Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) (37 page)

She really didn’t understand this girl her son had married. She was like no one she’d ever met, always humming one tune or another; seemingly content to spend her days seated in the straight-backed chair next to Flora’s bed, knitting, sewing, or reading her Bible. Occasionally, she shared a passage with Flora and asked her what she thought about it. Naturally, Flora never had anything to say; she could count on one hand the number of times she’d opened her own Bible. The thing was still like new, its fine leather cover soft and pliable, its pages wrinkle free and clean as fresh-fallen snow. Oh, she believed in God, of course. What good person didn’t? And she faithfully attended church without fail. Again, what good person didn’t? Beyond that, she couldn’t claim to know much of anything about spiritual matters. She’d never seen the importance.

Right at seven thirty, the girl came through the door. “Good morning, Mrs. Connors. How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” she replied, unable to produce a smile. All she wanted to do was go home, home to her quiet house and quiet farm, where no one but a few hired hands hung around. With Virgil Perry gone, she rather liked the idea of living out her days in peaceful solitude. Who needed Samuel? Let him stay away, for all she cared; let him believe his cockeyed notion that she’d fallen down the stairs on purpose. She missed him, yes, but if he planned on throwing her accusatory glares for the rest of her life, then he could just keep his distance. Even as she thought it, she knew she wanted a relationship with her son. Rebuilding it would be the trick.

“Peachy is good. I’m feeling peachy myself. Plus, I have some good news.”

Flora rolled her eyes at the overoptimistic young lady. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Doc says you can leave today. He’ll be coming in soon to talk to you and give you a thorough looking over.”

“Really?” For the first time in a long while, Flora’s chest fluttered with excitement. She tried to sit up, but the pain in her wrists kept her from completing the task. It annoyed her that every little thing she might attempt would require the use of her hands—hands that proved worthless. May as well cut the silly things off, for all the good they did her. At least the rest of her had healed quite nicely: her bruised hip less painful, the bump on her head all but gone, the cuts and scrapes she’d suffered from smacking against the stairs mostly mended, and the headaches caused by the concussion subsided.

“Yes, but…well, there’s something else.”

Worry curdled in her stomach. “May as well come out with it.”

“You can’t go home. Doc Trumble says you’re unable to care for yourself.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course, I can take care of myself. You’ve spoiled me, but once I get home, I’ll figure out a way to make it work.”

“I hardly think that’s possible, Mrs. Connors. Look at your arms. They are completely bandaged up to your elbows, and when you try to use them for support, you wince in pain. Why, you can’t even use your fingers without putting a strain on your wrists. It’s simply not going to work. In time, you’ll go back home, but not till you’re ready and able.”

The nerve! “Who appointed you my boss, young lady? I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t do. I’ll manage just fine.” She knew she’d used a harsher tone than necessary, but she couldn’t help it. What was the matter with her? Mercy had been nothing but sweet to her, and how had she treated her? With ornery, obstinate snobbishness. People thought she didn’t see herself as she truly was, but she looked in the mirror every day, and she knew every ugly secret hiding beneath the brusque exterior.

Mercy brushed right over her words. “You won’t be able to bathe, clean your teeth, cook your meals, feed yourself, dress or undress, make your bed, or do any other household chores. Good heavens, you know as well as I you can’t even use the privy without help.” Mercy sighed, her shoulders slumping. “You can’t go home, Mrs. Connors, and that’s the simple truth.”

Heat rose up her face, not so much from embarrassment as from sheer frustration at having to admit she was right. “All right, then. What on earth do you propose?”

Mercy gave a little backward glance, and in walked Samuel. The sight of him made Flora’s heart take a tiny plunge. “You’re comin’ home with us, Mother,” he announced, as matter-of-factly as if he were telling her today’s weather forecast. “And there’ll be no argument.”

***

At Mercy’s request—order, rather—Sam had moved the sofa out of the front parlor, then gone out and purchased a cot to put there, in his mother’s makeshift bedroom. Mercy had fixed it up to look as such, hauling in a small, unused dresser and setting a vase of flowers atop it, along with a bowl and pitcher, and making up the bed with a set of frilly sheets, a warm, pastel blue blanket, and a floral bedspread she’d purchased at the general store. He’d poked his head in the door earlier that week and said, “She’ll be here only a little while, Mercy. You’re makin’ this out to look like a permanent affair.”

She’d smoothed out a tiny wrinkle in the bedspread, then turned and waltzed past him with a pretty smile. “
‘Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’
” She’d been reciting it so often, he’d learned it himself and had started mouthing it along with her.

Now, here they were, jouncing up East Wood Street toward home, his mother seated between him and Mercy on the wagon seat, her bandaged wrists resting in her lap. Mercy did enough chattering for all three of them, and he was thankful for it, as he didn’t much feel like conversing, so absorbed was he in thought. How would his mother fit into their daily routine? Would the boys drive her batty? Would she drive them batty? How long before they all, including Mercy, had their fill of her? Doc had said it would be a good three weeks before he could remove the bandages and check to see how the bones were healing. He remained optimistic about her full recovery, but it was the getting there that worried Sam.

They pulled into the drive, and Sam waited for his mother to make some negative remark—the yard could stand a few more bushes; the roof looks like it’s sagging a bit on one side; the driveway needs new gravel; the paint is starting to peel from the siding near the peak. But all she said was, “Very lovely house.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

The boys barreled out of the house. “Sam! Mercy! You’re home!” They bounded down the porch steps and ran across the yard to the wagon, their eyes as round as plates and as full of curiosity about the passenger, as if they’d just found a strange object from another world and wanted to learn all they could about it. To date, most of what they’d heard regarding Flora Connors had been negative, despite Sam and Mercy’s efforts to keep their voices down when speaking about her. Surely, the boys must consider her the worst of ogres.

Gladys made her way down the steps, her hand shielding her eyes from the noonday sun. “Hello, Flora. I trust y’r feelin’ better after that nasty fall.”

Sam held his breath as his mother’s gaze shifted to the woman.

“Hello, Gladys. Yes, I’m feeling quite good, thank you, although tired.” His breath came out in a whoosh as another wave of shock shot through him. He threw Mercy a quick glance over his mother’s head, and she smiled back at him.

He turned his attention to John Roy and Joseph. “Boys, you remember my mother.”

They tilted their heads back and scrunched up their faces.

“Kinda,” answered Joseph.

“Is she gonna live with us?” asked John Roy.

Flora chuckled. “Goodness, no. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

“Outta ar hair?” asked John Roy.

“She means she won’t be stayin’ long,” said Sam.

Intending to park the rig later, he twisted the reins around the brake handle and jumped down, then reached up to assist his mother. The move proved awkward with her bandaged arms, but they managed, and he didn’t miss the wince she made when she landed a bit too hard on her feet. He felt bad for not having gotten a better grasp on her. “Sorry, Mother.”

“For what? I’m fine, thank you.” She brushed at her skirts with her bulkily bandaged hands and then walked without assistance up to the house.

“Goodness gracious! Them is big bandages,” Joseph said, his expression one of awe.

Sam blinked in disbelief when his mother actually smiled. “Yes, aren’t they? You can give them a closer look when we get inside, if you like.”

“Would I ever!” the boy exclaimed.

“Me, too!” John Roy chimed in.

It took only a few minutes to get his mother settled. Clearly, she wasn’t ready for any kind of house tour, judging by the weary pallor of her face. Sam entertained the boys while the women discussed a number of items Flora might need Sam to fetch for her from the farm, Mercy making a list. When done, she handed it to Sam, then insisted Flora be left alone to rest. Wonder of wonders, she uttered not a word of resistance.

Reaching his mother’s house, Sam had to admit she kept the place with care, the two-story edifice looking regal with its stately columns and well-manicured shrubs. An unfamiliar wagon parked by the barn piqued his curiosity, but he figured it must belong to one of the hired hands. Since Virgil Perry’s departure, he’d been trying to decide how to proceed with the farm—whether to promote one of the hired hands or to seek out someone new. Since he had no real interest in the place, trying to determine the better course gave him a regular headache.

He jumped down, and as he tethered Tucker to a post in front of the porch, a man emerged from the barn. Sam recognized him as Curtsall Brown, a neighbor whose property bordered the Connors’ land.

“Afternoon, Samuel. You remember me, I hope.” Mr. Brown hurried his steps and extended a hand.

“Yes, sir.” Sam tipped his hat at him, then shook his hand, curious as to what had brought the fellow to his mother’s place. “Good to see you.”

As if reading his mind, Brown gestured behind him. “Been talkin’ to one of the hands. Orville Todd, to be exact.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll get right to the point. First, I heard about your mother’s fall and want to extend my sympathies.”

“Well, thank you. Appreciate it.”

“Second, I heard about the firin’ of Virgil Perry. You want my opinion, I never did trust that man.”

Sam grinned and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “That makes two of us.”

“And, third, I’d like to buy your family’s farm.”

“Really?” That bit of news nearly knocked him over. “Well, you’d have to discuss that with my mother.”

“I understand that, and I will, but I figured since you were here, I’d broach the subject with you, maybe give you somethin’ to ponder. I’m prepared to pay fair value for the house and land. My son and his wife and family are moving back to Paris. They been down in Georgia, where her folks is located, but they want to come north again. They’d live in the house, and my son would operate the farm, although it’d be in my name. We’d work out all the details later. Might be you could mention this to your mother…when the timin’ seems right, I mean. I know how stubborn that woman can be.”

Sam let go a mild chuckle. “You got her pegged. I’ll talk to her about it when the opportunity presents itself. Right now’s not a good time. Frankly, I like the idea, but whether she will remains to be seen. She’s mighty attached to this place.”

The fellow removed his hat and scratched his scruffy head of hair, then plunked it back in place. “I know she is, but she can’t work it like my son would be able to do. You recall Jeb.”

“Yes, sir, I do. He’s a few years older than me, so we never connected much on a personal level. I remember him for bein’ a fine farmer, though, and a hard worker.”

They talked a few minutes longer, and the more they spoke, the more Sam was convinced that his mother would be wise to jump on the offer. The Browns were good people, diligent and loyal. They’d take the farm into the next generation.

After bidding the man good-bye, Sam entered the house through the front door. The familiar place held an unfamiliar eeriness about it, especially when he saw the bloodstains on the floor at the base of the stairs. Someone had wiped them up, but not very thoroughly, and the box his mother had been carrying when she’d fallen lay empty, with an array of books strewn about it. Even though it had been several days, Ruford Medker had pretty much left everything just as he’d found it the day of the accident.

His mother would have a fit if she learned that things still lay in disarray. Moreover, she’d loathe the thought of blood having seeped into the wood cracks to dry there. He was no kind of housekeeper, but he’d have to see what he could do to at least clean up the bloodstains. Sam set the box to rights, then started picking up the books and arranging them inside. They looked mostly the same—leather-bound, with titles in gilded lettering up the spines. When he picked up a smaller volume with a tattered clothbound cover of faded blue paisley print, and no title of any kind, he couldn’t resist investigating. On the first page was written, in his mother’s hand, “1863–1890.” The first entry was simple:
February 14, 1863 – Heart broken beyond fixing. Lloyd and Lewis gone. All my joy and happiness went with them
.

Sam gave a hurried glance at the door, as if expecting someone to come bolting through it to admonish him for reading something so private. And yet the pull to read more tugged at him harder than the obligation to lay it down. He glanced at dates that spanned the next few months and the scrawled messages of gloom, all of which said almost the same thing, over and over.
Miss my precious cherubs. Life will never be the same. No use in living. Can’t find it in me to smile
.
Ernest tries to talk to me, but I don’t want to converse.

He skipped a few more pages, taking him to the first anniversary of his brothers’ deaths, and read several more entries.
Cloudy and dreary today, just like my heart. Ernest has grown distant. I don’t blame him. Samuel has grown taller
.

Samuel has grown taller.
That was it? She’d had nothing more to say about her then four-year-old son? Try as he might, he couldn’t dredge up any memories from that time, nor did he want to. He sat down on the bottom step and went back to skimming pages, all of which repeated the same message of despair. Jumping ahead, he landed on 1876, the year of his mother’s affair with Oscar Evans. His eyes darted busily from page to page, looking for a clue. Finally, he found an odd entry that read,
Can’t sleep. A guilty conscience devours. Soon there won’t be anything left of me
. A few pages later,
Ernest despises me, and why shouldn’t he?
Then, on the next page,
Ernest is seeing her again. Must see what I can do to win him back. No love between us, only our reputations to think about. Poor Ernest
.