Sweet Mercy (10 page)

A
nd so we come back around to mercy, the place where we must live, if we are to live at all.” Reverend Kilkenny paused and smiled pleasantly as he looked out over the congregation. In the weeks ahead I would realize that cashing in on the name of the town was a favorite tactic of the Reverend's, for with every sermon he reminded us that we lived in Mercy. “Because, as we are told in Romans, we are all sinners who fall short of the glory of God, we have no hope other than to throw ourselves on His mercy and find our salvation and redemption in His Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. Let us pray.”

That Sunday morning, I, for one, was happier than ever to be living in this town called Mercy. Still gliding on giddy wings from spending the previous afternoon with Marcus, I found my mind drifting—to his shy smile, the feel of his hand in mine, the carousel ring now in my treasure box. I could scarcely concentrate on the service, and I must have been fidgeting because Mother kept glancing at me, as though searching for signs of another Cassandra. She needn't have
worried. I would never make the choices my sister had made. I was stronger than that and would not be tempted.

The days of summer went by in a sweet routine. Foremost was the busyness of the lodge. I loved the simple joy of entertaining our guests. I loved their coming and going, their chatter and laughter, their obvious pleasure in spending time on the island. Morris and I made runs back and forth to the train station to pick them up and to take them back again, and whenever we took them back they were sorry to go and we were sorry to see them go, but we knew that many of them would return as soon as the upcoming weekend. I found great satisfaction in doing my chores around the lodge, watching the guests swim and boat and play croquet, and standing on the edge of the river myself, lifting my face to the sun and drinking in the warm fragrant air.

Marcus was with me every moment in thought if not in fact, though we tried somehow to see each other every day. Sometimes he simply waved at me from the station across the street. Other times he'd run over and grab a bite of lunch with me at the Eatery. We went to the movies at the theater in town with Jimmy and Marlene; we went to the ice cream parlor on Main Street and ate banana splits and shared vanilla Cokes. If life had gone on in that idyllic way forever, I would have been completely satisfied. I wouldn't have needed to ask for anything more.

Occasionally I saw punts on the river carrying what must have been moonshine, but other than that I thought little about the local bootleggers or Prohibition or outlaws. My old life drifted farther and farther away until one Tuesday morning, June 23, the memories came rushing back. The news came over the radio that Al Capone had been arrested.
He'd been indicted ten days earlier but was now in custody, along with sixty-eight other members of an alleged beer syndicate. They were charged with five thousand offenses against the Prohibition law. Five thousand! Capone himself was accused of conspiracy dating all the way back to 1922.

As I stood by the front desk listening to the radio with Uncle Cy, I was surprised at the feelings welling up inside me. Al Capone was a terrible, evil man and he deserved prison for all that he had done, yet . . .

“Hey, kid, you all right?”

His face was vivid in my mind, that fleshy moon with the gray eyes and bushy brows. I bit my lower lip, remembering the sting as he touched my tattered knees with a handkerchief.

“You gotta be more careful, little lady.”

He didn't have to stop and help me. I was just one more clumsy kid who'd hit a buckled sidewalk and skinned her knees, a rite of childhood. Other grown-ups might have clicked their tongues and walked on by, but he didn't. He squatted down and looked at me the way a father looks at his own child and asked me if I was all right. And then he'd wiped away the blood and given me a handkerchief for my tears.

“Say, you like elephants?”

And he'd given me a piece of carved ivory that I'd kept in my treasure box for eight years.

“Looks like old Scarface is really in hot water this time,” Uncle Cy said as he turned off the radio. “I guess it's bound to catch up with you sooner or later.”

Uncle Cy sighed.

So did I.

That night I found Jones sitting on the front steps, straining to read a letter by the dim light of the porch lamps. When I saw him there I remembered what Marlene had said about Jones the first time I met her—that he came out only at night. For the most part, that was true. He rarely went outside during daylight hours, and when he did, he almost always wore the safari hat that covered his hair and dark glasses that covered his eyes. It was only at night that he looked like everyone else.

I sat down on the step beside him. “Hi, Jones.”

“Hello, Eve.”

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Naw. Go ahead.”

He folded up the letter and stuffed it into his shirt pocket, followed by his glasses.

“From your mother?” I asked.

He nodded.

“How is she?”

He seemed to have to think about that for a while. He looked out toward the river, and I followed his gaze to the shards of moonlight glistening on its surface. When I looked back to Jones, the muscles in his face had tightened and his eyes, like the river, seemed to have picked up the flickering glow of the moon. “She's not doing well,” he said at last.

I pressed my lips together. I would pretend I hadn't noticed the unshed tears. “I'm sorry, Jones,” I said gently. “I'll keep praying for her, twice as hard.”

He didn't respond. For what seemed a long time, we sat in silence. I had come to ask him something and I thought
maybe I should leave him alone, choose another time. But no. I wanted to ask him now. Quietly, tentatively, I said, “Say, Jones?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I show you something?”

“I guess so.”

I reached into the pocket of my skirt. My fingers trembled. I'd never shown anyone before, other than Ariel. I held the ivory elephant up toward the light so that Jones could see it.

With a small grimace, he plucked his glasses out of his pocket and put them on again. He gazed at the elephant for only a second before saying, “Yeah? What about it?”

“I know you won't believe me when I tell you who gave it to me.”

He laughed a little. “So tell me anyway.”

“Al Capone.”

He turned to me sharply, his brows hanging low over his eyes. He took the elephant and looked at it more closely, turning it over and over, as though looking for a signature of previous ownership. Then he returned it to my palm. “I believe you,” he said.

“You do?”

He nodded. “He collects ivory elephants. He has them all lined up on his desk.”

I gasped. “How do you know that?”

Jones looked away, but not before I saw a small inexplicable smile spread across his lips. “Let's just say I know people who know things.”

“You said you never met Al Capone.”

“I never met him myself.” He looked back at me. The smile was gone. He nodded toward my hand. “So how'd you get it?”

I told him the story. When I finished, he didn't say anything and he didn't even move, just kept staring straight ahead.

“I'm trying to understand it all, Jones,” I said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Why was he nice to me?”

“Because you were a kid and you were hurt.”

It wasn't enough. There had to be something else. “I've been thinking about that man you told me about. The friend of your family's who owned the flower shop. What was his name?”

“You mean Michael O'Brannigan?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “You told me about how he loved his son and never cheated on his wife. And how he didn't even drink and how he went to Mass.”

“So?”

“But he was a criminal. Like Al Capone.”

Jones narrowed his eyes at me. They looked a deep brown in the dim light. “That's right. He was a criminal, not the devil himself. No one's completely bad, Eve. Don't you know that?”

I wasn't sure. Good and evil. Black and white. I wanted them to be separate. I didn't like gray. “I'm trying to understand,” I said again.

“Look,” Jones said, sitting up a little straighter and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Even gangsters have a code of honor. One thing they swear not to do is hurt women and children. Not on purpose anyway. And a lot of them do nice things for people. They make a whole lot of money in crime, and then they end up giving a lot of it away to charity. Not all of them, of course, but some of them. One guy I heard about would pack his car with food and clothes and drive
into the slums and hand them out. I've heard of some who go around giving money to old folks and orphans, just because they want to help in some way; you know, do something good. And why not?” Jones looked at me and shrugged. “It's not like they're incapable of being human.”

I thought about that. “I heard Capone used to play Santa Claus at his younger sister's school every year.”

Jones nodded. “That's true, he did. He's also financed soup kitchens up in the Chicago area since the market crashed. He's put food in a lot of hungry bellies.”

“Maybe he just wants to look good.”

“Maybe.” Jones shrugged. “Did he stop and help you, though, just because he wanted to look good?”

I had no answer for that. I slipped the elephant back into my pocket.

Jones pointed toward it with a thumb. “Better hold on to that,” he said. “It's going to be worth something someday.”

M
arlene came over to the island on Friday afternoon, and we decided to take one of the rowboats out on the river. I volunteered to row first, so Marlene settled herself in the bow of the boat. Just as I was putting the oars into the oarlocks, someone on the dock said, “You two young ladies aren't going to take that thing out by yourselves, are you?”

Looking up, I found myself squinting against the noonday sun in spite of my broad-brimmed hat. Link stood there on the dock, towering over us and smiling. Nearly two weeks had passed since he'd shown off at the carnival shooting range, and I hadn't seen him since.

“Of course we are,” I snapped. “Why not? We're capable of rowing.”

“I'm not questioning your ability,” he said. “Just thought you might like someone else to do the work while you sit back and enjoy the ride.”

I was about to turn him down when Marlene waved an
arm and said, “Jump in, cowboy. Eve, move to the back and let this sharpshooter do the rowing.”

“So you remember me?” Link asked Marlene.

“I never forget a face. Not a handsome one anyway.”

Link touched his cap and bowed slightly. I looked at Marlene and frowned to let her know I wasn't happy with this change. But I relinquished the oars and moved to the back of the boat. Link stepped in, untied the rope, and pushed us away from the dock.

Marlene tapped him on the shoulder. “I'm Marlene, by the way,” she said.

He nodded his acknowledgment and said, “Everybody just calls me Link.”

“If that's so, I suppose I will have to call you Cowboy.”

“Call me whatever you want, little lady,” he said, pulling on the oars in a steady rhythm, “just don't call me late for lunch.”

Marlene let go a loud, clear shout of glee that echoed up and down the river. “Oh, I think I like you, Cowboy!” With that, she leaned back against the bow, made a pillow of her arms, turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “Now, this is the life,” she said with a contented sigh.

I wasn't so sure I shared her sentiments, as I didn't like the idea of rowing the river with a bum. To make me even more uncomfortable, Link sat facing me and I couldn't avoid his gaze. I turned my head so that my face was concealed by the brim of my hat, but still I felt his eyes on me.

After he had rowed for several minutes, I ventured a glance at him. “Why are we going upriver?” I asked.

“That way it's easier coming back.”

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense.”

He chuckled. I turned away again. No one spoke until the silence itself became awkward. Finally, just to fill the void, I said, “Haven't seen you in a while.”

“Been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking for work.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing permanent. Just day labor here and there.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence.

Then I said, “What were you before, Link?”

“Before the crash?”

“Yes.”

He stroked once, twice, three times before answering. “I was an undergraduate at Ohio State,” he said at last.

“You were?” I turned to look at him full-on. My eyes widened in surprise.

“Yeah. Funny, huh? Look at me now.”

I chewed my lip. “It can't be helped. A lot of people's lives have been ruined by what happened with the market.”

“I don't consider my life ruined, just interrupted.”

I thought about that, nodded. “What were you studying?”

“History.”

“History? What were you going to do with that?”

Link laughed loudly. “You sound just like my father. He was always telling me to study something practical.”

“Well, I suppose you could always teach. You could become a college professor.”

I gazed at him while waiting for his reply. At the moment, he looked nothing at all like a college professor, with his tattered overalls and scuffed work boots, his shaggy hair
peeking out from under his cap, his skin darkened by the sun. I couldn't quite imagine him lecturing at a university.

“Actually,” he said at length, “I've entertained the idea of getting my degree and going on to seminary.”

“Seminary? You mean, you'd want to become a pastor?”

He pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

“But . . .”

“But what?”

“Anyone who goes to seminary shouldn't drink.”

“Drink?” He frowned and shook his head. “Why do you say that?”

“You asked me for something to drink,” I said. “Don't you remember? You asked if we served moonshine at the lodge.”

Behind him, Marlene squealed in amusement. “Plenty of that around here, Cowboy,” she said.

“Yeah? I'm not surprised.”

“They say the county is just bursting with stills,” Marlene went on. “People are getting pretty good at making their own spirits.”

“Spirits, nothing,” Link said. “More like rotgut. Half the stuff that comes out of a still can kill you. Just last week two men were poisoned by White Lightning over next door in Foster.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I was over there chopping wood for a day. Word gets around.”

“They died from drinking it?”

Link nodded. “That's right. It happens. You wouldn't believe what they put in moonshine. Rubbing alcohol, antifreeze, and even embalming fluid. If it doesn't kill you, it can send you into convulsions or leave you blind. So the thing
is, if you're going to drink, at least play it safe and drink the real stuff.”

“I don't intend to drink anything ever,” I said firmly.

From the front of the boat, Marlene said, “Well, I do! I intend to drink champagne at my wedding!”

Link laughed. I ignored her. Link said, “Probably not much of that around here.”

“Probably not much real stuff around here at all,” Marlene said. “If you want genuine booze, you'll have to go to Cincinnati. We had one of the nation's biggest bootleggers working out of Cincy, till he was caught and sent to prison. But others have taken over where he left off.”

“Yeah? So you think people go all the way into Cincy? I heard there's Scotch and rum floating around here, but I don't know who's serving it up.”

Marlene sat up then and shrugged. “I've never heard anything about it.”

“Me either,” I added. “And I don't want to know.”

“Teetotaler, huh?” Link said.

“That's right, I am.” I lifted my chin and looked away. “You should be too, if you're going into the ministry.”

“I'll be sure to keep that in mind.” He lifted one dripping oar out of the water and pointed toward shore. “That's your uncle's mill, right?”

“Oh yes! That's my Uncle Luther's mill, and it was my grandfather's mill before him.” I beamed at the imposing wooden structure whose beginnings stretched back into the nineteenth century and whose millstones had sustained my family for generations. The mill produced Pride of Miami flour which, as Uncle Luther was quick to add, was sifted through real silk cloths. I'd toured the mill a number of times
with my uncle when I was a child, and I was mesmerized by all the inner workings—the millstones, the wooden shafts, the grinding gears—that extended from the upper-story grain loft down to the sack floor, the stone floor, and finally the meal floor. It was all a great and glorious mystery to me, though what I loved most about the mill was the waterwheel that hugged the outer wall and was turned continuously by the current of the Little Miami River.

“Big operation,” Link said. “Bet it earns a pretty penny. I hope he can keep it going.”

“Of course he will. Why wouldn't he?”

“I'm afraid things are going to get worse before they get better.”

From the bow of the boat, Marlene said, “Hoover says prosperity is right around the corner.”

“Yeah, well he's the president,” Link said. “He's supposed to say encouraging and otherwise completely stupid things like that.”

Marlene laughed out loud while I put a hand to my mouth to suppress a giggle. The bum was growing on me, especially now that I knew he'd been to college.

We rowed on for a short while, enjoying the smooth rhythm of the oars, the warm sun, the strange and unexpected companionship. We had just made our way around a bend in the river when Link said, “Well, here we are.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Home sweet home.” Once again he pointed with an oar.

I turned toward the riverbank and stared slack-jawed, trying to make sense of what I saw. From the other end of the boat I heard Marlene say softly, “Oh, my word. I'd heard something about this, but I didn't believe it.” And even as
we saw it with our own eyes, we could scarcely believe the shantytown there by the river, a tent city for the most part with a few tin and cardboard shacks thrown in here and there. Smoke rose up from a half dozen scattered cook fires. Gray laundry hung on lines of rope and over tent poles. Disheveled figures moved ghostlike among the dwellings, their movements slowed no doubt by hunger and a fair degree of hopelessness. A certain despondency hovered over the camp that was evident to us even from a distance.

Link rowed us closer to shore and out of the current, close enough to smell the smoke of the fires and to hear the murmur of men's voices. “This is where you live, Link?” I asked.

“For now.”

“But why? Why don't you live with your family?”

“My parents have five children at home. I'm the eldest of six. I'm trying to send money home to help them, if I can.”

I shook my head. “But you should be somewhere else, in a city, somewhere where there might be more work. Not out here by the river where there's nothing.”

“No, Eve. This is where I'm supposed to be. I'm sure of it.”

I looked down the length of the boat at Marlene. She was still staring at the camp. Her lips were parted but she made no effort to speak. It was as though the sight of the place had stolen her words.

“Are there women and children here?” I asked Link.

He shook his head. “No, just men. There are plenty of families in the larger Hoovervilles going up around the country, but this isn't one of those. This is just a little backwater town, compared to some.”

“How many men are here?”

“Well, now, that depends on the day you're asking. Men
are coming and going all the time. Some stay longer than others, like me, trying to pick up day jobs around here. Some move on down the rails pretty quick.”

I thought of my soft bed in my own room at the lodge, of the hot-water bath between my room and Mother and Daddy's, of the abundant meals Annie cooked that we routinely consumed.

“Link?”

“Uh-huh?”

“What do these people need most?”

“Besides jobs?”

“Yes.”

“Food. That's why so many of them show up at the lodge. They know your uncle has an open hand. I wanted you to know why they come.”

Reluctantly, I looked back toward the ghosts, wondered how many of them were like Link, intelligent, educated, willing to work but down on their luck.

“Will you take me home now, Link?”

Link turned the boat around and began to row.