Too weary to even get dressed, she found herself still in her nightclothes at ten, standing at the stove and preparing to boil a kettle of water for tea, when Virgil rapped at the door and then let himself right into the house. She’d intended to ask Samuel to fix the broken lock, but the way things were between them now, she couldn’t expect him to do her any favors. She whirled around. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop coming into my house uninvited? You know I don’t approve of that.”
His grin came straight from the devil himself. “At least I knocked. Give me credit for that much.”
“Pfff. Get out.”
Ignoring the order, as usual, he sauntered right past her, opened a cabinet door, and peered inside, moving a few cans and jars around. Anything to get her ire up. She decided not to react; she merely left the stove and walked to the table to stand behind a chair, gripping its back and wishing she were strong enough to pick it up and heave it across the room, hitting him square in the back. That would knock him off his feet.
Without removing a thing, he closed the cabinet door, swiveled his body around, and leaned against the counter, his flabby arms crossed in front of him. “Sam sure stayed a long time yesterday. What’d he want?”
“If that were any of your business, I’d tell you, but it’s not.”
His upper lip curled back in one corner, revealing yellowed teeth. “Thought you two weren’t on speakin’ terms.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
He chuckled. “Don’t you owe me some money?”
“I already paid you what you’re due this month.”
“I’m due for a raise, that’s what I’m due.”
Her chest ballooned with a heavy intake of air. “I can’t afford to give you one cent more, Mr. Perry. Now, kindly get out of my house.”
He pushed away from the counter, his smirk firmly in place, and headed in her direction. She tightened her grasp on the chair. “Don’t come near me.”
She’d always managed to hold her own with Virgil Perry; she was his bread and butter, and he knew it. Still, he did give her the creeps when he drew too close, with his oversized frame and unshaven face. The air between them smelled of hate and revulsion, but it also reeked of body odor, and she wanted him gone.
“What’s the matter, li’l lady? You seem a mite tense this mornin’.”
She would not back down. She raised her chin a notch. “I’m as calm as can be.”
“Is that so?” He glanced down at her hands. “Then why do your knuckles look like the blood’s been washed right out of ’em?”
She let go of the chair and dropped her hands to her sides. “You have work to do, Mr. Perry. Go tend to it.”
His chuckle grew tenfold, turning into a bitter-sounding cackle. “All right, all right.” He touched the end of her nose with a cold finger, and she lurched back. “Now, don’t you forget about that raise you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you a penny extra, you scum-sucking, beetle-faced rat.”
He laughed all the way to the door. “We’ll see about that, boss lady. We’ll just wait and see.”
When the door closed behind him, she pulled out the chair and dropped into it, elbows propped on the table, face buried in her hands, as if in deep prayer. That’s when it occurred to her that she didn’t know the first thing about prayer—at least, not the genuine type. It also occurred that the sooner she swallowed her pride and told folks about the affair, the sooner she could get Virgil Perry off her property.
31
When Sam knocked on the door at the home of his cousin Frank, Frank’s wife, Alice, opened it and gave him a look of surprised delight. “Why, Samuel! What brings you here? Good gracious, I see your face took a bit of a bangin’ in that ridiculous fight last Saturday, but I must say you look a fair piece better’n Frank. Is this a friendly call?”
“Depends. I’m lookin’ for Frank. Is he around?”
“He is, actually. He an’ George are in the kitchen, gettin’ some refreshment before headin’ back out to the fields. Want I should get ’im?” She started to turn.
“No, wait! They’re both here?” Could luck have swung any better in his favor? Or perhaps it wasn’t luck at all but divine intervention. He let that novel thought ruminate for a moment.
“Yes, it’s nearin’ harvest, so they team up this time o’ year.”
Now that she mentioned it, he did recall that. Had he taken up farming, he might well have been sitting at that table himself. He often contemplated whether his choice to take another direction career-wise had affected his relationships with his cousins. None of them ever seemed much interested in spending time with him, and why would they? They had little in common, when it came right down to it. “Well, I’ll be. That’ll save me a trip. Thanks, Alice.”
He didn’t miss the tight little gasp that escaped her mouth when he strolled right past her, uninvited. His cousins looked up when he sauntered through the archway. Alice was right; Frank hadn’t managed to dodge as many fists as he had, and the same went for the black-eyed George. Both men scooted back in their chairs and stood, big grins on their faces. “Well, would you lookie what the cat dragged in,” Frank boomed. “Alice, get this fine man a cup o’ coffee or a bottle o’ brew. What’s y’r preference, Cousin?”
Sam raised his hand. “No thanks to both, Alice. This isn’t a social call, and besides, I haven’t imbibed since marryin’.”
George raised his eyebrows. “She got you in chains, does she?”
“Not at all, but I’m not here to talk about my wife—or the boys we’re raisin’ together.”
The men took their seats again, and Frank gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat, then.”
“Don’t need to. Just came to say my piece, and then I’ll be on my way,” he said in dull monotone.
Frank gave a nervous chuckle. “Go ahead, then.”
“I’m here to tell you I’m stayin’ married to Mercy, and if any more intentional damage is done to our home—say, broken windows or upturned planters—I’ll be sure to point Sheriff Marshall in the right direction.” Frank opened his mouth, but Sam halted him with his hand. “Don’t even think of interruptin’ me, you monkey-faced clown, and don’t try to tell me you fellas aren’t the ones responsible for the vandalism—on a Sunday mornin’, no less, when you should’ve been in church. I ought to slap you both silly.”
Stepping up to the table, he splayed both hands atop it and leaned over, eyeing them at close range. He noticed with satisfaction the way they scooted back in their seats. “And another thing. This feud between our family and the Evans clan is about to end—real fast. You’ll soon know what I mean. And when you do, take heed that you put blame where blame is due—and not on my wife or me. You hear?” When neither acknowledged his question—both just sitting there, with their jaws dropped to their knees—he repeated himself with almost alarming emphasis. “I said, do you hear me?”
To this, they gave several fast nods. He straightened with a chilly smile. “Glad to hear we’re all of one accord.” Never having bothered to take off his hat, he adjusted it on his head. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ you ladies on better terms next time.” He turned and walked out, leaving three speechless cousins in his wake.
Sam squeezed his heels into Tucker’s sides to urge him along to his next stop, Brockwell Manor, which stood in regal splendor at the end of a long, straight, pebbled driveway. It was the residence of Iris Brockwell, a stubborn, feisty widow in her late seventies, whose late husband had amassed a great fortune providing legal counsel to the Louisville and Nashville railroad lines. He didn’t know much more about Mrs. Brockwell, but his main interest wasn’t with her; it was with her personal butler and longtime friend, Solomon Turner.
As he rode, Sam planned in his head how he would broach the subject of the fight with Solomon Turner, hoping to discover what the man had overheard on that fateful day in 1884. That morning, he’d told Uncle Clarence what he’d learned at Persephone’s and sworn him
to secrecy, with the caveat that he could tell Aunt Hester. While his uncle’s initial reaction had been anger, he’d quickly cooled down, saying it was in the past and there was no point dwelling on it. “May as well move forward with forgiveness and put the feud behind us,” he’d said. Easier said than done. Sam doubted his relatives or Mercy’s would ever quite forget, either. Even Sam couldn’t quite embrace that perspective, and he didn’t know when or if he ever would. His mother had really done it this time, and it would take a miracle to find it in his heart to let the matter go.
Sam gave the door knocker three taps. Several moments later, the door opened, and there stood Solomon Turner, a large but unassuming man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie, his short goatee and mustache neatly trimmed. He greeted Sam with a formal nod and a slight bow of his gray head. “Help y’, suh?”
Sam quickly removed his hat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Turner. I’m Samuel Connors. Don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“Why, Mistah Connors, o’ course I do.” Beneath his trimmed mustache, he gave a big grin that showed his teeth, bright white except for one gold on top, which glimmered in the light. “Din’t recognize you at first, I’m afeared, but now that I see y’ at close range and without that hat, why, sure I know you. What can I do f’r you, suh? If you were needin’ t’ see Missus Brockwell, she’s takin’ her mid-afternoon doze.”
“That’s fine. Actually, you’re the one I wanted to talk to.”
“Oh?” Only the faintest hint of concern skipped across the man’s dark, ruddy cheeks. He glanced behind him, then stepped out into the warm breeze and closed the oversized entry door behind him, its latch giving a quiet, controlled click. He gestured at the array of wicker chairs and settees arranged on the wide veranda. “Would y’ care t’ sit, suh?”
“That’d be fine, Mr. Turner.”
They each took a seat, Sam in a stationary chair, Solomon in a rocker, which squeaked back and forth. “Fine day.”
“Yes, it is.”
How to begin? He decided to just get on with it. “Mr. Turner, I’ve heard from several sources that you witnessed the murder of Oscar Evans, but the judge wouldn’t hear your testimony in court. Is that true?”
“Well, suh, yes, it is. Them prosecutors questioned me, but when they tells Judge Corbett who their chief witness is, he says he won’t allow no blackie in his courtroom. He done used a worse word than that, suh, but I ain’t goin’ t’ repeat it.”
Sam gave his head a remorseful shake. “I’m sorry you had to endure that, Mr. Turner. It was plain ignorant of him. I don’t mean to stir up any trouble, but I was hopin’ you could tell me what you saw and heard…just for my own enlightenment.”
The man looked out over the rolling hills surrounding the property. “Don’t know how much you want t’ know, suh.”
Sam cleared his throat. “All of it, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d have to dig down deep in my ol’ thinker. It ain’t what it used t’ be.”
“Take your time, Mr. Turner.”
“Well, from what I recall, I was jus’ comin’ outta Joe’s Market when I overheared a good deal o’ arguin’ in the alleyway. I stood there, outta sight, too afeared t’ move. Thought about walkin’ back inside, but then sumthin’ just made me stay put. I ain’t the nosy sort, Mistah Connors, but that argument didn’t sound like no ordinary row, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
Sam nodded, fingering the rim of his battered Stetson. “What were they sayin’?”
“Don’t know as I should tell y’, suh. It might not set too well.”
“It’s okay. I’ve heard quite a bit already; I just need some confirmation.”
“Well, suh, I hear Mistah Evans confess t’ havin’ a affair with yo’ mama some years before. He tol’ yo’ pappy he still loved her and it’d be in ’is best interest t’ release her for a divorce, and yo’ pappy, he says that ain’t happenin’. He start yellin’ and screamin’ obscenities an’ sech. I do believe Mistah Evans had gone too heavy on the sauce, the way he was slurrin’ ’is speech. Might be he was clear outta his head. Weren’t many folks out that day, ’cause it was so blamed hot, you could’a fried bacon on a brick. There was those two across the street, but ain’t no way them fellas could’a heard as much as me. ’Course, it’s them two what took the witness stand, but it’s all fine, ’cause the jury done found yo’ pappy guilty anyway.”
His words proved a lot to take in, and Sam spent a few moments digesting them. “Thank you, Mr. Turner,” he finally said. “Thank you for takin’ the time to talk to me. I just needed to hear your side of things. It gives me a new perspective on that day.” He put his hat back on and then stood.
Solomon started to rise, as well.
“Don’t get up on my account.”
“No, I ain’t, suh. I best get busy on Cook’s grocery list. It was nice seein’ y’ again, even if the circumstances coulda been better. How’s that new wife o’ yours and them poor kids? I saw ’em the night of the fire. It sho’ was a cryin’ shame, them losin’ their folks, but they’s safe now. Thank the Lord you rescued ’em.”
“We’re makin’ do—thanks. I’m just grateful I was at the right place at the right time.”
“The Lord saw to that, Mistah Connors. Yes, He sho’ ’nough did.”
Sam nodded. “Thanks again. I’ll be on my way now.”
After mounting Tucker, Sam kicked him into a canter. A dazzling sun reached down its blistering rays and pierced his shoulders like fiery fingers, yet his inner core shivered with newfound coldness toward his mother.
“Don’t let a seed of bitterness take root in your soul, Sam. Once you start fueling it with fury, it’ll grow faster than a weed.”
Mercy’s words pounded in his head, but he pushed them aside.
Too late, he thought. It’s already growin’.
32
As autumn approached, Mercy looked forward to a break from the heat. She also hoped the change in seasons might bring about a change in spirits around the house. With the start-up of school, Joseph now spent his days away from home, which put John Roy in a downcast mood and her in a lonesome one. On top of that, she’d had to invent new ways to keep John Roy entertained, so accustomed was he to following his older brother around like a pup on a leash.
The send-off had made Mercy heartsick, for it should have been Herb and Millie’s honor to see their older son off to school for the first time. Instead, she and John Roy had been the ones to walk him the few short blocks to the two-story building on Poplar that served children in grades one through eight. Sam had tried to comfort her, but his words, while gentle and soothing, had lacked genuine understanding. After all, what did he—or she, for that matter—really know about the boys’ deepest needs? Ill equipped, that’s what they were, and some days barely treading water. Add to that Sam’s cynical view of his mother’s shenanigans—no matter that her father had played just as big a role, if not bigger, in the whole fiasco—and their little household stood in need of a transformation.
Perhaps that explained why she found herself taking a walk to Paris Evangelical Church, where she planned to meet with Reverend Younker to talk through some of her concerns. Something told her the kind old gentleman with infinite amounts of godly wisdom would have just the right words. She was grateful to her cousin Amelia for offering to watch John Roy for the day. The boy had been ecstatic, for he’d learned on a visit earlier that week that Amelia and her husband, Norman, had a big farm with animals galore and wide-open spaces to explore. Norm had graciously allowed John Roy to ride with him on his field wagon and help with a few simple chores, later telling Mercy he’d enjoyed the taste of what life would be like with a child, with Amelia and him expecting their first in February.
The sun baked Mercy’s back and shoulders, and she regretted not riding Sally to the church. The poor old girl didn’t get as much use or attention as she had before Tucker had come on the scene, and Mercy worried she might feel neglected. But she’d decided
she could use the exercise herself. Besides, walking would give her more time to ponder how many details of the sordid affair to divulge to Reverend Younker. She had every confidence he would keep her secret safe for as long as necessary—which wouldn’t be much longer, seeing as Flora had called a family meeting. It was scheduled to take place in her home tomorrow evening, and Sam had said he planned to go, not so much to support his mother as to act as referee, should the news spark a squall right there in her living room.
When the little white clapboard church came into view, Mercy took a calming breath. The sight of the simple structure, with its bare windows, weathered bell tower, and shroud of ancient shade trees and overgrown shrubs, always lent a measure of comfort. Even more reassuring was the interior, with its rows of backless benches, central potbelly stove, narrow platform at the front, and wooden altar, where she’d knelt as a fourteen-year-old to invite the Lord Jesus Christ into her heart. She breathed a prayer of thanks, followed by a plea for courage, as she turned off the dusty road onto the dirt driveway.
A few houses dotted the cozy neighborhood, all small and boxy, with tiny front porches. On either side of the church were two residences, one of them the parsonage—a two-story with a wide veranda—and the other a tiny abode belonging to the elderly Myrtle Stitt. More than once, Mercy had thought about her conversation with Joy Westfall and wondered if she were still visiting her ailing aunt. Perhaps, after her appointment with the preacher, Mercy would venture over to find out.
“Well, hello there,” came a deep, mellow voice. Reverend Younker stood, shoulders a little stooped, on the church steps, holding one of the double doors open wide.
“Hello, Reverend. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” Her yellow skirt flared in an updraft, so she pressed it down with both palms before mounting the steps.
“No, no. I’ve been praying and preparing for Sunday morning’s message.” While not as spry as he’d once been, the elderly fellow still had energy aplenty for serving the Lord and delivering a fine sermon every week. Even so, Mercy wondered just how much longer he’d stand behind that pulpit before relinquishing it to someone else. She’d heard murmurings of his retirement but couldn’t bear to think about it. “You walked all the way from town?” he asked as she stepped through the door.
Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) Page 25