The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  I walked past the memorial now, wishing I’d taken Kyle here before, or at least explored it with Matt. So much history, right in our backyard, and yet we’d always been too busy building businesses or working or keeping up with the Joneses.

  Now, beneath the cloud of recent events, exploring it alone didn’t hold much appeal. I glimpsed the rock as I walked past, took a left on Chilton Street and climbed a hill toward Pilgrim Hall Museum. The large gray building stood imposing at the end of the block. I scaled the many outside steps before I reached the lobby, my laptop bag now heavy on my shoulder.

  In the foyer, an older woman greeted me. I inhaled a deep breath and introduced myself.

  The woman lifted her phone. “Just a moment while I call for Jill.”

  In a few minutes’ time, a woman appeared from the staircase to my left. She held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Rodrigues. We spoke on the phone. I’m Jill.”

  I nodded. “Please, call me Sarah. Thank you so much for making this possible.”

  Jill led me around to the main exhibit hall, where I glimpsed a large painting on the left that read Signing of the Compact in the Cabin of the Mayflower. Taking out keys, she unlocked a glass door labeled Steinway Memorial Library. We entered. The dark red of the paint contrasted beautifully with the many portraits along the wall. Windows allowed in splashes of sunlight. Across the room sat a grand fireplace flanked by caged bookshelves, a treasure of documents within.

  “This is amazing,” I said.

  “As I said to you on the phone, this really is not regular practice, especially for a seventeenth-century document. But because of our history with Barbara . . . the board decided to allow you access.”

  “I am grateful.” I wondered if Barb’s generosity in her will had inspired theirs.

  “We’ll be using her donation to digitalize Elizabeth’s journals, but we won’t be able to get that together until next year sometime.” She pointed to my bag. “I can give you the link to watch the video I mentioned, or I can set you up on our computer.”

  I took out my laptop, typing in the YouTube link. We watched the video together, in which a woman solemnly explained that every time a historical document was touched, it was at risk of damage. She went over how to wash hands properly before touching a document, what to keep away from the record, and so on.

  When we were finished, Jill set up book supports, or a “cradle,” that would help ease the stress on the spine of Elizabeth’s journal. After we returned from washing our hands, Jill unlocked one of the cabinets and pulled out a bound book of yellowed pages. She laid it carefully in the cradle and untied the ribbon around it.

  “The pages are beginning to come loose, so we have to tie it together with this unbleached cotton.” She pulled the cotton with care and laid the book open. Gently, she rested chain links on either side of the first page to hold it open. I watched carefully, the gravity of the privilege I was about to partake in not lost on me. “If you notice any pages stuck together, please tell me at once.”

  “I will treat it with the greatest care. I promise. Thank you so much.”

  For the first time she gave a small smile. “I believe that you will. Please don’t hesitate to come find me if you have any questions.”

  I sat down and stared at the journal, already open to the first page. Without touching it, I read the first two sentences, not without some struggle.

  Andia wed today. ’Tis how I came by this paper.

  I fought for each word of the short sentences, realizing with clarity the monumental task before me. I skimmed the rest of the page, noticing some unfamiliar words and many f’s in place of s’s.

  Of course, I was curious about the story Barb had thought so important. But this would take hours upon hours. And I couldn’t do it from the comfort of my home—I’d have to make the drive to Plymouth during the museum’s hours.

  I rested back in the chair, fought for perspective. Truly, almost anything of late seemed like a monumental task. Doing the dishes, getting ready for work, taking out the trash, searching for a clock repair guy. With the heavy press of my failed marriage upon me, I couldn’t quite summon much excitement toward anything. And now, with this fresh disappointment, I battled a wave of depression.

  Closing my eyes, I breathed in through my nose.

  I’d never be able to live with myself if I ignored Barb’s request. And I couldn’t let it drag out, either. Not only would it never give me peace until completed, but Mary should know her mother died. She should know that Barb cared until the end.

  Only I couldn’t contact her until I’d gotten through Elizabeth’s story. Until I recorded a readable copy. Mary couldn’t transcribe the story long distance.

  I opened my eyes and gave myself a short pep talk. It was simple, really. This needed to be done. I was the one to do it. End of story.

  I opened a new file on my laptop and titled it Journal of Elizabeth Baker, and began.

  March 20, 1675

  Andia wed today. ’Tis how I came by this paper. After the vows, when all stood in line to congratulate my dearest friend and her new husband, Goodwife Elizabeth Howland gestured to me with the crook of her finger from her spot in the front pew. I was eager to escape the mass of people to see her. She presented me with this bound book of precious paper, and bid me put it in the pocket of my dress. I told her it was Andia’s day for presents, not mine. She said Andia would have everything she needed provided for her by Hezekiah now, and that I was the one who may need a bit of encouragement and a place to voice my thoughts over the next few months.

  I wondered what she knew that I did not.

  Whether I will need a place to voice my thoughts or not, I can’t deny there is something wholly satisfying about putting my musings on paper, stringing together letters into words, words into sentences. Much like the piecing of an intricate quilt, ’tis a delight to create something from nothing.

  I asked Goodwife Howland if it would please her if I visited on the morrow for a cup of chocolate and some of her stories. I never tire of her tellings of her childhood in the homeland, of her frightening voyage on the Mayflower when her yet-to-be husband fell overboard and was saved by God’s providence and one of the topsail halyards, of that horrid first winter, of the Indian named Squanto whom she and Goodman Howland knew well. The latter interests me most, and I long for more. Yet she never satisfies. Either she has naught to tell or she does not wish for my ears to hear it.

  She bid me stay home on the morrow. I could not presume to hide my hurt. With Andia now wed, who was left to talk to if not my namesake?

  Goodwife Howland leaned down to whisper in my ear as the men made ready the horses to leave Pastor Miles’ meetinghouse.

  “Soon thou wilt wed also, Elizabeth. Thou wilt have the responsibilities of thine own home and hearth to keep. ‘Tis best thou spendst time preparing for that and not in the musings of an old woman.”

  My heart longed to argue, yet I kept my mouth closed.

  Papa was quiet as the wagon rocked over the rough trail to the Bourne residence, but I sensed something on his mind. I pulled the lap robe closer to ward off the chill of the day.

  Papa said Caleb Tanner had come to see him the day before when I was out for one of my walks. He said Mr. Tanner wishes to court me.

  I told Papa Mr. Tanner was too old for me. What I didn’t tell him was I thought him a bore. There is nothing surprising about him. Caleb Tanner is the most predictable man on earth. Since I was no higher than a corn stalk in the ground but a fortnight, I remember Mr. Tanner sitting in the second pew on the left in Pastor Miles’s church. He has lived on a small homestead growing his vegetables and chopping his wood, never seeking to further his estate or explore new territory or befriend the feisty natives. He certainly isn’t the kind of man who would be open to a wife reading and writing and keeping a journal of her thoughts.

  “Elizabeth Grace, Caleb Tanner is a good and respectable man, not more than ten years your elder. He’s been
waiting for you to come of age.”

  It unnerved me that Mr. Tanner sought interest in not only a wife, but in me. I prayed he would not be in attendance at the wedding feast and my prayer was answered. I heard Mr. Lewis note in passing that Mr. Tanner had to attend a matter of import back on his homestead.

  He likely had to tend his milk cow.

  March 24, 1675

  Mr. Tanner called on me today. He asked Papa if he and I might share a short walk. Much to my dismay, Papa did not refuse.

  I stoked the fire and wiped my hands on my apron before following Mr. Tanner out the door. I didn’t look at Papa, hunched over drinking his flip at the table, his cough echoing behind us.

  Mr. Tanner spoke of the beauty of the day as he led me north on a familiar path away from the homestead. I mused why it was that he sought me out. We hadn’t much familiarity with one another. In truth, the only memory I had of him was when I was but a lass. John Cole and Nathan Cobb took it in their minds to chase me with a big fat toad at a harvest picnic. In my panic, I hid behind Mr. Tanner, then not much more than a lad himself. He crouched down and pulled a piece of straw from my hair and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to the boys running toward me with their ugly friend. Mr. Tanner straightened and told the boys that was enough for now and to go find something more useful to do than to tease helpless little girls.

  I’d run away without thanking him. It came in my mind to do so now, but he likely had no memory of the incident.

  I tried to appreciate Mr. Tanner’s tall, steady presence by my side. He smelled of smoke and faintly of manure. I didn’t see how I could make myself love him.

  He asked me if I enjoyed Andia’s wedding. I told him I had, but that I’d been anxious to get home to write in my journal.

  He didn’t have a response to that, so I went on to tell him I often took walks in the woods in these very paths, and that I thought it would be quite exciting to meet a native or two sometime, but I never came upon them, and what were his feelings about the natives?

  To my surprise, I think I saw a smile beneath his honey-colored beard. Yet his words did not indicate such. He bid me stay away from the ruffians, that none of them were a happy lot.

  I told him I thought it wrong to condemn those the good Lord hath made from the same dust as he. I also told him I thought Captain Church the bravest, wisest, and most exciting man in the colony to seek them out and befriend them.

  Again, Mr. Tanner had little to say on that.

  I doubt he will call on me again.

  March 31, 1675

  Whether it be God’s providence or happenstance, I can’t be certain. But I must write about what happened this day. After Papa gave me my morning book lesson and I saw to the dishes and fire, I went for one of my walks. I cannot begin to understand it, particularly at this time of year, but I often feel as if the woods beckon to me. With the faint scent of pine lacing the air, I feel a peace, as if I am one with the trees and the dirt beneath my feet, one with birds the color of sky and fire, with woodland creatures the color of fresh-cut wood.

  Today I sang. And ’twas not a church hymn. I sang “The Nightingale,” having read the words and music from one of Papa’s imported books. If he knew I acted with such boldness, he’d forbid me ever leave the safety of the chimney seat again. As it is, he is not aware I go so far. He would no doubt fear for me as Mr. Tanner made mention of on his last visit.

  I so enjoyed the upbeat tune and beauty of the morning, I lost track of time. I wandered beneath a tall pine, and that was when I saw him.

  He was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. His hair was jet black and his skin the color of the warming pan I use to rid my bedsheets of the chill at night. He wore leather leggings and breeches. I tried to tear my gaze from his shirtless torso, but I had never seen a man in such a state before, and even as my face and neck heated, I could not help but study his well-formed muscles and broad shoulders. I hid behind the base of the tree and watched as he crouched and put a pair of clamshells to his face. I realized then that he was plucking out hairs on his chin.

  I do not think I breathed in the space of a minute’s time. I tried to remember the greeting used in their language, but it escaped my mind. I saw a bow and arrow at his side and my heart pranced like an untamed horse. Mr. Tanner said to stay away from the natives. This one may take to his weapon when he saw me. He may shoot it and kill me. I imagined myself crawling across the forest floor with an arrow through my body.

  I backed away slowly, but my foot found a twig. In one smooth motion, the native spun, bow poised in hand, his face alert.

  I did not think. I ran.

  He yelled out after me, but I kept running even as his words echoed through the forests.

  “Nétop, nétop!”

  Even as I remembered what the word meant, I did not slow my pace. The foreign expression etched itself in my mind. I will not soon forget his voice.

  “Nétop.”

  Friend.

  Chapter 10

  My phone alarm woke me from a dream I didn’t want to leave. I shut it off and fell back on my pillow, trying to recapture the vision. It wouldn’t be hard. I remembered the moment—the dream—because it was real. It had happened years earlier.

  Matt and I had been seeing each other under the cover of night for almost a month, but one Friday night my parents had gone to New Hampshire for a conference. Matt picked me up after he’d mowed his neighbor’s lawn. For once, the sun shone bright in the sky, and I met him at the front door instead of at the end of the drive. His hair was still wet from his shower and it curled at his ears. In his car Elvis sang out “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

  He took me to the Lobster Pot in Bristol. We ate on the patio and watched the sun’s rays dance on the water. I tried to order a bowl of soup as my main course, but Matt insisted I order something more substantial. I knew he’d had to mow about three lawns to afford to take me out.

  After dinner, we drove to Colt State Park. We walked on the wide rocks and around the park until we found a large tree whose branches touched the ground, creating a sheltered canopy below it.

  “It’s a European weeping beech,” Matt said as he drew me under its protective umbrella.

  The tree’s trunk grew so thick I couldn’t begin to extend my arms around it. Its base split into a W where gnarled branches sprouted upward and out. Couples’ initials cluttered its bark, swollen and twisted with the growth of the tree. I looked up, where the canopy of pear-shaped leaves and branches opened to faded blue sky.

  “I worked here last summer and found this tree.” Matt dug in his pocket and withdrew his Swiss Army Knife. “May I?”

  My insides fluttered. I’d only known him a month. “How many other girls have you brought here?”

  He stepped closer. He smelled of Ivory soap and woodsy cologne. He’d been a perfect gentleman so far, giving me sweet kisses then and now, but nothing more. “Only you. That’s why I brought you here. I’ve had other girlfriends, but you’re special, Sarah. I can’t explain it. You make me feel like anything’s possible—it’s like you make me something. I brought you here because I wanted to tell you. I love you.”

  He lowered his lips to mine and I tasted a salty thin layer of sweat on them. I leaned into him and for the first time, he deepened our kiss. I hungered for more, felt the same ardent desire in him. But he was the one to pull back. He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear and held up the knife.

  I nodded and leaned against the massive trunk to watch him climb the tree, sling a leg over a limb, and carefully carve Matt and Sarah below a large knot in the trunk.

  There was no turning back after that.

  My alarm blared again, and I dragged an arm from above my head to shut it off. Over the years, Matt and I hadn’t visited the weeping beech tree nearly enough.

  I closed my eyes and thought of that kiss again, of the many physical intimacies we’d shared over the last decade and a half. Not only did my soul ache for my husband, my body did
as well. Surely he’d come home soon if for no other reason than missing the warmth of my arms, as I did his.

  By the time I walked out the door, coffee in hand, nerves had replaced every other desire in my body. My stomach grew tight as I thought about facing a day at work. While I was initially hesitant to transcribe Elizabeth’s journal, right now the thought of the cozy library at the museum, Elizabeth’s ancient words on the table before me, intimidated less than the thought of a hallway of patients dependent upon me. At work, I would have to pretend to be happy. At the museum, I didn’t have to pretend anything. Tucked away in the library by myself, I could lose myself in the work of the story.

  But I had responsibilities and really, I loved my job. It would be good to settle in again, to think about the patients and my coworkers instead of Barb’s request or my personal problems. The journal would have to wait until the weekend.

  When I reached the geriatric ward, Jen clapped her hands once upon seeing me. “Boy am I glad to see you. Doris is having a hard time in 223—Mr. Caron, a man who had a stroke two days ago. He’s being a bit stubborn. Would you mind?”

  I clocked in and placed my lunch in the refrigerator. “No problem.”

  I scurried down the hall to rescue our oldest—and sweetest—CNA, Doris. When I arrived and peered around the closed curtain of the first patient, I saw her standing with a bowl of Cheerios in her hands. On the laminate floor beside her lay a metal spoon with splatters of milk surrounding it.

  “Uh oh,” I breathed. I took the bowl from Doris. “I think Mrs. Taylor could use you in 301.”

  “Thanks, Sarah,” she whispered.

  While I wasn’t certain I could handle this patient on my own, it often seemed as if relating to them one-on-one worked better for me. Otherwise, some of the more cantankerous sorts felt we were trying to wage war against them.