He led me down the path toward the woods. Once we’d moved beyond far enough, beyond all the spying eyes, Mick stopped and reached for me. Finally. He held me tight around the waist and put a hand on the back of my head, running his hand down my hair. I wanted nothing more than for him to lean down and draw me into a kiss, but he let go, stepped back, and simply grabbed my hand. Either way, it felt good to be this near to him again, to feel our fingers intertwine the way our lives once had.
I had wanted to tell him a million things, but as we walked, I could think of nothing to say, except finally, “I can’t believe we’re here. It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you too,” he said.
“I’ve been thinking about this, dreaming about this.”
“Have you?” Mick asked.
“Pretty much nonstop.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking myself,” Mick said. “I mean, what else could I do, stuck in that cell? It was rough, not the conditions so much but the lack of contact with anyone. Mr. Herbert was nice enough, letting Joseph drop off supper for me. When I found out Joe was delivering it … well, I knew at least one person cared. I didn’t know other people besides Tommy had tried to come visit me. No one told me. Except for Father McMahon and your uncle, I was so alone.”
My heart sank. I had understood that Mick wasn’t as excited to see me as I would have liked, but not even Mr. Pop would’ve thought that Mick would be disappointed in me, maybe even a little mad.
“But Mick, I wanted to come. I asked if I could, and Mr. Pop said no. He said I wouldn’t be let in to see you. He said if I came to visit, it could make things worse for you somehow and that you’d be fine, and that Uncle Roger was able to come in and see you. I was going crazy, Mick. I didn’t know how long it would take, or what was happening to you in there. Uncle Roger assured me you were okay and you were in good spirits. Was that all an act?”
Mick ran his thumb along mine, a small act of affection amid some hard words.
“I’m not saying I wasn’t all right,” Mick said. “No one hurt me; it’s just the reality of being Maliseet slapped me in the face every morning when I woke up to realize I was still alone in a jail cell. I thought a lot about it and knew that if I looked different, if my last name was Millar or Carmichael, I wouldn’t’ve been in that cell waiting for something to happen. I’d be free, walking the streets like anyone else. Anyone White, that is.”
“We talked about that too, me and Mr. Pop, me and Mother.”
“Mercy, I also thought more about who I am and who you are and—this is hard to say—but I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to continue to dream of ‘someday.’”
My heart felt like it was falling to my feet. I spoke quickly. “Mick, a lot changed on the outside while you were in jail too. Mr. Pop and Mother both know about us, and it’s all right with them; well mostly. But we don’t have to hide it anymore. We don’t have to sneak around.”
“It’s not just that,” Mick said. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“But you can tell me. Joseph said you should, in fact.”
Mick sighed. We walked past the path where we would’ve turned off to go to our little lean-to in the woods. Instead we wove among the pines and birches, stepping over fallen branches until we came upon a fallen ash tree. Mick sat on it, then patted the place next to him. An invitation to sit next to him, even as the invitation to his life was being revoked.
“Merce, you know how much I like your father and appreciate all he’s done for me. I still can’t believe he got your uncle Roger to come up from Bangor and attack this whole situation head-on. I’ll be forever grateful to your family. And you know how much I care about you, how much I always have and always will. It’s just, I’m not sure us moving forward is a good idea. For you or for me. There’s just too much.”
For the whole of the walk, I had successfully fought back tears, fearing what was coming. Now it was a losing battle. The tears streamed steadily from my eyes down my cheeks. Mick reached forward to brush them off my face.
“Mercy, you’ve got to believe it hurts. It hurts a lot to say all this.”
“Then don’t! Just stop! Let’s go back to the way things were,” I almost begged. “You and me in our fort before we loaded up workers to pick. Maybe you did too much thinking in that cell, Mick.”
“Mercy, you mean you didn’t think twice about us while I was in jail? You didn’t wonder if maybe somebody like Tommy Birger was a safer choice than some Maliseet boy who might be locked up for a long time?”
“No! Not once did I think that. You know why I invited Tommy over.”
“Yes, but that was before all this. When we thought we were just keeping a distance until the Glenn and Marjorie thing blew over. But this stuff going on is bigger than Glenn and Marjorie. It’s not going to blow over. Or go anywhere.”
“But things will still get better. I know it. The Maliseet will get the land settlement and all this will change …”
“The land settlement,” Mick said, his voice drifting off into the woods. “Yes, that would be nice. But that’s not everything, either, Mercy. Let me try to explain something that happened to me when I was locked up. Every morning I woke up and I felt really rested, like I’d slept better than I had in years. The truth was, I did sleep better. Mercy, living in the Flats means always having to watch your back, always watching out for Joseph and my mom. When my dad is passed out drunk, or drinking too much to function or even care, I’m it. I’m all they’ve got. If I don’t protect those two, no one else will. There are some men who aren’t always the safest to be around, not if you’re a woman. There are women who aren’t too safe either. I’ve seen my mother do some horrible things and have some horrible things done to her. Things no kid should ever see. Although it doesn’t happen much now, truth is: I’ve never been able to fall asleep in the Flats without fear. It’s the reality of my world. I’m sorry I’ve never told you—or anyone—this. It’s been a way of life in the Flats, and frankly, being alone in a cell for three weeks was a relief. For the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid for myself or my family when I fell asleep.”
I thought about my own mother, sitting in the circle of women. Were they talking about this too? Did my mother know this? Did Mr. Pop? Did Mr. Carmichael?
“So, as much as I hate Frankie Carmichael for what he did to me,” Mick said, “what I hate most about him calling the Maliseet ‘filth’ is that he’s got a point. Not all of us, but the stories he’s heard would make me afraid for my daughter to marry one of us too. It makes me afraid to think about marrying someone someday. I can’t bring anyone into our mess.”
I looked deep into Mick’s face. Tears brimmed but didn’t fall. He held his jaw tight, his cheek muscle flexing. When I reached out to hug him, I thought he might push me away but instead his body softened and engulfed me.
“Please don’t let this be it,” I said. “We don’t have to talk much about the future. We don’t have to talk about it at all. I don’t even have to be in your mess. I just want to be in your life.”
“More and more,” Mick said, “I’m realizing my mess and my life are the same thing.”
We both looked back. My mother was calling me from somewhere not far behind.
“Better go,” Mick said. “I’ll walk you back.”
We walked through the woods and Mick waved up the hill to Mother where she waited with Mrs. Polchies for us. “Meet you at the car,” he yelled up to them.
“Will I see you in school?” I asked. “First day’s Wednesday already.” I had heard that other schools didn’t start until late August or even September. But schools in Northern Maine got started the second week in August to leave room for our long Harvest Break.
Mick shook his head. “Nah.”
“Didn’t think so. Could you come in October after Harvest Break, maybe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Not sure high school’s going to teach me what I need to be learning right now.”
“Well, stuff for college, at least.”
Mick’s laugh had a brittle edge. “College. Right. That’s another one of those dreams I’m not sure can come true. But I don’t know. I’m sorry, Mercy. Maybe. Okay? Maybe. But I’ll be around for harvest. Mr. Pop already made sure I was planning on it. So I’ll see you then.”
“But that’s nearly five weeks away! Not before then?”
We had reached the car. Mother was working her way down the hill, sidestepping the bits of trash, discarded toilet seats, scraps of sharp-edged aluminum, splintered bits of lumber, as she came down.
“How wonderful to watch your mother at work, Mick!” Mother said. “She’s amazing. Her fingers must be magic.”
“Something like that,” Mick said.
“Well, I hope we see you around soon,” Mother said. “It’s been too long. We’ve missed you. All right, Mercy. Time we got back.”
I nodded toward Mick and he smiled back.
“I’ll see you soon, Mercy. Promise.”
“Okay,” I said, nearly choking out the word. “Soon, then.”
Chapter Twenty-One
SEPTEMBER 1954
It had been three and a half weeks since I’d seen Mick. But “soon” could’ve meant months for all I knew. Everything was different, even as it was the same. School was school. Same classes, only harder. Same people, only older. Same bus ride, only longer. Or so it felt. But as Mr. Pop always told me, my job at fifteen was to work hard on my chores at the farm and work hard in school. So I did.
Molly and Tommy tried to cheer me up, inviting me with them when they went to Woolworth’s for sodas after school or to join them at Tommy’s house to see if we could sneak a listen to that “Shake, Rattle and Roll” song Marjorie had written Molly about. Although I was curious to hear what this rock-and-roll was all about, I didn’t want to risk getting in trouble from my parents who worried like everyone else about the lyrics and the dancing it might bring out. So I simply went to school and came back home.
The first weather report broke through while Mr. Pop was listening to the Red Sox game on the radio. Weather reports first indicated a hurricane moving up the southeast coast. Hurricane Edna was battering the Carolinas, Myrtle Beach, then the Outer Banks, and would probably be headed out over the Atlantic before it reached the Northeast. But we needed to be on guard anyway.
Mr. Pop kept the radio on even after the Red Sox trounced the Tigers. The second report had changed. Forecasters now predicted Edna would keep moving up the coast. And no longer were they calling for it to cut east across the ocean; instead, they warned, it would move inland. Hurricane Edna, it seemed, was headed our way in just two days.
We made sure we had enough wood stacked in the shed for the duration of the storm before we hunkered down. It wasn’t often that a hurricane made its way this far north. The cold and dampness that served as a prelude for the storm meant Mr. Pop would have to get up a couple times in the night to keep the fire in the wood-burning stove stoked. As soon as the spring thaw occurred each year, Mr. Pop would spend any spare moments starting to chop wood for the next winter. It took all of late spring and summer to cut and haul enough wood to last through the tough Maine winter. On cold damp nights Mr. Pop started the wood-burning stove—our only heating source in the house—off to a roaring blaze, then in the wee morning hours he’d get up and build another nice smudge that would take the edge off the morning cold. There was something about the dampness of hard-driving rain that soaked right into you even though you were indoors. Dampness needed a lot of heat to dry it out.
“Mercy, I need you to run into town and grab a few things for me before Edna hits,” Mother said. “The list is on the end of the counter.”
At least this bit of normal had returned: me being sent on a mission some parents might have regarded as too dangerous. But being trusted felt great. Watsonville was buzzing. At the IGA people were stocking up on perishables, for items that weren’t already canned and on their shelves at home. It looked more like preparation for a wartime siege, not a couple of days of high winds and rain. For a town used to big winter storms, this certainly wasn’t the first time we’d ever had to get prepared to be shut inside for more than a couple of days. But something about the oddity of a hurricane in our Northwoods threw us all off, especially with harvest just one week away. Still, when I saw Mrs. Williams, who lived just a block down from the market and was known to brag about her basement shelves lined with canned goods lest those “dang Communists” decide to invade Maine pushing a shopping cart loaded with supplies, I had to turn my head to keep from giggling.
Mother’s list had milk and some baking soda, plus a package of Rice’s red hot dogs and some split top buns on it. I loved the snap of those red dogs, especially one loaded with mustard and relish and a few leftover baked beans. The casing and bright red color made them unlike any other hot dog in the world. Mother’s list was relatively short; of course Mother kept her pantry and refrigerator well stocked, so we were okay even if Mrs. Williams’s Communists did invade.
Time would tell who was right, I guessed. But just then, I needed to get my items and get back to the farm. Cars jammed the streets as farmers left their chores to head into town and stock up. The traffic volume made me feel like I was in Bangor. I wanted to drive over to the Flats but didn’t dare. What would a hurricane look like on Hungry Hill? I didn’t want to think about it. I already knew that Chef Barone asked Joseph to stay with his family on the square to help keep an eye on Nelson’s. At least I didn’t have to worry about him.
Heading home on the main road didn’t afford the usual opportunity to think and dream, especially not today. The North Road was loaded with cars, filled with others trying to get home before the storm hit full blast. The dark sky was starting to spit rain. I could see the trees waving with small gusts of wind. It felt like a good nor’easter just winding up. The difference was that this one was a hurricane and she had a name. Edna. I suppose I should’ve been scared, but somehow the wildness of it all thrilled me. Although the wind whipped dirt and leaves into the truck, I kept the windows down, enjoying the rush and hearing the booms and creaks as the wind picked up.
I pulled into the farm to see Ellery and Bud scurrying around helping Mr. Pop finish last minute storm preparations. The chicken coop received needed fortification, and Bud was busy moving the pigs into the shed closest to the house. Mr. Pop was still up on a ladder closing the shutters on the second story windows. Ellery nailed boards across the first floor windows for good measure. I got out of the car just in time to hear Ellery holler over the howling wind, “Mercy, you’re a day late and a dollar short! I nailed down everything but the kitchen sink and you weren’t here to help one lick.”
With the final nail pounded into the porch window, Bud and Ellery took off to manage their own households. I knew Bud well enough to know he’d do nothing but bring in some firewood into his one-room cabin. As a bachelor, Bud didn’t really fuss much about himself. He didn’t have electricity or running water, so less could go wrong for him, was the way he figured it. But still, Bud ran toward his cabin to do what he could to shore it up.
Ellery’s place was bigger than Bud’s and with more that could be damaged if he didn’t protect it, so Ellery hammered in new nails and covered windows with spare planks. After that, I was sure he’d gather some firewood also and then hunker down for the duration. Those two were loyal as they come. They loved us like family and we loved them back.
Mr. Pop’s real concerns about the hurricane had to do with harvest, just a week away. Potato fields couldn’t handle the amount of rain predicted. By the time the soil dried out, it would push harvest back later than the school break would allow and then there’d be fewer workers to accomplish the task. If there was high standing water and the weather took a turn, like it might that time of year, crops could be ruined. Weather like this could potentially cripple some of the smaller farmers, but this wasn’t just an issue for them. As Mr. Pop reminded me, if
finances went south for farmers, some of the Maliseet—those who depended on work from the farmers, even throughout the winter—could starve this winter. And a suffering community might mean there’d be even fewer in Watsonville to lift a finger to keep it from happening.
As I pulled into the driveway, I lifted a hand over our farm, much like I’d seen Mr. Pop do at the beginning of planting season and just before harvest. “I know this is all Yours, God,” I prayed aloud, “but I ask for Your protection on our community. I ask for Your mercy in the midst of whatever’s to come. And please, please, please, keep Mick safe.”
“Mercy, dear, get inside quick,” Mother called from the porch. “Your father will grab the groceries. It’s starting to blow pretty hard!”
Even though Mother was shouting, I could hardly hear her. The drizzle had just shifted into a steady downpour, and the wind had picked up. Once I got inside I headed for the phone to give Molly a quick call, but once again Mrs. Garritson was monopolizing the line. I kept picking up hoping she’d get the hint. I guess everyone needed to check on someone before the hurricane got going, even Mrs. Garritson. I suppose I could afford her some grace this time around. I slumped into the chair in the foyer and picked up Lickers. She’s been weaving between my ankles while I tried the phone.
“Bet you’re glad you’re not an outside cat now, aren’t you, scaredy-cat?”
“How about you put down the cat, come into the kitchen, and help me roll out the molasses cookies?” Mother said when she saw me in the chair. “After you wash those hands, of course.”
I scooted Lickers off my lap and stood, brushing her tiny hairs off my skirt. The thought of having a batch of molasses cookies, my favorite, to snack on with a cup of tea or cold milk sounded divine. And with nothing else to do but be inside, I had all the time in the world to help out.
“Be right there. Just trying to get Molly on the phone, but you-know-who is on the line.”
I heard Mother chuckle from the kitchen. I set the receiver back down and followed the laugh. I could wait to talk to Molly.
Shades of Mercy Page 20