A Question of Mercy (22 page)

Though Christmas-in-July had been over for three weeks, Rosemary continued to brag about its success. The hot month of August had begun and Frank still lingered around Jess. He kept his promise to walk her home each evening from work.

Usually Frank played poker with his buddies on Sundays. They played at a pool hall on Broad Street. He might win twenty or more dollars, and he liked to brag about pots he'd stolen with only a pair of threes, or about a miraculous draw to a full house. But, tonight, he cancelled poker to take Jess to a movie. When he arrived at the diner, he was driving his truck. Jess had put the last of the cups upside down on a paper towel, and was cleaning the grounds out of the coffee pot.

“Let's go to a movie before going back home,” he said lightly.

“I don't think so,” she said. Jess didn't like to admit that she was still rattled by the man in the diner last week. Everywhere she went she looked for him. She felt he was always watching her. “I'm pretty tired.”

“You can do better than that.” Frank laughed. “You can come up with a better excuse, can't you?” He smiled—a long smile.

“What's the movie?” she asked.

“Some Western. Has cowboys.”

“I like cowboy shows,” she said. Adam had dragged her to so many cowboy movies that she had grown to like them. She knew she shouldn't encourage Frank, but she enjoyed his company. One movie wouldn't do any harm.

They drove to the Riviera Theatre in Frank's truck with big tires and a screech in the brakes. He bought tickets, popcorn, and two Grapettes. They sat in the third row.

On the drive home Frank told Jess about the day he arrived at the boardinghouse. “First off, Miss Tut told me to go get a haircut. First thing she said. Then she gave me that ad from the paper. You know, ‘Reporter needed. Training level. Local and regional coverage.' She kept saying ‘You could do that,' until I believed her. She called somebody at the paper to set up an interview. I got the job.” He smiled. “She helped me even though I kept stealing things from her. Vases, ash trays, little stuff.”

“You steal things? Why?”

“Who knows?” Frank laughed. “I take them to a pawn shop in Gadsden, then Miss Tut drives over there and brings them back. Sometimes, she makes me go get them. But,” he added, “I haven't stolen anything since
you
came.”

“So I'm a good influence. That what you're telling me?”

“Yeah. And maybe I could be a good influence on you.”

“Maybe you already are.”

“Jess, what's the worst thing you've ever done?” Frank asked.

“Why? You think I've done something bad? Why not ask what I've done good?”

“Okay. Tell me the good first.”

“Maybe they're both the same thing,” she said. “What if the worst thing someone has ever done is also the best?”

“You're a puzzle, you know that? You dodge questions better than anybody I've ever seen.”

“Maybe you ask too many of ‘em—ever think about that?”

“Have you got something to hide?” he asked. “Because I sure do. I'll tell you. If it hadn't been for Miss Tut, I might be off somewhere hiding in a ditch.”

“She pull you out of a ditch?” Jess chuckled.

“Might as well. I snuck into the boardinghouse late one night. Climbed through the kitchen window and stole a radio and some silver. She caught me, but she didn't call the police. Instead she gave me something to eat, and said that stealing silver was stupid, because this silver had her daddy's initials on it. She gave me a room and told everybody that I was the son of a friend of hers, and that I was looking for a job.”

“You broke in? Had you done that kind of thing before?”

Frank let his hand rest on Jess's shoulder where he rubbed circles with his finger. “After about a week Tut sent me to the newspaper. She knew I'd had three years of college. She told me I'd better give it all I had, and then with my first check I'd pay for room and board. I was a copy boy for a year, then they let me write a few things, and I caught on pretty fast.”

Jess did not respond, and Frank misinterpreted. “You hate me now? I shouldn't have told you about the breaking-and-entering thing.”

“I don't hate you. I like you, Frank, but … you know, I can't stop thinking about that man at the diner. He scared me.”

“Sure. I understand. I do. Listen, I can walk you home every night. I'll be there whenever you get off.”

“Thank you.” Frank was trying so hard that Jess felt she should tell him about Sam, even though the memory of Sam had begun to fade since she had been at the boardinghouse. “Frank, you asked me about the man I know in the service? Well, his name is Sam Rafferty. He's a private in the army.”

“A boyfriend, then?”

“He wants to marry me when he gets back.”

“He might be back already,” Frank said. He tried not to show emotion. “So what are you doing here?” He had moved his hands into his lap.

Then Jess told him about her mother's death, her father who owned two clothing stores, and a dog named Hap. She did not mention Adam, but felt Frank's curiosity pressing on her.

“I'm glad that damn war is finally over,” he said.

“Frank?” Jess asked. “Why weren't you drafted? I've been wondering about that.”

“I don't know why you'd be wondering about that,” he said. “It's a rude question, actually. You think I didn't want to go? Is that it?”

“I'm sorry. I just asked,” said Jess.

“Yeah, you ask stuff, but you don't tell me a damn thing.” He turned the key to start the truck, cranking the motor twice before it started. “Anyway,” he said, “maybe you should find somebody else to walk back with you every night.” They drove toward the boardinghouse without speaking. But Jess was not thinking about Frank. She was thinking about the possible return of the man in the booth. She could not shake the image of the brown-and-white car from her mind.

— 30 —

F
rank and Jess pulled the truck up to the boardinghouse and saw Miss Tutwiler sitting on the porch swing. Frank went inside, still irritated by their conversation. Jess sat on the swing. Miss Tutwiler pushed them back and forth with one foot before speaking. “You haven't seen that man again at the diner, have you? The stranger in the car?”

Jess shook her head. “I'd seen the car before that day,” Jess explained. “It had that
I Like Ike
sticker on the back. But part of it had come off and it said
ike Ike
.”

Miss Tutwiler cleared her throat. “Anybody else see the man?”

“Not really,” Jess said. “But it was the same sticker. That's what convinced me.”

“Lots of those around,” Miss Tutwiler said. “Had a sticker just like it on my own car. Said
I li e
. Cheap glue.” Then she said, “I'm glad Frank's bringing you home, though. He's been here a few years now and I haven't thrown him out yet. Others have wanted me to. Sometimes he steals things. Just little things. I usually get them back.”

“He told me about that.” Jess said. Late evening shadows grew long, and dogs slunk along the edge of the road. Dark would not come until after nine o'clock.

“Just something off the hall table,” she said. “I've told him to stop. He won't. Or maybe he can't, like that disease some people have.” She shifted on the swing. “Will thinks I favor him too much.”

“I wouldn't want him stealing from me,” Jess said.

“He's been better about it since he started working for the newspaper. Did you read the article he wrote in this morning's paper? Pretty good.”

Frank usually wrote pieces about small happenings around town: how kudzu was creeping over the fences by the school, or the problem of stray dogs in the town square. This morning, though, he had reported on the
death of a man who had been living (nobody knew how long) in a nearby barn.

“At first,” Miss Tutwiler said, “I thought it might be the same man you saw, but then this one had been dead a few days already.”

“I didn't read it,” said Jess, “but I heard about the police finding a man under the bridge a few days ago.”

“The man's name was Ezra,” Miss Tutwiler told Jess. “He was a veteran of WWII—shell shocked and wandering around these parts for years. A missing person, but nobody knew where he was from.” She repositioned herself on the swing. “But Frank told me he was working on something even better now. A big story. He wouldn't say what.”

Jess thought Frank might have heard something about
her
, how she was a missing person. She should try to dispel any suspicions he might have. Maybe everybody knew more than Jess imagined.

Shooter and Will came out of the house to join them. “You talking about Frank's article this morning?” Will said. “Ezra jumping off that bridge?”

“Why'd he do that?” Shooter asked.

“I don't know,” Will said. “Sad, I guess,”

“I would never do that,” Shooter asserted. “Would you?”

“I don't think so. I never had that inclination. Guess that's why I've lived so damn long.”

“I'm eight,” Shooter said, proudly. “How old are you?”

“Sixty-eight.”

Shooter grew quiet, thinking. “You said ‘damn.' You're not supposed to say ‘damn.'”

“Sorry.”

A mild breeze had come up. Will settled onto the swing between Miss Tut and Jess. He pulled Shooter onto his lap.

“There's not room for all of us on this thing,” Miss Tut said. Will ignored her.

“When we going fishing again?” Shooter asked.

“Soon. But we have to find a new place.”

“I know a place where nobody goes,” Shooter said.

“I bet you do.”

“And I have a boat!”

“Where'd you get a boat?” Miss Tutwiler asked.

“I found it. It had some leaks, so I patched it up. Went to the hardware store, got some strapping tape and waterproof glue. It still leaks a little, but if we don't stay out too long we'll be all right. Can you swim?” He was looking at Will.

“Yes,” Will said.

They, all four, rocked gently in the swing. Miss Tutwiler leaned her head back. “Last time it got this hot I like to died,” she said, absently.

“Where are the others?” Jess asked.

“The professor's in the kitchen with Rosemary,” Will said. “She made chocolate milkshakes for the boys, and she's teaching Ray some Bible verses.”

“Rosemary and her verses,” said Miss Tutwiler. “Did she put Ray to bed, Shooter?”

Shooter laid his head on Will's shoulder and closed his eyes. He had not cried about his father for almost four days, but he looked on the verge of tears now. They listened to the roar of tree frogs and crickets.

The orange cat with no tail rubbed against Miss Tutwiler's legs. “I hope nobody thinks we're keeping this mangy kitty,” she said. “I have said again and again, no pets.” She stood up and shooed the cat off the porch. “Look at it. Somebody cut that poor cat's tail off.” She held out a hand for Shooter. She would put him to bed.

Jess moved to go in too, but Will touched her arm to make her stay. Jess knew he wanted to say something personal, but didn't know what it would be.

“Life can turn a different direction in the space of a moment,” Will said, looking out across the yard. “What's there one day can be gone the next. I know about that from my own years in the war.” He looked at her now. The swing was still. “I know how you can be one person one day and different the next, and after that you're different for the rest of your life. At least, I was.”

Jess made a sound low in her throat. The whole yard, steeped in the logy heat of summer, wore a circle of sadness.

“I need to tell you something,” Will said, with the tone of a confession. “I've called your father. I told him you were here.”

Jess looked stunned. “He knows where I am?”

“As soon as you got here. I called him so he wouldn't worry, Jess. Forgive me. I don't know what's going on, and he didn't tell me. But I asked him to let you stay here, and I said you would call him soon. Just don't wait too long.”

“I was going to call him.” She sounded defensive.

Will nodded without judgment. He leaned forward to get up from the swing. “That might be a good idea.”

Jess followed Will into the boardinghouse. The day, not yet dark, had ended. A rotten scrap of loose screen hung from the door. The house was quiet, usual for a Sunday—a heavy Sunday lonesomeness hung over all their lives.

— 31 —

C
alder Finney had rushed out of the diner when he saw how scared Jess was, how she had called for help. She accused him of following her, and he guessed he had; but not the way she thought. She had thought that he meant to do her harm. He never meant that. But he had been following her.

On that day in late April, Calder arrived in Goshen and drove first to Edward Booker's house on Dogwood Avenue. He parked across the street, hoping to see Adam, talk to him alone for a little while before going to Cadwell. There were no cars in the driveway. He sat for a moment before he saw Adam run out the front door with a young girl. He presumed the girl was Jess. Jess followed Adam into the woods. Adam seemed excited, though he wasn't smiling. They went towards the river.

Calder got out of the car and followed them through the trees. From a distance he could see they were talking. Adam cried a little, waded into the river, then took off his jacket. Jess spoke to him softly. Calder believed this would be a good moment to interrupt, but as he approached, he saw them embrace. Jess kissed Adam, then gave a little wave as if she were telling him goodbye.

So Calder paused and saw Adam enter the river. Jess called to him a few times—just his name, or saying she was still there, then she went back to the house. Calder returned to his car, and waited.