The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  August 11, 1676

  News came to the island today that one of Philip’s men is willing to lead the English to his camp at Mount Hope. Caleb once again gathers powder horn, bullet pouch, musket, and balls to take up the fight against the natives alongside Captain Church.

  If they catch Philip, this wretched war will be near an end. I pray it is so.

  As I hold Michael, I feel sorrow for the needless lives lost on both sides. War is an ugly thing. I do not see why both sides could not live together in peace. Perhaps that is the innocence within me that Caleb says I still own. Perhaps that is the innocence that killed Abram.

  Either way, I pray better things for my son.

  August 13, 1676

  Philip has been captured. Already Caleb returned home this night. He says the battle is not yet done, but that he will stay on a few more weeks to help with the harvest.

  We work together, side by side, and I find satisfaction in our common toil by day and our common rest at night. I think of Papa, of his desire to see me provided for. I think not of his dead body, ravaged from sickness and natives, but of the life he gave me as a child. I speak of him often to Michael, and although my son does not understand my words, I know he will grow to know who his grandpapa was.

  October 19, 1676

  The pages of this journal draw to an end. I will have to ask Caleb to obtain paper when next he is near Plimoth. But for a few small skirmishes, the war is over. We have migrated home, though little is left. One of the only buildings that stand is the garrison we hid in many moons ago. I cannot bring myself to look upon it again. I wish to move forward, and the past is still too painful to think on, especially now that we are here upon this ground.

  Caleb insisted we visit Abram’s rock. I voiced my fear of finding Abram’s bones at the bottom and so he visited first and assured me the place was clean of the past, save for a few trinkets hidden in the cave.

  Andia watched Michael for us and we left together. My skirts now hide a stomach once again blooming with life. I remember how I used to run from Caleb into these woods and I am grateful that we can now walk into them together. Caleb knows me truly and deeply—inside and out. He knows my rashness and my temper. He knows how I loved another before knowing my love for him. And still, he persists in loving me.

  He believes I am the one who needs to see the rock again, as a sort of final good-bye to my native friend. I believe he is right.

  It stood the same as I remember, perhaps even more beautiful framed by the changing foliage around it. We looked in the cave, where one of Abram’s tin cups still lay on its side. Caleb asked me if I would like it and I told him no.

  We walked to the top of the rock and Caleb held me as I shed tears at the memory of Abram’s falling body.

  “He wanted peace,” I told him. “He longed to meet God.”

  “He received his longing, then,” Caleb said. “Remember his life, not his end, Elizabeth. His faith.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  Caleb nodded. “He was a blessing to me for the short time I was his friend.” He placed his hand on the small bump of my womb. “If we have another son, I wish to name him Abram. Does that suit you?”

  “Yes.” I looked into my husband’s hazel eyes, ran my hand over his honey beard, and kissed him fully.

  ’Tis a blessing to know I belong to a person so intimately, and he to me. As we stood on the top of the rock, I realized that were it not for Abram, I would not have loved Caleb with the intensity I do. Even as love is an object of but two people, it is shaped and formed by others, by the circumstances that surround it. It can grow, or it can shrivel. Had Caleb and I not suffered the times of adversity, we would not have grown together, into the man and wife we are today. I am thankful he did not give up on me. I am thankful he persisted in showing me the beauty of love.

  A single tear fell from my eye as I finished Elizabeth’s story. Something sealed within my heart at that moment. The somewhat hazy hope I’d clung to seemed to come full circle. I couldn’t fathom how Barb knew how much I needed this story at this time in my life.

  But of course, the simple answer was that Barb hadn’t known—God did.

  I closed my eyes, thinking of Elizabeth’s words—or Goodwife Howland’s, rather—that I’d read a few passages back.

  I asked Goodwife Howland if she thought beauty could come even from the ashes of our burned settlement. She told me it was not for us to know how God’s hand works. That beauty would come in time, if not for many years, when our bodies lie buried beneath the ground.

  I thought of my hometown’s history. The rock where I’d lost my rings—Abram’s. And I wondered—hoped—that maybe, just maybe, part of this beauty was taking form in my life, in my heart.

  I dug a tissue from my purse and blew my nose. I would print out the entire story, maybe see about having it bound. Then I would contact Mary and hope Barb’s wish hadn’t been for nothing.

  Chapter 33

  I hadn’t taken the quilt off Barb’s bed. While most everything besides furniture had been packed away, the quilt on Barb’s bed remained. I now knew why my neighbor had made it. It was a likeness of the one Elizabeth had created. I could picture Barb tucking herself beneath it every night, remembering her ancestor, reminding herself that love had the power to conquer. Reminding herself that perhaps, one day, Mary would forgive whatever she’d done.

  I sat on the quilt, ran my fingers over the appliqued finger of Abram. Then I dragged in a deep breath, catching the faint scent of pine through the open window, and pressed numbers on my cell phone. Numbers that would connect me to Barb’s daughter.

  My breaths turned tight in my chest as I listened to the ring echo on the other line. I would need to tell Mary her mother died. Somewhere along the way, she’d find that Barb had given everything to me. I wasn’t sure how it would all sit with her.

  The voice mail picked up and a pleasant voice came on. “Hey, you’ve reached Mary. I’m not able to get to the phone now, but leave a message . . . unless you’re selling something. In that case, just hang up.”

  She didn’t sound intimidating. I gathered my fortitude as the beep sounded. “Hi, Mary. My name is Sarah Rodrigues. I have news of your mom, who was my neighbor. I realize you two haven’t spoken, but could you please call me back? Any time is fine.” I left my number and hung up, already wondering how persistent I would have to be in reaching her. If it came down to it, would I have to travel across the country and knock on her door to speak with her?

  I leaned back on the quilt, closed my eyes. Barb was wrong to leave this unfinished. But that didn’t change the fact that I would do everything I could to help her make amends with her daughter—even in death.

  Kyle’s improvement proved rapid. September rolled in without word from Mary, despite two more messages left. Soon, I would go back to work. Matt’s rental agreement would expire. Kyle would return to school.

  What did our future hold?

  Matt didn’t ask for the divorce petition. I thought he probably bided time for the sake of being tactful. I braced myself for “normalcy” and for Matt to ask the dreaded question.

  Part of me regretted shredding the papers. Matt was in the wrong. What he did to our family was unspeakable. I should be kicking him out of my life.

  But a gentle knowing prodded me into the uncomfortable, reminding me of my own faults, of real and enduring love, of the beauty of mercy. Just as Elizabeth knew she couldn’t blame the native people for the whole of King Philip’s War, neither could I cast the full blame of our failed marriage on Matt.

  One night I took a long soak in the tub. The late summer air and shorter days cast a coziness on the house, and I lit a few candles and ran a bath to enjoy some overdue relaxing. The scents of lilac and bath salts soothed my frayed nerves.

  I was anxious to get back to work, to have Kyle home, to start helping him plan for college and fill out applications and other normal things mothers of seniors did.

  When my p
hone rang, I scooped it up quick as I always did, half expecting it to be a doctor from the rehabilitation center telling me some unforeseen news.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sarah.”

  “Pete.”

  “Yeah . . . how’s it going? Just figured I’d check in on things.”

  My stomach quivered. I hadn’t talk to Pete in weeks—not since Matt had told him to leave the hospital.

  “I’m sorry; you must think I’m awful for not calling.”

  “No—no, I could never think that.” I heard the longing in his words and my heart ached for him. “How’s Kyle?”

  “Good. Perfect. He should be home next week. He’s at a rehab center not far from home, so we’re settling in. I’ll be back to work soon, if you guys’ll still have me.”

  “We’ve sure missed you there.” Awkward silence clung to the invisible waves that connected us. I swirled the bubbles with my fingers, popping a few. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Pete, I’m sorry. I know this is unfair, but I think we got too close, too fast. I’m—”

  “He’s coming back to you, isn’t he? Matt?”

  “What? No, no. We’re still separated.”

  “Oh.”

  “I just—I can’t rush into things. I’m still married.”

  “You haven’t signed the papers.” His tone reflected defeat.

  “No. I haven’t. He’s my husband, Pete. And this thing with Kyle really threw us for a loop. I’m sorry.”

  A long sigh. “Don’t be. I want you to be happy, Sarah. And if things don’t work out, well . . . you know where to find me.”

  I smiled into the phone. “Don’t wait, Pete. Please. Go on with your life. You—you’re a good guy.”

  From outside the window and coming from below, the sound of a guitar reached my ears. Someone’s car radio? No. Nothing on the radio would sound this bad.

  Then singing drifted up to me. Loud, slurred, off-key, horrible singing. “Wise men say, only fools rush in . . .”

  Matt?

  “I’m sorry, Pete, someone’s at the door. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

  “Sure. Bye, Sarah.”

  I put the phone down and stood in the tub, dripping wet. I patted myself with a towel and wrapped a robe around myself—a light silky thing Matt had gotten me from Victoria’s Secret ages ago.

  More singing. “Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?”

  I knotted the robe and wiped my feet dry so I wouldn’t slip on the tiles of the master bathroom. The grandfather clock sang out ten chimes.

  I peered out the window to see Matt on the front lawn, strumming a guitar whose strings couldn’t have been tighter than the ones around my heart.

  I hurried down the stairs and opened the front door.

  Matt’s gaze landed on me and stayed there, even as his body swayed. He strummed a few more off-beat chords with no words. Took an unsteady step forward. “Sarah.”

  “Matt. Are you . . . drunk? Did you drive?” A drunk Matt was as foreign to my mind as a slow Dale Earnhardt. An awkward Taylor Swift. It just didn’t meld.

  He stumbled toward me, not bothering to sidestep the phlox. “I had a few. Used an Uber.” His voice slurred and when he reached me, I could smell his breath, heavy with alcohol.

  I led him inside. “I thought you were visiting Kyle.”

  “Did. Then I stopped at that restaurant . . . what’s it called? Heck, I can’t remember.” He closed the door and became surprisingly steady for a moment as he looked at me. He pulled the guitar strap off his neck, and I thought he’d topple over.

  “Easy there, Elvis.” I took the guitar from him, the neck still warm where he’d held it.

  He spread his feet to steady himself, looked at me hard and long. “Now, what I came for.”

  He lifted his hand to cup either side of my face. With gentle strokes, he brushed my damp hair from my shoulders and ran his fingers down the curve of my neck.

  My brain hummed so loud and quick I thought a hummingbird’s wings flapped beside my ear. My stomach jumped and twitched, sending pop rockets to every part of my body.

  Matt stepped closer and lowered his lips to my neck and then up to my ear. “You’re so beautiful, my wife.”

  My body quaked, and I stifled back a quick sob.

  His eager fingers slid beneath my robe and lowered it off my shoulders.

  I wanted to sink into his touch, pretend this was the beginning of a right step for us.

  But we’d been here before. And even as I sought to enjoy the moment, harsh images entered my mind. Matt’s lips on her neck. His hands on her . . .

  I pushed him away gently. “No. This can’t be how it happens. We can’t—we need to talk. A lot. When you’re sober.”

  “I’m not that drunk.” But his eyes skidded over me. “Is he here? That doctor?” He headed into the living room. “If I find him, he’s gonna wish he was never born.”

  “There’s no one here but us.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the stairs.

  He went willingly. When I entered the guest bedroom and pulled down the sheets, he didn’t protest. I untied his sneakers and pulled them off, along with his socks.

  With a lazy grin he unzipped his pants until he stood in his boxers. He collapsed into the bed and I pulled the covers over him. “Want to join me?”

  I shook my head, even though it was a lie.

  He gripped my hand. “You’re a good nurse. I ever tell you that?”

  “No.” I sat on the floor, my hand buried with his beneath the covers.

  “I thought it. Every day when you—when you were in the hospital with Kyle. You took good care of him.” He crushed his hand to his forehead, but the action didn’t suppress the quick tears springing from his eyes.

  Another first from my husband.

  The sobs broke loose then, and seeing him in this pathetic state served to undam my own tears.

  He cursed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so, so sorry. I want things to be like they used to be—before this summer. Can they, baby? Can we go back?”

  I shook my head through my falling tears. “We need to go forward.”

  Forward. We couldn’t undo what had been done. Elizabeth’s own journey reminded me of that. There were layers of hurt and pain to wade through, and I didn’t know where to begin.

  But I knew it wasn’t here, in our guest bedroom with a drunk husband.

  I stood and kissed him on the forehead. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  I think he passed out before I made it to the master bedroom, where I curled under the sheets and wept. Did Matt really want to come home? Was he through with the idea of divorce? Of Cassie? Did he want me and our marriage, or was it a way of paying a debt he imagined in his mind? Was it the alcohol speaking, and not really my husband? Would he wake tomorrow and regret coming here?

  I turned toward the window and burrowed deeper in the covers. Even if Matt wanted our marriage, how could I ever be with him when he’d been with another woman? How could I ever enjoy his arms again and trust that he totally and completely belonged to me? Would the images fade with time or would they haunt my remaining days? Whenever Matt had a job to do in Newport or a night meeting, I would likely torture myself with doubt and disbelief.

  I wanted to forgive. I wanted to show mercy. But the question still remained: how could I ever trust my husband again?

  Chapter 34

  I woke the next morning to the sound of retching in the bathroom down the hall. I dressed and went downstairs to make coffee and toast, my stomach fluttering with the force of a hundred butterflies’ wings.

  My head swam when Matt joined me, clad in an old pair of jeans and a gray Rodrigues Landscaping T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower.

  “Now I know why I’ve stayed away from that stuff,” he mumbled. “Thanks.” He popped two ibuprofen in his mouth and swigged a gulp of coffee.

  “Toast?”

  “Sure.”

  I slid a plate of two whole-wheat butter
ed toasts over the breakfast bar to him. I went to the fridge to get the strawberry jelly. I clasped the jar tight to still my shaking hands.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  I looked up from the open fridge. “What?”

  “Serve me.”

  “You don’t feel well.” It’s what I’d done all these years. Take care of my family. And despite what Essie and Mariah might say, I thought it to be one of the most worthy things I’d done with my thirty-five years. Even if I hadn’t been well compensated these past few months. Even if Matt and I never “fixed” our marriage. Even if he served me another round of divorce papers.

  “I don’t deserve this,” he said.

  “What do you deserve?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. Behind him the rays of sun streaming in through the slider showed droplets from his wet locks splattering into the air.

  “To be hanged, drawn, and quartered, maybe.”

  “That wouldn’t do on the rug—too messy.”

  “Seriously? You’re joking about this?”

  “What else do you want me to do?” I pushed the jelly at him. “I don’t know what to do, Matt. Where do we go from here? I mean what happened with her? What happened before her?” I leaned over the counter and rubbed the palms of my hands over my eyes. This was work. I didn’t know if I had the stamina to drag myself through the roiling emotions, intense anger and crazy jealousy. My stomach churned, and I looked away from the toast, my appetite all but gone. “I feel like you’ve never shared your heart with me—the whole of it. I don’t know what you’ve been thinking the past few months . . . maybe the past seventeen years.”

  I didn’t voice my other thought out loud.

  He hadn’t truly said he was sorry.

  Sure, he’d said it under a thick, foggy blanket of alcohol and in the hospital, beneath a heavy cloak of grief and guilt. But I wanted to hear it with just us. I wanted to know if he really regretted breaking our marriage vows. If he wished he could take back the hurt he caused me.