A Question of Mercy (5 page)

“This isn't right. You are such a good person.” She couldn't go on. Edward was patting her shoulder. “I need you for the wrong reason.” Clementine hid her face in her hands. Edward grew still, as if he were refusing to see what she meant. Everything around them lay heavy with mysterious meaning. He had thought she loved him. Was she saying she didn't?

“I
like
you though,” she said. “I really do like you.” It sounded like a final apology, but she did not pull away. She stayed near him and leaned her face into his neck. Edward sat on the edge of the bed and seemed vaguely insulted, ambushed by her tender honesty. She sat beside him. The whole room rang with aimless and momentary regret.

“Well,” he said. He sounded short of breath, but moved to put his arms around her. They sat like that for a long while until, finally, he lay back and she put her head on his chest. The tension between them drained slowly away.

More than words, Clementine became aware of the rhythm of her own pulse and the weight of her head on him, and she caught a glimpse of the stream of days beyond this night. Then, before they went back to sleep, Edward told Clementine that everything would be okay. He said that he still wanted her, and she laid her head on the pillow beside his. Even in the dark she could see the frame of his face, his eyes looking at her.

He kissed her. “So,” he said. “Maybe you could
learn
to love me.”

At that moment she did.

After that weekend, Edward mentioned the wedding plans to Jess. She knew her father wanted to marry Clementine, but until he spoke to her directly
about the plans, nothing about this new life had seemed true.

Three weeks before the wedding they sat together in the back yard looking up at only a rumor of moon. “You know things are going to change,” he said. He hoped Jess might join his happiness. His laugh, when he spoke, sounded nervous.

“Yes,” she said. “I know. How could I not know?”

“Well? Do you object?”

Jess had not expected him to even consider her objection, but told him that she felt wary of Clementine and suggested that she might be marrying him for his money.

“I don't agree,” he said sternly. Jess suspected that he had already considered that possibility, but knew he was lonely and that the need for companionship would prove stronger than anything else. “I believe she'll be good. For
both
of us.” He sounded apologetic now, even pitiful. “We need a woman in the house, Jess.”

“But why do they have to
live
with us?” she said. “I liked things the way they were.”

“That's what married people do,” he said. “Live together.” Edward was pleading.

She knew she wouldn't change her father's mind, but she asked anyway. “And what is wrong with
him
?” she said. “He's so retarded.”

“I know. I know. But we can give him a real home. Help keep him out of trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Sometimes kids are mean to him. You've seen it.”

Jess had seen her friends make fun of Adam. She was glad her father didn't know how often she joined them. “Uh-huh,” she said.

They sat awhile without speaking. Her father placed a hand on her knee and Jess felt a trace of old comfort. The moon, shaped like a boat, shone through the trees. The yard looked milky with haze and they heard piano music from a neighbor's radio. This new life had no instruction book.

— 6 —

T
o her surprise, Jess had grown proficient in the art of stealing. She could smile and gain the trust of salespeople, engage in conversation, and ask questions about the merchandise—some things she bought, some she just stuck in her satchel. She grew proud of her talent, but not happy with her pride.

Today she had walked along the cinders next to a railroad track. She could see wide fields spreading out below, and birds meddling in the corn. She imagined catching a train, riding maybe to Mexico, or California. She sat down to rest and lifted a letter from Sam out of the satchel. She wanted to think about him.

Feb. 1953

Dear Jess
,

I got the fudge you sent. It was gone so fast, but I shared some with the guys. C-Rations are our only food supply here. The cartons all have 1947 stamped on them and the Chesterfield and Camel cigarettes are so dry that, when you light them, they flame up just an inch before the fire goes out. Chocolate crumbles when you touch it
.

It's been raining for twelve hours straight. We were flooded and our water supply was screwed up for a couple of days. We move out tomorrow. There are so many times when I'm in the field and I really need to talk to you—like tonight after everything is set up and in position, I don't have anything to do but lie here and think. Last night I pulled guard with a guy named Billy Keifert. Sarge told us that somebody in our unit had seen some Chinks hiding down in the valley. Saw them coming up the gully close to where we were. We had a telephone, a 30-caliber machine gun, and hand grenades. Then Sarge ordered us to spray the area with machine-gun fire. Billy started firing. He panicked and didn't let up on the trigger until all his ammo was used up. I was shaking so bad, I couldn't load the next belt. We switched positions and Billy loaded and I fired. We shot so
much that the barrel got hot and bent. Tracers fell right on the ground in front of us. The next day, when patrol went out, they didn't find anything. We cleaned the machine gun and had to put on a new barrel. All this to say I'm still okay, but my head feels full of firecrackers
.

We move again tomorrow, this time to a reserve near Inji. Word is out that we're getting inspected by Colonels and Generals. We'll be there for about a week, then we're going back to the front. I can't tell you where that is. I got a pair of leather combat boots when I came. Now the soles are loose from all this rain and my feet get wet. It's been raining every day—won't ever stop, seems like
.

This inspection will give us time to shave, take a bath, and brush our teeth. We'll have real showers in big tents with boards on the floor. I haven't washed my face and hands or changed clothes in 13 days! You couldn't stand to be near me right now. I wouldn't even let you kiss me. Well, maybe I would
.

Jess smiled. She imagined more letters from Sam being sent to her home, and knew her father would keep them for her. She imagined her father sitting in his chair, waiting for news about her. Clementine would not be able to comfort him.

Jess had already finished the peanut butter won for being Woolworth's hundredth customer. She reached for a can of Vienna sausages and a few crackers, and noticed how hunger had heightened her ability to see and hear, like a predator—or prey. As the sun went down, she sat on a wide log, and ate, then took three photographs out of her pocket. The first one—of herself, age nine, with her mother and dad—was taken at the farm where she boarded her horse, Buckhead. On the day the picture was taken, she had won a blue ribbon. Her father held it up high and could not stop looking at her. Her mother had placed one hand on Jess's shoulder. Jess could still feel the weight of that hand.

Another photo showed her mother and father when they were young, in a way that Jess had never seen them in real life. Her mother wore a small feathery hat and a silky dress. Her father wore a World War II uniform, and though he never spoke much about his days as a soldier, he did speak endlessly of famous generals from the war. The third photo showed Adam, fourteen years old. He stood by himself, without his mother standing near, though she must have been snapping the picture. He had dark hair, curly around his ears and forehead, and round blue eyes. His lips lay slightly open.

She studied each photo before tucking them into her back pocket, where they grew bent and cracked; then she leaned back, trying to remember Adam's voice in her head. She heard, instead, a noise in the woods—the breaking of sticks and brush around her. She startled up.

Someone was coming. Coming fast. The dulled sound of footsteps on leaves. She hoped it might be an animal; but in only a moment two men stood in the open space before her. It was almost dark, but she could see their size as well as their faces. They looked surprised to see her there. One man reached and grabbed Jess's hand, pulling her up from the log. He was young, not much older than she. The other man was older, maybe the boy's father.

“Put your hand over her mouth,” the older one said. He was short, his nose bulbous, legs thick as tree trunks.

“She's not even screaming,” said the boy, who was mildly pleasant to look at.

“You got any money?” the older man asked.

Jess shook her head, her hands trembling. She wondered if she should break away and run. She was afraid they could catch her.

The young man stood close enough for her to smell the odor of his cigarettes and sweat. He was a little taller than the old man, and his shirt, too small, reached above his pants buckle. The cuffs of his pants were rolled once and muddy, his shoes caked with thick dirt clods.

“Maybe we should take her with us,” the boy said. He grabbed Jess's arm.

“We can't fool with her. We got to get going.” The man had a gun in his hand, and he kept looking around. Someone must have been chasing them. “We got to go, Hull.”

Jess abruptly disengaged her arm from the boy. She pulled the pair of Woolworth's scissors from her pocket and swung towards him with the sharp end. She cut his hand, not bad, but enough to bring blood.

“What's she got? A knife?” the older man yelled.

“Scissors,” said the boy. He stepped back from her and held his arm. She still had not said a word or made a sound.

“What's the matter with her?” the boy said. “She can't even speak.”

“Just as well. A retard.” The older man turned to Jess. “Can you speak?”

Jess shook her head no. Her hair lay flat, knotted and full of brush. She opened her mouth to make a deep hollow sound in her throat, imitating what she had heard animals do in times of stress. She couldn't help the hacking coughs that followed.

Both men moved away from her. The older one spat deliberately. “Leave her,” he said.

The boy seized Jess's wrist again. “We could …”

“Don't be a fool, Hull. No telling what kinda disease she's got. C'mon, or I'm gonna shoot you, too.”

As they hurried off, Jess was aware of the quick flicking glance the boy gave her before he moved in step behind the older man. She was aware of her
lack of strength against these men, and knew she had to move more quickly toward somewhere safe. She took a long breath.

They had thought she was like Adam—without a good mind—and they were frightened. She thought of people in Goshen who had been frightened of Adam, who crossed the street to avoid him. A mother warning her child, “Don't wave at him. Don't look at him,” as they passed Adam's eager face.

Now, she had frightened these men with her silence. Adam's way had saved her. Thank you, thank you, she said to no one. She gathered up everything she owned. She could see some blood on the scissors, wiped them clean on the grass, then stuck them into her coat pocket.

Jess felt that she had opened a dark window and climbed out into a foreign world. She prepared to leave. She had to put more distance between herself, these intruders, and what she had left behind.

— 7 —

O
n the day Adam was born, Calder Finney passed out cigars like a carnival barker. He bragged to everybody that Adam weighed eight pounds, four ounces. He told complete strangers.

Clementine had lost her first baby (also a boy) when the umbilical cord wrapped around the neck of the fetus. The baby died only a few minutes after birth; but the birth of Adam was long and arduous until, finally, the doctor used forceps to pull him out and Adam's head, for a few days, was misshapen. Nobody mentioned brain damage at the time.

Adam was a beautiful child, with long lashes and a mop of dark hair. During those early years, Calder took him everywhere; but as Adam's lack of progression grew evident, Clementine took him back to the clinic where he was born.

A doctor suggested that Adam be tested and have some X-rays. Adam was three. They stayed several days in a motel, and both Clementine and Calder went with Adam to everything, pretending it was all a kind of game. On the third day the doctor said that they had found some brain damage. “A subdural hemorrhage—probably at birth, or maybe even before.” He said that Adam would always have the mind of a child. He could never live independently. Another doctor urged Calder to make financial plans for Adam, so that he would be cared for if something happened to them. But Calder refused to admit that Adam wasn't going to be a normal boy. He continued to take him fishing and to ball games. He even coached a Little League team, and let Adam play.

For six years they struggled to teach Adam how to walk and talk, how to drink from a cup, and eat with utensils; and though Adam achieved some success, the learning curve had been steep. When Calder coached the Little League team, he worked every day that summer teaching Adam to hit the ball, catch, and throw.

“Look, he can run. Clementine, you're worrying for nothing. He'll do fine in school. You wait and see. He loves for me to read books to him.”

“Calder, he doesn't understand what you're reading.”

“You don't know that.”

But Clementine did know. Adam's body was developing into a healthy specimen, but his mind lagged behind; and though he entered the first grade in September of his sixth year, he attended for only one term.

The first grade teacher taught the children about rivers (with turtles, catfish, and bluefish) and about oceans (with whales, sharks, starfish, and crabs). That fall Adam began to dream about the sea. He imagined he could live on the ocean floor, put on his socks and shoes, and run around underwater, chase bluefish and turtles—make them do tricks like a dog. He believed that someday the ocean would live inside him, inside his head and arms and legs. He thought he could grow into that bigness. He had dreamed it. When Clementine said, “No, it's not like that,” Adam insisted that he could swallow the ocean whole, eat it like a cookie—all the fishes and conchs, all the starfish and tiny shells. He knew that rivers went to the sea. He thought his dreams were true.