Mercy Road

by Ann Howard Creel

  He said, “We’ll rebuild the house. A smaller one. I’ll take care of the horses.”

  “Luc.” I swallowed and tried to fortify myself. “We have no money to rebuild a house, not even a smaller one.”

  My stomach churned acid. Worry about money was new to me; I’d never had to concern myself about it. In fact, I’d never faced a serious problem, especially one that only I could solve. I had to push all the pain and loss to the periphery and put practicality in the center.

  I said, “We need a different plan.” Luc sighed and then held still for a moment. “We still have Chicory.”

  He was correct about that, of course, and we probably had breeding contracts in place for the next month or so, but Papa’s schedule had burned in the fire, and no one had made contact. Our customers most likely thought it kind to breed their mares elsewhere and not bother us during this sad time.

  I said, “We need a place to live. We can’t count on the Edwards family’s charity much longer.”

  Mr. Patterson had whispered to me before we’d left his office: “Let me give you a small but important piece of advice. Don’t tell anyone about your situation unless you have to.”

  I’d turned to him in shock. What others would think hadn’t even occurred to me. And yet a certainty in the truth of his words coursed through me then. Patterson knew what he was talking about.

  He probably thought we’d sell the land and move on, most likely to Montreal to Papa’s family, and that we’d make haste without revealing anything other than a desire to live closer to family now. But both my grandparents had weak hearts and hadn’t had the strength to make the journey to see their son buried. We had visited them in the past, but their house felt nothing like our home. And I had no knowledge of their finances; since retirement my grand-père and grand-mère had probably lived on savings. Besides, Papa would never have wanted his parents to know he’d left his family destitute. Maman’s parents had died early, before Luc and I ever knew them, and she had only one brother, who was but a clerk in Lexington.

  Luc turned to face me, leveling a questioning look that seemed to ask What?

  Even though I hadn’t handled the bank accounts, I’d placed orders and calculated fees. I’d gone to the feed store and tackle shop. I’d paid for business luncheons. I’d done enough to know what things cost. Luc and Maman knew nothing. I braced myself and said, “We might have to . . .” Then I couldn’t say the words. It had never occurred to me that I’d do anything other than live and work here.

  Luc must have thought the same thing. “We aren’t selling the horses.” By then we owned only one stallion and three broodmares. “We can still stand Chicory at stud and breed the mares.” One of our mares, Mary Blue, was in foal, but most likely this would be her last time.

  I kept my voice steady. “And what do we live on until then? Chicory’s fees have fallen, and even if Mary Blue’s foal is a beauty, we won’t get much for it. If we breed the others, they won’t foal for a year. We won’t have enough . . .” I glanced back toward the house’s remains. Although painful to look at again, they showed the truth—the truth I wanted Luc to accept, too.

  Both hands clenched on his hips now, he said, “Maybe we can still get the stallion.”

  “CC?” I shook my head. Still too young, he couldn’t see what I’d started to see.

  “Can we get a loan?”

  I shook my head again. “The banks ask for collateral. And we have nothing.”

  “Dash it all! We’re not giving up what’s left of Papa’s dream!”

  I’d rarely known Luc to raise his voice. His dogged determination came close to desperation. My brother had rarely known friends. Our society looked down on those like him, who lacked some skills, such as the ability to make small talk and play silly games required at lawn parties, and who would rather face the gallows than dance. He fit here and only here. He said, “You and Maman can stay with friends. I’ll stay with the horses. We won’t even need a stable boy.”

  That gave me pause. I moved closer and stroked Chicory’s face, then looked into the black depths of his eyes as though I might find answers there. But I saw only the kind of boundless spirit that all horses hold inside.

  Luc’s idea had not occurred to me as an option. But Papa had once built some small living quarters back behind the mares’ stables; our help had slept there during busy seasons, especially when we expected a mare to foal. A woodstove inside kept it warm during winters. Luc could live there like a stable boy . . . and his suggestion made sense.

  As I pulled in a deep breath, what remained of my childhood self floated away. You’re the oldest, I told myself, and you will have to make the hard decisions. “Luc, listen. Friends will grow weary of us. People will pass us around like a bad cough. I need to move Maman into a room in town. That takes money.”

  “What about the life insurance?”

  “I don’t know when it will arrive. For now we have to sell something.”

  “Not one of the horses.”

  “Then what?”

  He gestured with his hand and cocked his head toward the door. Outside, the Chevrolet stood. “The motorcar.”

  I supposed we could sell it.

  He said, “We’ll still have the Lizzie.”

  I’d always preferred the old girl myself. Papa used it as a farm truck and had taught me to drive it as soon as I could reach the pedals and peek over the steering wheel. But even if I sold the car, the money from its sale would run out. The life insurance money would run out. The bank account would empty. We had to support ourselves. I couldn’t imagine Maman working, and Luc had to stay in school. I would have to work, although I would surely face opposition. People spoke of women working as though it were a curse word. But I had to move past those beliefs; I had to graduate from the school of societal expectations.

  So I would get a job, and if Maman and I took a room downtown, I could walk to my place of employment. I wondered if Patterson would employ me in his office. Perhaps Luc and I could continue working with the horses, but I needed income we could count on while waiting for stud fees to come in or for a mare to foal.

  “You’ll have to come out here,” Luc said, “to help me sometimes.”

  I’d never known that Luc had such a persuasive side. Of course he could handle most of the work on his own, even though as the summer heat approached, the chores would intensify. Horses sunburned easily and needed frequent watering to keep flies off. The stallions and the mares could never mingle; always they must keep to their own stables and fenced pastures. The mares usually went out in the morning, and the stallions went out at about 1:00 p.m. and could stay out until dawn on quiet nights.

  But we had to move the horses inside if storms came. They had to be groomed, fed, and watered. We ordered hay from others, and those people weren’t going to give it to us for nothing. Furthermore, it took four men in our breeding shed to bring a stallion and a mare together safely—two to hold the mare into submission and two to handle the stallion as he mounted. Even with my help, we would have to hire men during breeding season, which typically ran February to July.

  I said, “I’ll find some work in town.”

  “And I’ll start getting contracts to stud Chicory next year.”

  I wondered how much demand would remain for Chicory. Now we could be perceived as bad luck.

  “What kind of work?” he asked.

  At a loss again, I lifted my hands. “What a very good question.”

  I had received a good education, but I had never worked outside the stables. I had never taught a class. Maman played the piano and had wanted to teach me, but I’d never let myself be bothered. So instructing in a school or teaching music, perhaps the most reputable of the female professions, stood outside my reach. I had no secretarial skills. I had no medical training. What could I do?

  Luc must have read my mind. “You’re a horsewoman, Arlene.”

  Yes. I loved the animals and rode expertly. But I’d never trained a raceho
rse—typically men took those jobs and possessed those skills. I’d observed the breeding process but had never assisted. The process was rather brutal; the men had to tie up the tail and one of the mare’s legs so she wouldn’t instinctively kick and injure a valuable stallion. Papa had padded the walls inside our breeding shed because maidens often fought. My father hadn’t wanted me directly involved. I could care for horses as well as any stable boy, but I wasn’t a stable boy. No one would hire me for that, and besides, Maman would be mortified at the thought.

  One thing, however, became clear: the townspeople would definitely know of our plight, even if Cross and Patterson remained silent. I relived my last conversation with Olive, during which she’d pulled dresses from her armoire. When she suggested we visit the tailor in town to order me a new wardrobe, my heart seized. Of course she had no idea.

  Growing up as fortunate girls about the same age, our companionship had evolved rather naturally. At one time, we’d dreamed of marrying brothers or cousins so we would share a family. I pretended to like her dolls, and we pledged to have babies at the same time so our children would grow up as friends. As teenagers our friendship involved taking the Paris–Lexington Interurban, an electric railway, to Lexington for lunching and shopping, or playing tennis wearing our lacy dresses and button boots on her family’s court. Our time together had been enjoyable, but I’d eventually returned to my horses, and Olive started courting, married early, and married well. Looking back, I couldn’t remember feeling truly close to her. But she thought we were. “What is it, Arlene?” she’d asked me with worry lines across her forehead.

  “N-nothing,” I’d stuttered and placed my hand on the back of a chair. “Forgive me, but I can’t imagine doing something as frivolous as buying a new wardrobe right now.” Although that was true, it wasn’t the entire truth. I no longer had money for clothing and needed to make the small amount left in the bank account last as long as possible.

  She said, “I understand; of course I do. I’ve always cared for you, and I always will.”

  I looked her squarely in the eyes. “No matter what?”

  She appeared confused. “What do you mean, ‘no matter what?’”

  My thoughts returning to the present, I looked up at Luc and shook my head. I wondered how many friends he, Maman, and I could count on after I became a working girl.

  You’re a horsewoman, Arlene, my brother had said, as if the declaration alone held the power to pull me back. But for the time being, I could no longer think of myself as a horsewoman, and my heart took a leaden fall at the thought. I lacked the courage to borrow Olive’s equestrian attire, so I hadn’t ridden a horse since the fire. My friend was handsome and smart but not always attuned to others. She meant well, but I would have to ask for everything. And so I didn’t.

  I said to Luc, “I’ll come up with something.”

  Looking relieved, he nodded. “Next time we come, I’m staying put.” He pointed behind him. “You wouldn’t believe what’s stored in there. I’ll make do.”

  Fine, I thought, but he had to have provisions. Food for him and feed for the animals. Veterinary care. Gasoline for the farm truck. Maintenance on the stables. I looked down at my feet. Dust and pieces of straw stuck to the very thin and supple leather of the lace-up boots that didn’t belong to me. “I’ll sell the car. Even though Papa loved . . .” He had called it “mon bébé.”

  Luc lowered an eyebrow. “He loved the horses more than he loved that car.”

  I nodded. Sometimes Luc and I could communicate with simple gestures—talk exhausted him eventually—but this day begged for spoken words and decisions. “You’re right. You stay here, and I’ll see to Maman. And some job will materialize for me.” I really had no reason to believe that. The automobile’s popularity everywhere had put liveries, wagon makers, blacksmiths, coachmen, and teamsters out of work. Even with more men joining up for the war every day, many skilled male workers had lost jobs and sought new ones.

  Luc turned away, then started stroking Chicory again.

  On the drive back, he reached over and touched my cotton-gloved hand. His version of an apology or a gesture of support. I glanced his way and witnessed the beginnings of the kind of strength Papa had. But I also noticed his lip quivering.

  Three days later in Maman’s bedroom at the Edwards residence, I told her the plan Luc and I had agreed to. I also told her I’d sold the Chevrolet and let a room for the two of us in town at the Fordham Hotel. She surprised me by offering no resistance. Standing in front of a window that streamed light through its sheer curtains, she looked like a dark angel with her back to heaven. She quickly swiped at her face with a linen handkerchief and asked, “When shall we go?”

  “Tomorrow,” I answered. “They keep a piano in the gathering room. You might play it sometimes.” Maman missed her music; now and then, her fingers fluttered like wings in her lap as if she played the keys. I thought the piano would make her feel better, but she didn’t respond. “As soon as I get you settled, I’ll look for work . . .”

  Her face paling, she finally asked in a pained whisper, “Is our situation that loathsome?”

  Slowly, I made myself nod.

  She pulled in a shaky breath. Her eyes held the stunned blur of a stolen life, but I could see resignation there, too. Before the fire, my mother would never have stepped outside the front door, even to sit on the porch, unless her dress looked perfect, her hair meticulously styled. No longer a pampered wife, was she angry with Papa?

  I never asked.

  “What will you do?”

  I told her I would inquire at the town’s numerous bakeries and confectioner’s shops. I would talk to Mr. Patterson and visit the city and county buildings. The banks didn’t hire women, but we had our own Bourbon County telephone company—it employed women as operators—and a store in town, Varden and Sons, that might need help.

  She sighed heavily. “Your father will turn over in his grave . . .”

  Lifting my chin just a bit, I said, “He would’ve seen what I see.”

  She nodded once. “Yes, he would. He’d see the resilient young woman you’ve had to become, but he would hate the idea of you working in any of those places.”

  We hadn’t even mentioned the whiskey distilleries and saloons, as Maman would probably disintegrate if I found work in one of those establishments. “Look on the bright side,” I said, deliberately lightening my tone. “In town all the time, I might be able to nab a nice little husband.”

  It was the farthest thing from my mind, but Maman would appreciate my sarcasm. Everyone knew I had always loved my horses and father too much to ever leave them, and a marriageable suitor would want his wife to be by his side and take care of him instead. Eventually I’d convinced Maman that a man would never put up with me.

  I detected a tiny smile on her face, the first one I’d seen since Papa’s death. “Not when I’ve already given up hope!” she said, but her smile soon faded.

  I moved forward to hug my mother, and when she held me, I could feel the strength that remained. Shaky strength but strength nonetheless. Maman came from a comfortable home, but no one had spoiled and kept her until she met my father. I’d always thought she held inside a quiet, untapped fortitude, evident in her firm jawline. Surely she had suffered at some time during her life, and maybe now she relied on that old way of faring.

  Besides, we had to face the facts. Perhaps someone would train me as a secretary. Perhaps I’d help in the Windsor Hotel or the telegraph office. Paris was the county seat, so maybe I could work for the county or the city. My father would’ve never wanted me to do any of those things. But I cared almost nothing about what that menial work would do to me, and as to the damage to Maman and Papa’s reputation . . . well, I could do nothing about that. I hated to sully my father’s legacy and embarrass my mother, but I could not bury our secret like a rock in the ground.

  She released me, and I stepped back.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to liv
e in town?” she asked. “It won’t be . . . forever?”

  “I hope not. If I put away every extra cent, then maybe we can save enough to rebuild—”

  Her face brightened. “Rebuild the house?”

  “Not as before,” I answered and then tried to sound hopeful. “But maybe a smaller house. Maybe we can also rebuild our stud service. Luc can handle the horses for now, and someday, I can do what Papa did. I do know most of what he did, Maman. He taught me well.”

  “I see,” she agreed. After a moment, lilting her voice, she said, “Look on the bright side . . .” Mimicking me, she showed a tiny flicker of her old sense of humor. “He didn’t teach you about handling the money, but it’s not a problem now because we don’t have any.”

  Until then I’d never known smiles could be so sad. I thought our conversation had ended, but as I reached the door, her voice drifted over . . . “Arlene?”

  Turning back, I prepared myself for just about anything—she’d worked hard to stay in control, but now I could imagine her crying, or worse . . . Instead she stood tall and said, “Thank you.”

  I stood still, too. For the first time, Maman looked at me as if I’d entered adulthood, and I wondered how many steps it took to enter another life. The next one beginning now. And with that thought, taken with the faith in me written on my mother’s face, a heavy thing that had pressed on my chest since the fire finally stepped aside, I released a long stream of breath. Despite all we had lost and how much our lives had changed and would continue to change going forward, we would survive.

  Chapter Four

  After the Edwards family drove us to town, I thanked them, as did Maman. Earlier I had agonized over what to say and then had given Mr. and Mrs. Edwards a brief version—we had much less money than we’d thought, and I would need to find a job. I witnessed a powerful, stunned new awareness in these fine friends, and then inevitably came the pity. The shock on their paling faces made me feel momentarily like nothing, or something ephemeral—a passing ghost—but so be it. Very soon, what I’d told them would filter outward, and everyone would know. At least I wouldn’t have to repeat the story.