The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  When at last he came and saw me, I could not help but thrill at the look of pleasant surprise upon his face. ’Tis worth the waiting to see his severely cut, strong features light up at the sight of me. “Chickautáw,” he said as he dropped his bow and placed both hands on either side of my arms. “I hope you did not wait long.”

  I did not tell him I would have waited hours more.

  “Did you have no fortune in your hunt?” I gestured to his bow and then to his empty hands.

  “I did not hunt today. I was meeting an English friend.” Abram led me to his fire pit, where he stirred the still-glowing coals alive with a stick.

  “I thought I was your only English friend,” I said. I wondered if his other friend was also a woman. I wondered if she felt for him what I did.

  “You are more than a friend, Chickautáw. You are part of my spirit.” He said this so simply, I wondered if he knew the deep thoughts of my heart, if perhaps he even shared them with me.

  He offered me some Nokehick, and I took it to be polite. High above us, a hawk circled overhead, its piercing cries splitting the air.

  “I keep friendships with some English and some from Pocasset tribe, though Weetamoo does not know. Some of my tribe is not friendly to the English. I wish to warn them of threats.”

  I wondered if his friend was Benjamin Church himself.

  “Would that not betray your people?”

  Abram grew thoughtful at my comment. He stared up into the swaying trees, up to the top of the majestic rock, which was his shelter. “I belong to two peoples, neither who want me. I side with no side. I wish for peace. If I learn that the English plan to harm my tribe, I would warn them also.”

  I admired his desire for peace between two peoples who had both hurt him in some way. I told him he was a good man. He laughed. “No one good but God, yes?”

  “How is it that you hold to the faith of those who spurn you?” I did not wish to incite anger at the English, at God even, but I had to know.

  He studied me a moment and my heart thrummed beneath my corset.

  “This faith—your faith, my faith—did it not belong to others long ago? The—the people the Lord brought out of Egypt?”

  “The Hebrews.”

  “Yes. The Hebrews. Did it not belong to them first? Even to Adam at the very beginning? Is it perhaps not the faith of the English, but rather a faith for all mankind and the English are part of that large body? What if my people are another part?”

  I closed my eyes, swallowed, and nodded, feeling suddenly very small beside him.

  He held up his hand to me and walked to his cave. A moment later he came back out with a small black book. A Holy Bible.

  “Do you read?”

  I nodded.

  “Will Chickautáw teach Abram?” I tried to hide a smile at how it was that I possessed the Indian name and he the Christian one.

  “’Tis much work. ’Twould take some time.”

  He nodded with enthusiasm. “Are you willing?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” ’Twould give me cause to come and see him often.

  I left with a promise to return the next day to deliver his first lesson, if Papa did not have urgent need of me.

  June 2, 1675

  The early summer heat oppresses. The thick air does little to help Papa’s cough, though he had a good day yesterday and was able to sit up and eat by himself. He apologized for the trouble and inquired if Mr. Tanner had yet asked for my hand.

  I told Papa Mr. Tanner might be having doubts about asking. That piece of news sent him into another coughing fit and I falsely assured him that I only jested, that I was certain a proposal would come any time now.

  The days are long. I sleep little. My thoughts run wild as soon as I lay my head on the pillow. I often light the Betty lamp and strain my eyes sewing by the meager light. Abram’s quilt is almost pieced. ’Tis a simple pattern with bits of my old aprons scattered throughout.

  I’ve gone to him near every day on the pretense of teaching him to read. He is a fine student and I fear ’twill not take him long to master the English letters.

  Today Abram told me of a trial taking place in Plimoth Colony concerning the death of a Praying Indian named John Sassamon. Abram said Sassamon was much like him, living in both the world of the white and the world of the copper skins. He traveled easily between both worlds. Very early this year, Sassamon visited the Governor Josiah Winslow to warn him that the Wampanoag planned to wage war. A few days later his body was found beneath ice in a pond not far from his home.

  I shivered when Abram told me this story. “And do the authorities blame someone for his death?”

  Abram gave me a sad smile and nodded.

  “Who?”

  “Who does Chickautáw think?”

  “The natives.”

  Abram nodded. “They convict three Wampanoag with little proof.”

  “What will become of them?”

  “They will hang.”

  I reached out and touched the back of his hand. He turned it over so as to hold mine. My stomach tumbled and my heart sent up a pitter-patter loud enough to reach the heavens. “I fear for you.”

  “Do not, Chickautáw.”

  “You and Sassamon have much in common. ’Tis dangerous to be in both worlds.”

  “Then you are in danger as well.”

  Am I? Am I in both worlds? I feel ’tis true. I am a part of both, yet belong to neither, just as Abram does.

  “What shall we do?”

  I wanted him to ask if I would run away with him. As soon as the thought came to mind, I scolded myself. For what of Papa? I would never leave him for the sickness to eat away at the inside of his body, for him to die alone. And what of Mr. Tanner? I cannot say I love him as a wife should love a husband, but I know ’twould be wrong to leave him.

  “I must stay here. There is good I can do,” he said.

  I lowered my gaze to the dirt where I had just given Abram his lesson. He lifted my chin so I would have to look at him. “We must trust God to take care of us.”

  “Do you truly believe there is One who sees all and cares for me?” I had thought the question before but never felt free to voice it. Here, with Abram, it felt safe to ask.

  “I know many gods before. Vengeful gods. I never felt love from them or wholeness. I never felt good enough. I have many imperfect brothers. I too am one. But Jesus . . . he is my true older brother. He the only one who met my heart where I am.”

  The way he said it was so beautiful that it made me long for Jesus to meet my own heart. What would it be like to give myself fully to God? To have the intimacy with Him that Abram hinted at?

  “Did you choose the name Abram?” I asked.

  He nodded. “My earthly father died before I knew him. I chose this name to remind me of the father of my faith.”

  I looked up at Abram’s rock. “I think I should like you to take me to the top again.”

  He did not hesitate. This time, when we reached the top, I did not pay heed to my jumping stomach. I spread my arms to the side and up. “Do you think if I were to ask Jesus to meet my heart here, He would?” I asked Abram.

  He didn’t answer and when I looked back at him, he stared at me. “Abram?” I repeated myself.

  He shook his head as if to rid himself of a vision. “I am sorry, Chickautáw. Yes, if you ask, I believe Jesus will meet your heart.”

  Yet I couldn’t say if I wanted Jesus enough at that moment. What I wanted stood just steps behind me.

  “If I ask you to meet my heart, will you, Abram?” I said the words into the wind, into the tall tree branches in front of me.

  I sensed him step forward, toward the edge of the rock, slowly. He ran his hands down the side of my arms until they met mine. His body pressed against my back. I shivered despite the thick June heat.

  His breath played across the back of my neck, and in that moment I knew he felt for me what I felt for him. “Jesus’s heart is better than mine, Chickautáw.”<
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  I twisted so that we faced one another. “It is yours I want.”

  Silence cloaked the woods. I wondered if my forward confession bothered him. He stilled, and I thought he would say something. Instead, he lowered his mouth to my waiting lips.

  He tasted of smoke and tobacco and woods and freedom. My heart thrilled at what he shared with me. The length of his body pressed along mine and I hungered for him in a way that frightened me. He pulled back all too soon.

  “You should go.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. With my insides still burning, I descended the rock quickly. When I looked up he still stood at the top of the boulder, proud and straight, his silky black hair blowing in the wind. I knew that if things were to continue like this, I would have to tell him. I would have to tell him that I planned to wed another.

  An involuntary sob shook my frame and I turned away from both Abram, and his rock.

  June 9, 1675

  News has come to the settlement of the execution of three Wampanoag Indians for the murder of John Sassamon. Andia called on me today and told me of it. My heart was not sad to see her go after a short visit.

  I did not take leave to see Abram this day. Papa fell quite ill again and had great need of me. ’Tis degrading for him, I know. I must help him with all manner of things, and in his delirium he once prayed for the Lord to have mercy on him and sweep him up to heaven now so he would not have to be shamed before his daughter.

  I tried to reassure him that he is not a nuisance, that I love him and ’tis my pleasure and honor to care for him. He did not respond.

  Mr. Tanner has been strangely absent of late.

  Chapter 18

  I positioned my feet parallel to the golf ball perched on the tee and aligned my driver behind it. I brought back the club and swung with all my might at the little white ball.

  My club met nothing but air.

  I adjusted my baseball hat and looked around to see if anyone else on the driving range noticed my blunder. No, everyone else seemed busy hitting perfect balls onto the range.

  Again, I positioned my feet, took aim, and swung. This time I hit the ball, but it went far to the right. I wondered if anyone ever hit another golfer on the driving range. I supposed I could be the first.

  I went through half my bucket and managed three decent hits. I’d watched Matt play golf a couple times. He didn’t even look like he tried when he swung. Complete perfection, total control in one powerful swing that had the ball flying three hundred yards.

  He’d bought me the set of golf clubs for Christmas the first year after we built the house.

  I remember opening it, praying it wasn’t what I thought it might be.

  To my horror, it was. A brand-new Callaway golf set in a light-purple bag. I tried to hide my dismay.

  “Thought it was time to get you out on the course. Kyle’s starting to play. It’s something we can do as a family.”

  “You think you’re up to teaching me?”

  He winked at me. “Oh, I’m up to it.”

  He’d been so excited. But as the winter snows melted and the spring muds disappeared, I made excuses. I let him bring me golfing once. He’d wanted to go to the driving range to start me off, but I said if I was going to make a fool of myself I’d prefer to do it out on the golf course on a quiet day, where I could see what I was up against.

  He took off a morning of work, and after we put Kyle on the school bus, we drove to Swansea Country Club’s par three course.

  He was patient, I’ll give him that.

  I tried for about the first three hits. Then I put little into it, sending my ball off the fairway, into the trees or water hazards, anywhere but on the green. I grew cranky and frustrated. He grumbled at my unteachable spirit.

  “If you want to sell the clubs, you can,” I said when we walked to the car.

  “You kidding? You’re going to quit after one session?”

  “I’m hopeless, Matt.”

  “We’re keeping them. If you ever want to put a little effort into it and learn, let me know.”

  They’d sat in the attic for the last nine years. Until now.

  Perhaps my motivation for taking them out was wrong. And yet was anything more worthy motivation than winning back my husband?

  I thought of Caleb, his persistent care and presence for a woman whose heart was more than a little wishy-washy. I didn’t see how Elizabeth and Caleb’s story could end happily. For that matter, I didn’t see how Elizabeth and Abram’s could, either.

  “Sarah?”

  I jerked my head up from where I’d been taking aim. Behind me, golf clubs slung at his back and a thin line of sweat on his forehead, stood a familiar man. Only instead of his usual white coat, he wore a polo shirt that showed off his muscular torso.

  “Pete—hey.” I tried to hide my surprise.

  “I didn’t know you golfed.”

  “Um—yeah, I don’t. This is an experiment of sorts. It’s not going well.”

  Pete set his golf clubs down. “Want a lesson?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so. I’m pretty hopeless. I came out here because I thought hitting some balls would feel good. Turns out I should have just bought a punching bag.”

  “Dinner didn’t go so well last night?”

  That’s right, he knew about Matt’s employee dinner. Before he left work on Friday, he’d asked me if I had plans for the weekend. I told him about Matt’s dinner. I hadn’t expected him to remember.

  “It was fine.” Instead of the dinner, I remembered the feeling of being in Matt’s arms again. I looked down at my half-empty bucket of balls to hide my thoughts. “So you come here a lot?”

  “Every Sunday night. Either here or the course. You live close by?”

  “A few miles up the road.” I tapped the head of my driver on the green turf near the tee.

  “Hey, I don’t mind giving you a few pointers if you want. You serious about learning?”

  Good question. I imagined calling Matt up and telling him I’d like a golf lesson. More than likely, he’d see through my ruse. He’d say now wasn’t a good time. He was busy with things in Newport, busy with Kyle. Why hadn’t I decided this five years ago?

  But if I came to him already knowing a few things . . . well, it couldn’t hurt. Maybe it would be a way for us to spend more time together, talk even. I pictured Matt, Kyle, and me walking through the golf course, laughing, talking. The last few years we’d spent so little time together as a family. Kyle was busy with school and track and friends. Matt was busy with work. I should have let him teach me all those years ago. I could have tried harder, for his sake. Was a little self-sacrifice too much to ask of me?

  “I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” Pete said. “Just thought I’d offer. I know a thing or two, anyway.”

  I shook my head, blinked. “No, I’m sorry, Pete. I mean, yes, I think I could use a few pointers . . . or a few hundred, whatever you’re willing to offer.”

  He broke into a grin. I noticed the dimple on his left cheek. “Great.” He moved to the empty tee-off space beside me and grabbed his driver. “Remember to keep your feet parallel to the ball. Don’t worry about whacking it so hard. Maybe pause before you come back down with your swing.”

  He demonstrated, hitting the ball smoothly into the air to a flag a hundred yards away.

  “You make it look easy.” I placed a ball on the tee and dragged in a long breath.

  “Relax. If you’re not having fun, you’re not playing golf right.”

  I snorted. “Then I can honestly say I’ve never played golf right.”

  “Keep your arms straight. Bring your club back just a bit. There, that’s it. Now pause, focus on the ball, and come down smooth.”

  I followed his instructions and this time I connected with the ball and hit it about seventy-five yards out. I gave a little jump of excitement. “That felt good.”

  “It looked good. That’s just how you want to do it.” He scooped up another ball from my
bucket and placed it on the tee. “Okay, this time, grip the club a little tighter.”

  I concentrated on the ball. When I swung, I felt as if the driver were an extension of my arms. The head met the ball and it flew straight onto the range, close to the 150-yard mark. “I can’t believe I just hit that!”

  Pete gave me a high five. “I think you’re a natural.”

  He watched me finish off the bucket, encouraging more than instructing. I didn’t hit all great balls, but the majority of them soared straight and, more often than not, long.

  I slid my driver back into my bag. “Thanks, Pete. I actually had fun.”

  “You must be playing it right, then.”

  We slung our bags onto our backs and I returned the empty bucket to the clerk. Pete walked me to my car and hefted my clubs into the trunk. “Can I interest you in an ice cream cone? My treat.”

  I wanted to say yes. I liked spending time with this man. But I didn’t want him to think I was interested in him that way. “I—I can’t. Not today, anyway.”

  He smiled, but not well enough to hide his disappointment. “I understand. I probably shouldn’t have asked—”

  “No, Pete. It’s not that. It’s just . . . well, you know my marriage is kind of shaky now. I don’t want to add more problems to it. . . . I don’t know; does that make sense?”

  I could have kicked myself. I shouldn’t assume Pete was interested in me. He was just a nice guy, probably would have offered golf pointers and ice cream to any other woman in distress on the range. He knew I was married. Of course he wasn’t asking me out, out.

  “Say no more, Sarah. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of scumbag trying to swoop in and ruin your marriage—”

  “No, no of course not.” Matt and I didn’t need any help ruining our marriage.

  “But, well, just so you know, I’m pretty good at listening. You have a marriage that you need to fix; I get that. But I don’t think it’s wrong that we’re friends, is it?”