Mercy of St Jude

by Wilhelmina Fitzpatrick

  Ignoring the hat he held out, she stuffed the toast in her mouth, pulled on her mitts and hurried off. Callum watched as she ran down the snow-packed lane, her long dark hair sticking out in tufts and strands as the wind’s current worked to force her backwards.

  “Hope we can afford to get her out of here when the time comes,” said Joe.

  “If we went to New York and got jobs we could save enough to send her off to the college to become a teacher like she talks about,” answered Callum.

  Joe eyed his brother. “I knows I’m not book-smart like the two of you, but I’m no dunce either. So let me get this straight.

  If we had enough money to get to New York, we could make enough money to get her out of here? That makes no sense, Cal.”

  Callum watched his sister’s retreating back outlined against the choppy sea spitting in the distance. “I got enough money to go,” he said.

  Joe’s mouth fell open. “What? Where? I mean, how did you get it?”

  “Well, I’m crewing for Murphy going on eight years now, and I’ve been putting a little bit away almost every month for the last four of them. I got enough for the two of us to get there and not starve for a bit. Of course, we won’t be living in luxury like we are here.” Callum scanned the dilapidated kitchen. They did their best to keep it liveable, especially Mercedes, but they weren’t miracle workers. “Seriously, Bill Doyle’s brother is there and Bill says Don would sponsor us and help us out till we got set up, maybe even point us in the right direction for some work.”

  “You been mulling this over for a while, haven’t you?”

  “Started back when Frank left. A couple of years later I asked Charlie Murphy if I could have some pay in real money. He didn’t mind once I agreed to take a bit less.”

  Joe thought a second. “So, was it your money that come up with that new coat for Merce that was supposed to be from the church?”

  Callum nodded. “But I couldn’t let the old man know. He’d spend every last cent if he thought I had any money stashed away.”

  “But why didn’t you say anything before now?”

  Callum had not set out to hide the money from his brother, but Joe had a hard time keeping things quiet. Callum didn’t trust that he wouldn’t let it slip out in front of Farley. The truth was he worried about Joe, fearing shades of their father in his occasional drinking binges. On the other hand, he knew Joe wasn’t mean or lazy, and could just as easily be influenced by good as by bad. Callum hoped that a stable job and a paycheque might bring out the best in his younger brother.

  “I didn’t want to be getting your hopes up till I saved enough for the two of us. And,” he added uneasily, “for Merce to get a bit older. I couldn’t stand to leave her when she was so little. But she’s growing up and can take care of herself now.”

  Joe nudged Callum. “Imagine the two of us in a great city like that. Lots of pretty women too, I bet.”

  Callum could feel the blush spreading. He always claimed he was too busy raising Mercedes and running the house to have a girlfriend, but the real reason lay in his irrational fear of women. He went practically mute in the presence of any woman under fifty. It was an insecurity he could not talk him- self out of, although the Lord knew he tried, going so far as staring into a mirror and trying the words out on his tongue. But the mere pretence sent him into a cold sweat, and even though he knew people said he was handsome, he also knew any girl in her right mind would not want to be seen with the wild-eyed reflection looking back at him.

  Joe was too excited to notice. “New York! Jesus Mary, that’d be something.”

  “I know. I’ve been dreaming about it for months. But if we go we should be on the road by spring, maybe get on a construction crew before they got everybody hired.”

  Joe hesitated. “You sure them two will be all right? Nothing makes her madder than when he starts to crack up from the liquor.”

  “If he’d just lay off the hard stuff, a few beers don’t affect him so bad.”

  “We’ll have a long talk with her before we goes,” said Joe.

  “And we’ll use the last of that money to get the place fixed up,” said Callum, “make it more modern.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  Callum folded his arms. “That’s it then. We’re going, right?”

  A huge grin spread across Joe’s face. “I’ll be the first one on the boat.”

  11

  Two years after arriving in New York, Callum was heading back to Newfoundland. He hadn’t intended to make the trip so soon, especially since he’d recently gotten married, but the last few letters he’d received from Mercedes had made him increasingly anxious. Paddy Griffin had returned to St. Jude. Not only that, he and Farley had become drinking buddies, hanging around Patron’s together before ending up at the house where they drank late into the night.

  “…he’s so creepy,” Mercedes wrote. “He sneaks up behind me and tries to tickle me, and then he laughs like it’s a game we’re both playing…”

  Callum had written her immediately and told her to get out, to go to Burke’s and ask if she could stay there. He had included money to cover her expenses, money he’d been saving so she could go to school and become a teacher.

  He found it odd that she didn’t mention the money or Burke’s when she wrote back. “…and he’s always watching me. He doesn’t even look away when I catch him, just keeps staring at me with this weird look on his face. And Dad’s getting so blind and so gone in the head that he doesn’t know who’s who half the time, just keeps talking about going away, moving to Toronto to go to work…”

  And then came the last letter, the one that sent Callum’s heart racing. “…I told him if he touched me again, I’d cut the paws off him, and I told him to get out and stay out, that if he came back I’d get the police on him. I wish you were here, Callum. I know you can’t come all this way but I told Paddy you were coming anyway and he’d better steer clear. He got this awful look in his eyes that kind of scared me...”

  Callum was starting to panic. He remembered the rumours about Paddy, his penchant for young girls, even his own daughters apparently. When he tried to call Burke’s store to get a message to Mercedes the operator said the telephone lines had been down for a while and she didn’t know when they’d be up again. He would have talked to Joe but his brother had just found out that his baby girl had leukemia and he was spending all his time at the hospital with her. And Callum didn’t feel comfortable discussing it with his wife. It was too sordid, his father’s drinking, a ne’er-do-well staying at the house, his sister caught in the middle. Feeling cut off and desperate, he sent a telegram to Mercedes saying he would be home in a couple of weeks. Judith was not pleased.

  The thought of returning to St. Jude left Callum feeling curiously empty. Besides his sister, he had few fond memories of the place. His bones remembered the frigid slush of winter, the throb of muscles that couldn’t seem to thaw for days on end, the unrelenting chill of February mornings. He could recall only one season. It was as if he hadn’t lived a life there worth remembering.

  Still, he did not consider New York his home either.

  Nevertheless, it was because of his New York connections that Callum was able to get an early start. A cargo ship belonging to one of the company’s suppliers was only too happy to accommodate Jim Maclean’s son-in-law. The voyage took four nauseating days that had him kissing the ground when they docked. From there, he hitched a ride in the back of a truck headed to Port-aux-Basques, then walked the last few miles. As gust after gust of wet wind whipped into him, he pushed forward toward St. Jude. The foul weather didn’t bother him. He was grateful to be off the ship.

  A weak light straining through the woods was Callum’s first sign of home. Cutting through the footpath at the rear, he came upon his father’s truck. Callum wondered if it was still working given Farley’s failing eyesight.

  Through the warped glass of the bare kitchen window he saw his father sitting at the t
able. His face was unshaven, his white hair wild and dirty. He was looking outside but with a stare so vacant Callum couldn’t tell if he’d been seen, let alone recognized.

  With the storm growing fiercer by the second, Callum hurried to the front door. It squealed as he opened it, then, once he’d stepped inside, was immediately slammed shut by the wind. He looked around the large porch, the back half of which had served as his bedroom most of his life. In the corner was his old daybed. For all its age, he’d always thought it was the most comfortable place to sleep in the house.

  “What? Who’s that?” he heard Farley shout.

  The first thing Callum noticed when he entered the kitchen was the change in his father. Although he’d never been a large man, Farley had become almost skeletal. His body seemed to be shrinking in on itself. The kitchen was in rough shape as well. Crusted dishes and greasy pots covered the counter, and some sort of soup or stew had spilled across the table and onto Farley’s lap and the floor.

  “Hello, Dad. It’s me – Callum.”

  Farley squinted at him, half blind and fully drunk. His head wavered about, the bloodshot eyes trying to focus. “What’s that…that black shit all over your face?”

  Callum rubbed his chin, the whiskers starting to soften nicely after five days. “Thought I’d grow a beard, see if you’d recognize me.”

  His father grunted, which set him off on a great coughing spree, his face swelling so his veins looked ready to rupture. Eventually he hawked a wad of spit into a tin cup next to a near-empty bottle of rum. Wiping his mouth with one hand, Farley picked up the bottle with the other. With shaking hands he poured half of what was left into his glass and slugged it back. Then he poured the rest.

  “I think you had enough, Dad.”

  Farley slammed the bottle onto the table. “You don’t be telling me what to do.” He drained the glass. At first it didn’t seem to faze him, but then, out of nowhere, his eyes glazed over and he slumped face first across the filthy table.

  Callum knew from experience that this was the end of the night for his father. He carried him up to bed and removed his shirt and pants. Farley wore no underwear. Callum tucked a couple of blankets around the withered naked body and went down to the kitchen.

  The walls shook as the storm built momentum. He decided he would give his sister half an hour, then he’d head out to find her.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mercedes tiptoed in. Her skin seemed abnormally pale in the dimly lit kitchen. When she saw Callum her hand flew to her chest.

  “Cal? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  “Is that all the ‘how-are-you-good-to-have-you-home’ I’m going to get?” he said.

  Bolting across the room, she fell into his arms and started to cry.

  “Merce, it’s okay, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right.

  I’m home now.”

  “Oh, Cal, I’m some glad you’re here. I’ve been so scared.

  And Dad’s no help. It’s that frigging Paddy Griffin. Even after I kicked him out Dad kept bringing him home. He wouldn’t listen to me. I didn’t know what to be doing.”

  “You shouldn’t have stayed here, Merce.”

  “But how? I couldn’t just show up on someone’s doorstep.

  Besides, this is my home, not his, even if he acts like he owns the place. He even got the truck running and acts like he owns that too. And all Dad does is send him out for more booze.”

  He steered her to a chair and sat down next to her. “Did Paddy hurt you?”

  “No, not really.” She shivered and rubbed her arms with her hands. “It’s just…well, he’s always watching me and he gets that look on his face, kind of like he’s doing stuff in his head, and he gets so close, right up in my face.” She shivered again.

  “He’s been stopping here off and on for months and Dad got him doing all kinds of stuff, getting the mail and buying booze and food and doing all kinds of things like that, just like he’s you or Joe. Dad hasn’t left the house all week, just sits there drinking till his head hits the table...” She was talking so fast she could barely catch up to herself. “…and he keeps getting worse, it’s like there’s something wrong with his brain. Paddy feeds him lies and Dad believes him. I’m half afraid to sleep at night.”

  Forcing himself to remain calm, Callum held her face gently between his palms. “Slow down, Mercie. I’m home now. So what’s Paddy telling him?”

  “Stuff about how he heard you were making it so big in New York and you must be too big for your boots to come back here and that’s why we haven’t heard from you. And he says it like the Pope told him and Dad’s foolish enough to believe him. Some days he really doesn’t seem all there.”

  “Who, Paddy or Dad?” Callum was only half joking.

  “Paddy too, but Dad’s really gone. He keeps calling me Mary.”

  “He thinks you’re Mom?”

  “I guess so. He looks at me right strange like he’s trying to remember who I am. And Paddy plays it up and pretends like Dad is so funny. Then the old man starts yammering at me like I’m really her. I know he’s a bit cracked but it’s sad.”

  “I remember Jack Griffin saying how Dad’s father went foolish in his old age, but I never put much pass on it. I mean, who’s a Griffin to talk about crackpots? Of course, fifty years of boozing and a crack on the noggin down a mine shaft don’t help.”

  “He’s even crazier lately. Him and Paddy are always on about going to Toronto. At Dad’s age! I hear he’s a right laughing stock down at Patron’s. Gets all riled up and tells everybody they’ll see, he’ll go, he’s just waiting for the right time.”

  “The old man wouldn’t survive a day in Toronto, especially with that scoundrel Paddy. You did right to kick him out. If he comes back, I’ll take care of him.”

  Mercedes almost smiled. “I was at the mail sending you a letter this afternoon, and I heard someone say he’s gone for good, got run off a few days ago. And they should know. His mother works there. Besides, if he was still around he’d for sure be here drinking Dad’s booze.”

  “Speaking of mail, what do you mean you haven’t heard from me? I’ve been writing all the time. I even sent a telegram to let you know I was coming.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think I’d get here this quick. I’m sure glad I did though.”

  “I got nothing from you in ages. I was getting worried that something happened.” She winced as a particularly loud roll of thunder rumbled outside.

  “What about the money I sent?”

  “Like I told you, no letter and certainly no money. And I wrote—” She clamped her hand to her mouth. “Paddy gets the mail. He’s even been helping his mother out at the post office since she got sick. He’d have the run of the place, even the telegraphs.” She stopped. “Surely to God he wouldn’t mess with the mail.”

  “He’s been working at the post office? How could anybody trust that good-for-nothing to handle the mail? First thing tomorrow morning we’re going over there.”

  “I bet that’s why he left. He knew you were coming.” She clicked her fingers. “Frig! Sure that’s it. He got your money and took off. How much did you send?”

  “Enough to get you a place to stay and away from that crook,” he said.

  Mercedes smiled. “You’re doing pretty good for yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I’m doing okay.” In fact, he was doing better than anyone had expected. The Macleans hadn’t thought it right to have their daughter’s husband working on a regular crew so they’d brought him into the office. He’d caught on quickly – so quickly, in fact, that his father-in-law had begun to leave him in charge when he had to be away. “But I can’t stop home too long. Once I take care of things around here I got to get back.” His stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Mercedes jumped up. “I’ll make us a scoff while you tell me about New York. First, how’s Joe?” She took a log from the woodbin. “His little girl? Is she any b
etter?”

  Callum shook his head. “It’s not looking good. Leukemia.”

  “Leukemia! Oh my God, poor Joe.” Mercedes put the wood in the stove and stared into the flames. “Is there any hope at all?”

  “The doctor said no, but Joe won’t believe it. All we can do is pray.”

  She worked at the wood for a while, jabbing it with the poker, then wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Tell me about Judith. Is she pretty?”

  Callum felt himself blush as he described his wife. Soon, Mercedes was teasing him in a singsong voice, “Ca-lum’s in lo-ove, Ca-lum’s in lo-ove.”

  They spent the rest of the night catching up. Around midnight, he took a couple of blankets to the front porch. Outside, thunder and lightening raged. The house shuddered. Mercedes fetched him an extra afghan.

  “Some racket.” Callum yawned. “I don’t expect it’ll keep me awake, though.”

  “Me neither. It’ll be the first time in months I won’t be hiding a rock under my pillow.” Mercedes hugged him tight and went upstairs to bed.

  Callum lay in darkness, his sister’s words echoing in the night. Maybe he should take her to New York to live with him and Judith. There was little he could do for his father. Callum had a new life now, and although Mercedes might be able to become a part of it, Farley never could.

  As the house settled into the night’s blackest hours, Callum drifted into an odd restless sleep, half dreams, half memories.

  The only reason he was certain he slept at all was because he kept waking up, yet he was never sure when he was truly awake.

  Suddenly, his eyes shot open. His gut rocked with alarm but he heard only the hard, exaggerated beating of his heart. He lay still, trying to listen past the storm. There was a springy scratching sound that he thought had been part of a dream. He rushed into the house. The back door was open, sending a frigid breeze across his bare feet and chest and making him grateful he’d kept the bottom half of his long johns on.