Have Mercy

by Siobhán Béabhar

  Her eyes widened as my words sunk in. She must have recalled the circumstances that brought her here. It was a bitter irony to know that the woman who had gotten me suspended from work was now asking me for a room. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. Then the mask of bitterness fell away, and vulnerability took its place.

  "I'm sorry for the bad start, but I'm desperate." She bit her bottom lip then said, "I've been evicted from my home, and I'm staying in a shelter. They kick out the residents every morning after breakfast. I usually wouldn't drop in on someone unannounced, but this isn't at all what I'm used to."

  She dropped her head and shook it back and forth. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "I owned a home. Me and my husband. But then he got into a bad accident, and we took loans out against the house to cover his medical expenses. Everything we had was tied into that house."

  She glanced at the ceiling. "He didn't have a pension, but I still had my job. Then one day, I went to swipe my badge and it didn't work. I went around front to the security office, and I was told that my job had been moved to India to reduce costs. They didn't even allow me to get the things from my desk. They had it all in a box waiting for me."

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I could hear the similarities. Fuck. I understood her grief and panic.

  "I'm sorry for your situation, but surely you realize that personalities must be compatible for these living situations to work."

  She said nothing. I noticed her throat constricting as she battled tears. "I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot." The apology was unexpected. I didn't expect someone so prideful to capitulate so quickly. She stood there with defeat weighing down her shoulders.

  I didn't like this woman, but I understood desperation. "They didn't let you pack your own things?"

  Momentarily confused, she shook her head. "You mean my job? No. They were too afraid we would steal company supplies." Her voice trailed off as she looked out the window.

  She glanced back at me. "Not long after losing my job, I lost my husband. I couldn't afford the mortgage payments, and I was approved for a temporary modification when I got a letter telling me I'd been foreclosed on. I stopped making the payments altogether and started saving my unemployment checks, waiting for the day they would force me from my home. That happened a week ago. I have money to cover my rent for the next six months, and someone at my church is willing to hire me part-time at their restaurant. I've been turned away by other landlords. They don't want someone with bad credit and a recent eviction. I just need a..." Her voice faded.

  We shared a similar burden. We were both widows who had struggled to keep our homes. I was managing to hold onto mine, but she had lost hers. If this tenant situation didn't work out then I might find myself in her position. Knowing my own bitchy demeanor, I was fairly sure that I wouldn't be anyone's first choice, either.

  "Mercy?" someone called from behind me. I turned to see Albertine standing in the foyer. She beckoned for me to come to her. I frowned and shook my head. She puckered her lips and beckoned again. I glared at her, but I walked over. The wren's hands were balled into little fists and I could see tears in her eyes. Melia's story had affected her. I wasn't entirely sure if I believed Melia, but obviously Albertine did. "Please. Let her stay."

  "Albertine, don't you find her a little odd?" I asked, letting my voice carry.

  She shook her head and repeated, "Let her stay. If it's money, I'll cover her rent if she ever can't afford it. You won't lose out; I promise. She needs some compassion," she whispered. I turned away but she grabbed my forearm. "She needs a bit of mercy."

  I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth. I looked back at Melia, who was hovering in the doorway not many feet away. I got the impression she'd been eavesdropping, because she quickly looked away. Something about the woman didn't seem right. The confusing thing was that I understood her story. I lived her story.

  "Ms. Mason," I called out. She turned and waited expectantly. "Can you go back to the shelter to pick your things up now?"

  From the kitchen, I heard the sound of something shattering against the floor. That had better not have been my second favorite mug. Cringing, I looked at Red who stood in the kitchen, waving her arms as if to say "stop". I shook my head at her, knowing she had the same reservations that I had. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. Her head fell back as if in resignation. Tensing her shoulders, she turned towards the small closet where I kept the broom and dust bin. Such a short fight from Red.

  My gaze returned to Albertine and Melia. They were standing near one of the prayer plants in the foyer, and Melia was lightly touching its leaves. The two of them seemed to be getting along. I wasn't sure about Melia, but I trusted Albertine and I prayed her instincts were right.

  Melia and Albertine left an hour later to go pick Melia's things up from the shelter. I offered to drive them, but Melia insisted on getting familiar with the public transportation system. They returned in Melia's car. She moved her large suitcase and small boxes into the last small bedroom.

  Only a bathroom separated Melia's and Albertine's bedrooms. They fussed around Melia's bedroom and I could hear Albertine advising her to paint the walls. They walked as a pair into Albertine's bedroom, where I could hear them gushing over her color choices.

  Eventually, they took off to find some furniture for Melia's bedroom. Within an hour, a delivery truck arrived with a modest queen bedroom set that had been in storage.

  As two delivery men struggled to carry an oak dresser up the steps to the porch, I opened the door wider to make their access easier. When they entered the house, Caitlyn followed behind them, a broad grin on her face. I wanted to slam the door shut. I didn't really give a damn if it was in front of her face or not.

  "So you found some roomies, Mercy?" she asked.

  I groaned. Loudly. "Hey, Caitlyn. What's going on?"

  She entered the house and made her way towards the kitchen. Following behind, I watched her grab a mug from the cabinet. With no invitation from me, she stole a pod of my coffee and placed it into the machine. The utter nerve of this broad.

  Resigning myself to her visit, I walked over to the breakfast nook and took a seat at the table. "How's Jay?" We hadn't chatted about her relationship problems the last time she visited. Jay had been her boyfriend for the last six years.

  She was quiet as she finished making her coffee. After adding sugar and cream, she sat down at the table. "It's over," she sighed. Caitlyn loved to be dramatic. "He got another girl pregnant. Can you believe that?" I could feel her leg bouncing under the table. Always dramatic. Always perky. And always moving. Her visits had made Moses feel better, but they always left me feeling drained.

  "But you two were broken up, right?"

  "No!" She was quiet for a moment, and then she began to slurp her coffee. Caitlyn loved these long pauses after making startling comments.

  Reaching under the table, I dug my fingers into her bouncing leg. She stilled. "Damn it, Caitlyn, I don't have time for this. What exactly happened?"

  She turned to me and tilted her head to the side. "He obviously cheated on me."

  I threw my hands up in false despair. "Obviously."

  "He went home to Hawaii for his cousin's funeral, remember? He was supposed to be gone for one week, but then it became two. Then three. Finally, he comes home and all he wants to do is spend time with me. He even began talking about marriage."

  Now that actually caught my interest. For as long as I had known Caitlyn, she had bemoaned the fact that she wasn't married. She had waited year after year, expecting Jay to finally break down and marry her. She would get fed up and dump him. He'd crawl back to her with more promises and she would take him back. But he never promised her marriage, so it must have been a signal to Caitlyn that something wasn't right.

  She finished her coffee and pushed the mug aside. Grabbing my hand, her sorrow disappeared. "Enough about him. Tell me about your roommates."

  "I'd rather talk about Jay."

&n
bsp; "Eh. Well, I don't want to think about him. I'll tell you all about it next time. Okay?"

  Damn, she got me.

  I pulled my hand from her grasp. "Everything is going fine. Everyone is doing fine," I said churlishly. I didn't want to wait till the next visit to hear about Jay's escapades. Not because I thought it was incredibly fascinating, but because it meant that she would be back.

  "What are they like?" she asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

  "They are... They are just fine. There's Carol, an Irish lady who keeps to herself. Then there's Albertine. She's a doll."

  "Was she the black lady?"

  "No, that's my newest tenant. Melia."

  "Didn't you have four rooms to rent?"

  "Yeah, I haven't found someone for that last room," I said. "All of the responses I've received were about the small bedrooms. No one wants the large bedroom because it costs more."

  "Excuse me, ma'am," said one of the deliverymen. "We just wanted you to know that we're done upstairs. We're leaving now." Over his shoulder, I noticed Melia and Albertine standing in the foyer, arm in arm. They were becoming fast friends. Such an unlikely pair.

  I got up from the table and walked behind the deliverymen as they left the house. Albertine stood at the doorway and waved as they drove off in their truck. Melia was standing to the side, staring at Caitlyn. Did I really have to make introductions?

  With an exasperated sigh, I grunted, "Caitlyn, that's Melia and Albertine. You two, that's Caitlyn." I retreated back into the kitchen, pretending to be busy cleaning something. I didn't know what, but I would find something.

  I overheard Melia asking Caitlyn where she was from. Oh no. Not this story. Caitlyn's father had served in the military. Whenever someone asked about Caitlyn's origins, she always began a long recitation of all of the places she had lived. I could tell Melia hadn't expected such a detailed response. She was shifting from foot to foot as she waited for Caitlyn to end her biography. Albertine, on the other hand, seemed captivated by the story. She asked Caitlyn several questions about her life as a military brat.

  Just as I began to twitch, I heard the phone ring. "I'll get it!" I called out in a singsong voice. They weren't paying any attention to me.

  "Hello?" I answered.

  "Hello. Good afternoon," said a female voice. "I am calling in response to a classified ad that I read in the newspaper. It advertised four available rooms. Are any of the rooms still available?" The words were pronounced in a clipped manner, but with a trace of a genteel Southern accent.

  "Yes. One left. It is the bedroom with its own bath," I said.

  There was a brief pause before she said, "That is perfect. May I stop by to view the room? Perhaps tomorrow morning?"

  "Sure. That should work. How about eleven?" I asked.

  "That sounds perfect! My name is Mrs. Penelope Patrick-Harrison. I believe it will be a pleasure to meet you."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I wondered if she would let me call her "Penny." That was all I could think about as the woman chattered on and on about nothing. We were having coffee out in the garden, and I should have been listening carefully to her story. Instead, I nodded at the right moments while my mind kept repeating her name over and over again.

  She had a hypnotic Southern accent with perfect inflection, and I knew she wouldn't be the type to let someone call her "Penny." No, I couldn't imagine that a person who spoke so deliberately would answer to something as crass and simple as "Penny." I loved it already.

  "You seem familiar," I said, cutting into her comments.

  Her hands fluttered over her lap as she adjusted the napkin delicately placed there. Mrs. Penelope Patrick-Harrison did seem familiar, but maybe because she was exactly as I'd imagined, a perfect Southern belle with perfectly coiffed hair and freshly manicured nails. She even wore an antique pearl necklace. Probably something passed down over generations. I bet she belonged to one of those heritage groups. You know, the kind that required you to trace your ancestry back to some momentous event in colonial or antebellum history.

  "Oh, that," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Maybe you have seen me on television."

  "And why would I have seen you on television?" I asked with a touch of surprise. I squinted and thought. I tried to recall her image, but came up with a blank. Penelope Patrick-Harrison. Penelope Patrick-Harrison. I repeated the chant until it finally clicked.

  Her husband, or ex-husband, was Senator Arthur Harrison from Virginia. Six years ago, he was a trailblazing Republican congressman whom many thought would be a future presidential contender. However, right after winning his third term in the House of Representatives, a series of recordings were leaked of him having phone sex with an unidentified woman. Initially, he had denied they were real, until the woman stepped forward and disclosed that she'd had an on-going affair with the congressman. The woman was Mrs. Patrick-Harrison's personal assistant.

  Mrs. Patrick-Harrison went on national television talking about forgiveness. The couple made the rounds on popular talk shows discussing the strength of their marriage and how the affair was a test from God. They weathered the scandal through the rest of his term in Congress, but then he lost his re-election bid. His own party ran another candidate against him, someone more conservative. Shortly after that, he filed for divorce and married the former personal assistant. Three years later, he ran for the Senate and won.

  Rarely did I find myself speechless, but this was definitely one of those times. Should I ignore the scandal or speak about it? Maybe she thought I was going to mention it, which is why she acknowledged that she was on television.

  "Wow. What a bastard," I said, settling on what I hoped were the right words.

  "Indeed," she drawled. The light breeze had no impact on her styled hair. She nodded then raised her hands and wrapped them around her teacup. She didn't hold it delicately by its stem. There was no sign of embarrassment on her face.

  She took a few sips then cleared her throat. Setting the cup down, she once again fidgeted with the napkin on her lap. "I've been told that they are expecting a child. Can you believe it? He's nearly sixty-four years old and he's about to be a father again. Our oldest son is forty-one and his son is expecting his first child. My great-grandchild will be the same age as his great-aunt or uncle. What was Arthur thinking?" she muttered. Her already straight spine stiffened as she focused on me. "Mrs. Higgins, I'm not here because I can't afford to live alone. I have a home. I grew up on a plantation in Virginia." I choked on my coffee. "While my daddy lived, he occupied the family home and Arthur and I lived in a townhouse down in Richmond. Arthur kept the plantation after the divorce and I took the townhouse."

  I wiped my mouth, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. "Plantation?" I knew that a plantation was a large farming estate and that there were many plantations still operating around the world. But, something seemed plain wrong about a White woman telling a Black woman about her plantation back in Virginia.

  "Rosehaven. It belonged to my family for generations." She looked down. I think she finally realized the impact of the word "plantation." "Yes, well, that was all in the past, you know. My family owned slaves, but that was many, many years ago. I am not guilty of their crimes." She combed her fingers through her hair and looked back towards the house.

  I snorted in disgust. I wonder if any of her ancestors owned any of mine. "How did your ex-husband get your family's... uh... estate?"

  Her eyes widened at my tone. She seemed to weigh my words to determine if there was a hidden meaning. There was in a sense. She didn't know who she was talking to. "That was Daddy's doing. Daddy sold Arthur forty-nine percent of the plantation. When Daddy died, I inherited his share. I never really thought the arrangement was odd until Arthur filed for divorce. By that time, I would have done anything to have that man removed from my life, so I sold him my share of the property." Her jaw tightened and her nostrils flared. "They live there together."

  I figured "they" must mean Arthu
r and his new wife. "But what brings you here?" I asked.

  Relaxing her jaw, she said, "My daughter and her family moved into the townhouse with me. At first, I loved it. I loved seeing my grandchildren every day. It was nice being surrounded by my family. It was nice to hear noises in the house after living alone for so long."

  I knew what she meant. There were times when the quiet nearly brought me to screaming.

  "When they first moved in, I offered to watch the children so my daughter and her husband could leave for a weekend getaway. Over time, the weekend getaways became week-long vacations. Then this past winter, they went off to Switzerland, leaving the children behind. They didn't even ask if I wanted to mind them. They took me for granted."

  She grabbed the napkin from her lap and tossed it onto the table. "A few months back, one of my great-nephews proposed a business plan to me, and I signed up as an investor for his project. He's a genius with technology. He made his first million when he was only nineteen, and now he has founded a company that allows men to create imaginary girlfriends on their cellphones."

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  "I know. It seems ridiculous, but people can create their ideal woman. They can select her age, body size, hair, voice, everything. An image is assembled and then men can... well. You know," she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

  "You mean it's for phone sex?"

  "Yes, can you believe it? My marriage was ruined over some horny bastard having phone sex, and now I'm going to make money off of other horny bastards. I simply adored the irony, so I invested in the technology. Well, that did not make my children happy. Especially my daughter. She and her husband sat me down one night and gave me an intervention. They were concerned about how I spent my money." Shaking her head, she chuckled. I imagined that she was amused by her daughter's audacity.

  She raised her hand and ran it through her platinum-and-gold hair. Her shoulder-length hair was cut to soften her square jaw, while drawing attention to her bright blue eyes. She reminded me of the pearls around her neck: white, smooth, and polished.