to the dream of a safe place. Eden's gates were locked and the key was beyond my reach.

Good-bye too to Annie Tweed, as we stood together at the sink, washing and drying the lunch dishes.

“Shame you have to go, child,” she said. “I'll miss you.”

“I'll miss you too, Annie.”

Did she know why we had to go? After all, Morris knew. He'd been the one to find it, the bottle of Scotch in the box marked canned peaches. I studied Annie's face to see if there was any knowledge there, but it was impossible to tell.

“It's been real nice having you here, having you help around the kitchen.”

I nodded as I wiped a plate with a dishcloth. “I'm glad I could be of help, Annie. I wish we could stay.”

“Well, you'll be back to visit us, I suppose.”

“I guess so,” I said, though I knew we'd never be back.

She was scrubbing a pot, but she paused and looked out the window at the stone wall. “Someone else going to miss you, Eve,” she said, “'sides me.”

Though there was no one there now, some of the men from the camp had gathered by the wall at lunchtime. Link had not been among them.

“No,” I said, “I don't think so. Anyway . . .” I shrugged, lifted the plate into the cupboard. I didn't want to think about Link.

“Shame you have to go,” Annie said again.

I nodded. We finished the dishes in silence.

That night I packed my suitcase. I laid it open on my bed and folded my clothes into it. I tucked in my photographs and scrapbooks. I lifted my treasure box from the dresser and, without opening it, held it in my hand for a moment. I didn't want to look at what was inside: the elephant from Al Capone, the brass ring from Marcus, the St. Rita medal from Jones.

I would say good-bye to Jones in the morning. I would say good-bye to Uncle Cy too, though I would refuse to look him in the eye. It would take me a long time to forgive him, if ever.

Latching the suitcase, I set it aside. I would finish packing my few belongings in the morning. Now, it was time to sleep. We would pack up the cars and be on the road by daybreak. We had a long hot trip ahead of us, and I wanted to be rested.

When I awoke, the room was full of light. There was a moment of panic, the sense that something was wrong. My first incoherent thought was that I'd slept through Mother's knock on the door and the family had left without me.

I scrambled out of the bed, threw on my robe, and glanced at the clock. Almost eight already. I rushed through the bathroom to Mother and Daddy's room. The bed was made. No one was there.

Throwing open the door to the hall, I hurried out and rushed nearly headlong into Cassandra, who was carrying a glass of something in each hand. “Slow down, Eve,” she snapped. “You almost drenched me in Coke.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

“The girls have been sick all night. Fever and vomiting, both of them. Obviously, we're not going to be going anywhere today.” She sighed and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of one hand. She was dressed in the clothes she'd worn yesterday, and I suspected she hadn't slept at all.

“What's the matter with them?”

“I don't know. The doctor's on the way.”

“Is anyone else sick?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Not that I know of. Listen, I'd love to stay and chat but I've got to get back to the girls.”

“All right. So—” I wanted to ask her what I could do to help, but before I could get the words out she'd already stepped into her room and closed the door.

I went back to my own room to get dressed. I suddenly had
one more day to say good-bye to everything all over again. It made it all seem rather anticlimactic.

Dressed, with hair pulled back into a braid, I went downstairs to breakfast.

The doctor decided the girls were suffering from a simple case of stomach flu. He said to keep them comfortable, cool and hydrated, and they should be able to travel in a few days.

We were relieved it was nothing more serious, but we were all annoyed with the doctor's prognosis of “a few days.” By now, we were ready to go, and no one wanted us gone more than Uncle Cy. He didn't say as much, but I could tell by the look on his face when he got the news. On top of that, he let off the deepest sigh I'd ever heard. As far as Uncle Cy was concerned, the longer Daddy and I were there, the greater the chance one of us would slip up and give the secret away.

Mother and I spent the day taking care of the girls while Cassandra and Warren napped in Mother and Daddy's room. We kept the girls cool with cold compresses draped across their foreheads. We encouraged them to drink water and juice and to nibble on soda crackers. By midday, the nausea had largely passed, but both Effie and Grace were weak, tired, and cranky. Mother tried reading from their favorite storybook and singing lullabies and hymns to lull them to sleep, which they did fitfully for short periods of time. I was appointed the task of running back and forth to the kitchen for whatever they needed.

Late in the afternoon, I was searching the Frigidaire for something soft for the girls to eat when I heard Morris's truck crunching over the gravel outside.

“About time Morris got back from the train station,” Annie said. “Must have had a big load of supplies come in today.”

I found a bowl of strawberry Jell-O and shut the refrigerator. “Can I take some of this to the girls?” I asked.

“Sure you can, honey. Whatever you need.” She stood at the screen door, looking out. “Your Daddy's out there helping Morris unload the truck. Think I'll take them both a nice cold glass of lemonade. Hot day like this, I'm sure they could use some.”

When she stepped to the refrigerator, I moved to the door and peered out through the screen. Both Daddy and Morris were hauling crates off the truck and stacking them onto dollies. More supplies to be rolled down to the cellar for storage. I wondered if any of the crates were marked canned peaches. Or maybe the men in Cincinnati packed the stuff in different boxes this time? Maybe that was part of the code picked up by Jones when he listened to the bedtime stories. Maybe the information that came in over the airwaves was not just about when a shipment was coming in but how the crates would be labeled. Today, canned peaches. Tomorrow, cooking oil or applesauce or canned sardines.

Annie hummed to herself as she poured the lemonade and carried it outside on a tray. She couldn't know, of course. No, Morris surely wouldn't tell her. Morris would see, hear, speak no evil, and Annie would go on living in sweet ignorance of what went on beneath our feet.

I dished up the Jell-O in two small bowls and put them on a tray with spoons and napkins. Just as I turned away from the counter, Jones stepped into the kitchen. When he saw me, he stopped short. His eyes widened.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you left this morning.”

I shook my head. “The girls are sick with the flu. We can't leave until they're better. No one told you?”

“No. I've been working at my desk all morning. I didn't know.”

“Seems like Uncle Cy should have told you.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn't tell me much.”

“Anyway, I wouldn't have left without saying good-bye.”

He walked to the refrigerator, trying to look nonchalant. I knew there was something on his mind.

“What's the matter, Jones?” I asked.

He shrugged as he pulled open the refrigerator door. “Nothing. I . . .”

I waited a moment. Then I said, “You what?”

He grabbed a bottle of milk and shut the door. “So you're not leaving today?”

“No, we can't. Like I said, the girls can't travel right now.”

His mouth disappeared into a small tight line. He walked to the screen door and looked out. Annie was lingering by the truck as the men drank from the glasses of lemonade. Jones squeezed the neck of the milk bottle so hard I thought he might crush it, the glass breaking into a dozen pieces in his hand.

He turned back and looked at me. Our eyes met. We both knew what came in such shipments as that one. Neither of us would speak of it.

“Eve . . .”

“What is it, Jones?”

He drew in his breath; his jaw worked. Finally he said, “Just stay safe, all right? I mean, on your trip home.”

“Um, sure.” I frowned. “I'll tell you when we're leaving.
It'll probably be Monday, maybe Tuesday, but I'll let you know. So we can say good-bye.”

He nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, all right.” He glanced at the tray in my hand. “I don't mean to hold you up.”

“It's all right,” I said. “Though I guess I'd better get this to the girls. I'll see you later, okay?”

He nodded. He didn't move. I felt his eyes on me as I walked out of the kitchen into the dining room. At this time of day the room was usually empty, but today four men were gathered there, two of them playing what looked like poker at the table closest to the front window. A third man with a droopy moustache sat at the table with them while a fourth, smoking a cigarette, stood at the window peering out over the lawn where the croquet game was set up.

The man at the window pulled the cigarette from his mouth and laughed abruptly. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” he said, “The old man can't hit worth a hill of beans, that's for sure. The little lady's got him beat by a landslide.”

He laughed again as I tried to make my way through the room unnoticed. I was only a few steps from the front hall when the man with the moustache snapped his fingers. “Hey, miss!” he hollered. “You work here?”

I gritted my teeth but tried to smile as I made my way to the table. “Yes, I work here. Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Would you mind bringing us something to drink?”

One of the men playing poker must have seen the alarm in my eyes. He jumped in and added, “Water. He means water. Can you bring us a pitcher with ice? It's hotter than blazes today.”

I looked from face to face and nodded. “I'll bring you some.”

The man at the window crushed out his cigarette on the sill. “That man couldn't hit the side of a barn from a foot away with that croquet ball!” He followed up his announcement with an expletive that underscored his amusement.

“Hey, Bert.” Moustache man frowned at cigarette man and waited for him to turn around. “There's a lady present.”

Cigarette man looked at me sheepishly and cleared his throat. “Beg your pardon, miss.”

“That's all right,” I said, though I hoped he heard the disdain in my voice.