The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  “I’ve got my mind on a few other things now,” he said. “Maybe that’s the change you’re noticing.” He leaned down to scratch the dog’s ear. The dog leaned into it, panting quietly. “For example, I’ve been retained in the Verrazzo matter. On behalf of someone you may know. Young man named Damarlo Melendez.”

  Jacqi shrank a little in the wooden chair. Felt sick. “D-Lo, huh. Imagine that.”

  The nurse stopped, studied Jacqi’s face for a sec, the eyes in particular, like they’d just gone wrong, then turned toward Tierney. “Phelan? I need to ask a big favor. I need you to leave us alone for a minute, okay? I’d like to ask Jacqi here a couple questions and I need her to give me honest answers. I think that’ll go a lot easier if you’re not in the room. Sorry. Before you leave, though, how about wrapping some ice in a dish towel?”

  The nurse, Cass, knotted the towel with its clatter of ice cubes inside and stuck it in Jacqi’s hand. “Put that where the pain is. You’ve already got a nasty knot. This should help bring it down.”

  Jacqi did as she was told. Weirdly, she enjoyed it.

  “This is a mean cut. You’re lucky you don’t need stitches. What did he hit you with?”

  “A gun.” She felt trashy saying it.

  “How many times?”

  “I dunno, two, three maybe. Only the first one landed hard.”

  “Not from where I sit. The others made their point. Not to mention you’ve been scratched to hell—blackberries?”

  Jacqi nodded.

  “Okay. What else happened? I’m not trying to be nosy. I’m trying to make sure I haven’t overlooked something.”

  Jacqi nodded and picked a place in her recollection, Fishbelly pissing on the hillbilly pickup, started from there, and bit by bit the rest just tumbled out, even the part about Buker nailing LeQuan, three fierce punches straight to the throat, just like he’d done to Fireman Mike. Of that, she thought, there’s no longer any doubt.

  It felt less lonely, talking, despite how ashamed she felt. That was new. She readjusted the ice on her head.

  “Your old man’s lucky, having a nurse in his life. Wish I had one.”

  Cass fussed inside her first aid kit, picking through ointment tubes, cotton balls, gauze. “You do have one, at least for the moment.”

  “I was thinking more, like, you know.”

  Cass looked up from the kit box, eyes like her touch, all business, but not rough. “This LeQuan, the guy who hit you, or the other guy, Teddy, either one rape you?”

  It wasn’t an accusation, not really. “Didn’t get to that.” Again, she thought of Polly Bell, the swabs, the speculum, the special lamp. Maybe kindness was just a cover for scrutiny. Who are you? Melting ice began to drip into her hair. “There’s something going on between you and your old man. Tierney. You guys have a fight?”

  Sister Nurse stiffened, then sighed. She tried to hide it with more fishing around in the white tin box. “If we did, what makes that your business?”

  “Nothing. Unless it’s about me.”

  “This might be a good time for me to turn you back over to Phelan.”

  “Might be a good time to get me out of your hair. Yours and his both.”

  “You’re not in our hair.”

  “So you say. I see different. I grew up around angry people. I know the vibe.”

  “If you leave I want Phelan to take you down to Kaiser, or Rio Mirada General.”

  “That a threat?”

  “You’ve had a concussion. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not really your problem.”

  “You’re right. Absolutely.”

  Like that, no more Sister Nurse. She got up and went to the swinging door that opened onto the dining room, nudged it open. “Phelan? She wants to head out. Maybe you can give her a lift someplace?”

  Suddenly, the dog, who’d been snoozing in the corner, got up, shook himself, padded over across the linoleum, and stuck his nose under Jacqi’s hand, hitting her up for one last pet. You whore, she thought. You stinking, blind, needy creature. You thing.

  How she got there, she wasn’t quite sure, but there she was, on her knees in the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around the old dog’s neck as this pulse, this pressure, built up inside her—not tears, deeper than that, the thing beneath tears, a growl in the dark, a coyote rank with blood—and she thought that something might break in her head or in her chest and she buried her face in the wiry fur, taking in the musky stench and wishing it were hers, wishing she could take it with her, that and his terrible breath, the old dim eyes. You whore of a slut dog monster. I would give anything. If.

  Tierney and Sister Nurse, the two of them stood there near the door, staring, she could feel it like a burn. Could hear them thinking: Get her out. Get her out of this house, out of our lives. She couldn’t get up. Couldn’t move.

  “Here’s an idea.” It was Tierney. “Cold as hell out there, probably more rain on the way. Lousy night for going out. And given the whole concussion thing, be a good idea to stay awake for the next few hours. How about you wash up, change into some dry clothes, grab a bite if you’re hungry, then some TV. Maybe watch a movie.”

  67

  A shower not a bath, the nurse said. “I don’t want you falling asleep in the tub. And be gentle when you wash your hair, don’t open up that cut again.”

  Sister Strict now, but who could blame her.

  It was a giant white claw-foot thing with plastic curtains all around, tropical fish pattern, hung by rings from an oval chrome rod. Creaking ivory handles on the faucets and it took a while for the hot to get going. She knelt there a moment, leaning over the porcelain rim, chin resting on her arm, hand stuck beneath the warmth and the tumbling wet roar, enjoying the simple do-nothingness, the blank state of mind.

  Standing up again, she stripped off her filthy clothes, kicked them away like rags. Caught sight of herself in the mirror—skinny and bruised and in a strange place. Same as it ever was, except for the little hummingbird hanging from its cheap gold chain.

  How long had it been since she’d knelt there in the wet street, watching Verrazzo die? How long since the last time she’d really thought about him, not just the hundreds of problems his getting killed created?

  Sorry, Mike. You deserve better. But I’m up to my neck right now and I kinda get the feeling you’d understand. Thanks for offering to take me away. Not quite Mexico, but hey. You were willing to take me in. I know I woulda paid in trade but still, I’m grateful.

  Her makeup looked like she’d put it on with a spoon and she searched the drawers for cotton balls, discovered some, found a bottle of lotion too. Leaning over the sink, face inches from the mirror, she carefully smudged the mess away, eye shadow, mascara, gone. Blinking, she checked out her naked face.

  By the time she stepped under the spray, the steam had risen thick and soft and hot and she tried not to think of smoke. The nurse’s shampoo smelled like lavender, her soap like oranges, both stung. It felt good though, minor miracle, getting clean.

  As she lingered under the water, wrapped up in its warmth, a knock came, the door clicked open, and Cass slipped in to deliver a fresh towel and a pile of clean clothes—sweats and socks.

  She toweled herself dry and brushed out her wet black hair and tried not to look anymore at the mirror. The sweatpants were huge and she cinched the waist just under her breasts like a clown, then still had to cuff the bottoms. The sweatshirt, hooded with a pouch, engulfed her, while the socks were thick white cotton, cool and clean and smelling like cedar and bleach.

  No longer naked, she ventured one last glance at the mirror. You look like a punching bag, she thought, all dressed up in her mom’s clothes—and deep within, like distant lightning, something crackled silently across the sky of her soul.

  The kitchen smelled like popcorn and there was Melba toast laid out too, plus a
glass of 7-Up. “If you can keep that down,” Cass said, “we’ll try some soup or something.”

  Tierney stared. An impish smile. “We’re going to get indicted. For shrinking a minor.”

  Cass said, “It’s the smallest stuff I had. Grab a bowl.”

  “It’s fine,” Jacqi said. “Thank you.”

  They moved into a den lined in bookshelves, with armchairs and a couch and a TV, everyone but the dog with popcorn. Tierney, the guy, worked the remotes.

  “There’s this French thing I’ve been meaning to watch,” he said as the screen flickered to life. “If it’s boring we’ll try something else.”

  He didn’t say it like he expected anyone to object. Cass curled up on one end of the couch, legs tucked up beneath her, looking like her thoughts had her all knotted up. Tierney took the other end of the sofa, letting Jacqi sit in between. The better to watch her, she supposed, sipping her drink. Or maybe they’d had another tiff.

  The movie was black and white, subtitled, the intro music circus-like and hokey. She thought at first she might drift off—not exactly the plan—but the title grabbed her, Eyes Without a Face, and almost instantly the thing turned scary.

  A woman wearing a slicker and a thick choker of pearls was driving a small car far out into the country at night. A figure in a large man’s coat, face obscured by a downturned hat, sat huddled in the backseat.

  The woman in pearls stopped along a night-black river, checked to be sure she wasn’t spotted, then dragged the figure out of the car—a woman, naked under the big coat—and dropped the body into the water.

  Next scene: a renowned plastic surgeon (actually, he kinda looked like a magician) got told a body washed up in a river outside the city—a dead young woman matching the description of his missing daughter. The daughter was in a terrible, disfiguring car accident, and the body they found is missing a face. But it’s odd—the wound has edges so precise they almost suggest a scalpel.

  Jacqi almost forgot her throbbing head. Fucking magician killed his own daughter—worse, he was experimenting on her.

  Crossing her legs like an Indian, bowl in her lap, she started in on her popcorn.

  The surgeon identified the body as his daughter, a funeral was held—and the woman in pearls was there. The surgeon’s sad, beautiful assistant. They went home to this eerie humongous mansion with a kennel in the basement full of barking dogs—Noble, not lifting his head, growled sleepily at that part—and on the top floor in a hidden room, a room full of caged doves but without mirrors, a young woman sobbed on her bed. A young woman with perfect eyes. But no face.

  The girl at the morgue wasn’t the surgeon’s daughter after all—it was a girl who looked like his daughter. They’d abducted her and he’d operated, slicing away her face to see if he could graft it onto his daughter. But it didn’t work. They’d have to try again.

  The daughter said no, the father insisted, and he told her for the sake of preserving her tissue she had to wear her mask: this eerie blank mannequin thing with eyeholes.

  “My face frightens me,” the girl said, “but my mask terrifies me even more.”

  The rest of the movie just got spookier, and time vanished. Jacqi sat there mesmerized, even as she realized Tierney, crafty bastard, had no doubt planned it all, choosing this movie precisely because he knew she’d dig it, knew she’d see herself in it. She was the girl forced to wear a mask—not for herself, for everyone else, though nobody copped to that. And she gave in, she tried, one face transplant worked—but just for three days. Then the tissue blackened and shrank and decayed, she was even more hideous than before. Back on with the mask. Another girl is abducted—but finally the daughter rebels: no more surgeries, no more cruelty and lying, no more killing. She can live with her face but not the guilt.

  Using a scalpel, she cuts away the captive girl’s bonds, stabs the woman in pearls, then runs to the kennel—the dogs were also prisoners, raw flesh for her father’s experiments—and opens all the cages. The dogs lunge for her father and maul him to shreds as she liberates her doves. The cooing white birds flutter on her arms and shoulders as she walks out with them into the woods, free.

  For the first time since the terrible, horrible thing: free.

  “You okay?”

  It was Tierney. He was holding out a Kleenex.

  Jacqi shook her head, whispered, “No thank you,” and wiped at her face with her hands. She turned toward Cass, who was watching her with those nurse eyes, and instantly felt small in the bulky clothes, like she had in the giant sweater the waitress named Dawn had provided that night at Bernadette’s, the diner outside Santa Cruz.

  The night, she thought, everyone keeps saying I got away.

  The pattern started closing in again—she felt the tightening of its screws, heard the snapping into place of the final puzzle piece. All of this had happened before and would happen again for all of time, it was part of an endless loop, an episode that would never stop repeating, never. Assume your mask. You’re here, but you’re not here.

  Then the nurse, Cass, reached out, touched her hand, fingers as weightless on her skin as a moth. Tierney stayed put. She glanced at one then the other and saw in their eyes something she barely recognized, an absence of demand, a lack of claim—or less of a claim or demand than she’d known in a long, long time. This is where the pattern ends, she thought. Trust these people, these strangers, or the nothingness wins for good. Whatever they want, you can live with.

  Ever so slightly, the spell broke. The haunting, awful, repetitive eeriness in everything gave way to a dizzying sense of openness, like a door had opened and she saw, for the first time in forever, her frightening face.

  Staring at a spot on the floor, she wiped at her eyes again, gathered up some strength and said, “I guess it’s time to tell you what really happened.”

  68

  His name was Clint, so kids called him Eastwood. His hair was rusty and his face was freckled and cockeyed, one ear way smaller than the other and his mouth slanting down on one side. He walked kinda funny, with this hunch, leaning kinda forward, like whatever was coming, he was ready to jump in.

  He hung out with my brother, not at school so much. Eastwood didn’t go to school. His foster parents, they just cashed the checks, didn’t care what he did.

  I was eight. He was twelve.

  He came over a couple times and he seemed so cool, just kinda reckless and not scared. I told you he brought these plums from a tree where he worked and he always offered me a couple. I had this monster crush on him, no lie. He was nice. He talked to me like I wasn’t stupid, which Richie thought was hilarious.

  It irked the hell out of Richie, the fact his buddy didn’t think I was wack. Boys always think girls have it made. It’s why they hate us.

  Richie comes into my room one day, all weird and serious and kinda mad. He says Eastwood likes me, he talks about me all the time, wants to come over and visit.

  Be nice to him, Richie says. He’s like grabbing onto my arm, it hurts. Don’t bitch, don’t whine, don’t act stupid. Be nice.

  Couple days go by. Mom’s at work. Richie and Eastwood show up, but then Richie makes himself scarce, and it’s me alone with Eastwood in my room.

  He’s nice again, but nervous. He starts by digging into the paper bag he brought and offers me a plum, he takes one too and we stand there, like neither of us knows how to dance, then he takes a bite and so I do too, they’re not quite ripe and a little tart but still, I get juice on my chin and so does he and we’re slurping and giggling. I get a washcloth from the bathroom and we wipe off our hands and faces and he starts telling me how pretty I am.

  Bet you hear that all the time, he says, like I should be proud, but ashamed too. Bet you hear that all the time.

  Then he sat me down and kissed me. Not much of a kiss, really. A bump on the mouth. He smelled like the gas station he hung out at and his fin
gernails were grimy and he had these wispy, like, whiskers here and there—his sideburns, his chin, upper lip.

  He leaned me back onto the bed and ran his fingertips across my face, real gentle. It felt funny, but good. I got goose bumps. Then he did the same thing along my arms, my neck. His hand moved down and across my shirt—nothing there to stop for, but he did anyway—then down to my belt. I flinched, scared, grabbed his hand. He liked that. Leaned down, kissed my fingers, looked at me. It’s hard to explain. He just seemed like he cared about me.

  He said the thing, like, every guy since one way or another’s said: I’m not gonna hurt you. And I told myself it was okay. Because I wanted it to be. So we were both lying.

  He put his hand on me down there, just cupping my crotch, looking at my face. How’s that feel, he asked. That feel good? I couldn’t talk, like somebody’d snipped the connection, my mind, my mouth, so I just nodded, thinking: Be nice. Visit.

  And we just kinda stayed like that for a while, him touching me down there with one hand, stroking my hair with the other, looking into my eyes and smiling. I could tell he was nervous too and it’s funny but that’s what calmed me down. He liked me. That part wasn’t made up, he really did. I felt it.

  That’s all that went on that day. He asked if he could come over again, just me and him, and I nodded, still tongue-tied. My heart was banging like a monkey on a drum and when he left with Richie I felt so lonely. And yet kinda relieved, too, like I’d dodged a bullet, but not sure how exactly.

  He didn’t come back for a week. When he did it was during the day again, Mom at work. Richie disappeared real quick, like before. Always wondered how much they talked about it. Never did find out.

  I was glad to see him, though nervous still too. That probably gave off a signal, like I was eager. I didn’t know any of that then. I’d like to say I was innocent but I was just dumb.