Sweet Mercy (26 page)

“Really?”

“That's what's written about him. More than one of his biographies tells about his conversion, though perhaps even the authors of those books don't believe it themselves, since Al was nuts, after all. It's easy to chalk it all up to a mind gone crazy.”

“So no one believes he really did pray to Jesus?”

“Well, the thing is, he was buried in a Catholic cemetery, in what's considered consecrated ground. The church has a rule that the unbelieving can't be buried there. But they allowed the remains of Capone to be laid to rest beside his father. When one of the Catholic priests was asked by reporters why this was allowed, he explained that the Church recognized Capone's penitence and the fact that he died fortified by the sacraments of the Church. Do you know what his headstone says?”

Sean shakes his head. “No. What?”

“It says, ‘Al Capone. My Jesus, Mercy.'”

Sean studies the elephant in his hand a moment before looking back at me. “So, you mean, you think he went to heaven?”

I smile and pat Sean's hand. “I think God's mercy is big enough for anything.”

Sean takes one last look at the elephant before offering it to me. “No,” I say, “you keep that now. As a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“A reminder that ‘love shall cover the multitude of sins.'”

Sean scratches his head and I laugh lightly. “Someday, you'll understand,” I assure him.

“All right,” he says at length. “But listen, Grandma, hold on to it till we get home. I don't want to lose it. That thing's got to be worth a million bucks!”

Through the open windows comes the sound of tires crunching on gravel followed by a horn honking. “Listen,” I say, “it's Grandpa Charles come to pick us up. Time to go, then.”

I tuck the elephant into the box and ease myself up from the crate. Sean goes about the attic closing all the windows, and when he's done we head downstairs. As I descend to the second floor—one hand on the railing, the other clutching the wooden box—I hear voices again, reaching me from long ago. But this time there are only two. Jones's voice and mine. We are out in the boat on the Little Miami on a hot summer day in 1931.

“You sound like that man who said he believes the law can regulate morality and make upstanding citizens out of everybody.”

“His name is Volstead and that's right, I do agree with him. If people acted decent and nobody drank, this country would be a whole lot better off.”

“You mean, if everyone was as perfect as you, this country would be a whole lot better off.”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, but that's what you meant. You've got a lot to learn about being human, missy.”

Jones was right. And before the end of that strange summer, I had learned what it means to be human.
O God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Sean rushes ahead of me to the suite. In another moment, he hollers, “Hey, Grandma, I found them! I found the bullet holes!”

But I've reached the top of the stairs leading to the front hall, and my attention is turned elsewhere. I am watching a beloved figure climb the stairs. He's not as quick as he used to be, and yet, he still takes the stairs two at a time all the way to the top. His once curly hair is now wispy and gray. His face is wrinkled, his chin slack, his forehead freckled with age spots. But his eyes—those are the eyes of the man I fell in love with fifty years before.

“Hello, Link,” I say.

He smiles. “Haven't heard that name in a while. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I did.” I reach into the box and pull out his badge.

He takes it and turns it over in his hands. “Well, I'll be. Guess I was Link when I wore this thing, huh?”

“I guess you were, yes.”

“I'll be,” he says again. “Those were some interesting times. A man can get himself killed chasing bootleggers, you know.”

“I know. Thank God you weren't killed.”

He nods. “Wouldn't have been able to marry my sweetheart if I had been, and that'd have been a shame.”

“Yes.” We share a smile.

He hands me the badge and I tuck it away. “What else you got in there?” he asks.

“You won't believe me if I tell you.”

“Try me.”

I smile coyly. “I've got an ivory elephant that Al Capone gave me.”

He stares at me blankly a moment before bursting into laughter. “Oh, sweetheart, that's good! And I'm the proud owner of one of his diamond belt buckles!”

Sean runs toward us from down the hall. “What's so funny, Grandpa?” he asks.

“Just something your grandma said.”

“What?”

“She says she has an ivory elephant from Al Capone.”

“Oh, but she does, Grandpa! I saw it!” Sean reaches for his grandfather's hand, and together they start down the stairs. “Let me tell you all about it. See, one summer when Grandma was little she wanted a pair of roller skates, so her daddy bought her a pair, and . . .”

I smile as I listen to my grandson talking excitedly. The Marryat Island Ballroom and Lodge will soon be torn down, but the stories remain. I take one last look around the old lodge before descending the stairs and following my husband and grandson out into the sweet Ohio air.

My special thanks to Colonel Robert Lindsey, retired, Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Office, Louisiana, as well as my next door neighbor and friend, with whom I have shared endless cups of tea. I appreciate the hours you spent instructing me about law enforcement and imagining with me “what might have been” and “what might have happened” in a time neither of us knew firsthand. Without your invaluable input, this book would be completely different—or might never have been at all.

Thanks too to Maggie Lindsey, Bob's wonderful wife, who read the manuscript in rough draft for me. You two are a blessing.

Ann Tatlock
is the author of the Christy-Award-winning novel
Promises to Keep.
She has also won the Midwest Independent Publishers Association “Book of the Year” in fiction for both
All the Way Home
and
I'll Watch the Moon.
Ann lives with her husband, Bob, and their daughter, Laura, in Asheville, North Carolina.

Sweet Mercy

Travelers Rest

Promises to Keep

The Returning

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