I was still blinking away tears while Ellery continued.
“You and I both know if it’s up to your Pop, it will turn out okay. Your uncle Roger is on the case too and if there’s anyone who can clean up this mess, it’s him. Since Hector was a pup, Roger could argue his way out of anything. When we were in school together, everyone always wanted Roger on their side. I think we all could see his lawyerin’ skills way back. So don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Mercy. Before you know it, Mick will be free and this mess will be behind us. I think God Himself wants you to know that. But since Mr. Pop himself wants these vegetables, I think we better get back to work.”
I hadn’t hugged Ellery in a couple years. But as I tightened my arms around his neck and felt his tighten around me, I felt a peace I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like he squeezed the worry and the fears right out of me. At least in that moment.
Ellery’s words weren’t quite the same as Mr. Pop’s, but almost as good. And I hoped they were true. We needed God to move in a way that it would leave no doubt about His will for all of us.
Ellery patted me on the back, stood, and headed over to the bean field, leaving me to finish the cucumber bushel. But I felt better than I had in a long time. My strength returned and my cucumber-cutting pace picked up. When my bushel was three-quarters full, I took it out to the stand where Mother thanked a customer and turned to greet me.
Mother held her hands on my shoulders, keeping me at arms’ length while looking into my face with her eyebrows squinched.
“Have you gotten another message-in-a-basket or something?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why do you look so happy?”
“Just happy to be done in the cucumber field, I guess.”
Mother laughed and turned to count the money in her cash box.
“I can help with dinner if you need it,” I said.
“Actually, can you tend the fryer? I’ve got molasses doughnuts all ready to lower into the oil. I want to close up out here, but then I’ll head back to the house.”
“I’ll be glad to help you test them when they’re done,” I said with a soft chuckle before I turned to run back to the house. Molasses doughnuts were my favorite. I picked a good time to help out in the kitchen.
“Of course, you will,” Mother said. “You let me know when the first one is done. By the time I get in and get the table set, it will be cooled enough to test.” Our long kitchen counter made it easy for both Mother and me to work side by side. We had placed the electric fryer next to the porcelain sink, then put a small bowl of sugar for dipping some, as well as a sugar shaker to dust others with powdered sugar. I could never decide if I had a taste for sweet or savory when I smelled oil heating up. My taste buds and my nose didn’t work in concert until I spotted the powdered-sugar shaker, then I was all about the sweets.
Before long, Mother and I were arranging the cooled doughnuts on a platter, dusting some with powdered sugar. Mother pointed to the last two doughnuts left behind on the cooling tray.
“Going to wrap these up and drive them into town,” she said. “I heard Mr. Herbert sneaks treats to Mick. I thought he’d like one.”
I smiled and looked down. Amazed at the things my mother could communicate through a doughnut.
“I’m also dropping one off at the hospital for Mrs. Calloway. If she’s anything like her brother, she’ll love these.”
My eyes widened and my mouth readied to ask.
“But no,” she said. “You may not come with. I’d like a private conversation with her. It sounds like she already told you plenty.”
“Did Uncle Roger tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me any details; you know he’s not like that. Well, not mostly like that. But he did tell me she was in town, and that you and her had a most interesting conversation. As did you and your uncle, I gather. We will talk about that later.”
With that Mother carried the platter into the dining room. The way her skirt swished behind her as she turned to push the door with her hip always made her look like a movie star. “Like Grace Kelly,” Bud would say.
And it was true.
Chapter Seventeen
Mercy, time to get up!” Mother’s voice sounded faint and far away, almost like a dream. I couldn’t get up. I was too tired to think, let alone get dressed and go work.
“Mercy, breakfast in twenty minutes!” This time Mother’s words were much louder, sharper. It definitely wasn’t a dream.
I continued to lie there in a kind of twilight sleep. I must have been half dreaming about Chef Barone or New York and Glenn and Marjorie because I woke up with a taste for lasagna.
As I blinked my eyes open and tried to kick-start my mind and body, I imagined Marjorie and Glenn in their Brooklyn walk-up. Thanks to a library book about New York, I could picture beautiful brownstones all along a block. I imagined Marjorie and Glenn sitting at their breakfast table, set in a bay window, chatting over coffee and toast while admiring the oaks and elms that lined the street.
Though I pictured them smiling, I wondered if Marjorie had any regrets, if she looked out her fifth-story window and squinted, wishing to see Mt. Katahdin’s peak, if she ever longed for home when she saw man-made buildings instead. I wondered what she’d tell her children someday about where she came from and who her family was.
For Glenn, with Marjorie and a good job in New York, life could only get better. But Marjorie, I began to see, had taken a big risk. She was the one with more to lose. Or so it seemed. Moving to New York sounded fun and adventurous, but moving away and being unable to come home, not nearly so. But Molly said Marjorie wrote letters that were filled with excitement and joy. We couldn’t know if it were for show or for real. But then again, I wasn’t sure it mattered.
I hopped up and out of bed, finally, and started to get dressed. Mr. Pop decided to wait for today’s harvest before taking the load to Bangor, so it was another day of hard work to fill as many bushels with beans as we could.
It was getting harder and harder to wait on news about Mick. Mr. Pop didn’t want me picking up the men in the Flats, so I couldn’t get anywhere near town let alone the jail. I could hear Ellery’s words in my head, “What doesn’t kill ya makes ya stronger, Mercy.” Based on that, I figured I must be pretty strong on account of I was still breathing. I hoped Chef was still bringing supper to Mick. I could handle the thought of him in jail if I knew he wasn’t going hungry. Maybe I could volunteer to go to the IGA for Mother and at least stop in to see Joseph at Nelson’s. Surely he’d know something.
“Mercy, breakfast’s ready,” Mother said. “Come on downstairs.”
I jumped on the bannister and slid to the bottom. Something in this day had to be fun. I was desperate for some. And I knew it wasn’t going to be bean picking.
Breakfast was predictable. In the midst of so much chaos, that was something I really appreciated. I could count on good biscuits and bacon and eggs, thanks to “the girls” as my father said. I could count on Mr. Pop to quiet us and read Scripture. Starting the day with the sense that God was with us helped me keep putting one foot in front of the other when there were so many unknowns.
I looked up from my half-eaten plate and asked, “Mother, maybe after I help you clean up the dinner dishes at noon, I could head into town to the grocery store for you. I saw the list you started.”
“Well, I could use more lard sooner than later,” Mother said. “I seem to be baking more than usual these days. Guess it’s helped me keep my mind off things. I’ll look over the list this morning while you’re out gathering eggs from the girls, and I’ll take you up on your offer to go after dinner.”
I wanted to leap out of my skin. I glanced at Mr. Pop to make sure he didn’t put a stop to it. When he patted me on the back and walked toward the kitchen door, I knew I was home free. Just the prospect of getting an hour to be near Mick, to find out some little tidbit from Joseph, gave me hope. It gave me the boost I needed for tending the an
imals and picking beans all morning. Maybe I could stop in and see Molly too. I hadn’t been able to reach her in two days thanks to Mrs. Garritson’s big mouth, tying up the phone lines day and night. Lord, forgive me, but it’s true!
I gathered a bucket of feed and a basket for egg gathering and headed out to the coop. Chickens were great companions that didn’t talk back, or at least not much. Their low-level clucking and chattering was a nice mask for my voice calling out to God in prayer in a more personal way than I dared at the breakfast table. The girls’ volume ebbed and flowed with my own, and their voices felt like a cloud of witnesses surrounding me and agreeing with my prayer. All creatures were loved by the Creator, and though I felt nearest to Him in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin, the chicken coop was a close second.
I scattered the feed after I’d gathered the eggs, and I headed back to the farmhouse secretly hoping Mother would ask me to head into town now instead of waiting, but no such luck. Grabbing a couple of bushel baskets from the shed, I headed back down to the bean field. About two-thirds of the field had been picked already, so at least the end was in sight. If we could finish up this field, then Mr. Pop ought to have enough beans to make it worth his while to head to Bangor.
The morning passed quickly and I headed toward the farm for dinner along with the other workers. I would soon be one step closer to Mick, or at least information about him. I picked at my food.
“Young lady, you’re gonna wither away to nothin’,” Bud said.
“Not that hungry. Been around beans all morning. Feel like I’ve already eaten.”
“Ha! Well I have too and it’s created a voracious appetite,” Bud said. “Women! Can’t quite figure ’em out. Guess that’s why I’m not married. What’s your excuse, Ellery?”
“I couldn’t marry, not when I have to look out for the both of us, Bud.” Ellery had a smirk on his face, for Bud’s sake, and he winked at me. I knew the real story even if Ellery didn’t want to admit it to Bud.
“Mercy, if you’ll clear the table, I’ll do the dishes, and you can go ahead and head into town.”
“Yes, Mother,” I said with as much calm as I could manage. I could hardly wait to get in that car and point it toward town. Mother walked into the kitchen awaiting my delivery of the dishes.
“My grocery list is on the kitchen table,” she called from the kitchen. “Pick up anything you think I missed. Oh, and I promised to give a dozen eggs to Mrs. Garritson. Would you drop those off on your way?”
“Sure, if she can get off the phone long enough to walk out to the car and get them,” I mumbled.
“What was that, Mercy?”
Grateful that she was still in the kitchen and unable to catch my tone, I just said, “Nothing, Mother. I’ll head to town in a couple minutes.”
Since I wasn’t heading to the Flats and I didn’t need to hide my presence or my purpose, I drove the main route into town. Everything appeared a little greener today, the sun a little brighter. Just the prospect of learning something about Mick made me smile from ear to ear. I drove straight to Nelson’s before going for groceries. Joseph was in the dining room, waiting on tables, but had time to talk. The after-lunch crowd was in no hurry. Joseph was in good spirits, though I couldn’t tell if that was because of Mick, or because he finally felt valuable, useful. Either way, seeing him felt like coming home. Joseph had become family, whether he knew it or not.
“Hey Joseph, how’s it going? Looks like Nelson’s is the place to be in Watsonville. It never used to be this crowded when Mrs. Nelson was cooking.”
Joseph laughed as we looked around the dining room, both suddenly worried that Mr. Nelson would make one of his surprise appearances. I’d always loved the way this restaurant looked. It wasn’t fancy, not in the way some think of fancy, at least. When I was little, the red and white checked tablecloths made it feel like a picnic inside. And yet, the stamped-tin ceiling and sconces on the papered walls reminded me to use my manners. Once upon a time, the place had smelled like onions and pot roast. But since Chef arrived, the basil and garlic wafted through. Years ago, no one might have guessed Italian food would go over so well here. But Chef was making a huge success of his second chance. Whatever he had meant by that.
“You should have seen it an hour and a half ago. I could have used help! We really need to hire someone part-time just to wait tables around the noon hour.”
“If I could get away from the farm and if school wasn’t starting so soon, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
“Oh, right,” Joseph said. “School. Chef says I gotta go back, but I don’t want to.”
“Of course, you’ve got to go back! What a silly thing to say.”
“What’s the point? I’m learning everything I need to learn here. But Mick says I need to go back too.”
“Mick! Have you talked to him?”
Joseph shook his head. “I haven’t talked to him. Not directly. But I get to take supper over to the jail almost every night. I don’t see Mick, but when Mr. Herbert is on duty, he usually tells me about Mick’s frame of mind that day. He says that he tells Mick I’m the one bringing his meal. He says Mick smiles every time he hears that.”
“So how’d Mick know about school?”
“Oh, Mr. Herbert asked me if I was excited to go back. When I said no, that I wanted to stay working at the restaurant, he told Mick. Next night when I dropped off dinner, I had Mick’s opinion waiting for me. Mr. Herbert agreed with him, though, so who knows if Mick really said that.”
“Well, of course, Mick would think you should stay in school. Will Chef let you stay on? Can you work weekends and after school?”
“So long as I keep going to church with him on Sunday mornings, yes. Chef even arranged it with my ma. I’ll stay over at his place above the restaurant on Saturday nights when we work late. It’s nice up there. Chef’s got a wife and a little girl, Giana. She calls me JoeJoe. I help her learn her colors and shapes while Mrs. Barone cleans. They’re a real nice family. Like yours. Mick’ll get a kick out of them.”
“Soon, I hope.”
Joseph shrugged and looked behind him. Chef had popped out of the kitchen to wave at me and hold up a finger for Joe. “Take one more minute, son,” Chef said. “Then we’ve got to finish these vegetables.”
Joseph nodded. “Anything you want me to tell Mr. Herbert to tell Mick? I’ll be there in a couple hours.”
I wanted Mick to know I loved him and that I never stopped thinking about him. Or worrying about him. Or wishing we could be back, snug and secret, in our little lean-to in the woods. But I couldn’t pass that on. Not through this route.
So I said, “I want him to know that we are headed to the Northern Maine Fair Saturday morning, and the Indian Rights Council is going to have their second meeting. Mr. Pop will be there and maybe even Uncle Roger. Tomorrow Mr. Pop is taking a load of beans down to Bangor, and he’s going to see my uncle and find out what’s going on to get him out of jail. Old Man Stringer is still in a coma.” And I decided to tell him, “But Bud says he’s been hearing a whole mess of stories going around about the incident that day in front of Fulton’s. Not everyone is standing by Frankie Carmichael’s story.”
“You want me to tell Mr. Herbert all that?”
“I want Mick to know. So he can hold out hope. I guess I want you to know too. For the same reason.”
“Hope. Sheesh! That’s all I hear about from everybody. I want to have hope—I really do—and Chef and Father McMahon keep telling me God still works miracles and that Jesus was born to bring hope and all that. And maybe that’s true. But maybe it’s just true for white folks. Because, at the end of the day, Mick is still Maliseet, and I’m not sure God’s too busy working miracles for the Maliseet.”
“Pretty sure the Bible is full of stories of God working miracles for all kinds of folk. But I know it’s hard,” I admitted. “I can barely hang on either. But at least hold out some hope for the meeting in Presque Isle, for Uncle Roger, for God to do a miracle. Listen, I�
��d better get going. I’m supposed to be picking up groceries. But I’ll see you soon. I promise!”
I gave Joseph a quick wave just as Chef reappeared to wave him back to the kitchen. I was grateful Joe didn’t have a chance to respond to my hold-out-hope speech. I couldn’t hear any more negative talk. I was struggling with everything in me to hold out my own hope for Mick.
Driving through the square heading to the IGA, I caught myself daydreaming again. I pictured Mick and me walking hand in hand on the square just like normal folk. There was that word again. Normal. What is normal anyway? For the first time I realized it was time to decide what normal might look like. And to do that, Mick had to be released from jail.
Mrs. Garritson finally got off the phone long enough for me to call Molly and arrange for her to go with us to the state fair. Of course, she jumped at the chance to once again get away from the gloom of her home life, especially since her father had put a stop to her seeing Tommy right after the festival. The last thing he needed, Mr. Carmichael told her, was to have another lovesick daughter mooning around. Mr. Pop said we should see this as a positive sign that Mr. Carmichael’s fury was spreading more equally. That he put white-as-white Tommy Birger in the same category as black-haired, tan-skinned Glenn was “progress in an odd way” as Mr. Pop said.
Maybe because the fair didn’t hold the same kind of memories of Marjorie and her family for Molly as the festival did, I had a feeling this trip would be a relaxing time for both of us. Fewer memories and less stress. Even though the Indian Rights Council was meeting again, I had more hope than dread. I kept replaying Ellery’s words.“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.” Those words of hope, along with the knowledge that Uncle Roger would be attending the meeting, kept me moving forward. One step at a time. One step at a time. Maybe Uncle Roger could make the same kind of difference as Mr. Brown had with the Board of Education.
Shades of Mercy Page 17