Have Mercy

by Siobhán Béabhar

  "Both my parents had a lot of white in them," I said, breaking the silence. "Black Irish, I once heard." She snorted as she grabbed her now full mug of "Irish Cream" coffee. She lifted the mug towards her mouth and inhaled its fragrance. She took a tiny sip.

  Her nose crinkled and her lips puckered. She looked at me as if I had poisoned her. "That's shit, that is."

  "That's a shame. I had hoped it reminded you of home." I tried to look innocent. Her expression told me I had failed. I should feel guilty for poking at her. But, of course, I didn't. "Would you like some hazelnut?"

  "You wouldn't happen to have tea, would ya?"

  "I think I might. Might as well make yourself familiar with the place." I pointed at the pantry door. "Look in there. A friend brought me a box back after she visited London. I kept it around for a special occasion. I guess now is that occasion." Red opened the pantry door and stepped inside. I heard her moving around and then the light flickered on.

  She stepped out with a box of tea in one hand. In her other hand she held a pair of black rimmed glasses. Holding the glasses in front of her eyes, she read the box. Her arm dropped to her side then she turned and beamed at me. "This is Irish tea."

  I shrugged with indifference. I should probably have told her that the tea had been there for years. Did tea go bad? I didn't know, but I was sure that she'd let me know if it was bad. She lifted the box and sniffed the contents. As she lost herself in what I could only assume were memories of home, I dug out the tea kettle.

  I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove to heat up. I turned towards my guest...er... tenant. Dear Lord, but Caitlyn was right. I was fifty-eight years old and I had a roommate.

  "Do you want sugar? Did you see the cream in the fridge?" I asked her as I looked down at my little hazelnut pod. It looked rather lonely on the counter. Maybe I'd give tea a try.

  "I'll just take a bit of sugar," she said from over my shoulder. She was doing it again. Standing over me. Breathing on me. I moved away from the island, lifted the box of tea from her hands, and walked towards the breakfast nook.

  The kitchen table was another of Moses's creations. I pulled a chair out and sat down. I probably should have offered her my spot as it had a nice view of the backyard.

  The room was quiet except for the sound of boiling water. Red stood in front of the fridge with both doors wide open. Her head and shoulders disappeared inside before she reappeared holding the cream. She lifted the carton, and I nodded. The kettle whistled and she removed it from the burner.

  Red moved with such energy. She practically skated across the floor to the sink, where she dumped out her coffee. She rinsed her mug and then refilled it with fresh, hot water from the kettle. Humming, she stepped jauntily to the table, sat down beside me and stared out the window.

  Well played, Red. Well played.

  "I've never met a black person with freckles."

  "There are black people in Ireland?"

  She nodded. "Yes, actually. But I've been here a long time and I don't recall ever meeting a black person with freckles. That is, before you."

  "Why are my looks such a concern?" She blinked twice. I didn't think she had realized before that moment just how intrusive her comment was.

  "I'm sorry. I've offended you, haven't I? I do that sometimes. I mean, I say things that offend people, but I don't mean to offend." Narrowing her eyes, she leaned towards me and lowered her voice. "Does that make sense?"

  "No." Actually, it did.

  She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. Still humming softly, she grabbed the box of tea and began unraveling the plastic wrap. The task had her complete attention. She even bit her tongue. Maybe there was some sacred Irish ritual about opening a box of Irish tea.

  "You're very beautiful," she whispered.

  Something clicked in my head. Her standing over me. Her invasion of my personal space. The comments about my looks. "Look Mrs...um, sorry, what was your name again?"

  "O'Brennan. Carol O'Brennan," she said as she lifted a tea bag from the box.

  "Mrs. O'Brennan, I think I need to clarify the situation. I'm looking for a tenant. A roommate to rent one of the spare bedrooms. I'm not looking for anything else. I know there are women who are embracing their bicuriousness and all, but that's not me."

  "You mean you're bisexual, but you aren't embracing it?" I watched her long, slim fingers squeeze the water from her tea bag.

  I shifted in my seat and hoped she didn't notice. "No, I'm saying that I don't go for women. As in not any time. Not at all."

  She lifted the mug to her mouth and peered over its rim. "Really? Why not?"

  "I just...um. Well, that is to say...." Lowering my head into my hands, I rubbed at my eyes. It had been a while since I'd been left speechless. The words seemed trapped in my mouth so I dragged my hands down my cheeks. When my eyes opened, I saw Red... Ms. O'Brennan, her shoulders shaking as she suppressed her laughter.

  "Don't worry, love. You're not my type, either," she mocked.

  My laugh startled me. I wasn't expecting to find this humorous. "About the room," I began. "There's a nine-month lease and then month to month after that. Utilities are included. I don't watch much TV, so there's only a small one in the living room. I believe your room has a cable outlet we could set up, if you're interested. That would be an extra fee."

  "How's your Wi-Fi?"

  "My what?"

  With a look of exasperation, she said, "The Internet. Do you have wireless Internet?"

  "No. No Internet."

  "You mean no Wi-Fi?"

  "No. I mean no Internet."

  Her green eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "How do you talk to your family? Your very large family."

  "I have a couple of phones," I said as she suffered in silence. "No cell phone. Just a few house phones. One in the kitchen, one on the second floor landing, and one in my bedroom. Should I get one for your room?"

  Laughing, she shook her head. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a cell phone. The damn thing had red crystals and glitter all over it. "Do you know how to work one?" She waved it in my direction.

  "Bite me."

  She laughed again. She began to spin the phone in her fingers. "I meant it, ya know."

  "About the wireless? I'm sure we could get something going."

  "No, not that. That you're beautiful."

  "Not this again." I wanted to say more, but the words caught in my throat. My tea had been forgotten, but now it was the subject of my very intense stare. I was actually looking forward to tasting it now.

  I stood and walked to the sink. I made a show of pouring out the tepid liquid and re-filling my mug with hot water from the kettle. She joined me at the stove, topping off her own mug with fresh water. Her elegant fingers grasped the mug as she sipped from the rim, her pink lips curling with pleasure.

  My, my, my, but Red was seductive. I remembered her mentioning her age when she responded to my ad, but she was one of the rare ones that hit their peak in their late forties and never seemed to age beyond that point. She wasn't faded. She was simply subdued.

  Standing next to her, I felt out of place. It wasn't that I saw myself as unattractive. More like I was unsure of myself. I simply hated the assumptions that came along with my looks. Growing up with tawny brown eyes and fine, golden brown hair, I was teased by the other Black kids for looking so White. Today, my hair had streaks of gray and my freckles were now called age spots.

  "Do you have a car?" I asked, hoping to start a new conversation.

  "I do. It's street parking, right?" she said as she lifted the coffee mug to her lips. She took a gulp then grimaced from either the taste or the temperature. Cocking her head to the side, she reached around me and poured the watered-down tea into the sink. Humming softly, she stepped back and began to prepare a new cup.

  "You'll do, Red." I hadn't realized I'd said the words out loud until she bumped her hip with mine.

  CHAPTER THREE


  Over the next three days, I met with three more candidates for the other rooms. One was a middle-aged gentleman who, in spite of my ad specifying females only, apparently thought it would increase his chances of getting lucky if women surrounded him all day long. Another was a young female college student who barely walked into the door before remembering a very important errand that needed to be done immediately. The last candidate was an older woman who had a sweet and shy disposition. Her name was Albertine Celia Morales.

  I knew there was something unique about Ms. Morales from the moment she appeared in front of my house. She stood looking up and down the sidewalk as if confused as to how she got there. In her right hand she clutched a slip of paper, and in her left, she held a brown pocketbook.

  She was a little wren of a woman, petite with olive skin, shiny blue-black hair, and a sturdy frame. She wore a white blouse with brown leather buttons down the front, a brown wool tweed skirt, and brown loafers that matched her pocketbook. Her black-framed eyeglasses dwarfed her round face. I checked the clock on the mantle. She looked like she had inadvertently stumbled through a wormhole from 1962.

  The little wren turned to look up at the house. I could see her plainly on the sidewalk, but she couldn't see me shielded by my curtains. They were the perfect length and thickness to hide my nosey nature; I wasn't ashamed to admit that I had spent many hours watching my neighbors from behind these curtains.

  I could tell that she was undecided since she hadn't moved from that spot in five or ten minutes. There were moments when her face was set in committed lines, as if she had convinced herself through some private lecture. Then a look of despair crossed her face, almost like freedom was before her, but she didn't know how to get there. She reminded me of a delicate bird sitting in a birdcage with the door wide open. That idea seemed reassuring. I'd always had a soft spot for pretty little birds.

  I left my stakeout position and glanced at the mirror on the wall. Checking my hair and removing the sleep from my eyes, I walked to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the door wide open. I popped into the doorway and opened my arms wide in a welcoming gesture. But I left her with the decision whether or not to enter. Her mouth opened in surprise then she spun around, turning her back on me. Her head made little movements and, occasionally, her right foot tapped against the pavement. I smiled. She seemed to be committing.

  Her head dipped, and she pulled the brown purse from her shoulder and crammed the pocketbook inside. Shoving her purse back onto her shoulder, the wren turned to face me with the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Here I was, standing in my own home, and I had never felt such a welcome. She marched up the path to the house and nearly skipped up the front steps. When she reached the door, her aquiline nose crinkled under the rim of her glasses. As she stopped in front of me, her movements slowed and her smile faded.

  The feral gleam must have been in my eyes. Before she fell into another round of doubt, I stuck my hand out, plastered the widest smile on my face, and said, "I'm Mercy."

  The brown purse fell from her shoulder. Her hands rose to cover her mouth as tears filled the corners of her eyes. She took a few deep breaths before squeezing her eyes closed. She shook her head back and forth while she mumbled something in Spanish. I felt awkward standing there with my hand held out while this woman broke down. I started to withdraw my hand when, in a brisk movement, she grabbed my hand and pulled it towards her bosom.

  Her quick capture of my hand threw my balance off. For a moment, I rocked back and forth on my heels. I was falling towards her. She caught me in her open arms. Wrapping them around me, she hugged and balanced me. Then she patted my back while she swayed us back and forth. The little wren was stronger than she appeared.

  Just as abruptly, she pushed me back on my heels and raised her palms towards me. On her face was that beautiful, welcoming smile. I stepped away from her, but she followed me. She took my face in her hands, squeezing my cheeks. I had to force the words out. "You must be Ms. Morales?"

  She pulled her hands from my face, tapped me on the shoulder, and whispered, "I am."

  "You're late." I pushed the door shut. I turned to look at the wren and noticed the rapid movement of her eyelids. For heaven's sake, did I just make her cry?

  Smiling, I said, "I hope you didn't get lost by my directions. I'm not very good with remembering street names." A small, shy smile blossomed on her face. This birdie was fragile. Was I going to have to walk on eggshells in my own house? I wasn't sure if I wanted to deal with that on a daily basis.

  "No, Mrs. Higgins? It is Mrs. Higgins, right? Your directions were quite good. I use the bus and sometimes it doesn't run on time," she said in a thickly accented voice. I guessed that Spanish was her native tongue.

  "Come on in. We can go to the kitchen and have ourselves a little chat. Do you like coffee?" I turned and walked through the foyer. The patter of her feet followed behind me.

  "I used to, but it gives me headaches now. You wouldn't happen to have tea?"

  Damn it. Another one. "Actually, I do. I just opened a box recently. One of the new tenants, you can meet her later if you like, is also a tea drinker. You'll like her. She's English."

  "Oh, I love England. Where is she from?" she asked.

  "Ireland."

  "Ire... Ireland?" Her mouth opened a few times as if she wanted to correct me, but she was too polite to contradict her host.

  "Yes, she's from Ireland. Pardon me, but did I say English? She's Irish. From Ireland, but has lived here for quite some time. Sugar?" I needed to change the topic. I'd always been an ornery person; sometimes, I was too much for some people. I motioned for her to take a seat at the breakfast table. The little wren slid into the chair closest to the wall and sat erect. If I could see through the table, I imagined that I'd see her feet tucked neatly under the chair and her hands folded demurely in her lap.

  Removing her glasses, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and began to clean the lenses. "In your ad, you mentioned that you're a retired schoolteacher. So am I. But I wouldn't say that I was retired." She paused as she adjusted her glasses. "I think I was fired. Or maybe let go. Um... I am not quite sure."

  She stared at me. Her large eyes blinked behind the wide rims of her glasses. Something compelled her to continue because the words started to spill out. "One of my students said I made inappropriate advances toward him." Her confession seemed to startle her.

  I turned away. I could feel laughter building inside of me, but I didn't want to laugh in her face. If it had been Red telling me this tale, I would have believed it. But this little wren? How could anyone believe she would make inappropriate advances towards anyone? She was the personification of good, clean living.

  "So what happened?" I asked as I pulled two mugs from the cabinet. As the water heated on the stove, I put a pod of hazelnut coffee into the coffee machine.

  "I'm not sure that I can talk about it."

  I nodded. That was probably for the best. I wasn't interested in hearing the intimate details of my tenant's lives.

  I heard her shifting in her chair. I imagined her small hands were running up and down the tweed skirt. "I hugged him," she blurted. "His name was Julio and he was a student of mine for many years. Both his older brother and sister had been my students, and I knew the family for oh... fifteen years. His brother and sister were good kids, and they would say to me, 'Sister Mary Albertus¬¬¬¬—'"

  "Wait a minute. Did you say 'Sister'?" I turned to look at the wren. Why hadn't I seen this before?

  "Yes, well, no. Not any longer. I'm simply 'Albertine' now. I left the order when they asked me to leave the school. I was a teaching Sister. For thirty-two years, it had been my calling. It was all I knew and I loved it."

  The kitchen was silent as we stared at each other. She seemed alarmed. I felt amused.

  Hunching her shoulders, she frowned. Her voice dropped to a whisper as if she feared God was listening. "I thought they would realize it was a misunderstanding.
I simply was showing affection and not doing anything inappropriate. I had been good and honest for all of those years; I thought surely that would mean something. Then I was called into the office with Father Luis and the Mother Superior." She wet her lips and peeked over her shoulder. There was nothing there but the wall.

  The tension in her back eased while her eyes sought out the kitchen door. "In the corner stood another priest, but I didn't know him. I still don't know him. Then Father Luis explained that he knew that I was a good teacher, and had been a good Sister, but he had to remove me from my teaching duties. I was shocked. Heartbroken." Her voice faltered. "Then this other priest I didn't know explained that with all the sex abuse allegations brought against the Church, they couldn't take these allegations lightly. They couldn't allow a new scandal, even if it was unjust, to taint the school.

  "I jumped up and pounded my fist on the table. I yelled that it was not the Sisters who brought scandal on the Church. I gave them thirty years of my life, only to have it thrown back at me over a small thing. I couldn't take it. I walked out of the room, and I could hear Mother Superior calling for me to return..." Her voice faded as her eyelashes fluttered. I set the mug in front of her, and I watched her shakily grasp the handle. There were no tears, though. She just stared blankly.

  Her pitch dropped as said, "That night, I prayed for myself. The next morning, I walked into Mother Superior's office and I requested to leave. I knew she was surprised. She tried to speak to me about what had happened earlier, but I told her all I wanted to speak about was leaving. She said that I should think and pray about the decision, and after a week, if I was still determined, I should come back and make my request again."

  Captivated by her story, I asked, "Did you follow her advice?"

  "Yes. Yes, I did," responded the wren. "I went back to my room, and for seven days, I fasted and prayed. On the last night, I felt so isolated and afraid that I was ready to tell Mother Superior I was going to stay. I began to tidy my room, but then I found a few newspapers. I found myself looking through the classifieds, saw the list of available rooms and noticed your ad. When I read you were a retired teacher, it just seemed right. I felt like I could do it if I could be here with you. I'm sorry. I know that sounds very strange." She pushed her glasses further up her nose.