The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “Yeah, we should.”

  “You want to go somewhere?” I asked.

  Kyle stuck his head out the garage. “Mom, can I borrow the car? I want to meet up with some of the guys at Pizza Hut.”

  “Yeah, sure, honey. You’ll be back later, right? I want to catch up.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks.” I took note of how he ignored Matt’s gaze, how he didn’t say good-bye to his father, who likely wouldn’t be here when he returned.

  I stood. Kyle backed the Mercedes into the sidearm of the driveway and then drove out.

  “You think that’s a good idea?” Matt asked.

  “What?”

  “Letting him take the Mercedes.”

  “Did you plan on lending him your truck? Or maybe your Harley? Maybe you could let him borrow the cute little blonde attachment you’ve been riding around with on the back.”

  I didn’t regret the words. Things needed to be out in the open, evaluated. It may hurt—likely me more than him—but it was time for us to have a real talk, to make decisions about our future.

  Matt’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t think he’d tell you.”

  My knees weakened. Deep down I expected denial, maybe a plausible excuse. Not this, though.

  “He told me about the bike, not about her.” I couldn’t manage to make Cassie’s name cross my lips. Even in my mind it stirred up a blanket of nausea. If I spoke it, I’d probably be sick all over Matt’s rosebushes.

  “How’d you find out, then?”

  A moot point. I ignored the question.

  Matt lowered himself onto the porch steps. He clasped his hands over outspread legs. I tapped out nervous energy with my foot.

  “Did you—are you—?” I couldn’t finish. I hoped he wouldn’t force me to.

  Are you having an affair?

  “I haven’t slept with her.” He sniffed, hard. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

  My breaths hitched in tiny, short bursts. Black spots danced before my eyes. In some ways I wanted him to admit he’d been unfaithful. Admit he’d made a mistake. He was looking for restitution. Reconciliation. Instead, his answer was too calculated. It implied the horrible knowing that he was involved with another woman, not only physically but emotionally. And unless I read too much into his five-word-sentence, he did indeed plan to sleep with her. To be unfaithful. To move on and forget about me.

  “I want to do this quietly, Sarah. I want you and Kyle to stay here, forever if you want. I’ll take care of everything. But I’m not coming home. I think we need to start the process.”

  Not coming home . . .

  Start the process . . .

  I lowered myself to the ground, put a hand out to steady my unbalanced core. My fingers brushed the fuzzy head of a marigold.

  Maybe I’d known it would come to this all along. That first day, on top of Abram’s Rock when I had dropped my wedding rings, maybe I’d known this was where we were headed.

  Or maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough to fix us. Maybe I gave my husband too much space. Maybe things would have been different if I hadn’t dropped the rings, if I had clung to my marriage with greater tenacity, with more intent.

  “I don’t want you to think this is just because of Cassie. There are about a million other reasons I think we need a divorce.”

  “Enlighten me, then, ’cause right now I’m in the dark.” But was I? I was half of this marriage. I’d sensed things spiraling out of control for some time now.

  “We got married so young, Sarah.” He swore softly. “We were kids. We didn’t have an opportunity to grow, to change into the people we were going to be before we were pressured into a decision to be with one another forever. But being married didn’t stop us from changing. Only we didn’t change together.”

  I pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes to keep the tears at bay. Did I believe the same? Did I believe that being young skewed my vision?

  No, maybe growing older is what had skewed it. I’d grown hardened. I’d taken my husband for granted. My vision had gone fuzzy where once I’d seen clear.

  “What do we have in common besides Kyle? What did we ever do together that didn’t have to do with Kyle? Go out to dinner? Spend time in the bedroom?”

  I didn’t want him to speak of our physical act of love. It hurt too much. Like a hard, kinky ball of rubber bands wound tight around each other, one after another, after another. Hurt upon hurt upon hurt. I didn’t think it would ever stop.

  Images of Matt and Cassie in one another’s arms, doing the things Matt liked to do. Younger. Prettier. Smarter. She’d probably be able to give Matt the other children he’d always wanted. And he was still young enough. He could be with her for another sixty years, making the seventeen we’d been married seem like a dip in the water compared to the long, deep swim marriage was meant to be.

  “Please go,” I whispered into my bent knees. I’d been so ready with my anger, ready to point out all the horrible things he’d done. But with his admission, I lost my fight. I just wanted to be alone.

  His footsteps fell on the walkway. He went into the house, probably to grab the bills. His steps echoed loudly back on the pavement. The truck engine rumbled to life and then down the drive. Part of me wanted to run after him, throw myself at his feet, and beg him to love me as he once did.

  But he’d made up his mind, probably long before today.

  He no longer wanted me for his wife.

  He would no longer be my husband.

  I lay down, a pillow of dirt and marigold roots tangling in my hair. I allowed tears to fall and mix with the dirt at my head, a pile of slippery mud and wilting orange marigolds. They’d been thriving and surviving just an hour earlier, but now, like so much else, they were on their way to death.

  The idea of divorce consumed my thoughts, Matt’s words that he no longer wanted to be my husband festering and feasting on my insides, poisoning me. Even apart from papers or lawyers, his words had spread, oozing toxic thoughts and emotions into every aspect of life. They shoved into corners and crevices of my soul, stoking chords of hate and bitterness and resentment from my heart where love once resided.

  I let it have its way.

  I blamed Matt. Cursed him. Hated him. I tortured myself with images of him and Cassie.

  Apparently, Kyle wasn’t too far behind me.

  He brooded the first two days he was home. I asked if he wanted to talk, but he always said no, busying himself by going out with friends or taking long runs or preparing for the upcoming school year.

  I couldn’t bring myself to go to the museum on Saturday. I didn’t want to leave Kyle in the house alone, though by the end of the day I regretted my decision. I sat on my bed with the door open, twirling Lorna’s ring on my finger. I took it off, thinking I would put it away for good. Forever. But as I sat with it, I knew it would go back on my hand that night.

  I sensed Kyle’s shadow at the door, and when I looked up, his eyes were red and blotchy.

  It had been years since he stood at my threshold with tears in his eyes, looking for comfort.

  “Oh, honey.” I opened my arms and he gave me a sad smile. He didn’t accept my hug but sat on the edge of my bed. The faint scent of fresh soap wafted into the room.

  “I’m sorry, Kyle. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  No, I really didn’t think it was either, but there must have been something more I could have done or said over the years.

  “Your dad and I . . . well, we’ve both made a lot of mistakes.” That was the closest I’d come to admitting failure.

  “I’m sorry I let you down. I told you I’d talk to him, and I tried. I did. But—”

  “Stop it, Kyle. There’s nothing you could have done. This is your father’s decision, okay? He’s a big boy.”

  I wanted to hurl some of my hateful thoughts about Matt into the air. I wanted to make sure Kyle saw my side, to make him as angry at his father as I was.

  But anger wouldn
’t heal my marriage.

  We were beyond that.

  “I know you liked her,” I said.

  Kyle’s face turned the shade of a second-place ribbon.

  “I’m sure if your dad got that, he wouldn’t have . . . I mean, I know it isn’t right anyway, but with you there, it just makes it doubly wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “Crushes come and go. Marriages are supposed to stay.” He fisted my bedspread in his hands. “I hate her, Mom. The worst of it is, Dad’s so blind.” He shrugged. “Guess I was too, for a while.”

  “A beautiful face can do that to a man.”

  “It wasn’t just her face for me, although yeah, that wasn’t too bad to look at. She was so alive. Exciting. Like anything’s possible, you know?”

  A wedge of hurt lodged in my chest at hearing about Cassie’s good qualities, about what had attracted my son to her, about what likely attracted my husband to her as well. I pushed out a small sound that hinted of understanding, even though I understood none of it.

  “But as she came around more, I saw another side of her, too. She started expecting me to get her drinks, get her bags. She’d ask me to go out with my friends so she could be alone with—” He stopped short, seeming to realize the effect his words had on me. “Sorry. My point is she’s spoiled. Used to getting her way. She’s the one who encouraged Dad to get the bike.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t need much encouragement. He’s always wanted one.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think Dad sees her for what she is yet, but he will. Soon.”

  “And then what, kiddo? We forget she ever happened? Forget that someone just like her might come along again?” I placed Lorna’s ring on my nightstand. “As much as I hate to admit it, Cassie isn’t the only reason your dad wants a divorce. A healthy marriage can withstand a Cassie. It was already floundering when she came along; she just gave him the push he needed—or was looking for.”

  He hugged me then, and I tried to hold my tears back. “I love you, kiddo. We’ll get through this. We will.”

  If only I believed my own words.

  Chapter 24

  June 27, 1675

  The work of the devil is upon us. I fear that I never knew such evil could exist before this day, the most doleful that ever mine eyes have seen. I scarce know how to write of such things, but there is no other way for me to sort the events of the day than to do so.

  There is nothing more for me to lose.

  ’Tis all gone, and I have blood upon my hands.

  I am uncertain why I persist in writing. I feel my mind slipping, and I know that the only prospect to keep it sharp is to write. I often pretend I am back on Papa’s homestead, writing in our garden. Then the strong scent of tobacco will overwhelm me, or the chanting of a native, and all pretense flees.

  I waited until darkness swept the settlement the night I planned to see Abram. I tucked Abram’s Bible and my journal in the pocket of my dress for fear another would stumble upon it in my absence. Caleb finished his shift, but lay down to sleep close to the garrison door. If we were attacked at night, he did not wish to have to step over a host of sleeping bodies to give aid.

  The night was quiet, but I waited long. Mayhap too long. Sobs echoed off the stone walls. Many have been made widows and orphans in these days. The men who went to secure the corn never returned.

  The garrison held a high window. A half moon shone through it and when at last it seemed all slept save for Goodman Cobb, the lone guard, I stood on a box of musket powder and silently hoisted myself through the window. I landed on a sharp splattering of pebbles and cut my hands. When I was certain I had not been seen, I crawled from the clearing into the nearby woods.

  The scent of bayberry teased my nostrils, tempting me to think all was well. But all was not well, and I felt unless I made it to Abram to beg of his help, all would never be well again. Within the cover of woods, I stood and ran, the light of the moon as my guide.

  I never knew such fear. I could be shot by an arrow at any moment. Hands could grasp me from behind. My head could be on a pole by sunrise. ’Tis a wonderful thing to live in peace, to not be frightened for thy life. Until now, I have taken it for granted.

  Our plight pushed me forward. I could get to Abram. He could seek help. An army would arrive by tomorrow morn. And perhaps I would be back at the garrison before Caleb realized I had broken my promise to him.

  I passed through Goodman Alby’s backyard. The dirt road before his house shone in the moonlight. Along with it an unnatural lump on the side of the road.

  I could not stop myself from looking.

  Oh, but that I had controlled my curiosity.

  If I had any innocence left, it fled at the sight of the headless, naked body of John Salisbury, his innards protruding in grotesque bloated form. Up the road I saw several other familiar lumps. I swayed. Sour bile filled the back of my throat.

  I made it to the woods, and the small contents of my stomach left me, though the remembrance of the men’s bodies never will.

  My insides burned with sudden fever-like grip. I pushed through the woods, no longer feeling that anything was certain. One thought remained.

  Abram.

  The massive rock welcomed me beneath the moonlight. It, at least, never changed. In the far-off horizon, fingers of pink climbed the sky. It had taken me too long to reach my destination.

  “Abram,” my voice croaked, unrecognizable. I crawled toward his cave. “Abram!”

  His black head poked out and I fell to the ground in relief. He jumped from the cave and ran to me. “Chickautáw?” He helped me to my feet and I leaned against him.

  “Philip’s men—they have attacked. Papa is dead.”

  Abram massaged my arms. I saw in his eyes that he knew. He knew we’d been in trouble.

  “Why did you not come?” I asked.

  He did not answer right away. When he did, I heard shame in his words. “It is difficult being in both worlds. . . .”

  I sat on a small rock on the ground. What did I expect? Him to risk his life for me? What could he have done? He would have been killed, if not by the English, then certainly by Philip’s men.

  “I failed. I did not learn Metacomet’s plans until too late. I went to Church. He says he will go to Taunton to put together an army. I could not do more, Chickautáw.”

  He’d already gone to Captain Church.

  And he was correct in saying there was no more he could do. His place was here, working unseen, waiting for and giving information. He was not a fighter, and I accepted that about him.

  “Is there nothing else to be done, then? You know of no one who can help us?”

  Abram shook his head. “My other acquaintance already helps you.”

  I sniffed. ’Tis likely Abram’s other friend was one of the men I’d seen dead in front of Goodman Alby’s home.

  In the distance, I heard something that traveled up and down my spine with the force of a thousand tiny pricks of a needle. Native war cries. I gripped Abram’s arm. “They are headed for the settlement.”

  “No, Chickautáw. They come for me. They know of my betrayal. They will want my death before the death of the whites. You must go now.”

  The whoops and roars grew louder, bringing visions of headless bodies and arrows and blood.

  The bloated body of John Salisbury.

  Papa dead in Caleb’s wagon.

  “Come with me,” I said.

  “And bring more anger upon your people? No. I stay here. You go.” I’d never heard his tone so firm.

  “Tell me the name of your acquaintance. Perhaps someone will come and help you.” I knew it to be unlikely, but at least I would be able to give word of Abram’s need.

  “Go, Chickautáw.”

  “Please, give me a name!”

  “If I give you a name, will you promise to leave?”

  “Yes—yes, I promise!”

  The name that passed his lips sent me reeling back.

  How could it be?

/>   I asked Abram to repeat himself, and the very same name came forth.

  Caleb Tanner.

  I thought to know so much, and now all quickly unwound beneath me.

  Abram pushed me in the direction of the settlement. The war cries grew louder, surrounding me all at once. I stumbled for the woods, tears in the back of my throat.

  I could not bring myself to leave. I hid behind a smaller boulder in the distance, certain Abram didn’t see me through the thick foliage. Sunshine lightened the area. The massiveness of the rock blocked the light from reaching Abram, still standing on the west side of it.

  The first native who reached him seemed surprised he stood without a fight. He grabbed him and waited for others to arrive.

  They did, in large numbers. They made way for a plain-looking native with a braid and a single feather in his hair. I wondered if this was the notorious King Philip.

  He spoke to Abram. I could not understand his words, but Abram answered calmly.

  The sachem looked around and pointed to the top of Abram’s rock. He made a motion which I took to mean something falling from the rock. He held three fingers in the air, gesturing with the motion each time. I did not understand.

  Two men led Abram up the steep slope. My pulse thrummed against my neck and temples. Would they push him off the top?

  When the men reached the top, the two escorts backed away, leaving Abram at the edge.

  Abram stood tall and proud. He looked in my direction and I wondered if he knew I never left. The natives started up a chant that swelled, erupted, and then came to a sudden stop.

  Then, in one large bound, Abram jumped from the massive height.

  I screamed.

  I didn’t see his body hit the ground. All I saw were natives running in my direction. I turned and ran through the woods as fast as I could, but hard copper arms captured me and dragged me back toward the rock. I fought against them with everything in me, but to no avail.

  To my amazement, Abram was still alive. One of his arms was at a crooked angle and his head bled at the side, but he looked at me with sadness etched on the lines of his face.