Sweet Mercy (21 page)

F
or two days I went along with it all. In this dizzying game of make-believe, the lodge was simply a lodge, Uncle Cy stored only canned goods in the cellar, the train from Cincinnati carried no surprises, the gas station sold only gas, and the car wash was clean as a whistle. Any trouble in Mercy, Ohio, was caused solely by wayward chickens and gophers that carried the remains of our ancestors through the streets of the town. Other than that, all was right with our world.

Neither did I have a broken heart, as no one—not Mother, not Daddy, not even Annie—knew about what had happened between me and Link.

For those first two days, while we waited for poor Uncle Cy to bring his dead wife home, we were a family enjoying a holiday. We cooled ourselves in the river. We picnicked on the island with Uncle Luther and the cousins. We played croquet with Cassandra's girls, took them rowing in the boats and drove to the ice cream parlor in town to indulge in hot fudge sundaes.

At night, after the girls were asleep, Cassandra hurried across the hall to my room and, sitting cross-legged on the bed, acted as though we were boarding-school roommates chatting about our lives. She untangled my long braid and brushed out my hair. She suggested I might want to cut it on my eighteenth birthday, as a bob with a permanent wave would make me look more grown-up. She asked if she could paint my face with rouge and lipstick, and so I let her. She turned her head this way and that and stuck out a pouty lower lip as she studied her artwork.

“You've become quite pretty, you know, Eve,” she said admiringly.

“I have?” I held the hand mirror in front of my face and thought how strange I looked with the added color.

“Of course, silly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don't you know that?”

When she idly asked me about going to school at Mercy High, I told her I was enrolled—which I was—and I pretended as though I would be starting there in just another month. We talked about the lodge as though it was my home. We talked about the town as though I belonged there. We talked about my future in Mercy as though I had one.

At times it was a pleasant place to be, this nest of lies. For certain stretches—sometimes minutes, often hours—I could pretend it was all real. Other times, I was amazed at how different the truth of our existence was from the staged scenery we wandered through. I was always mindful that Uncle Cy wasn't the only lawbreaker in the family: Daddy and I were too. Simply because we knew. Jones Five and Ten hung heavy over my head.

Finally, on Monday night, a break in the charade came
when Daddy called us all to the dining room after Effie and Grace had been put to bed. The kitchen was closed till morning and the lighting in the dining room was dimmed, though the tireless ceiling fans whirled faithfully overhead. The numerous windows were thrown open against the heat, and all the night sounds drifted in—the chorus of crickets and tree frogs, the creaking of rocking chairs, and the soft murmur of voices as guests settled on the porch to enjoy the evening.

We gathered over glasses of iced tea, and from where I sat I could see Thomas leaning idly on the front desk, waiting for the phone to ring or for a guest to stop by with some request or other. The tables around us were empty, but Daddy spoke in low tones anyway, as though he feared being overheard.

“I've got something I'd like to talk with all of you about,” he began. He had both hands wrapped around his sweaty glass of tea.

“What is it, Daddy?” Cassandra asked. “Is something wrong?”

Daddy shook his head. “No, nothing's wrong. I've just been thinking, is all.”

“About what?” Mother asked. She cast Daddy a worried glance.

Daddy sniffed and cleared his throat. My heart thumped in my chest. I knew what was coming. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, Daddy said, “I believe we made a mistake, coming here.”

“What?” Mother cried. “A mistake? What do you mean, Drew?”

She looked at me. I looked away, down at the table.

Daddy said, “You know I've never belonged here, Rose. That's why I left all those years ago. When Cy invited us
down, I felt compelled to give this place another chance, especially since I needed a job, but I've decided coming here was wrong. We don't belong in Ohio. We belong in St. Paul. That's our home and I think we ought to go back.”

“But, Daddy,” Cassandra exclaimed, “where will you live? What will you do?”

“I haven't quite figured all that out yet, darling,” Daddy confessed. “I was hoping maybe you and Warren might have some ideas, since you're still there.”

Warren fidgeted in his chair, took a long sip of iced tea. Then he said, “Well, Drew, we have an extra room at our place. You all could stay with us for a time, till you get yourselves settled.”

Cassandra's jaw dropped and her eyes widened a notch, but she said nothing.

“That'd be more than kind of you, Warren—”

“But, Drew,” Mother interrupted, “I'm not sure we should impose.”

“Oh, no imposition, Rose,” Warren rushed to assure her. “After all, you're family. We maybe should have made the offer before you came all the way down here, but we thought your minds were made up.”

Daddy nodded. “My mind
was
made up, but now I've changed it.”

“But that's what I don't understand, Drew,” Mother said. “What changed it? I know we were both hesitant at first, but everything seemed to be going along so well for us here.”

“Rose, there are some things I don't expect you to understand. One of them is how a man feels about being the man of the house and providing for his family. I want to make us independent again. Sure, we'll be beholden to Warren and
Cassandra for a time, but eventually we'll have our own place again. I promise you that.”

A leaden silence followed Daddy's announcement. While I waited for someone to speak, I happened to look at Thomas, who was looking at us. Though he couldn't possibly hear what we were saying, I had the feeling he knew exactly what we were discussing. He impatiently tapped at the front desk with the eraser end of a pencil, as though he wanted us to hurry up and come to a consensus about leaving. I was sure he was beating out the minutes until he could be rid of us.

Mother broke the silence. “Well, I don't know, Drew,” she said. “I mean, you've caught me off guard. I had no idea you were thinking about going back to St. Paul. I don't know if we should. I don't know if it's right for Eve. I simply don't know. . . .” Her words trailed off.

Warren said, “Listen, Drew, I'll ask my father if there's anything you can do at the company. I should think there must be something.”

“I'd be grateful to you, Warren. I'll do anything, anything at all, so long as I can win my independence back.”

Warren nodded. “I'll telephone Dad tonight. We'll get this thing settled as soon as we can.”

Cassandra flopped back in her chair, limp as a rag doll. “Well, I just can't believe it,” she said. “You're all settled in here. You've got jobs here. Now you want to uproot yourselves again and go back up to where you have nothing?”

“We've got plenty there, darling,” Daddy said. “We've got you and the kids, for one thing. We stay down here, we won't get to see our grandkids grow up.”

“Yeah, but
St.
Paul
? What's St. Paul compared to this place? I mean, the island is such a great place to live.”

“It's a nice place to visit,” Daddy said. “But like I say, St. Paul is our home. That's where we belong.”

Mother put a hand on Cassandra's shoulder. “Listen, honey, I can understand if you don't want us staying with you. Maybe we can—”

“No, no, no, Mother. It isn't that. It's just . . .” She sighed and looked around the table. She offered us all a tentative smile. “I guess I'm just surprised, is all.”

Mother frowned at Daddy. “So am I. Why didn't you talk to me about this before, Drew?”

“Honey, I don't know. I guess it's really only been in the last few days that I've known what I want to do. It kind of hit me all of a sudden that leaving—going back home—is what's best for the family.”

Mother opened her mouth, but before she could speak Warren jumped to Daddy's defense. “I understand how you feel, Drew.” He patted Cassandra's hand as he added, “It's just something you ladies can't appreciate, this burden of trying to do what's best for the family.”

I couldn't help it. I snorted out a chuckle at that, knowing full well the weight of Daddy's burden. Just as quickly I tried to look somber, as though contemplating our move.

Still, Mother turned stern eyes in my direction. “What's so funny, Eve?” she asked.

I feigned innocence. “Nothing's funny.”

“I thought you laughed.”

“Me? No, just clearing my throat.”

“Well, what do you have to say about leaving here?”

I sat up primly. “I'm willing to do whatever Daddy thinks is best.”

“It's settled then,” Daddy said, with a look around the
table. “We're going home. We'll leave when Cassandra and Warren leave—”

“But, Daddy, we're leaving next Saturday!”

“That's right, Cassandra, and we'll be ready to go by then. It's not as though we have a whole houseful of possessions to pack up. We can caravan to Minnesota and keep an eye on each other while we're on the road.”

“I agree,” Warren said. “Best if we all plan on going back together.”

God bless Warren for being so agreeable. He made it easy for us to escape.

I felt a little lighter when I went to bed that night. One lie had been mercifully removed. No longer would I have to pretend we were going to go on living in Ohio. All I would have to pretend now—and for the rest of my life—was that, other than Daddy's fickleness, I had no idea why we would ever want to leave such a beautiful place as Marryat Island.

W
arren and Daddy swam with the girls while Cassandra and I sat in beach chairs set back from the river's edge. Between us, on a small wicker table, were two tall glasses of lemonade, the ice long gone. The August sun was a scorcher, its heat tempered only by an occasional cloud or, even rarer, a reluctant momentary breeze.

Cassandra read a
True Detective
magazine while fanning herself with the August issue of
Ladies' Home Journal
. She wore a modest navy blue swimsuit, as modest as my own, but she didn't hesitate to stretch her long sleek legs out in front of her, her painted toes digging in the pebbly beach. Her floppy sun hat hid her face from my view.

I closed Agatha Christie's
The Man in the Brown Suit
and pushed my sun hat high on my forehead. The island was alive with laughter; it was a living, swarming throng of swimmers, boaters, sunbathers, picnickers. Sitting in the midst of it, I felt my rib cage swell with something bittersweet. I loved this place for its visible snapshot of fun and pleasure and rest; at
the same time I hated it for the corruption festering beneath the surface. In a few days, when I left Marryat Island behind, I would take away joyous remembrances, and I would be haunted by terrible memories.

And long after we left this place I would think of Link, and wonder.

“Say, Eve?”

Cassandra turned to me. She'd let
True Detective
fall to her lap, though she went on fanning herself with the
Journal
.

“Yeah?”

“Mother told me this morning about your boyfriend, and I wanted you to know . . . well, I'm sorry. I know how much it hurts.”

I squinted out over the water, trying to imagine how Mother had learned about Link. “My boyfriend?” I asked.

“Yes. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, but . . . oh, I hope you don't mind Mother telling me about Marcus.”

I laughed lightly. “Oh, him.”

“Oh him?” She sniffed. “Well, I can't say you sound very brokenhearted to me.”

I shrugged. “I can do better than Marcus.”

“Of course you can,” she said brightly. “And you have plenty of time to find just the right one. And common sense too. Between the two of us, you were always the one with common sense.”

I frowned at her, but she had turned away to look out over the water. “Just look at that Gracie, will you?” she said, sitting up and resting her elbows on her knees.

For a moment we watched the child as she tried to swim, her long skinny arms turning like windmills, her tiny feet splashing up a squall in the otherwise placid water. She threw
her wet curls back and laughed openly at the sky. It was a song of unspoiled joy.

“She's really growing up fast,” I said. “Effie too.”

“I can hardly believe they aren't little babies anymore. Seems like just yesterday they couldn't even crawl, much less swim.”

“Hmm.”

“It's nice to see the girls having such fun with Daddy and Warren, isn't it?”

We watched the foursome play in the water. Warren's shoulders had turned pink in the sun, but he didn't seem to notice. Daddy was much more at ease today, now that our leaving was settled. He'd come down to breakfast whistling.

“Do you think you'll have more?” I asked.

“More kids? No. Two's enough.”

“Oh. Well, then . . .”

“What?”

“When Gracie was born, didn't Warren hope for a son?”

Cassandra thought a moment, shook her head. “He never said so. He's a wonderful daddy to the girls, both of them.”

Even Effie,
I thought,
who wasn't his own.

“Daddy wished I was a boy,” I said.

She looked at me sharply. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“Well, you know.” I paused and shrugged. “To make up for the one who died between us.”

“That's not true, Eve. I can't imagine how you ever got that idea.”

“It only makes sense.”

“It doesn't make sense at all. When you were born, Mother and Daddy were thrilled. Nothing was ever said about wanting
a son instead. They were just thankful you were healthy and strong.”

I had to let that sink in. “Really?” I asked.

“Of course, silly. I should know. I was there, after all.”

Cassandra reached for her glass of lemonade and took a long drink. She looked thoughtful—and older and more serious than the sister I had left in St. Paul. “You know, Eve,” she said at length, “Gracie is the spitting image of you at age three.”

I studied my niece, smiled at her cherubic little-girl face, her head of blond ringlets. “Really?” I asked again.

Cassandra nodded. “It's uncanny, actually. I look at her and sometimes I think I'm looking at you. I even call her Eve sometimes.”

“You do? Well, I don't know. I can't see it myself.”

“You just don't know what you looked like at three, except for a picture or two.”

“I guess not.”

“But when you were three, I was eleven. Old enough to be aware. Old enough to know better. Sometimes I look at Gracie and I see you, and I feel such terrible shame.”

I cocked my head and my mouth fell open. “But why?”

Cassandra delayed answering by picking up the glass of lemonade and taking long leisurely sips. At last she said, “You're angry with me, aren't you?”

I drew in a breath. I felt my eyes narrow. “Of course not,” I said.

“Tell the truth, Eve. You're angry, and frankly, I don't blame you. I treated you something awful when we were kids.”

“Well—”

“It's just . . .”

“Not always, though. I remember some good times.”

“How could you possibly?”

“Well . . .” I paused to think. “I remember being here, on the island . . . we had fun together. You danced with me when a band came and played in the pavilion. I was very small but I have a vague memory of you twirling me around.”

“Oh.” She leaned back in the chair and sighed deeply. “I suppose I tried, early on. But it was no use.”

“What do you mean, it was no use?”

She shook her head. “I didn't know how to handle . . . well, see, I was eight years old when you were born, and I was used to being the only child. When you came along, I was so jealous. It was as though I became invisible to Mother and Daddy. Everything was Eve, Eve, Eve. I guess, after they'd lost the other baby . . . and I remember that, you know. I remember how heart-wrenching and miserable that was. All the tears! They tried to hide their grief from me, but . . .” She shook her head again and lifted her hands to her ears. “I thought the crying would never stop. And then, after all that, there
you
were. A beautiful, healthy baby. And Mother and Daddy were happy again. And I was forgotten.”

I sat up straight in the chair and looked hard at my sister. “That's not true, Cassandra. They always loved you.”

She drew back one corner of her mouth before looking away. “I know that now. I didn't know it then. So I took my anger out on you, because I considered it your fault. If you hadn't been there, I would have gone on being an only child. And that would have made me special.”

“But . . .” Incredulous, I was having trouble gathering my thoughts. My sister, my tormentor, had always seemed to me
genuinely happy and self-satisfied. And beautiful. And popular. “Cassandra,” I said quietly. When she turned her eyes to me, I saw they were glassy with tears. I understood then what I had never understood before. “You say you were jealous of me, but I spent my whole childhood jealous of
you
.”

“Of me?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“Because you were so beautiful. You had so many friends and boyfriends. I pretended to be disgusted by you, but I wanted to be just like you, and I knew I never would be. You were the swan and I was the ugly duckling.”

We looked at each other. I saw the corners of her mouth twitch, and in the next moment we were laughing loudly together.

“Holy buckets,” she cried. “You mean we spent all those years being jealous of each other?”

I threw up my hands. “I guess so!”

We went on laughing loud and long, until Cassandra started fanning herself again with the
Ladies' Home Journal
. She handed me
True Detective
so I could cool my own laughter. And my surprise and regret at all the hurtful years.

After several minutes, she sighed and shook her head. “You know, Eve,” she said, “we never knew the boy, but I think he affected our lives more than we can imagine.”

I nodded in agreement. “I always felt like I had to make up for his death somehow. You know, do something special to kind of make everything okay for Mother and Daddy.”

“Yes.” Another deep sigh. “And I always felt there wasn't anything at all I could do to make everything okay for Mother and Daddy, because I simply wasn't there anymore.”

After a moment's silence, I said, “Maybe when we get back to St. Paul, we can kind of start over. You know, be friends this time around.”

She smiled at me and nodded. “I'd like that.”

“I wonder whether we might have been friends all along, if the boy had lived?”

“Who's to say?” Cassandra lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe a lot of things would have been different if he'd lived.”

“You know, I've never known anything about him. I'm not sure I would have known he'd been born, if you hadn't told me.”

“You mean, you never heard Mother and Daddy mention him?”

“Never. And I never asked. Did he have a name?”

“Oh yes. They named him after Daddy. Andrew Lyle Marryat Jr. He was born perfectly formed, a perfect little corpse. He never so much as took his first breath.”

A large cumulus cloud covered the sun and cast us into shadow. A couple in a rowboat drifted lazily on the river, he pulling leisurely at the oars, she sitting at ease under a white parasol. I envied them, yet at the same time I wondered whether they were happy or whether there was some gnawing sadness beneath the surface of things.

Daddy lifted Grace to his shoulders and started walking toward shore.

“Cassandra?”

“Yeah?”

“There's a whole world of hurt out there, isn't there?”

My sister nodded slowly. “And then some,” she said.

Daddy came and settled Grace in her mother's lap. Cassandra put her arms around the little girl and held her close.