I took a deep breath, knowing there was no use in hiding any of this from her any longer.
“Well, you know then,” I started. “You have known that Mick and I are really, um, fond of each other.”
“Fond? Is that what you call it these days?”
I smiled. “No, ma’am. I guess I’d call it in love. Or would have called it. But now …”
“Now is no different than before, Mercy.”
I scooted back on the bench, not able to hide my surprise. “How can you say that?”
“It’s as unacceptable and as dangerous for you and Mick to be in love today as it was three weeks ago. Nothing has changed.”
“Of course, it’s changed!” I said. “Everything has changed. Before I had—I had—”
“Had what?”
“Hope! Before I had hope.”
“Hope?”
“Hope! That Mr. Pop would accept us. That you would be fine with it. That this stupid town was maybe changing. I’ve never even once thought about running off. You didn’t have to remind me of that. I’ve always known where I was going and what I wanted to do. I had just hoped I’d be able to decide who I wanted to go with me.”
Mother took another sip of her tea and stared out the window above the sink. Normally, seeing the plain white plates with a couple of bright Fiestaware serving bowls stacked in the deep, double-wide porcelain sink would be enough to compel her to stop chatting and get to her chores. But she stayed seated.
“I met your father when I was about your age, you know.”
“And you married him at sixteen. Grandpa hated him.”
“Hated is a bit strong, I think.”
“But Grandpa didn’t like Mr. Pop. Said he was beneath you and that you were ruining your life for marrying him.”
“He did.”
“And Grandpa changed. Just before he died, he wrote that letter to Mr. Pop, saying what a strong man of God he was, how proud he was to have him as a son-in-law, how glad he was that you married him. All of that.”
“He did. My dad grew to love Paul. But—”
“But what?”
“But your father wasn’t Maliseet. Your grandpa was simply worried that I wouldn’t be amply provided for, that I wouldn’t be happy without new dresses from New York and without summers on the coast or without a woman to help clean. He wasn’t worried that I’d be shunned from society or that my life or my husband’s or my children’s lives would be in danger.”
“And is that still what’s going on? Does Mr. Carmichael still want to kill Glenn?”
“Mercy! What a thing to say!” Mother wiped a drop of the tea that had seeped out of her mouth when she tried to sneak in a sip. “Mr. Carmichael is a God-fearing man! He’s a distressed man, rightfully so, I might add, but a Christian man. Where did you get an idea like that?”
“Because I heard him say it.”
Now Mother scooted back a bit. Somehow we’d found a way to face each other on the hard, dark kitchen bench Ellery had built to sit under this window.
“You heard him? Where?”
“That night,” I confessed. “When the Carmichaels came over. When you sent me and Molly to my room. We heard.”
“But how?”
“The registers. You know. The same registers that allow you to hear my music too loud let me hear living room conversations.”
“Of course,” she said. “I just had no idea he said that.”
Mother’s eyes drifted back out the window as she held the small, gold cross that she wore round her neck, the one her father had given her when she’d been baptized in the Meduxnekeag River back when she was fourteen. The party her parents had thrown her was the stuff legends were made of. Folks still talked about Mother’s party.
“If Northwoods Baptists had debutante balls,” Ellery had once said, “Geneva Weaver would’ve been Deb a’ the Year.” Of course, he wasn’t there. But Ellery’d heard enough news about Presque Isle from the local paper. “Everything I need to know about life and this world I can read about in that Bellyache,” Ellery’d say. And mean it.
After all, the Bellyache, the Watsonville Chronicle, had covered news of the parties of the Presque Isle elite right alongside news of Herbert Hoover’s financial policies and editorials about trouble brewing in Germany. Even before Mr. Pop and Mother met, folks in Watsonville knew about the general goings-on about their more interesting neighbors to the north and the specific goings-on about things like Miss Weaver’s post-baptismal gown, about the food and decorations at the party, and even about the string quartet hired to play hymns but who shockingly snuck in “Over the Rainbow.” The real scandal wasn’t the song itself, but instead, the number of good Baptists who found themselves humming along, revealing themselves as moviegoers. Mother laughed every time she remembered that the following Sunday’s sermon focused on the evils of Hollywood and the need to resist the temptation of the movie house in town.
I wished she would laugh now. But her face stayed solemn. I reached over to hug her. “I’m sorry I listened in,” I said. “I just wanted to know. I hate all these secrets.”
“So do I,” Mother said. “There’s so much of this I don’t even understand. Not fully. But what I do know is that Frankie Carmichael is not a bad man; he’s just a scared man. There’s a difference.”
Chapter Six
I felt less and less like going to church those days. All the whisperings about Marjorie and Glenn—only speculation and gossip, really—and there at church of all places. Somehow, I felt eyes heavy on me. Probably because both Molly and Marjorie were my friends, but sometimes I thought people knew. I wondered if Mother had told even one person to unload the pressure. I questioned Mother’s promise to keep Mick’s note to me as well as our relationship secret if I promised to take it no further. “At least—at least,” Mother had warned, “until all this passes. Until we hear more from Marjorie. Until we can figure out how to talk to your father about this.” But I hoped, as I brought up my offering, that in fact they were not wondering when I too would run off. I hoped I was just imagining things. That they were really just thinking about Jesus. But I was probably wrong. And if I was, I just prayed they’d keep their thoughts to themselves. The last thing I needed was for Mr. Pop to hear rumors. Though Mr. Pop never paid them any mind. “Gossip is as big an evil as anything,” he always told me.
Naturally, Mr. Pop insisted that we dress our best on Sundays. He had one suit, dark gray, almost black, with a white dress shirt and a black and gray, paisley-print tie. He was proud of that suit and his title of deacon at First Baptist. Not proud in a sinful way, I liked to think, but full of pride that he could serve God, and that his farming had provided for us to dress well on Sunday.
I’d grown up at First Baptist walking the aisle in my nicest dress with my Sunday school money to put in the little church bank like every other kid in the church. Even at fifteen, I still took my change up front and dropped it in while everyone sang, “Come to Sunday school, bring someone with you,” sung to the tune of “Bringing in the Sheaves,” one of Mr. Pop’s favorites.
I’d hear this sung and would dream of the “someday” when I could bring someone with me—and that someone was Mick, of course.
Sometimes I’d heard Mr. Pop, dressed in his dark suit and tie and looking more like a preacher than a farmer, ask folks gathered for potluck if we were “serious about the gospel.” Or he’d demand to know, “Is God’s Word about loving the world only for white folk?” The many times I’d heard him say this, I thought him a hero. But in these past few weeks since Marjorie and Glenn ran off and had sent so few postcards home, I didn’t hear Mr. Pop talk like this much. I wondered if he’d changed his mind.
That said, I knew Mr. Pop was scared too. Not as scared as Mr. Carmichael or some of the others with teenaged daughters but still scared.
Of course, it didn’t take a genius to see that whole thing with Marjorie and Glenn was way bigger than some teenagers running off and eloping. And it was big
ger even than the tribal land grant matters that popped up in conversation with increasing frequency. These were issues at the heart of our Christian faith that no one was talking about. Not on Sunday mornings, not at Wednesday night potlucks, and not at the Sunday night fellowship times at Randolph and Cleo Henderson’s place either.
We almost always gathered at the Hendersons’ for an after-meeting supper, both Wednesday and Sunday nights, but those gatherings were less frequent recently. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was for fear Mr. Pop would launch out about some of the issues at hand that might not make for our usual pleasant conversation.
Though Mr. Pop was a man of slight build, probably all of 5 feet 9 inches, he was sturdy of character and strong of opinion. His round wire-framed glasses made him look studious despite having dropped out of high school. But Mr. Pop always said he had enough education to know how to read his Bible and run his farm, and that was good enough. He especially loved to sit and read his Bible. When Mr. Pop got wound up at a potluck, he’d run his fingers through his brown, wiry hair, and before meeting’s end he had the appearance of a mad professor.
Through the years, I’d come to love these suppers. Usually it was the church at its best. All were invited, even the quirky folks and the disgruntled ones you sometimes thought you were better off without. Everyone in the church was considered part of these fellowship times. If Randolph and Cleo didn’t want everyone, they hid it well.
Not many came empty-handed either. The basic sandwich fillings, along with the bread, was provided by Cleo. The prep was assembly line, but every other essential item walked in the door with someone. The Browns brought their famous chocolate chip cake. Bud could stuff celery with peanut butter and cream cheese like no one else. Someone almost always brought potato salad. Mother and Mr. Pop alternated what they would bring. Tonight it was Mr. Pop’s famous molasses cookies, my favorite. Everyone in Watsonville knew Mr. Pop as both a farmer and a baker, for as long as I could remember, certain baked goods were his specialty. Mrs. Johnson always brought her delicious bread-and-butter pickles, and Cleo usually had ten to fifteen hard-boiled eggs ready in the refrigerator, or a stack of canned water-packed tuna. When it was boiled eggs, as it was that evening, three or four of us started cracking and peeling, while a couple of others slathered butter on the bread. Another one or two grabbed bowls to start mixing and mashing the eggs along with the mayonnaise. Someone would slice and dice pickles for half the sandwiches, leaving the rest plain.
The hum of voices around the room was a comforting sound. I knew that as long as people talked in small conversation groups, we were safe. If someone spoke up to start the larger community dialogue, I knew it could get rough. My heart always swelled with pride as I looked at farmers and farmhands sitting together laughing and talking about yesterday’s work and tomorrow’s challenges. Store owners, a gas station attendant, and a banker rounded out another part of the room. Joke telling was an art form at these suppers. When things stayed light, I felt carefree and warm inside. As long as the preparations were under way, no serious tone emerged. Once it was time to pray, all turned quiet.
When Mark Simms, attendant at the Texaco station in town, offered to give the blessing, my heart sank. He didn’t even take a breath after saying “Amen.” He kept right on going, posing the question I dreaded, but that was not unexpected: “So what are we gonna do about Glenn and the rest of those Maliseet? We’ve heard mumbling but no real action. When are we gonna do something? Before another daughter gets stolen away?”
All eyes stayed on Mr. Simms, but I was sure thoughts were turning toward me. Normally, I loved conversation on the issues and debates of the day. But this one I dreaded. I knew folks couldn’t keep the conversations about Glenn and Marjorie contained in their own homes or to “prayer” at the Wednesday night prayer meetings forever. But now that the conversation was finally happening out in the open, I felt like I was living one of Ellery’s humorous sayings, only there was no humor in it at all, just truth: “I’m up to my neck in alligators and the dam just broke!”
I could be thankful that I wasn’t expected to join the conversation, but I felt helpless sitting off to the side picking at my supper.
“You okay?”
I looked up into Tommy Birger’s face. I hadn’t seen the Birgers arrive. I’d hoped they’d just gone home after church. Some days it was better not to have anyone to talk to.
“Sure,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I pointed to my potato salad with my fork and nodded.
“That’s my mom’s,” Tommy said.
“Really? It’s delicious. I’ll have to tell her. I always think I’m so sick of the stuff, but sometimes someone makes a batch that makes me forget I’ve eaten potato something four times already today.”
Tommy laughed. I scooted over on the piano bench, making room for him.
“Thanks,” he said, staring across the room where a small group of men were speaking with Mr. Simms. Mr. Simms cackled at someone’s point, and then the group splintered apart. The women had already turned away from those conversations, as had Pastor Murphy. Maybe this dam break was only more of a leak. I looked around for Mr. Pop and saw no sign. I wondered where he’d gone off to. It wasn’t like him to flee the scene of a fiery debate. But if things got too bad in here, someone would go get him. Folks always did when his soothing, calming influence was needed.
Tommy cleared his throat. “When I asked if you were okay, I didn’t mean all general-like. I meant, because of all this stuff.”
“Oh.”
“So are you?”
“Well, I’m worried about Marjorie, of course. And feeling sick for Molly. This is all so difficult for their family.”
I’d never spoken faster in my life. I sounded like Mother when she was back in her society girl days of trying-not-to-lie, polite-at-any-cost.
I heard a snort from Tommy’s nose. He shook his head and stared out across the room. When Tommy and I were little, we played castle on the Hendersons’ curving staircase. I wondered if he remembered that.
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Tommy said. “I’m asking if you are okay. You must be nervous about”—Tommy shifted his head around and leaned toward me and whispered, “you and Mick.”
I breathed in, not sure if I’d have the strength to breathe back out. So I closed my eyes a second and did what Mr. Pop taught me to do. “Call on the name of Jesus,” Mr. Pop often said. “For whyever, for whenever, for whatever, for whomever, for however.”
Jesus, I prayed. Jesus.
“Nobody else knows, Mercy, and I’m not going to say anything.”
“Nobody else knows what?”
“About you and Mick.
“What about us?”
Tommy laughed. “You’re just being cagey now.”
“I am not. What does everybody know? That Mick and I have been friends since we were tiny, since we were out picking rocks and building forts as toddlers. Because, yes, as it turns out, everybody does know about that.”
“About that, yes. About that, your Pop’s been sending you out to pick up drunken Indians and their boys since you were just a girl, yes. Everybody knows that.”
I rolled my eyes, a technique I’d developed long ago to mask the ire that boiled whenever people spoke of my rides to the Flats or of the Maliseet in those tones.
“So what don’t they know?” I asked.
“That you love Mick,” Tommy said. “That Mick loves you. That you hold hands. That you kiss. Should I go on?”
I rolled my eyes again but wondered if it was too much. Nerves were taking over. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Help me, Jesus.
“Of course, I love Mick. Of course he loves me. Do we need to revisit that we’ve-been-friends-since-we-could-toddle-around-the-fields bit?”
“Oh, well, so then you must love me too. Right? Because I was toddling with you too. Playing castle with you. Fishing with you. Swimming with you. Just never got to sit beneath the pine trees holding your hand or kissing you, that
’s all.”
I folded my hands. They had started to shake, on top of their sweating, and I needed that to stop.
Jesus. Jesus.
I rubbed my tongue across the top of my teeth, hoping to calm the anger and find the words. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard a familiar voice. My mother was standing now addressing the group. Her back shook as she spoke.
“We’re pointing the finger at the wrong person, the wrong people,” Mother was saying. “Whoever you’re blaming, and I think for most it’s Glenn Socoby, you’re wrong! We have ourselves to blame. We’ve pushed them to this point. Sure, we like their cheap labor on our farms. We’re happy to round them up and bring them to pick rocks, to help plant, to help weed, and to help harvest.” Mother was definitely warming to her subject. She went on.
“But every day we take them back to the same horrible living conditions. How many of us ride down by Hungry Hill and look over the Flats and think, ‘what a lovely place to live’? Really, how many of us even care for anything more than what’s under our own roof? You know we pushed them off our land. We point fingers at the government, but we influenced those decisions. We need to be pointing fingers at ourselves.”
Mother threw a napkin she had been wringing down on the coffee table. But she had worked herself up. This was a rarity, not just for my mother to speak up in public, but for any woman to speak out, let alone stand up and say her piece. As Mother looked from person to person, hoping to find a nod of approval or at least some eye contact, she was emotional enough to be almost on the verge of tears. My throat swelled, and my eyes filled too. But I wasn’t about to cry, not with Tommy Birger next to me, not after what he’d just said.
The level of surprise at Mother’s comments was palpable. People were startled and restless, but no one else ventured a comment to the entire gathering. Instead, conversations restarted gradually, moving the talk away from the controversial and back to comfortable topics like farm life. Cleo moved toward the kitchen for cleanup and started what usually was a trickle of folks heading toward the door. It was a rushing brook tonight.
Shades of Mercy Page 6