Shades of Mercy

by Anita B. Lustrea

  “Sweetheart, sweetheart,” Mother whispered, smoothing my hair. “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

  I shook my head as she tightened her grip on me.

  “It won’t be. Mr. Carmichael says Mick killed Old Man Stringer. He says he killed him.”

  Mother took a step back and helped me stand straighter. “I heard. Your father phoned me from the bakery. Let’s go into the house,” she said.

  I nodded. “I’ve got to call Uncle Roger.”

  “I’ve already called him. He’s calling Judge Dodd today and then he’s heading up first thing day after tomorrow.”

  “Two days? No! He’s got to come now.”

  “Mercy, let’s get inside.”

  Mother helped me up the porch steps and into the house. She turned my elbow into the front parlor and released me at the sofa, whose cushions she pounded and pillows she fluffed.

  “Lie down,” she said. “I’m going to get you water. When I get back, we’ll talk.”

  I lay down and tried to clear my mind of what had just happened. I realized this might be the first time I’d ever lain on that sofa. “Sofas are for sitting on; beds are for lying in.” I wasn’t sure how many times Mother had told me that, but it was enough that the very act of bringing my feet up and resting my head on its gold and green flowers and leaves felt like breaking a commandment. Usually Mother kept the French doors to the living room shut tight, as if that would keep the dust out. I loved sneaking in and sitting in the overstuffed platform rocker. I did some good reading and thinking in that chair. When I could talk Mr. Pop into letting me turn on the Zenith console radio, I did some secret dancing in that room, pretty good if I say so myself. I loved searching, rolling the dial to find the best music stations.

  Then there was the big, black robot dial front and center on the console. Mother kept the mahogany finish shining all the time. I could hardly wait for new episodes of Dragnet. We’d sit around listening, waiting for the announcer with the “voice.” His opening lines are indelibly etched on my mind. “Ladies and Gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.” Mother would be knitting and I’d be rocking away in my favorite chair while Mr. Pop would just sit and listen. How I wished we were back in that moment, and not living our own police drama.

  Again, I tried to push it out of my mind. From my lying-down vantage point, I could see Aunt Dot’s painting of Mt. Katahdin. For as long as I can remember, I loved to sit and stare at it. Always the naturalist, Aunt Dot had set up her easel and canvas in some of the most beautiful spots in Aroostook County, hoping to capture what she saw. Aunt Dot had always praised my sketches and had promised to teach me to paint one day, but when she and Uncle Roger moved to Bangor, I figured it wouldn’t happen. Not that it mattered to me now. By the time Mother returned with a glass of water set neatly next to a plate of Saltines on the wicker tray, my body shook the cushions.

  “Sweetheart, here. Sit, drink.”

  I didn’t want to sit up. Even as parched as I was.

  “Uncle Roger will sort things out,” Mother was saying. Then she told me to rest, to try not to think about all this. As Mother shuffled back into the kitchen, I thought about my uncle Roger—pushing out thoughts of him not being here until the day after tomorrow—memories of him. He was my favorite uncle and not just because he always brought me a gift when he came for a visit but because he was a man of character.

  Uncle Roger and Mr. Pop were given a choice of farming or college. After their father died, Grandma Millar never had much money, but she was willing to put what she had toward college for either of her boys. Her daughters, of course, were expected to marry, which they all did before they turned sixteen. They hadn’t been expected to move so far from home, but they each did that too.

  Instead, Mr. Pop chose farmwork, and Uncle Roger headed downstate to Brunswick to attend Bowdoin College and then worked two jobs to pay his way through Harvard Law School. Uncle Roger had been courted by some fancy Boston and New York law firms that had been around as long as this country, but his dream was to practice law in his “own home, great state of Maine.”

  But though he moved back to his home state, Uncle Roger steered clear of his hometown, choosing Bangor, with its symphony and visiting ballets and plays, with its art museums, with its interesting dinner party guests. All things one finds in a university town and all things key to wooing a woman like Aunt Dot.

  I suppose that every family has a bright, shining star. Uncle Roger was ours. And not even Aunt Dot, who hailed from one of Maine’s oldest families, could resist Uncle Roger’s shine. Even when Aunt Dot’s family worried about his prominent role with Indian affairs, they couldn’t help but beam along with the rest of us as Uncle Roger rose in stature in state government.

  Where Mayor Crawford asked Mr. Pop to sit on the Indian Rights Council for our local area, it was Governor Cross who requested that Uncle Roger join the effort to work on Indian rights for the whole the state of Maine. It was interesting that both brothers were working toward the same goals from different places and in different ways. Sometimes I wondered if Mr. Pop ever got sick of having a brother that shone so. But I doubted it, since Uncle Roger’s shine helped illuminate Mr. Pop’s causes as well.

  Last Christmas when Uncle Roger and Aunt Dot stayed with us for a few days, Uncle Roger expounded about issues the council was taking on.

  “It’ll be a long fight,” Uncle Roger had said. “There’s plenty of opposition, especially at the state level. I think the Passamaquoddy and the Penobscot will be able to vote in the next national election, but I don’t think it looks good for the Maliseet or Micmacs.”

  Uncle Roger had looked at Mr. Pop. Both of them sighed and looked weary, or like they were recalling a shared, held-back secret.

  “Some days I’m not sure if it’s worth the fight,” Uncle Roger said to Mr. Pop. “Except I keep thinking of Father’s description of a good man, a godly man, and what is required of him. He would always quote Micah 6:8.”

  At this Mr. Pop had smiled, nodded his head, and joined Uncle Roger in his recitation: “He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good,” they said together, chanting like the eight-and ten-year-olds they’d been thirty-some years before, “and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”

  Then Mr. Pop had said, “If working for the benefit of the Indians isn’t to do justly, then I don’t know what is. I don’t understand why more people don’t see this.”

  Just yesterday I might have thought Mr. Pop had forgotten this definition of “to do justly”; today he remembered. But now all I could think about was the day after tomorrow, the day Uncle Roger would arrive, a day I was most anxious for, a day that felt like it would never come.

  My stomach churned with a queasiness I felt rise into my throat. I pictured Mick sitting in jail, hungry and cold. I wondered if Mr. Pop got to be near him or if Mick could at least see or hear that Mr. Pop was trying to help. I wondered if anyone had sent for Mick’s parents, Ansley and Miss Louise, yet. I wondered if anyone remembered that Mick wasn’t legally an adult yet. Could you even put a sixteen-year-old in jail? Would they have if it would’ve been Tommy Birger or another white boy standing over Old Man Stringer? Wouldn’t they have at least stopped to ask him questions before they dragged him off?

  For the first time, I began to see the stark reality of being born Maliseet. Mick’s reality for sixteen years. Being Maliseet in the Maine Northwoods was more than living on a dump or being ridiculed on the playground. It was more than going hungry or becoming desperate for a drink. Being Maliseet was about being seen as less than human. At least, by too many folks. We’d learned in school that in this country a man was innocent until proven guilty; I readied myself for the reality of how that played out when Maliseet weren’t considered men.

  Chapter Nine

  I didn’t remember falling asleep. For the first moments after my e
yes blinked open and my shoulders stretched themselves up toward my head, I had no idea where I was or why. As the room came into focus around me, so did my memory. While I would’ve loved to have luxuriated in the belief, even for a few moments, that what my mind was reminding me of had only been a dream, I wouldn’t give in to that. Especially not with the plate of Saltines and glass of water resting on the lace doily.

  I started to swing my legs off the sofa when Mother’s and Mr. Pop’s murmurs rumbled out of the dining room. I settled back into the sofa, closed my eyes, and concentrated on hearing their words. I’d get more information if they thought I couldn’t hear.

  “I don’t know, Geneva. Must’ve been ten people inside Fulton’s and on that sidewalk saying exactly what Frankie says he saw.”

  “But you know as well as I do that they’re afraid to contradict him!”

  “Of course. And Sheriff Cain knows that too, but …”

  “But what, Paul? But what? But he’ll do nothing. Just like no one else here will do anything to help that poor boy.”

  “We’re doing something, Geneva. Roger’s making calls and then heading up. He told you that he’ll even call the governor if he has to. Believe me, Governor Cross is not going to want this made into a big issue, especially with the election coming up.”

  “Honey, is that you?”

  Mother had heard me clear my throat. There was only so long I could look at that glass of water without realizing how parched I was. After sitting up and taking a sip, I answered her.

  “If you’re feeling up to it,” Mr. Pop called, “why don’t you come in here. Join us for a sandwich. I can fill you in.”

  I decided not to pretend I hadn’t heard and began my questions before I even reached the table. “So everyone believes Mr. Carmichael? That Mick killed Old Man?”

  “Yes and no,” Mr. Pop said with a small smile. “Folks seem to believe that Mick tried to kill Old Man. But since Old Man was taken to the hospital, with a heart still beating, no one actually believes that Mick’s a murderer.”

  “Not yet,” Mother snapped.

  “True enough, Geneva. Not yet. Old Man’s heart was still beating. But he’s not in good health and he was out cold, enough to make him seem dead at first glance.”

  A wild hope soared within me. “So are they going to let Mick out of jail?” I asked.

  “Well, we’ve got to see where Judge Dodd sets bail. It’ll be at least tomorrow until he can get released at all. Uncle Roger will have to sort through that.”

  “But when Old Man himself was arrested last year, he was released within the hour. You said they decided it didn’t need to go further than scaring him a little.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Pop said. “But this is different. We aren’t talking about public intoxication; we’re talking about attempted murder. That’s what the sheriff is calling it, at least.”

  “It’s also different,” Mother said, staring straight at the cold bean sandwich on her plate, “because we’re talking about a Maliseet.”

  Mr. Pop nodded. “It’s true. This is all different. Which is why we need to pray. Hard. But we also need to sit tight, and not do or say anything rash, and wait until your uncle Roger gets here.”

  “So we’re just supposed to stay here and do nothing, just pray, ‘Oh, God, let Uncle Roger fix this’?” I asked. “Has anyone even gotten Ansley and Miss Louise? What about Joseph? Can I go get him?”

  Mr. Pop shook his head slowly and looked toward Mother until finally saying, “They already got Ansley. Found him at McGillicuddy’s Tavern actually. He passed out there last night. Never made it home.”

  “So Ansley got to see Mick, then. He’s there with him?”

  “Not exactly. The sheriff decided Ansley wasn’t fit to see Mick yet. Sent him back to the Flats to rest and pull himself together.”

  “Pull himself together? For jail?” I looked at Mother who was still staring at the cold bean sandwich on her plate.

  “So Mick’s alone there now?” I asked. “Then I need to get back there. I need to go!”

  I pushed my chair back from the table and slammed my hands on the table. The plate of sandwiches rattled along with the silverware.

  “Mercy, please sit,” Mr. Pop said. “You are going nowhere. I, however, am. Bud and I are heading out to the Flats right now. I need to ask how they feel about Roger coming to represent Mick. Plus, we’ve got broccoli and cauliflower to cut besides two or three rows of peas that need picking. I promised your mother I’d get some weeding done in her garden and I thought maybe Joseph could lend a hand today, actually.”

  I hadn’t cried yet. Not for Mick sitting alone in jail, not with the fury toward Mr. Carmichael bubbling up inside. But the thought of Joseph, struggling to breathe in his terror, finally pushed the tears out.

  “You think Louise’ll let him come?” Mother asked. “She’s got one boy in jail; you think she’ll let another one out of her sight?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Pop said. “But I do know that when I was praying with the deputy on the ride back to the farm, God put his name on my heart and in my mind. That boy’s got an anger that’s burned in him since he was born blue. It was like his first gasps and wheezes into this world were fueled by an inborn knowledge of his lot in life. I’m worried about what he might take it in his head to do.”

  Mother nodded. “It’s a miracle if they aren’t all as mad as that boy. Certainly, they have every right to be.”

  “But what about Mick?” I asked. “Sure, Joe’s going to be mad, but shouldn’t we be figuring out how to help Mick and not just how to soothe Joseph?”

  “Right now,” Mr. Pop said, “I’d venture to guess that soothing Joseph is the best way to help Mick. Not much more we can do until tomorrow. Well, except pray.”

  Mr. Pop reached his hand across the table toward mine. I grabbed it and reached my own hand toward Mother’s. Together, our arms formed an unfinished triangle on the dining room table as we lowered our heads together.

  “Dear heavenly Father,” Mr. Pop began, “help us in our hour of need. Emotions are running high, and we pray for the safety of all involved. Please put Thy hand of protection on Mick as he waits in jail. Help him to not despair. Please, Lord, help Frankie’s anger to simmer down. Keep him from saying things he’ll come to regret. Please keep Ansley and others in the Flats from drinking their pain away, and help Miss Louise, and all of us, hold on to hope. I pray this in Jesus’ precious name.”

  Before he said amen, Mr. Pop invited us to share our words. Mother prayed for peace. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed that God would soften Mr. Carmichael’s heart toward Mick and that the others would be brave enough to tell the truth. At least, I prayed for this out loud. Secretly, silently, I prayed just for Mick. That he would be okay. That Uncle Roger could get him released. And for the first time, I prayed that God would help Mick and me escape this place. I prayed that someday we could live in peace, up five flights of stairs, with lasagna-making neighbors. Just like Marjorie and Glenn.

  A knock, followed by the squeak of the front screen door, became our “amen.”

  “Who on earth?” Mother asked as she rose, smoothing her apron as she stepped away from the table.

  Mr. Pop and I sat in silence, each listening to her heels click on the wood floors, each fearing what this knock might bring. We both let our breath out and gave each other weary smiles when we heard, “Tommy! What a pleasant surprise. We’re just finishing our bean sandwiches, but I’d be happy to fetch you one if you’re hungry.”

  “No, ma’am,” Tommy said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  I stood to greet Tommy as he now stepped under the thick-trimmed doorjamb. I tried to smile at him, as though I was happy to see him, as though, perhaps, he was just the person I needed to see. But my eyes, quickly brimming with tears, betrayed me.

  His small, sad smile coupled with a tiny tilt of his head told me he understood perfectly. Too perfectly.

  “I heard about Mick,” Tommy said. �
��And I know he’s your friend. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” was all I could say as Mr. Pop patted Tommy on the back, offering his own hello before announcing he was off again. This time finishing the trip to the Flats we’d aborted.

  Mother shooed Tommy and me back onto the porch with promises of milk and the freshly baked date cookies she’d made that morning. When I first smelled them after waking from my nap, I understood the stress Mother felt with this news. While Mother could fix lunch fit for kings and presidents and serve it up for twenty-odd farmhands without batting an eye, and while she could summon flowers from the rough Maine ground pretty enough to glory-up the Lord’s Table every Sunday, cookies—particularly her own grandmother’s date cookies—got baked only when Mother needed her mind on something else. She wrestled with the recipe, silently cursed the stick-and-goo of the dough and the trouble of rolling them out, then fretted about them turning out right.

  The few times in my life I’d known Mother and Mr. Pop to be in a bit of a marital pickle was from the sudden presence of these cookies. Mother had baked a lot of them this summer.

  Tommy sat down on our swing without being directed. I leaned against the porch rail, hoping he understood I couldn’t sit next to him. Not anymore. Not like I had these past three weeks when I’d feigned interest. When I’d done my best to sigh and coo, and sometimes even giggle, when I’d see him at church, or when Tommy would stop by on his way to fish. That little game was up. I hoped he understood this.

  “Listen,” Tommy said. “I know you never really liked me. I get that. I had just …”

  I scrunched my eyebrows at him, suddenly curious about this Tommy I’d never actually noticed.

  “I had just hoped that maybe I could make you like me. You know, like you like him.”

  “Like I like Mick? Like a friend?”

  Tommy laughed and then looked down. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before going on.

  “Not like a friend, Mercy. Let’s just stop that, okay? I mean, look at you. If Mick was just your friend, you wouldn’t look like that!”