A Matter of Mercy (21 page)

She scoured the house and yard with her eyes again, all still well until, squinting, she made out two little squares, paper maybe, on the steps up the small back stoop off the kitchen door, and a larger, thicker square on the little porch itself. The steps were largely protected by a roof built out over the porch, and there was very little snow on them.

Her heart started up its wild stomping. Why didn’t she have a cell phone? She promised herself she’d get one today. She thought of going to get a policeman to come back with her. But maybe what was on the paper were benign notes—even sweet little notes about the baby from her mother’s friends, left on their ways off Cape. If she brought the police back with her, they’d decide once and for all that she was plain paranoid, and they’d write her off completely. She’d lose whatever sanity ground she’d gained in their eyes after the rock was thrown through her window.

She pulled the car as close to the porch as she could, ignoring the snow-obscured boundary between gravel drive and grass, and the stone walkway to her mother’s studio. Leaving the motor running, she opened the car door and took four steps to where she could bend over to look at what was on her steps.

Confused because she’d started at the top where there was a piece of burned toast lying at her kitchen door, she had to go back and start reading the sticky notes from the bottom up. In that order, the notes read first,
You
, and then
ARe
.

Chapter 21

Rid had the heat on in the truck, but still an involuntary shiver ran down his spine. The late sky, which had been the color of a file cabinet, was darkening toward gunmetal. Dreary. The penetrating cold of humid air, that dankness. He’d finished buttoning the grant today, a relief because the real cold had hit earlier than usual this year. His remaining oysters were in the truck bed, ready to go into the pit. Now his winter work would start in earnest: repairing old cages and trays, building new ones, casting new Chinese hats. He’d check all his mesh envelopes and bags, looking for holes, taking inventory of how many new ones he needed to buy. And, of course, troll for the best deal he could get on quality matchhead quahogs and seed oysters for the nursery. He’d gone as far north as Maine to buy them last year. And he had to straighten out the mess of his paperwork or the state would be after him. Cut firewood. He’d try to pick up work on a scallop boat or a shrimper out of New Bedford, too. A couple of weeks and the cash would front him money for seed. The hatchery down in Dennis let him take seed on credit, and they were a guaranteed market for his mature stock, but he didn’t want to be overly dependent on any one place, any more than his father had.

Rid and his stomach were both ruminating on the subject of dinner when he turned down his road. He’d defrosted a precooked pot roast concoction he’d discovered at the Stop & Shop and was ruminating about throwing canned potatoes, carrots and onions on top with a jar of beef gravy and putting the whole thing in the oven. Ought to work. Wouldn’t take long to heat up at all. He swallowed saliva. “Yeah, you can have some, girl,” he said, patting Lizzie on the seat next to him. She licked his hand.

“Shit,” he muttered. A Honda was in his driveway, somebody in the driver’s seat. Not only that, it was blocking his access to his garage. He tapped lightly on the horn and swiped with his hand to show he wanted to get in his garage. He or she didn’t seem to get it. The car started up and pulled forward, not what he wanted.

Impatient, Rid got out of the truck and strode to the driver’s side.
Jesus
.
He should have recognized the car
.
It was CiCi. Her face was all swollen and bleary-pink, like one of those oversize begonias his mother raised. Crying. Rid tried to open her door but it was locked. He tapped and pointed, saying, “Unlock it.” When she did, he reached across her and turned the engine off. “You all right?”

No response. Taking her elbow, he said, “Come on in.” She was still crying. And, he realized, shaking with cold. “How long have you been here?”

“A while,” she said. Her teeth started to chatter as soon as she spoke.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t locked the house. Nobody around but locals in winter. Inside, he led Caroline to the couch, sat her down, and put the afghan his mother had made over her. He turned up the thermostat. “Let me go turn off the truck and get Lizzie—watch out, remember she’ll try her French kiss on you—and then I’ll get you something hot to drink and make a fire. Or do you want a beer? Hey—CiCi—it’s okay. Don’t be scared. Are you sure you’re all right?” He’d seen she was shaking and didn’t know if it was cold or fear.

“I’m okay. Just freezing now. No beer,” she shivered. “Can’t drink. Pregnant. Have you got tea bags?”

When he came back in with the dog, he saw it was a good thing. Lizzie went to Caroline with wagging tail, jumped up on the couch to lick her face, and then circled her tail twice and lay with her head on Caroline’s lap. Caroline stretched her arm over the dog’s back.

“She’s good as a heating pad,” Rid said, tossing his scarf over the back of the recliner. He clomped into the kitchen to get out of his outer jacket and waders, and put them with his hat, gloves and another flannel layer in the utility area. “Want the TV on while I do some stuff?” he called in as he filled the kettle.

“Only if you do. But aren’t you going to ask why I was in your driveway?”

Rid padded to the doorway in his wool socks to look across the living room at her. “You told me you’re all right. That’s all that’s important. I figured to let you warm up first. And I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. So I’m puttin’ some dinner on for us. Gotta heat up and all. And I need to make a fire.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

He started to tease her, to say something like
hey, be careful, better remember I’m the enemy
and for once in his life he thought better in time. He just approximated a smile and went back to the kitchen. The truth was he was afraid to start asking what she was doing there. He’d never once talked to her without it ending badly. Or very badly.

A quick succession of opening cans, the refrigerator opening and closing a few times, rummaging for a casserole dish, the can opener click and grind, a clatter of glass on glass and dinner was assembled in the oven. He went back into the living room where he already had paper, kindling and the first small pieces of wood on the hearth. Once those were in small, heartening flames, he went out his kitchen door and brought in three split pieces of seasoned hickory. “These’ll keep the cold back a while. Nice slow burners, too.”

“Such a beautiful big fireplace,” Caroline said. “I really like the hearth.”

“Yeah, you can sit on it if you’re still got chills. Dad and Mom had this house built and they wanted an extra big fireplace. As you can see.” He laughed as he straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and did a grand gesture as if presenting the fireplace. “Ta-da. Lets in a wicked lotta cold when there’s no fire in it, though. Wood stove’s best for heat. Got one of those in the kitchen.”

“I know what you mean. Ours is practically its twin. You’ve been in our house, right?”

“Is that a trick question? How many crimes you trying to get me to cop to?”

Startled. “No. No! I didn’t mean it that way. I forgot. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.”

Rid was affected more by Caroline not throwing a dart at him then as much as he’d ever been hit by the ones she aimed square at him. She looked small on the couch, under his mother’s multicolored afghan, her hair all mussed up, no make-up left, and her face showing that she’d recently cried. One of her arms was latched around Lizzie for dear life, too. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.

Caroline started to say something. The kettle whistled.

“I’ll get you tea,” Rid said, “and myself a beer. Hang tight.” A moment later he was back. “Here’s your tea. I left the bag in. Starting to smell good in there.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I put the oven up to 450 to hurry it up. Is that going to ruin it?”

Caroline smiled. “That would depend on what’s in the oven, and the temperature at which it’s supposed to be baked.”

“Listen to you—
teacher
.” But he was grinning back. “It’s a frozen pot roast thing that was precooked. I already defrosted it. I added—oh, why don’t you come look at it? I added a bunch of stuff and gravy. I’ve got the package.”

In the kitchen, Caroline lowered the oven to 375. The directions had said 350. “About twenty more minutes, I’m guessing,” Caroline said. “To heat it up thoroughly inside the meat. That extra gravy was a great idea. How about I set the table?”

Rid hadn’t set a table in three years. “Uh, sure. He took out silverware, plates and napkins and set them on the counter, let CiCi take over with them. “Is it time to feed Lizzie? She’s got a lean and hungry look,” she said.

Dammit, does she have to be right about my dog?
Lizzie was standing at her food bowl, staring into its yawning emptiness, then sadly up at him before swiveling her head back to the bowl just, he was sure, to make him look bad in front of CiCi. Where was her stinking loyalty?

He scowled at Lizzie, whose tail wagged in great scythe-like swoops, while he fed her, and Caroline set the table in the dining room, a nook between the kitchen and living room. Carrying his beer, he returned to the fire, a full blaze now, and waited for Caroline.

“Thank you for taking me in,” she said when she did. “Ooh, that fire feels good. Obviously, I’ve calmed down and warmed up. I should tell you—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, tell me.”

“Oh. I spent the night last night at one of my mother’s friend’s houses. I went to my house after breakfast, and there were these notes on the steps, and toast, it was burned, and—”

“Back up a minute. What did the notes say?”

“They were going up the steps. One said, ‘You’ and the next said ‘Are.’” Then on the top step was a piece of burned toast. I was so scared I just drove away. All my mother’s friends are gone to visit relatives. Elsie, that’s my mother’s hospice nurse, we’re sort of friends now, she’s on vacation this week and I wouldn’t bother her even if I
knew
where she was, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I drove around trying to figure out what to do and I just didn’t know.” As she explained, Caroline’s eyes started to tear again. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Why were you sitting in the cold? I mean, you could have kept your heater running.”

“I was running out of gas,” she said simply. “I didn’t know if I had enough to make it to a gas station. I thought Cumberland might even be closed—so many places are today. I was scared I’d get stranded. Stupid.”

“Upset,” Rid said, excusing her with a headshake.

“I didn’t have anywhere to go,” she said. “I thought of a motel, I thought of the police, but they never do anything. Then I thought of what you said about how we have to decide if we’re ever going to trust each other.”

“So I was your last hope.”

“I guess.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t trust them anymore.”

“Okay. Well, let’s eat, then I’ll go to your house and see if that stuff is there. If it is, I’ll call the police. Maybe if I call, it’ll make a difference.”

“Do you think I’m making it up?”

“Hey, I thought you were going to trust me?”

“I am, but—”

“
I’ll
call the police.”

Caroline nodded. “I see. Okay.” She seemed exhausted, circles under her eyes, which were still reddened. Her lips were chapped, too, he saw. Now that she’d stopped crying, her face looked pale and bruisable as the flesh of a pear, accentuated by a too-big khaki-green sweater. He wondered if it were her father’s. It reminded him of one his father had worn.

“Come ’n eat,” Rid said. “If it’s not hot enough, we can stick our plates in the microwave. Does it bother you for me to have a beer around you?”

“No. But thanks for asking. Is there a candle around I can light for the table?” she asked, unfolding her legs which were underneath her on the couch. As she stood up, Rid snuck a look while CiCi stood and turned three quarters away from him to refold the afghan. He saw for the first time the clear tight rise of pregnancy. Her sweater had crept up and her pants weren’t zipped, but strained together by an oversized safety pin that bridged the sides, its metal rails pressed against her bellybutton. The sight affected him, though he hadn’t words for how. Reflexively, Caroline pulled her sweater down over the whole arrangement just as he wondered if she’d let him feel her stomach. Rather than ask, he just went and dug around for candles left over from some holiday when his mother and sister had been around. And wouldn’t
those
two just go berserk if they knew about this?

“You told anybody about the baby yet?” he asked as they sat down. He started to spoon some of the dinner onto his plate, suddenly thought, and put food on her plate first, then his own.

“Thanks. Ah, yes. On Christmas Eve. My mother’s friends.” She looked down at her belly with a hand gesture that featured it. “I sort of had to.” Her tone was maybe a bit defensive but perhaps more apologetic, Rid couldn’t tell. “I didn’t say who you were by name, if that’s what worries you. And Elsie, Mom’s hospice nurse, she knows. But she’s known a long time. She’d never say anything.”

“I’m not worried. I didn’t tell my family yet. I was just thinking about them. Hey, get going. Eat! I am.” To prove his point he forked in a mouthful. The candlelight was nice, he realized. “I guess I thought—I guess I haven’t thought it through enough to answer any of the questions they’ll be throwing at me. No. Shooting at me is more like it. Bullets to be exact.” He laughed, covering his full mouth with his hand, trying to remember all the manners stuff his mother always harped about.

“They’ll be upset?” Caroline said, brow wrinkled, fork mid-journey.

“Didn’t mean it that way. If
you
want ’em to know about it, they’ll be shooting bullets of questions about what you’re doing, every aspect of everything. What minute of what day the baby is due, when can they babysit—and the baby don’t necessarily have to be born for them to start that by the way—what color is the nursery, what astrological sign will be baby be, is it a boy or a girl, can they see the sonogram, and what minute of what day can they see it. You know, that stuff.”

“Isn’t the issue more if
you
want them to know?”

“I guess we’ve got a lot to figure out. Probably why I kept quiet.”

That was the only moment dinner became an awkward silence. Rid was in a maze, afraid to advance in any direction because he didn’t know if he wanted to head out or go deeper in. A kernel of an idea was starting to take shape, but he hardly knew this woman, for one, and for two, he didn’t know what
she
wanted. It was nice though, he thought, eating at the table with candles, and the fire going over in the living room where they could see it. He didn’t want to mess it up, which he knew was his specialty.