When Mercy Rains

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Nine … teen.” She drew the word out slowly, her expression wary.

  Nineteen. He’d done a lousy job of guessing. A sick feeling flooded his stomach. “And”—he gulped—“when were you born?”

  “Wh-why?”

  He gave her hands a little tug. “When? What month?”

  “December.”

  “December …” April, May, June … Paul silently counted the months in his head. Dear God in heaven, no … How had he not realized the truth before now? He jerked free of her hands and clutched his temples, taking a backward step. His breakfast oatmeal threatened to make a return appearance.

  “Mr. Aldrich?”

  Alexa sounded afraid and appeared on the verge of tears. He had to get control of himself. He couldn’t traumatize his daughter. His daughter!

  Swallowing the gorge filling his throat, he forced his lips into what he hoped was the semblance of a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry. I’m holding you up. Clete’s waiting. I know you want to pick out the paint colors. So go on now.”

  Her fine eyebrows pinched into a frown. “Are you sure? You look awfully pale. I think I should ask Mom to—”

  He wanted nothing from her mother. He shook his head, wincing against the throb in his jaw. “No need for that. Scoot now. And don’t worry, okay?” She bit her lip again, clearly uncertain. What a caring girl she was.

  Tears swam in his eyes, distorting his vision. A man should be strong in front of his child. He turned away and faced the corner. Soon the scuff of feet against the ground followed by the firm click of the barn door’s latch told him Alexa had left. Slowly he peeked over his shoulder, confirming he was alone. Then he sank onto one of the back tires on the faithful old tractor Clete’s father had used in his fields. The man had given him and Suzy rides on it when they were elementary school kids. Carefree, happy, innocent days, those … But now?

  With an anguished moan, Paul buried his face in his hands. He had another child. A daughter. A beautiful, compassionate, giving daughter. And she’d grown up without his love, without his support, without his prayers. He bent forward and gave vent to the fierce emotions rolling through him. His body shuddered with the force of his dry, wracking sobs. Sobs of heartache, yes, but also of fury. How could Suzy have kept Alexa from him?

  He’d come out to the barn to help Clete release his anger at Suzy. Instead Paul discovered a rage more intense than any he’d known before. He understood why Clete had attacked. Everything within him yearned to strike out, to pummel something until it resembled nothing more than pulp. But he couldn’t, so he poured out his fury in hot tears and indistinguishable moans masquerading as prayers.

  Something nudged his leg. He opened his eyes and found a small, striped kitten batting at a loose thread in the seam of his pant leg. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he stretched one hand toward the furry little creature, intending to scoop it up and give it some attention. Receive some attention from it. But it scampered away with its short tail sticking straight up like a poker. Disappointed, Paul rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang low.

  The sunbeams slanting through the high windows had inched across the floor until they touched his feet. The morning was slipping away into another day of separation from the child he should have been given the opportunity to claim and raise. Swiping his sleeve across his face, he cleared his vision and bolted off the tire. His back ached and his jaw throbbed, but he ignored the pain and stomped across the floor in the direction of the house. He’d find Suzy. He’d demand the reason why she’d stolen his child from him. And then he’d—

  Yesterday’s advice to Danny drifted through his memory. “Be ye angry, and sin not.” He stopped as abruptly as if he’d collided with the barn door. He couldn’t talk to Suzy. Not in his present state of mind. He’d surely say or do something sinful. He needed to wait until he calmed himself. Assuming he would be able to calm himself.

  Pressing his fists to his eye sockets, he groaned. I have a daughter, God. Such a realization should be cause for joy and celebration. But Suzy had stolen that from him, too. He’d asked her forgiveness. Now he wouldn’t be able to rest until he heard her beg for his.

  Alexa

  Alexa huddled as far into the corner of the truck seat as possible without sticking her head out the open window. Wind blasted her face and twisted her ponytail into knots. For a while she’d held the thick tail along her neck to prevent it from blowing, but eventually her hand began to tingle, the blood flow slowed by the awkward position. So she just let her hair wave and slap against the seat’s headrest. She’d probably tear half of it out, detangling it later, but she wouldn’t ask Uncle Clete if she could roll up the window.

  He hadn’t said one word since he thumped the paint cans in the back of the truck, then slammed himself in behind the steering wheel. She sent a quick, sidelong glance at his stern profile. His firmly clamped jaw and narrowed eyes communicated his anger. She’d never been so uncomfortable in her life. She turned her face toward the wheat fields covering the landscape and willed the miles to pass quickly so she could separate herself from the taciturn man on the other side of the cab.

  She bit the inside of her lower lip and blinked rapidly to hold back the tears threatening to escape. She’d so looked forward to this day, spending some one-on-one time with her uncle and choosing the paint for Grandmother’s house. She’d anticipated a joyful, relaxed day, a time of nurturing a relationship with Uncle Clete. But his terse comments peppered between long, stony silences had made her so nervous her stomach churned. Not even finding the perfect paint colors to make Grandmother’s house as beautiful as any posted in the Better Homes and Gardens magazine she read in the doctor’s waiting room could lift her spirits.

  She wished she’d gone to the paint store with Mom instead. Or Sandra and Derek. Or even Mr. Aldrich. What was Uncle Clete’s problem, anyway?

  Her ears rang from the constant wind noise and the tinny clatter of the cans bumping against each other in the truck bed. Her chest felt heavy from the weight of disappointment. Her throat ached—dry from the wind and tight from tamping down the desire to cry. And curiosity tangled her insides even more than the wind tangled her hair. Why had Uncle Clete and Mr. Aldrich, two men who’d known each other their entire lives and appeared to be friends, come to blows that morning?

  She looked at her uncle again. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers were white. He seemed to glare at the highway rolling out in front of them. Didn’t he ever get tired of being so uptight and growly? His thick eyebrows crunched together into a unibrow with his dark scowl, and for a moment an image of the grouchy Sesame Street character who lived in a garbage can flashed in her mind’s eye in place of her uncle. A short huff of laughter escaped.

  Uncle Clete shot her a quick frown. “What?”

  Alexa looked out the window. “Nothing.”

  They rode in silence for several more minutes, Alexa counting off the mile markers and silently praying the turnoff for Arborville would magically appear.

  “You don’t need to tell anyone what you saw this morning.”

  She shot him a startled look. “You mean about you pounding Mr. Aldrich into the barn floor?” Sassy? Maybe a little. But he deserved it after his long morning of broodiness.

  To her surprise he didn’t berate her for being impertinent. He nodded. One brusque bob of his head. “It’s nobody’s business. So just pretend you didn’t see it.”

  Alexa laughed again. A humorless laugh of surprise. “That’s a little hard, I’ll admit.” Where she found the courage to speak when she’d felt so cowed earlier, she couldn’t know, but the release of words eased the heaviness in her chest. “I’ll keep it to myself if that’s what you want. It probably would upset Grandmother to know her son and the carpenter were going at each other like two junior high boys on a playground. But I’d really like to know what the fight was all about.”

  She waited for several seconds, but her uncle didn’t speak. “Uncle Clete?” Her
ponytail whipped around and several strands caught in her mouth. With a disgruntled huff, she tossed the hair over her shoulder and gazed at her uncle. He acted as though he hadn’t heard her.

  Raising her voice, she said, “Mr. Aldrich said you were fighting over something that happened a long time ago.”

  Uncle Clete jolted. “Oh, yeah?”

  So he could hear her. Alexa hid a smile. “Yes. He said it was nothing important, but I don’t believe him. Grown men don’t generally resort to fighting each other for no good reason. So what was it all about?”

  He hit his blinker and slowed the truck to turn onto the dirt road leading to Arborville. The tires stirred dust that billowed through the open windows. He made a face and cranked his window up. Alexa did the same. With the wind noise gone, the cab felt claustrophobic. Her ears closed, and she forced a yawn to open them.

  Her uncle still hadn’t answered her question, but oddly she lost the desire to know in the thick, cloying silence. Clinging to the door handle with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other, she held tight. The truck seemed to hit every pothole in the road. She couldn’t wait to get out.

  Uncle Clete turned into the lane, pulled the truck up beside the barn, and put the vehicle in Park. Alexa reached to open the door, but he put out his hand. “Wait.”

  She froze, and her heart set up a patter she could actually feel against her ribs.

  “I changed my mind. You can tell one person about the fight Paul and me had this morning.”

  Puzzled, Alexa frowned. “Who do you want me to tell?”

  “Your mother.” Uncle Clete’s eyes glinted like steel, and his harsh tone made the fine hairs on Alexa’s arm stand at attention. “Ask her what the fight was all about. It’s her place to tell you, not mine.”

  Suzanne

  Suzanne snipped the tip of the peony’s stem and quickly inserted it into the Mason jar of water. Smiling, she fingered the pink petals of the half-opened bloom. The flowers should last for several days before wilting. She reached for another blossom, which she’d cut from the huge bush behind the summer kitchen. Two tiny red ants fell from the thick cluster of petals and crawled across the table.

  “The door’s open,” she said, watching them go. “Go back to the garden where you belong.” It was a long journey to the door and freedom for such small creatures, but they’d make it eventually.

  She returned to filling the jars she’d collected with buds and blossoms, noting more of the ants hardly bigger than a grain of salt weaving in and out of the tight centers of the flowers. Was it Dad’s mother who said God created the peony plant to give the tiny creatures a home? Probably. She’d possessed a deep faith and spoke of God as naturally as some people breathed.

  Suzanne intended to put one of the jars of flowers on Grandmother Zimmerman’s grave. The others would decorate the resting places for Dad, Grandfather Zimmerman, and Dad’s brother who’d died before she was born. She wasn’t sure yet what she would do with the fifth jar, but she’d cut enough flowers to fill five jars and she wouldn’t waste them.

  “Mom? Mom, where are you?”

  Apparently Alexa had returned from her excursion to the paint store. Maybe she’d accompany Suzanne to the cemetery. It would be nice to have her along. Suzanne zipped to the doorway and stuck out her head. “I’m in here, honey!”

  Moments later Alexa entered the summer kitchen and crossed to the opposite side of the table. She made a face and flicked an ant onto the floor. “What are you doing?”

  “Making arrangements to put on graves.” Suzanne slipped the last bloom into a jar, then stepped back and admired the row of bright-colored bouquets. “Mother didn’t want to visit Dad’s grave. She said he isn’t there so why bother.” A shaft of sadness pierced her heart. She wished she could see and talk to her dad one last time. “But I really want to go. It is Memorial Day, after all, and I want to … remember.”

  Alexa gazed at her for several seconds, her face puckered up as if uncertain how to respond.

  “Do you want to go with me?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Alexa’s quick, positive response warmed Suzanne. She reached across the table to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “I was hoping you would.” She winked. “You can hold on to these things in the car so they don’t spill.”

  Alexa gave the expected chuckle although it seemed to lack real heart.

  Suzanne tipped her head. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, sure.” The answer came quickly. Brightly. Maybe too brightly. “Just a little worn out from my morning excursion.”

  “Were you able to get the paint you wanted?” Suzanne still didn’t completely approve of Alexa spending her hard-earned money for something Clete should have done a long time ago, but she wouldn’t squelch her daughter’s desire to give.

  “We got it.” Alexa helped Suzanne transfer the flower-filled jars to a slatted crate. “But the store was really crowded. I guess Memorial Day sales brought everybody out. So it was a little stressful. And Uncle Clete—” She clamped her lips together.

  Suzanne sent her a worried look. “Uncle Clete … what?”

  Alexa shrugged and formed a stiff smile. “He’s not exactly the best person to take shopping. You know, he doesn’t talk much or get excited or anything. So it kind of took the fun out of it for me.”

  Genuine sympathy flooded Suzanne. She wrapped her daughter in a hug and planted a quick kiss on her temple. “Don’t let him steal your joy. Just because he wants to be Mr. Crabby Pants doesn’t mean you have to be.”

  Alexa nodded, but she still looked sad.

  Suzanne lifted the crate. “Come on. Let’s go to the cemetery, put these flowers on the graves, then you and I can stop by the convenience store and grab some pizza. I bet you haven’t had lunch.” Clete wouldn’t think to feed his niece.

  “That sounds good, Mom.”

  Alexa remained quiet as they drove to the cemetery. Suzanne chose not to interrupt her daughter’s inner reflections. Visiting graves affected people in different ways, and perhaps Alexa was preparing herself for her first encounter with the grandfather she’d never met. Suzanne only wished they could have met in person. Alexa would have adored Dad, who had been the favorite of every fellowship child for his friendly teasing and kind heart.

  Tears stung, and she blinked the moisture away to clear her vision. She parked behind the church in the shade of the overgrown cedar tree wind block, then stacked her arms on the steering wheel and gazed out the window. The iron gates to the cemetery stretched wide like the wings of a swan welcoming its young to draw near. Beyond the gate, gray headstones—either rectangular slabs or square, tall pillars—formed a silent, disorganized army holding sentry on a bed of freshly mown grass. White clover and tiny purple flowers shaped like bells dotted the carpet of green. With flat stones creating curved footpaths and century-old trees sending dappled shade across the graves, the cemetery seemed a peaceful place. Even as a child, Suzanne had never been hesitant to wander the grounds the way some children were. Eagerness to revisit this place of childhood memories now tugged at her, and she swung her car door open.

  Alexa had held the crate of jars in her lap on their drive, and she stayed in the seat while Suzanne rounded the hood and opened the passenger door. She took the crate and set it in the grass. Alexa stepped out, batting at the wrinkles in her skirt.

  “Let’s leave the crate here and each take two jars.” Suzanne lifted out two jars and held them toward Alexa.

  “What about the fifth one?”

  “I don’t really need it. I just hated to waste the flowers. We’ll figure out something to do with it.” Suzanne grabbed two more jars and headed into the cemetery. According to Mother, Dad’s stone was in the southeast section near his brother’s and parents’ graves, so she aimed herself in that direction with Alexa moving gracefully beside her.

  Suzanne glanced at the names on stones as she moved past, each name raising an image of people from the small community where
she’d been raised. Odd how strong the memories were, considering how long she’d been away.

  When she came upon the stone with Cecil E. Zimmerman etched into its face, so many remembrances attacked she couldn’t sort them all. She stood with the cool, moist jars in her hands, breathing in the scent of peonies and letting the images wash over her in waves. Dad … Oh, Dad, I miss you so much …

  She set one jar off to the side, then moved directly to the base of the stone and knelt. She wriggled the base of the Mason jar until she flattened a patch of grass enough to hold the jar upright. Then she sat back on her heels and placed her fingertips on the sun-warmed top edge of Dad’s headstone.

  More memories flitted through her mind, and she smiled even though a tear trickled down her cheek. “I really think I had the best dad in the world, Alexa.”

  Alexa squatted beside her with the jars of flowers still in her hands. She rested the jars on her knees and aimed an attentive look at her mother. “Tell me about him.”

  How to encapsulate her father into a few simple sentences? She wished she were a poet so she could do justice to his life. “For one, he had time for me no matter what. For all of us children. I was the only child until Clete came along, so I had Mother and Dad’s full attention up until then. But I was never jealous of Clete, or Shelley or Sandra when they were born, because Dad made me feel important by taking time for me.”

  Alexa’s smile encouraged Suzanne to continue.

  “For another, he taught me to trust and love God. He read the Bible to us every day—at breakfast before he went out to work and in the evening before we went to bed. In between, he lived what he believed. All those biblical fruits of the Spirit? Dad had them imprinted on his life. He was loving, patient, kind, gentle. When he got angry, he didn’t lose his temper and holler or strike out but practiced self-control. Oh, he wasn’t perfect.” Suzanne chuckled, remembering a time Dad kicked the tractor tire when the machine’s engine refused to start. “But he was as close to perfect as a human could get. He was a wonderful example for my brother, sisters, and me to follow.”