And with that, and well, with the reporter from the Bangor Daily, who Uncle Roger had called up, waiting to run the story of the small town bent on tromping on an innocent boy’s civil rights by forbidding visitors, Judge Dodd ordered Mick released from jail.
I was picking at the cannoli Chef had brought to my table when Mr. Pop burst in the door.
“Joseph,” Mr. Pop called. Joseph appeared at the kitchen door. “He’s out, son. Your brother’s going home.” My father finished that statement with a clap of his hands.
The rest of the time in the restaurant moved like a dream.
Chef had popped a bottle of champagne, which of course Mr. Pop refused, though it appeared harder for him to pass up than I would’ve thought. We were headed home ourselves, Mr. Pop said. Would Chef be willing to let Joseph off for the night? Mr. Pop would send Bud or Ellery down to substitute, if that helped.
Chef had laughed. “No substitutes! Tonight,” he said, raising a glass of champagne toward the ceiling, “we celebrate. God is good. He heard our prayers. We’ll close up early tonight, but free lasagna to anyone who walks through those doors first!”
Joseph and I had hugged. As I walked out the door, Chef lifted him into a bear hug. “Do you see? Do you see what I’ve been telling you?” Chef was saying.
Mr. Pop told me it was time to go. I wanted to see Mick, I said. Tomorrow, Mr. Pop told me. Tomorrow.
And together me and Mr. Pop rode back to the farm. Mother had stayed in town, to sit with Mrs. Carmichael after hearing Mr. Carmichael had been taken to the police station for questioning. Turns out, reporting a crime that didn’t happen is a crime unto itself.
I sat in bed with my copy of Emily Dickinson’s poems on my lap. I’d taken the library’s copy by accident in the rush. But I’d left my The Catcher in the Rye behind.
“Even swap,” Mr. Pop said when he sat on the edge of my bed and I confessed. “I think we’ll be able to work it out with them.”
When Mr. Pop and I were this close to each other, it usually meant we were riding in the potato truck or out in the field together, or sitting at the dinner table. Now I had the perfect vantage point to see the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes and the graying around his temples and above his ears.
For the first time ever, I didn’t feel as much like the son he never had but truly like Mr. Pop’s daughter. The one he trusted to shuttle farmhands from one field to another, to run the roadside farm stand, or take care of the livestock. Or, maybe more importantly, the one who had fallen in love with the boy who walked into jail and stayed in love with the one who walked out.
“Is Uncle Roger still with Mick?”
“Yes. He was going to drive him to the Flats, then head back to Bangor.”
“So is this over then?”
Mr. Pop nodded. “The Mick in jail part is. Not sure how much of the rest of it.”
“Well, that Mick is out is enough for me.”
“Yes. But not enough for the Maliseet. Not even enough for Mick. I can’t stop thanking God that he’s out, but this really is only the beginning.”
“Of what?”
“Of changes that have been a long time coming. That Mick sat in jail that long was un-American. That the home he heads back to sits on our dump is inhumane. That his family has neither the resources nor the will to help him become the man God obviously gifted him to be, is just wrong.” He paused, shaking his head. “For generations now, the Maliseet have had so much injustice heaped on them. All of them. I don’t know how Mick, or any other Maliseet, for that matter, can keep getting back up after continually being knocked down, then putting one foot in front of the other again and again and again. It’s time somebody stopped all the knocking down. Beginning with giving back some of their land.”
I looked at Mr. Pop. “Their land? I thought they used to live in apartments in town.”
“Mercy, you know better than that. You know that once all this land belonged to the Maliseet.”
I nodded. “But they sold it, right? A million years ago? That’s what Grandpa Millar always told me.”
“Yes,” Mr. Pop said. “They sold it. But most of us or most of our grandparents or great-greats or whoever lived here all those years ago paid very little for it. When the land was taken, the Maliseet were promised new land, which never came. Living in shacks down at the dump is not the land they imagined, not the life they wanted for their families. So now the Maliseet leaders—Mr. Polchies, Mr. Tomah, and Mr. Sabattis—are pressing for a land settlement claim like the Passamaquoddy and the Penobscot are working toward. And I think they’re right. But if they get their land, a lot of us, me, and all of our neighbors, may lose our farms.”
That had never occurred to me. “Can’t we just share?” I asked.
“It’s not that easy, Mercy.”
“But it can’t be that hard, either.”
“I imagine it shouldn’t be. But people are still fighting this very hard. Frankie Carmichael and his posse will have lost plenty of credibility, but they’re still going to fight this. And things could turn uglier for the Maliseet for a time. I love Frankie like a brother, but I don’t trust that he’s going to let this go. Let’s just pray that God intervenes. That God squashes the revenge that burns in his soul.”
A chill ran through me. I pulled my comforter up tighter around me.
“But for now, my dear Mercy, I wanted you to know how happy I am about Mick.” Mr. Pop patted my shoulder. “You must be eager to see him.”
“I am,” I said, with a gulp. “But I don’t suppose he’ll be up for working on the farm for a while.”
“I don’t know. He might be up for it. Roger said it was school Mick wasn’t too keen on going back to. I can’t blame him, actually.”
Yet another blow to the old predictable way of things. I couldn’t imagine a year at school without Mick.
“But,” Mr. Pop said, “I’d like to see if you could convince him otherwise.”
“Convince him otherwise what?”
“To go back to school. Even if he wants to wait a month. Or two. He’s too bright to drop out. He should be thinking about his future, even about college. I hoped you’d be willing to drive out there tomorrow, actually, and talk to him.”
Mr. Pop smiled at me while I lunged toward him, nearly knocking him off my bed as I hugged him.
“Really? Tomorrow? I can drive out to see him?”
“After church,” Mr. Pop said. “You take Mother into town. She wanted to drop off some bread and flowers for Old Man at the hospital. He said he woke up craving some of your mother’s homemade bread, you know, those rolls she makes that go with our Saturday night bean suppers, and can’t think of anything else. Then you both can head to the Flats.”
“But what will people think?”
Mr. Pop laughed and shook his head. “That my wife is delivering bread on a Sunday? Or that I let my daughter visit her Maliseet beau? People will talk about both. We know that. Just like people have talked about me hiring Maliseet and drunks and me leaving a party while your mother voiced her opinion. Some of these things I regret. But most I do not. And I can’t help what people say. We answer to God, Mercy.”
I nodded and tucked my legs back below the comforter, pulling it up closer to my face this time.
“You know Mick was my beau?” I smiled at the word. So old-fashioned, but so elegant to say. “Did Mother tell you?”
“Only after I asked. I confess to being slow about these things. Of course, looking back it seems obvious. I don’t know how I could’ve missed it. One day you and Mick were punching each other’s shoulders and hurrying up with your chores so you get back to work building your forts and then next day, or so it seemed, you were walking slowly together at the end of the day. Or disappearing altogether.”
I felt the red rise into my face.
“I don’t know how I didn’t piece it together earlier. But I confess to not having taken the time to stop and notice you and who and what you’ve become. You are
strong and smart and beautiful. It’s the reason poor Tommy Birger couldn’t keep away. And it’s what Mick sees in you. Of course, I loved you even when you were gangly and scrappy.”
We laughed and I leaned forward to hug my dad once again.
“So you’re okay with this? With Mick and me?”
Mr. Pop breathed in deep, then exhaled for a while. The lines on his face looked deeper than I’d ever noticed. “I’ve told you: I love Mick like a son. He’s one of the best young men I know. But to say I’m fully okay with this would be untrue. I’ll be okay when Mick acknowledges Jesus as Savior and Lord. And when you both grow a little older. I’m going to keep praying for his salvation, and I expect you are too.”
I looked down and nodded. I wanted to tell him about my conversation with Joseph, as if his steps toward salvation counted toward Mick’s. Instead I asked what burned deeper on my heart: “But I can see Mick? I can go to the Flats? And he can sit on the porch here with me?”
“Yes, you can. Though I don’t want to hear any talk about getting married someday. Not for a long time. Or about running off. And I’m tempted to put the same conditions that Chef put on Joseph.”
“You want Mick to go to Chef Barone’s church?”
Mr. Pop smiled. “I was thinking Second Baptist, actually.”
“Not First? Not with us?”
“Just trying to give Pastor Buell the benefit of the doubt. He seems to have finally noticed that Father McMahon was the only clergy concerned with Maliseet souls. And their living conditions, for that matter. He’s asked to join the Indian Affairs Council.”
“Pastor Buell?”
Mr. Pop nodded. “So we’ll see. But for now, young lady, get back to your reading and then sleep. A big day tomorrow.”
Mr. Pop leaned in to kiss me good night. It’d been a long time since the scruff of his face offered such comfort. After he closed my door, I got back to my reading. But sleep had a hard time coming.
Chapter Twenty
Where getting out of bed had been such a chore when Mick was in jail, the next morning, I leapt out of bed with joy overflowing. I could barely contain myself. I knew we had to go to church before I could see Mick, and while I felt impatient on one hand, I also knew I needed to be at church, to spend time in praise to God for what He had done.
It had felt good to be more out in the open about my feelings for Mick, at least with Mr. Pop and Mother. I had to remember there were still plenty in the community who wouldn’t be happy with the outcome of Mick being released. Mr. Pop warned me over breakfast not to gloat and reminded me that my praise might have to be a bit muted. But it didn’t matter. Everyone knew where Mr. Pop stood on the issue, and I couldn’t wait to see who spoke to him and who might not this morning.
“Meet us in the car!” I could hear Mr. Pop bellowing up the stairs. I fairly flew down the stairs. I felt like sliding down the bannister but it never worked as well with a dress on.
“So a great day to go to church, huh?”
Mr. Pop raised an eyebrow at me, then reached a hand out to feel my forehead.
I laughed. “I mean it,” I said. “Really.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be feverish, so yes, it is a great day to go to church,” Mr. Pop said. “Of course, I think it’s always a great day to worship God.”
Mr. Pop wrapped his arm around me as we closed the front door behind us.
“Though it seems to me,” he said, “how you feel about going to church and what you have to say to God this morning probably depends on your opinion of the Maliseet and whether you believe we really all are made in God’s image. Seems cut-and-dried to me.”
“To me too. But why can’t some people see this?”
Mr. Pop shrugged and held the car door open for me.
“If there were no mystery in this universe of ours,” he said, “it would be a boring place to live. And if everyone lined up perfectly with our opinions and beliefs, there’d be no need for grace, either. The good Lord knows we need a lot of grace around here.”
Church was uneventful. There couldn’t have been more than three or four people who spoke to Mr. Pop or Mother about what had happened. It could’ve been that the word of Mick’s release hadn’t reached everyone and Pastor Murphy certainly didn’t mention it. Or maybe it just wasn’t as earth-shattering for other people like it was for me and my family. It was like any other Sunday. Like nothing at all had changed. Maybe it hadn’t. After all, when we got back home, I assumed that the aroma of dinner would greet us, as always. What I didn’t know was that Mother had gotten a picnic basket ready, filled with pot roast, creamed corn, green beans, along with bread ready for me to deliver a fully cooked, nice and hot, Sunday dinner down to the Flats for the Polchies family. She’d packed all this alongside the specially made rolls to drop off for Old Man Stringer at the hospital.
I helped gather up everything needed for a proper meal for the Polchies, from napkins to a big knife to slice the meat, as well as serving spoons for the corn and beans. Mother wasn’t sure what they had along this vein, and she was right to wonder. After we loaded up the car, Mother slid into the passenger seat and Mr. Pop walked me around.
“Mercy, temper your excitement a bit. Lower your expectations. And don’t be hurt if Mick isn’t as excited to see you as you are to see him.”
I bristled at Mr. Pop’s words. “What do you mean? He’s free, he’s been waiting to see me. I’ve sure been waiting to see him.”
“I understand that,” Mr. Pop said. “But he’s been through a lot. Mick’s not the same boy he was when he went to jail, that’s all.”
I wanted to push back, tell Mr. Pop he had nothing to worry about. But instead I straightened up in my seat and smiled.
“It’ll be great.”
“Okay. Don’t forget Old Man’s bread,” Mr. Pop said, handing me the rolls before closing my door.
I smiled tightly as I said goodbye to Mr. Pop. I didn’t want him or Mother to see my frustration at his words. I didn’t want to invite any more comments or any more warnings from either of them. I hated that Mr. Pop’s warning had matched my greatest fear. But I pushed that fear out of my mind as I drove Mother first into town, where she ran into the hospital while I waited in the car. Then we drove on to the Flats, where I learned that Mr. Pop and my fears had been right.
It was as though Mick knew I was coming. He stood at the base of the Flats, just off the road and stepped aside, two steps closer to the woods, when we pulled up.
Despite what Mr. Pop had said, I expected a huge grin from Mick when he saw me. Instead, I was crushed at his subdued manner. I would never admit it, but I had imagined Mick seeing me, rushing toward me, and holding me so tightly that I’d have trouble breathing. I was looking forward to being kissed.
But none of that happened. Not that it would have, with Mother right there. But it might have been nice to at least sense he wanted to catch up on all our summer apart had cost us.
But as soon as we got out of the car, Mick stood still. Though he returned my smile, Mick said nothing. At least, not to me.
“Mrs. Millar,” he said.
Mother rushed toward him and wrapped her arms right around him. She stepped back and held his arms wide apart, taking in every bit of him as though he were her boy, simply gone away for the summer.
“You look terrific, Mick,” she said. “What a sight it is to see you! Oh, here …”
Mother turned back to the car, surprised that I hadn’t gotten out.
“Mercy! Come say hello to Mick!” She shook her head at me, the way she did when I was little and too shy to hug my grandparents.
Mother motioned toward the car.
“We brought you some pot roast,” I said. “For you and your family.”
“Thanks,” he said with a nod. “Wow. Want a hand carrying it up?”
Up. That wasn’t the direction I’d wanted him to take me. But it was the one we’d take.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Mick walked to the
car and opened the back door, pulling the basket out. I couldn’t resist his being so near. I reached out a hand and rubbed it across his back. He shivered.
“It’s good to see you,” I said.
“You too.” The two words got caught in his throat and choked him a bit. I thought I noticed the shine of tears in his eyes. But then he coughed and smiled again. “This goes to my parents, then?”
I nodded and we walked up the hill toward the shacks. His mother and the other women sat in their circle, weaving and talking. When they saw us, they stopped.
“Ma, Mrs. Millar sent some food for us.”
Mrs. Polchies muttered a thank-you and went back to talking to the women. One of them motioned to Mother. She excused herself from us and sat down on a stump in the circle of women.
“She doesn’t mean to be rude,” Mick said. “Ma’s had a hard time. First with me being gone, now Joseph.”
“Has Joseph been at Chef’s a lot?” I asked, my eyes on Mother as she watched the women weave. She asked a question of one of the women I didn’t know.
“Yes. He’s been working lots. It’s good, but he stays with Chef more often than not. He even told Ma he wanted to stay with Chef when school starts. She says it’s like she’s lost two sons at once.”
“But you’re back,” I said, taking a step closer, desperate to grab his hand but aware of eyes all around us.
“For now,” he said. “You wanna go for a walk?”
My heart pounded. “Sure,” I said.
Shades of Mercy Page 19