A Question of Mercy (19 page)

“No, ma'am,” Jess said. “He offered to pick me up at the train, but I didn't know exactly when I would be here, so …”

“We have two rooms open. You can choose which one you want. Where're you from?” She wanted some kind of explanation.

“Mr. Brennan and my mother were childhood friends. I came here when I was ten, but you probably don't remember me.”

“I do remember a woman and a little girl. I guess that was you then.”

Jess entered a corner room with two windows that looked out over the back of the house. Woods came up within a hundred yards of the back porch.

“Now, where'd you say you were from?” Miss Tutwiler's eyes squinted to inspect Jess more closely. Jess lifted her suitcase onto the bed and felt the sting of this woman's scrutiny. She kept her back to Miss Tutwiler.

“I am so tired,” she said. Jess stood almost five feet eight inches tall. The small of her back had a curved posture that made her appear proud. She carried herself erect, even when tired.

Miss Tutwiler took the hint and closed the door behind her.

All Jess wanted to do was soak in a tub for a long time, wash her hair, and sleep for a few hours. She walked down the hall to the oversized bathroom, filled the big claw-foot tub, and lowered herself into warm water that closed up around her arms and neck and breasts. Jess couldn't believe the dirt and dust that collected in the water. She washed her hair vigorously, soaped herself again, luxuriating, and almost fell asleep in the tub.

After drying off, she slipped on her underwear and borrowed a robe from the back of the door. She heard voices downstairs. In her room Jess lined up her toothbrush and toothpaste, hairbrush, and comb on the counter just above the private sink. She combed her hair, shaking it dry. Her body glowed from the bath, and light had come back into her eyes. Her brows, dark and naturally arched, made her forehead translucent.

She unpacked her suitcase: three shirts, two skirts, a dress, a pair of jeans, a pair of shoes, the pair of old boots she had found (but would throw out now), two coats, socks, and some new underwear, stolen and still unopened.

She placed Sam's letters in a drawer beside her bed, and what came to mind was the first time Sam had removed his fireman's hat. Her cheeks had filled with heat. She felt dazzled by his light brown hair, his blue eyes, his face, serious, important. He had filled the dormitory hall with his presence; but Jess felt struck hardest by his laugh. She had made him laugh and, when he did, his whole face changed. She had thought every eye was fixed on him. And, later, when she returned to the classroom, her math teacher called her to the blackboard to work a difficult algebra problem. She solved it without even trying hard; and she thought,
this is love
.

Jess felt foolish remembering that younger self, which was only last fall, and she wondered about Sam's face now, if the war had changed it. She wondered, too, if she might be ready to call her father and even imagined dialing
the number, but knew she could not bear to hear his sad voice through the phone. Then she lay down and slept the sleep of someone who believed that maybe everything was going to be all right.

— 25 —

A
round six o'clock someone knocked on her door. Jess startled awake. The house smelled of chicken stew, and Jess could hear the voice of Edward R. Murrow on the television downstairs saying something about the war.

A man's voice said, “Jess? It's me, Will Brennan. Miss Tutwiler sent me to knock on your door. See if you want to have dinner with us. I'm glad you're here. And hey,” he said, “an armistice was signed today. The war is over. Did you hear?”

Jess slipped into some jeans and a t-shirt. “It's over?” she yelled. Sam would be sent home. She opened the door. “It's really over?”

“Sure is. It was on the news just a few minutes ago.” Mr. Brennan looked older than she remembered, but he had an amiable face and he walked her downstairs to the dining room, where six people already waited at a big table. “Eisenhower threatened nuclear power. That's what pushed them into the armistice.”

“China had to stop and think, at least. When China came in, we
had
to make a big threat.” Miss Tutwiler touched Mr. Brennan's arm and smiled. He held her chair and sat beside her. They looked like a couple. Two little boys sat on the other side of Miss Tutwiler and she told them to put their napkins in their laps.

Shooter, who was eight, wore a baseball cap that said Birmingham Barons, which he kept turning around on his head. He wanted someone to notice. Ray, almost six, wore a Mickey Mouse shirt. He had a cold and kept wiping his nose on his shirtsleeve. Miss Tutwiler told him to use a tissue, but he didn't.

“Tell us where you got your baseball cap, Shooter,” Mr. Brennan said.

“Rickwood Field,” Shooter said, leaving the cap sitting backwards. “We went to Birmingham and saw them play there.”

“Yeah,” said Ray. “I got one too.” His mouth was full of potatoes.

A young man named Frank O'Malley, who appeared to be not much older than Jess, sat beside Albert Chapin, a professor with a moustache and glasses. The professor talked about the POWs. “That was a real sticking point, you know.” He spoke as though he were teaching them something.

“Frank works at the newspaper,” Will Brennan told Jess. “Think you might get to write something about this armistice, Frank?”

“Not likely.” Frank looked more interested in Jess than the end of the war. He could not take his eyes off her. She was the only one even close to his age in the house. “That's a good color on you,” he told her.

“What?”

“Red. It's a good color on you.” Frank blushed and went back to the subject of war. “Seems strange to end a war without unconditional surrender.”

Rosemary Owensby sat beside the professor. She wore a pink satin dress and had a pack of Viceroy Cigarettes tucked in her belt. She stood and leaned across the table to greet Jess, “I wondered if it would ever come,” she said, one arm held out straight in front of her, as though she had been in charge of ending the war and wanted to be gracious about it.

The table could easily accommodate four more people, and Jess wondered if some of the boarders were absent. She thought of Sam and suddenly, her eyes filled with tears.

“Somebody you know coming home?” Miss Tutwiler asked her.

“Yes, ma'am. I know somebody over there.”

Frank took note.

A Negro woman brought in steaming bowls of vegetables and a huge platter of chicken stew, with two bottles of ketchup to be passed around the table. The honey-colored woman was tiny, probably a little over a hundred pounds, but no one looking at her would think she was anything but capable.

“Zella's been with us for five years,” Miss Tutwiler said. “Best cook in this county.”

Zella smiled, a smile that said she had heard this before.

“Zella Davis,” Will said, introducing Jess to her, “this is Jess Booker. I knew her mother when we were kids. She'll be staying with us for a while.”

Zella nodded to Jess and put the platter down in front of Miss Tutwiler.

“And she already has a job at Honey's. Waitressing,” said Miss Tutwiler. She turned to Will and asked the question Jess had been curious about for years. “Was Jess's mother your girlfriend, Will?”

“I wish that had been true,” Will said, without apparent embarrassment. “No. Day never saw me that way. Then when she met Edward Booker, she never looked at anybody else.”

“Day?” Jess looked at him curiously.

“Everybody called her Day in high school.”

Her mother had a name she didn't know. “Day,” she said under her breath.

“When's your daddy coming back, Shooter?” Zella asked. She turned to Miss Tutwiler. “Mr. Long's not coming to supper again tonight?”

Shooter turned his cap back around and pulled the bill down over his eyes.

“He's still looking for a job,” Miss Tutwiler said stiffly, but she glanced at Will to change the subject.

“Mr. Brennan …” Jess began.

“Everybody calls me Will.” He served himself some stew. Jess wanted to ask about the name “Day,” but didn't know what to ask.

Shooter laughed. “He has a middle name though. Cor-
ne
-lius.”

“You weren't supposed to tell anybody that.”

“
Noblesse Oblige
.” Prof. Chapin taught Latin at the high school, and never let anyone forget it.

“My name's Ray,” said the other little boy, who seemed left out.

“That's a fine name for a little boy,” the professor said.

“I'm not little anymore,” Ray said. “I used to be.”

“You and Shooter are big enough to pull in that bluegill today,” Will announced. You did a good job of it.” Will and these boys were friends, anyone could see.

“Where're you from, Jess?” Rosemary had inherited money that never seemed to diminish. She held her fork in an awkward pose, leaning slightly forward, feigning interest. “Didn't your mother used to visit here with you, awhile back?”

“Yes, but she died a few years ago,” Jess said. “Leukemia. My dad and his new wife took a trip, so I came to visit a friend in Gadsden.” Her words sounded practiced. “I'm from North Carolina.”

“I remember when you were born,” said Will. He turned to the boys. “She was born in a river. You ever heard of that?”

“Gah!” Shooter said.

“And I even remember it,” Jess mused. “I mean, being underwater, everything murky, then breaking up through the water. I remember it like that.”

“Murky,” Ray said.

“That's amazing.” Frank sat up straighter in his chair, and paid attention to everything she had to say. He had been sneaking glances throughout supper.

Rosemary, who defined herself as a kind of social director of Lula, interrupted the talk, “Would anybody like to hear about my plans for the Christmas-in-July party next Tuesday?” The annual summer Christmas party was
always held the last day in July, and had been going on for many years, long before Rosemary arrived at the boardinghouse.

“What's that?” Jess asked.

“Oh, it started with my father when he was running this place,” Miss Tutwiler said. “He did it one year. Seemed kind of silly, but it's been going now for twenty-five years. People liked it. I can't imagine July anymore without it.”

The invitations were sent out weeks ago. Christmas lights and decorations waited in the garage, and ingredients for cakes lay in the pantry. Rosemary had taken over the preparation for the last five years, and though everyone around the table liked the party, they dreaded her military style of planning.

“I need to assign a few tasks.” She held her fork in the air, ready to make a pitch. The satin on her sleeve fell into the stew gravy.

“Not now,” said Miss Tutwiler, who could barely tolerate Rosemary.

“I was thinking that if we …” She knew they would help, but their help usually came at the last minute. She tried to ignore the gravy dripping from her sleeve.

Zella piled dirty dishes noisily onto a side cart. “Peach pie?” she offered. “Who wants peach pie?”

They all did.

— 26 —

T
wo days later the boardinghouse buzzed with talk of Sonny Long and when he might (or might not) come back. He had been gone for almost three weeks. He had left to look for work, but packed all his belongings in the car and had not called home. The boys asked about him every day and cried at night.

“He took all his stuff,” Ray wailed.

“He's looking for a job a long way off,” Will explained.

“But why didn't he take us with him?”

Jess heard Ray's wailing, and came in just as Will was saying, “Your daddy's just down the road somewhere. No need to take you boys with him.”

Frank explained to Jess that Sonny Long had left to look for work before, but he had always kept in close touch. This time he hadn't called or given any indication of his plans. “Miss Tutwiler worries he might not come back at all. The boys' mother left a year ago. Nobody's heard from her.”

“So what would happen?”

“They'd go to the orphanage near Birmingham, I guess. I mean, we don't want that. But Miss Tutwiler says she could get in trouble if she doesn't report it. She might lose the boardinghouse. She's threatened to call Social Welfare.” Frank shook his head and smiled. “Will Brennan says ‘over his dead body.'”

The first thing Jess noticed, and liked, about Frank was the deep tone of his voice. Everything he said sounded true, like a radio announcer. He wasn't handsome, but had a rugged look, slightly mischievous, and he always seemed to know where she was in the house.

“Could they stay here?” Jess asked.

“I think so.” Frank had the look of someone who wanted to ask a question, but was making himself wait. “We all watch out for them anyway. They'll go back to school in September.”

He was nervous whenever he spoke to Jess. Finally he asked. “Who did you know in Korea? I mean, do you have a brother in the service?”

“No,” she said. “Not a brother.”

The next day Miss Tutwiler bought two goldfish in a bowl with pebbles and plants. She did not allow pets in the house: “No cats, no birds, no anything” she had said. But she made an exception for fish.

“I thought you boys might like it,” she said. “Let's keep them here in the hallway so, when your daddy comes back, he'll see them.” Shooter pressed his nose against the glass, and Ray stuck his hand in the water to scare them. “You can name them anything you want.” They named one Goldie and the other one Truck.

Each night the boys looked out the window, hoping to see their father drive up. In the morning they looked again to see if his car was there. When Miss Tutwiler told Will that she had called Social Services, he was furious.