“We’d love to,” I said. “Well, I hope. I’m not sure when we’re heading back. You on your way to the pageant now?”
“I wasn’t going to,” Tommy said. “But I will. If you’re heading that way.”
Again, Tommy’s eyes were fixed on Molly. As I followed his eyes, I realized why. I hadn’t noticed it during dinner; I’d been too preoccupied with her anger at me. But something about her very countenance, her face, had changed, just since arriving at the festival. While Molly had been pretty all her life, now her loveliness had deepened. No longer was it her perfectly proportioned and symmetrical features, her sky-blue eyes, and bouncy brown hair that radiated, it was her very essence. The strain of the past weeks had worn down the veneer of bubbly Molly and let her truer self show through. And though her eyes were still blue and her smile still kind, the hint of hurt and anger and frustration now glowing from beneath had an allure all its own. This Molly was no longer a cute little girl living in her even more attractive sister’s shadow but a stunning young woman unafraid to push back and defend her place in the world and the people she loved in it.
Mother and Mr. Pop led the way to the pavilion where the little girls were being primped and primed for their pageant. Mother wove her arm through Mr. Pop’s and they leaned close as they talked. They’d never been the sort of married couple to show physical affection in public. But the festival had a romantic effect on people. As the sun set behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the street, and as the music from the band shell rose above the din of the crowds, the mood was set.
I was glad to see them like this. I’d been worried after the incident at the Hendersons’. But they’d had disagreements through the years, some of which I’d seen resolved, some I hadn’t, and they always pressed on. Mother had told me this was the blessing of being married to a man who loved her for her mind as much as anything else. A marriage in which thoughts mattered, Mother said, meant that there would be disagreements. But love would prevail. That’s what she said. And that’s what I held to.
I turned to look at Molly and Tommy behind me. We had started off walking together, but they’d fallen behind. The festival’s air of romance caught them too. I’d seen other “couples” pair off with lightning speed like this before and normally it left me rolling my eyes. But Molly had liked Tommy for so long, that Tommy finally noticed her for the amazing girl she was and that they could enjoy this easiness with each other filled me with a jealous kind of joy. Though their fingers weren’t intertwined, their hands swung close enough together and their eyes shone as they talked. I wondered when their hands would subconsciously reach for each other’s, the way Mick’s and mine did when we were alone.
As I walked between my parents with their decades’ long tried-and-true love and Tommy and Molly and their fresh sparks, something like envy rose within me. I wondered if this experience would ever be mine.
“Aren’t the little girls adorable?” Molly asked. Tommy nodded and turned to smile at her. As they whispered, their faces met close enough that Mr. Pop, sitting behind us on the folding chairs, cleared his throat.
I was trying to block out their conversation. The flirting that had commenced was starting to turn my stomach. I knew it was jealousy, but I also knew that even if Mick and I could be out like that, we’d never act like this. Although, maybe once upon a time we might have.
Suddenly Molly stiffened. She breathed deep and her eyes widened. All sense of coyness evaporated as her dark mood and earlier allure reappeared.
“I just realized,” she said. “Marjorie should be at the Potato Blossom Queen Pageant tomorrow night to pass along her crown.” Molly turned around to Mr. Pop. “You haven’t heard, have you? Mother hasn’t said a word. Is she coming back up?”
Mr. Pop shook his head.
“The Little Miss Potato Blossoms are so sweet,” Tommy said trying to distract her. “I didn’t ever notice before.”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for the little ones,” Mother said, helping Tommy. “Look at Little Miss Van Buren. She’s adorable.”
Accepting the gesture, Molly nodded. “She is. But there’s Little Miss Monticello and that huge mass of curls on her little head. I wonder if it’s natural or if her mother puts her hair up in curlers. I wish I’d brought my camera!”
Tommy patted his pockets as though maybe he had a tiny camera hidden in them. Molly giggled. I rolled my eyes once again but turned them back to the stage. We could hardly keep up with the Little Misses from all the small towns in the county. Although Molly was right. Curly-haired Little Miss Monticello was the one who brought the most applause from the crowd. Evidently Little Miss Monticello caught the eye of the judges too, as she was named Little Miss Potato Blossom. Mother declared her “cute as a bug’s ear,” claiming one of Ellery’s favorite sayings as her own.
We said our goodbyes to Tommy outside the gym, Tommy promising to call on Molly when we were all back in Watsonville. And Mr. Pop, Mother, Molly, and I returned to the Aroostook Inn for a good night’s rest. We’d brought our Sunday clothes with us. Mr. Pop wouldn’t think of missing church. It didn’t matter where we were or who we knew on a Sunday, we didn’t miss church. Especially not here. Mr. Pop had several farmer friends who attended First Baptist in Fort Fairfield, so I went to bed knowing our time here at the Potato Blossom Festival would be over before it started. We’d miss the crowning of Marjorie’s successor, which now I realized was probably intentional. We’d check out the following morning and head to Sunday services at Fort Fairfield Baptist before heading home, which now included wonderful promise for Molly and more of the same great unknown for me.
Chapter Sixteen
JULY 1954—AFTER THE FESTIVAL
For all the odd happenings of the last week, Monday brought routine again and brought us right back to the grind of harvesting vegetables. On the trip home from Fort Fairfield, Mr. Pop told me the green beans and cucumbers would need tending to. Bud took the truck down to the Flats while Mr. Pop, Mother, and I finished breakfast. I was thankful for the gospel reading at the breakfast table. If it weren’t for that, no one would’ve uttered a word. The air hung heavy with the hard work that lay ahead: getting the vegetables out of the ground and getting Mick out of jail.
“Our reading for this morning is from the gospel of Luke, chapter 4, verses 14 through 21,” Mr. Pop said. He read to us about Jesus in the synagogue and finished with the Lord’s words: “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord.’”
We all said “Amen” simultaneously. I wanted to thank Mr. Pop for picking that appropriate passage, considering Mick’s circumstances, but realized he was just reading what came next in the devotional book. Instead, I had God to thank for planning that perfect passage for this morning. I hoped somehow God would work this passage into Mick’s cell and his mind. I wondered if Mick had any idea, any small grasp on the fact that God wanted to “set at liberty them that are bruised.” From the little I’d gleaned from Joseph about the kind of upbringing he and Mick had had, there was a significant amount of bruising to be set free from. Please God, help me keep the faith. Protect Mick in that cold cell. Bring someone to him who can heal his broken heart.
“Mercy,” Mr. Pop was saying. “Mercy, you’re daydreaming.”
“What? Oh, sorry. What were you saying?”
“Would you pray for us before our workday begins?”
“Sure.” I bowed my head and folded my hands, the same way I’d been taught in Sunday school and reminded of four times a day growing up. “Dear God, help us today to accomplish all we need to get done. Be with Mr. Pop, Bud, and Ellery in the field along with the other workers. Help Mother as she gets our dinner ready, and Lord, please be with Mick today. Please. Amen.”
“Thank you,” Mr
. Pop said. He rested his hands on his thighs, ready to push himself up. This change of posture always indicated the switch from godly reverence to ready-to-get-to-work-ed-ness.
“I’ve sent Bud to the Flats to pick up the men. I’d like you to grab some bushel baskets to pass out to them in the bean field. Then I’ll send you and Ellery over to the cucumbers to harvest a bunch of those for the stand. If we get enough bushels of green beans today, I’ll make a trip down to Bangor to sell them to the IGA stores there.”
“To Bangor?” I asked.
“To Bangor,” Mr. Pop said. “If I go, I’ll spend the night with Roger and see what progress he’s making.”
I was thrilled at the prospect of Mr. Pop making a trip to Bangor. Though his bringing produce to IGA wasn’t unheard of, it was uncommon enough an occurrence to make me hope that talking to Uncle Roger was the real reason for the drive. I hoped and prayed that there’d be big news as I flew to the shed for the bushel baskets and skipped all the way to the field. I beat Bud and the men to the field by at least ten minutes and just sat and waited, indulging myself with some daydreaming about Mick, about what it’d be like when he was released. I had to shake my head clear when I heard the rumble of the truck approaching. I passed out the bushels, then took one with me to meet Ellery in the cucumber field.
I saw Ellery coming on the run toward the field.
“I’m busier than a one-armed paperhanger with hives, Miss Mercy!” Ellery said. “Your father had me fixing some shingles on the shed before runnin’ over here. Did he say how many cucumbers he wanted us to harvest?”
“No, but he wants them for the stand, so I figure a half to three quarters of a bushel should do it for today. Take a look around for the ones that are fully ripe, and we’ll grab them first. These cukes are beauties this year. Mr. Pop must have sprayed for the cucumber beetle. I don’t see any. They were terrible last year, remember?”
“Ayuh, they sure were! The cukes weren’t worth a plug nickel last year. This year it’s the yellow crookneck squash. Some kinda squash beetle got at ’em, and they ain’t worth a hilla beans. Makes me mighty sad, it’s my favorite of all the vegetable crops yer father grows.”
“One of my favorites too,” I said. “When Mother boils them fork tender and then slices them in half and slathers them with butter, I’m in heaven.”
“Enough of this, Miss Mercy,” Ellery said. “We gotta stop talkin’ ’bout food if we’re gonna make it to dinnertime.”
I laughed. Standing in rows of cucumbers and squash, peas and beans, surrounded by hundreds of acres of nothing but potatoes, it was impossible not to think about food, though the snorts coming from the pigs and the smell rising from the chicken coop near the garden did help curb the appetite.
I knelt and began cutting the cucumbers free from their vines. Ellery joined me, gently wiping off the bristles before placing them into the baskets.
“What happened up country, Mercy? Anything good come out of that council meetin’?”
I shook my head and handed Ellery two cucumbers.
“It was a start, but sounds like they barely got anywhere. I don’t always understand things like that. I surely thought Mr. Pop would come back with good news about Mick. I guess I should know by now that there’s not going to be much good news when it comes to Mick, or the Maliseet either.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say there won’t be any good news. Gotta hold out some hope. But this ole world can be mighty cruel at times. And I’m sorry that you’ve had to wake up to this fact so young. When you and Mick played together as kids, no one cared. Somethin’ about kids that can cross all kinds of barriers. But now you’re of age, you’re a young woman and people start to wonder, to ask questions about whether it’s okay for you and Mick to even be friends, let alone more than friends.”
“We’re not more than friends. Why does everyone say that?”
“Mercy me! There’s a sucker born every minute, but I’m not one of ’em. You don’t ’spect me to believe you two are just friends. I didn’t just crawl out from under a rock, ya know.”
“Sometimes I wish I could crawl under a rock, you know?”
“I know. But you can’t. None of us can.”
“Ellery?”
“Yup?”
“Did you know Old Man Stringer had a sister?”
Ellery wiped down a cucumber with the edge of his sleeve before crunching right into it. “This one was no good to sell at the stand,” he said. “Yup, I knew. So tell me, Mercy, how did you know he had a sister? He tell you about her?”
I shook my head and cut through another vine. “I met her in the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“Trying to visit Old Man. Squeak, I guess.”
“Lord have mercy! I haven’t heard him called Squeak in a coon’s age. But you mean you met Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth?”
“Stringer. Squeak’s sister.”
“Oh, Mrs. Calloway. Yes, I met her. When I went into town with Uncle Roger, I had some time to use up. Thought I’d pay a visit. But they wouldn’t let me see him. Nice of them to send out his sister though.”
“I’m sure she was happy for the company. Makes me feel terrible for not visiting him myself.”
“Well, don’t. He’s out cold still, I guess. But is it true what his sister says? That Old Man isn’t so old after all? And that he and Mr. Pop and Ansley and Mr. Carmichael were friends as boys? Like Mick and me?”
“Well, certainly not like you and Mick. I don’t think they ever snuck any kisses behind the chicken coop.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Surely, I do. Yes, it’s true. They were friends. Shoot, we all were. Roger too. All of us playing and hunting and fishing. Like nothing. Those were good times.”
“So what happened?”
“What’d’ya mean?”
“Well, why did Mr. Pop turn out so okay, and the other men so messed up?”
Ellery took another bite and looked back toward the house.
“You mean why doesn’t your Mr. Pop have to be shaken awake out of his drunken stupor and why doesn’t he hate men enough to make up a crime against them?”
“I guess.”
“Well, your Mr. Pop would say it’s God’s grace alone. And I suppose he’s right. Though I hate making it sound like God’s grace doesn’t reach Ansley and Squeak and even Frankie Carmichael. Because certainly it does.”
“But why were they all friends and now they aren’t?”
“Hard to say exactly.”
“Uncle Roger says it’s because Mrs. Carmichael wanted to run off with Ansley.”
Ellery nearly choked on the cucumber. He wiped the seeds from the corner of his mouth and asked, “He told you that?”
I nodded. “Is it true?”
Ellery paused, then said, “Yes, it’s true. But she didn’t. Story goes that Old Mr. Fulton promised Frankie Carmichael his store if he’d marry Muriel, Mrs. Carmichael, but I don’t know if I believe that. Pretty sure just common sense got hold of Muriel. Or fear did. Running off, leaving your family behind, and marrying a Maliseet would take guts.”
“Her daughter did it.”
“She did.”
“So do you think this is why Mr. Carmichael is so angry? Even more so than he was before?”
“I can’t say exactly. And I don’t like to speculate or try and get inside another man’s head. But it’d be hard to think that his daughter’s running off didn’t remind him that the woman he loves might’ve rather made that same choice.” He was quiet for a moment. Then, “But it’s these choices we need to learn to live with, Mercy. Where your Mr. Pop sees God’s grace as the reason he’s the man he is today, I see choices. Maybe it’s the same thing. Frankie Carmichael could’ve chose to let bygones be bygones and chose to believe his beautiful wife loved him, but instead, he let bitterness fester and set out to seek vengeance on the Maliseet. Starting with when he convinced folks in town to stop ren
ting spaces to Maliseet and got the town council to push them out to the Flats.”
“Mr. Carmichael did that?”
“Well, he didn’t do it alone, mind you. But he was a champion.”
“But how could Mr. Pop stay friends with him?”
“Because your Mr. Pop also made choices. Choices to love his neighbors as himself. Look how he treats Squeak and Ansley. Lots of good Christian men would’ve stopped associating with folks who drown their sorrows with a bottle instead of taking them to Jesus, but not your dad. He made the choice to love them and look out for them. And to hope and pray God would let a little of His graces seep out on to them.”
I scooted toward the cucumber bushel and stared down our load. My worry had worked its way up from my stomach, through my throat, and up into my face. It was a long speech for Ellery. I didn’t want him to see my lip quiver or my eyes water. In my fifteen years, he’d only seen me cry once—when I was seven and I fell out of the maple Mick and I had chased Lickers into. She wouldn’t come down, but I sure did. And hit the ground hard. Mick had grabbed Lickers and jumped down after me. He must’ve landed as hard as I did, but he never said a word about it.
Ellery put his hand on my shoulder, his callouses scratching against my shirt.
“But here’s why your Mr. Pop likes to talk about God’s grace more than our choices. Because we all make terrible choices at times, and God still manages to do all kinds of good and work all kinds of wonder. And nobody has seen evidence of that more than your father. It’s why your name is what it is, after all.”
“I thought it was because they’d been married so long before I came along. God showed them a great mercy in giving them me, and so on.”
Ellery laughed. “Well, maybe that too. But your father will be the first to tell anyone that he and your saint of a mother, even, haven’t always made the best choices. But they’ve tried to live as Jesus asks and they’ve sought forgiveness when they’ve messed up. That’s where the grace—where all those shades of mercy show up in life. When you realize that.” Ellery wasn’t done sermonizing. He went on. “And because I know you need to hear it, I want to tell you: I’m not the saintliest man, and I’ve made my share of mistakes, and I’ve been too afraid my whole life to take on a wife or anything more than working for your dad. But I’m a churchgoing and Bible-believing, baptized man, and I think I can recognize God on the move when I see Him out shaking and stomping and working up something mighty. And I think it’s going to happen.”
Shades of Mercy Page 16