Sweet Mercy

by Ann Tatlock

  “You were?” I turned to look at him full-on. My eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yeah. Funny, huh? Look at me now.”

  I chewed my lip. “It can’t be helped. A lot of people’s lives have been ruined by what happened with the market.”

  “I don’t consider my life ruined, just interrupted.”

  I thought about that, nodded. “What were you studying?”

  “History.”

  “History? What were you going to do with that?”

  Link laughed loudly. “You sound just like my father. He was always telling me to study something practical.”

  “Well, I suppose you could always teach. You could become a college professor.”

  I gazed at him while waiting for his reply. At the moment, he looked nothing at all like a college professor, with his tattered overalls and scuffed work boots, his shaggy hair peeking out from under his cap, his skin darkened by the sun. I couldn’t quite imagine him lecturing at a university.

  “Actually,” he said at length, “I’ve entertained the idea of getting my degree and going on to seminary.”

  “Seminary? You mean, you’d want to become a pastor?”

  He pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Anyone who goes to seminary shouldn’t drink.”

  “Drink?” He frowned and shook his head. “Why do you say that?”

  “You asked me for something to drink,” I said. “Don’t you remember? You asked if we served moonshine at the lodge.”

  Behind him, Marlene squealed in amusement. “Plenty of that around here, Cowboy,” she said.

  “Yeah? I’m not surprised.”

  “They say the county is just bursting with stills,” Marlene went on. “People are getting pretty good at making their own spirits.”

  “Spirits, nothing,” Link said. “More like rotgut. Half the stuff that comes out of a still can kill you. Just last week two men were poisoned by White Lightning over next door in Foster.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I was over there chopping wood for a day. Word gets around.”

  “They died from drinking it?”

  Link nodded. “That’s right. It happens. You wouldn’t believe what they put in moonshine. Rubbing alcohol, antifreeze, and even embalming fluid. If it doesn’t kill you, it can send you into convulsions or leave you blind. So the thing is, if you’re going to drink, at least play it safe and drink the real stuff.”

  “I don’t intend to drink anything ever,” I said firmly.

  From the front of the boat, Marlene said, “Well, I do! I intend to drink champagne at my wedding!”

  Link laughed. I ignored her. Link said, “Probably not much of that around here.”

  “Probably not much real stuff around here at all,” Marlene said. “If you want genuine booze, you’ll have to go to Cincinnati. We had one of the nation’s biggest bootleggers working out of Cincy, till he was caught and sent to prison. But others have taken over where he left off.”

  “Yeah? So you think people go all the way into Cincy? I heard there’s Scotch and rum floating around here, but I don’t know who’s serving it up.”

  Marlene sat up then and shrugged. “I’ve never heard anything about it.”

  “Me either,” I added. “And I don’t want to know.”

  “Teetotaler, huh?” Link said.

  “That’s right, I am.” I lifted my chin and looked away. “You should be too, if you’re going into the ministry.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He lifted one dripping oar out of the water and pointed toward shore. “That’s your uncle’s mill, right?”

  “Oh yes! That’s my Uncle Luther’s mill, and it was my grandfather’s mill before him.” I beamed at the imposing wooden structure whose beginnings stretched back into the nineteenth century and whose millstones had sustained my family for generations. The mill produced Pride of Miami flour which, as Uncle Luther was quick to add, was sifted through real silk cloths. I’d toured the mill a number of times with my uncle when I was a child, and I was mesmerized by all the inner workings—the millstones, the wooden shafts, the grinding gears—that extended from the upper-story grain loft down to the sack floor, the stone floor, and finally the meal floor. It was all a great and glorious mystery to me, though what I loved most about the mill was the waterwheel that hugged the outer wall and was turned continuously by the current of the Little Miami River.

  “Big operation,” Link said. “Bet it earns a pretty penny. I hope he can keep it going.”

  “Of course he will. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid things are going to get worse before they get better.”

  From the bow of the boat, Marlene said, “Hoover says prosperity is right around the corner.”

  “Yeah, well he’s the president,” Link said. “He’s supposed to say encouraging and otherwise completely stupid things like that.”

  Marlene laughed out loud while I put a hand to my mouth to suppress a giggle. The bum was growing on me, especially now that I knew he’d been to college.

  We rowed on for a short while, enjoying the smooth rhythm of the oars, the warm sun, the strange and unexpected companionship. We had just made our way around a bend in the river when Link said, “Well, here we are.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Home sweet home.” Once again he pointed with an oar.

  I turned toward the riverbank and stared slack-jawed, trying to make sense of what I saw. From the other end of the boat I heard Marlene say softly, “Oh, my word. I’d heard something about this, but I didn’t believe it.” And even as we saw it with our own eyes, we could scarcely believe the shantytown there by the river, a tent city for the most part with a few tin and cardboard shacks thrown in here and there. Smoke rose up from a half dozen scattered cook fires. Gray laundry hung on lines of rope and over tent poles. Disheveled figures moved ghostlike among the dwellings, their movements slowed no doubt by hunger and a fair degree of hopelessness. A certain despondency hovered over the camp that was evident to us even from a distance.

  Link rowed us closer to shore and out of the current, close enough to smell the smoke of the fires and to hear the murmur of men’s voices. “This is where you live, Link?” I asked.

  “For now.”

  “But why? Why don’t you live with your family?”

  “My parents have five children at home. I’m the eldest of six. I’m trying to send money home to help them, if I can.”

  I shook my head. “But you should be somewhere else, in a city, somewhere where there might be more work. Not out here by the river where there’s nothing.”

  “No, Eve. This is where I’m supposed to be. I’m sure of it.”

  I looked down the length of the boat at Marlene. She was still staring at the camp. Her lips were parted but she made no effort to speak. It was as though the sight of the place had stolen her words.

  “Are there women and children here?” I asked Link.

  He shook his head. “No, just men. There are plenty of families in the larger Hoovervilles going up around the country, but this isn’t one of those. This is just a little backwater town, compared to some.”

  “How many men are here?”

  “Well, now, that depends on the day you’re asking. Men are coming and going all the time. Some stay longer than others, like me, trying to pick up day jobs around here. Some move on down the rails pretty quick.”

  I thought of my soft bed in my own room at the lodge, of the hot-water bath between my room and Mother and Daddy’s, of the abundant meals Annie cooked that we routinely consumed.

  “Link?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “What do these people need most?”

  “Besides jobs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Food. That’s why so many of them show up at the lodge. They know your uncle has an open hand. I wanted you to know why they come.”

/>   Reluctantly, I looked back toward the ghosts, wondered how many of them were like Link, intelligent, educated, willing to work but down on their luck.

  “Will you take me home now, Link?”

  Link turned the boat around and began to row.

  Chapter 16

  I didn’t want to think about the poor people in the shantytown. All I wanted to do was dance with Marcus. Saturday night Uncle Cy brought in a band from Lexington, and once again the dance floor on the island was filled with laughing couples. I wanted to laugh too. I wanted to be young and in love and not alone. There would be time to save the world later. Tonight was mine.

  When the band took a break Marcus and I moved to the shadows, lugging along bottles of Coke we’d bought at the Eatery. We sat atop a picnic table, our feet on the bench, and looked out over the river. The surface of the water shimmered under the light of a nearly full moon. I was keenly aware of Marcus beside me; he was, in truth, all that mattered at the moment. Mother was my age when she met Daddy, proving that romance can come early and last a lifetime. I held my breath and savored that thought.

  Marcus took a long sip of Coke and settled the bottle on the tabletop. “Well,” he said, “the day I haven’t been looking forward to all summer is almost here.”

  I sighed and nodded. “Will you send me a postcard, Marcus?”

  “Sure,” he said. With a wink he added, “I might even send you two.” In the morning, he and his family were leaving for their annual summer trek to Bay City, Michigan, where his father had relatives.

  “I hope the week goes by fast.”

  “Believe me, it can’t go fast enough for me,” Marcus agreed.

  “Don’t you like your father’s side of the family?”

  “I like them about as much as I like my father, which is not very much.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “Yes.” He nodded glumly. “I have to go.”

  I sighed again.

  “But only two more months and then it’ll be, so long, family! So long, dear old dad!” He laughed lightly. “At least the old man’s letting me go to college. I should be glad about that.” He lifted his bottle in the air and straightened his shoulders. “I’d like to propose a toast to rich aunts who pick up the slack where scholarships leave off.”

  Our bottles met with a clink. We downed the remainder of soda and tossed the bottles in the grass. Marcus had told me about the childless great-aunt whose recent death provided enough inheritance to get Marcus through his freshman year. I thought the timing was a stroke of good luck, and yet . . .

  “Don’t look so sad,” he said.

  I shrugged shyly. “I’ll miss you.”

  “It’s two months off.”

  “I know but . . .”

  He smiled. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, you know. I’ll be back.”

  “And you’ll write?”

  “Sure I’ll write. Of course. You worry too much.”

  But there would be girls there, pretty girls, and I would be here. Still in high school. Just a kid, compared to them.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured me, as though he knew my thoughts, and there, in the moon shadows on Marryat Island, he kissed me, a brief and gentle kiss—my first.

  I believed him that I had nothing to worry about. Everything would be all right now. Everything was unfolding in my favor, and love was possible.

  We danced until long past midnight, and I sailed into Sunday on the fragile wings of little-girl dreams.

  At a little after nine the next night, the phone at the front desk rang. I was sitting alone on the porch pining for Marcus when Uncle Cy opened the screen door. “Phone’s for you, darling.”

  “For me?” I echoed. “Who is it?”

  “She says her name is Marlene. Just don’t tie up the line for long, all right?”

  Inside, the black receiver lay curled on the desk like a wounded cat. I shivered.

  “Hello?”

  “Eve, can you come help me?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Jimmy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just come over.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the station.”

  “But it’s closed.”

  “I know that. Jimmy has the key. Please come.”

  “But—”

  The line went dead.

  Without telling Uncle Cy or anyone else where I was going, I ran across the street to the station, my mind tumbling with questions. Marlene was waiting for me when I reached the front door. She took my hand and pulled me into the dimly lit room, a stark place with shelves of auto supplies, a lone folding chair, and an ancient wooden cash register that was large enough to hold plenty of money. The place felt oily and smelled of grease.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as I glanced around suspiciously. My voice quivered and I was finding it hard to breathe.

  “I’m scared, Eve. I’ve never seen him so drunk.”

  “Who?”

  “Jimmy, of course.”

  “He’s been drinking?”

  “That’s not the worst of it. He’s threatening to kill his father.”

  “Why?”

  “For beating him up again.”

  “His father beat him up?”

  She tugged at my hand. “Come on.”

  My gut told me to run, but I allowed Marlene to pull me into the back office. Jimmy sat on an overturned crate, a bottle of something in one hand, an open pocketknife in the other. Each hand was resting on a knee, and his head hung low, as though he were dozing.

  Marlene and I exchanged a horrified glance. My eyes asked, What in the world? while hers said, I told you so.

  Softly I called his name. “Jimmy?”

  With effort, he lifted his head. His swollen eyelids opened slowly and reluctantly, like shades that are stuck. He had a split upper lip and a dark bruise across his right cheek. He took a deep steadying breath, though his head bobbed slightly as he said, “Eve. What are you doing here?”

  I glanced again at Marlene. She nodded. “Marlene called me over. She was worried.”

  He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, winced as the rough cloth met the wound. His head went down again.

  “Jimmy,” I said quietly, “what happened?”

  He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “I didn’t understand you.” I took a tentative step closer. “What did you say?”

  The head rolled up and he struggled to keep his eyes open. When he spoke, his words were slow and slurred. “I said, I’m going to kill the old man. I’m going to kill him.”

  “What happened, Jimmy?” I asked again.

  “I’m tired. Tired of being his punching bag.”

  “Your father did this?”

  Jimmy sniffed out a laugh. “Yeah. That surprise you?”

  “But everyone will know. How does he think he’ll get away with it?”

  “He’ll just say I got in another fight. By now I’ve fought with every kid in town.” He lifted the bottle up to the light. “Down the hatch,” he said. He emptied the bottle and lowered it to his knee, where it slid down his pants leg and landed with a small thud on the floor.

  Marlene moved to him and, kneeling, picked up the bottle. She turned it toward the light so she could read the label. “This is Scotch,” she said. “Real Scotch. Jimmy, where did you get this?”

  His head came up with a jerk and his glassy eyes shimmered. “Right here!” he cried. “I got it right here. And I’m covering for that . . .” He swore at his father, a loud barrage of curses that trailed off to mumbled oaths.

  I waited till his anger was spent. Then I asked, “Jimmy, what are you talking about? What do you mean, you got it right here?”

  His shoulders heaved in a great sigh. He looked first at Marlene and then at me. “I’ll show you.” He closed the blade of the knife and stuck it in his pants pocket. Then he
pushed himself up and staggered on unsteady legs. He stumbled to the door leading to the small bay where they worked on cars. With his hand on the door, he turned back to us. “But wait here a minute. Wait till I call you.”

  “All right,” I said. Marlene nodded.

  He went into the bay, and we heard a pounding noise before he hollered, “All right, you can come in.”

  We ventured in. Jimmy didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. One narrow section of the wall between the bay and the front room was not a wall at all but a small storage space filled with crates. Jimmy lifted one off the top and settled it on the floor at his feet. The lid was already missing. He reached inside, dug around amid the straw and pulled out a bottle of Scotch, identical to the one he had just emptied. He unscrewed the cap and waved the bottle dramatically. “That’s right, folks! Come on in for a gallon of gas, a pint of oil, and all the booze you can drink.” He upended the bottle and drank; it dribbled down his chin and dampened his blood-stained shirt.

  Marlene and I stared at him in silence. Finally Marlene managed to whisper, “Jimmy, where does this come from?”

  Jimmy stumbled as he turned to look at Marlene. Righting himself, he said, “Canada. Got to be Canada. Goes to Cincinnati. Comes here.”

  “But I mean, how does it get here?”

  “I don’t know. It just keeps coming. And the old man keeps unloading it. He thinks I don’t know, but I do. Know all about it. I’m not stupid. Cars come in the car wash, roll out with a full tank.” He laughed loudly at that, took another swig. “Yeah, he thinks I don’t know, but I know. I know what he’s doing.”

  “He’s bootlegging,” I said.

  Jimmy looked at me with his glazed eyes. Spittle flew from his mouth as he hollered, “Bingo! The old man’s a bootlegger. I oughta turn him in, have him arrested.”

  “Why don’t you, Jimmy?” Marlene asked. “Why don’t you turn him in and have him arrested?”

  “Because he’d kill me. Or have me killed. Even if he went to prison, he’d find a way . . .” Jimmy finished by drawing a finger across this throat. “So I stay quiet. Me and Marcus, we don’t say anything.”

  “Marcus?” My eyes widened and a rush of light-headedness rolled over me. “Does Marcus know about this?”