Sweet Mercy (11 page)

I
didn't want to think about the poor people in the shantytown. All I wanted to do was dance with Marcus. Saturday night Uncle Cy brought in a band from Lexington, and once again the dance floor on the island was filled with laughing couples. I wanted to laugh too. I wanted to be young and in love and not alone. There would be time to save the world later. Tonight was mine.

When the band took a break Marcus and I moved to the shadows, lugging along bottles of Coke we'd bought at the Eatery. We sat atop a picnic table, our feet on the bench, and looked out over the river. The surface of the water shimmered under the light of a nearly full moon. I was keenly aware of Marcus beside me; he was, in truth, all that mattered at the moment. Mother was my age when she met Daddy, proving that romance can come early and last a lifetime. I held my breath and savored that thought.

Marcus took a long sip of Coke and settled the bottle on the tabletop. “Well,” he said, “the day I haven't been looking forward to all summer is almost here.”

I sighed and nodded. “Will you send me a postcard, Marcus?”

“Sure,” he said. With a wink he added, “I might even send you two.” In the morning, he and his family were leaving for their annual summer trek to Bay City, Michigan, where his father had relatives.

“I hope the week goes by fast.”

“Believe me, it can't go fast enough for me,” Marcus agreed.

“Don't you like your father's side of the family?”

“I like them about as much as I like my father, which is not very much.”

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes.” He nodded glumly. “I have to go.”

I sighed again.

“But only two more months and then it'll be, so long, family! So long, dear old dad!” He laughed lightly. “At least the old man's letting me go to college. I should be glad about that.” He lifted his bottle in the air and straightened his shoulders. “I'd like to propose a toast to rich aunts who pick up the slack where scholarships leave off.”

Our bottles met with a clink. We downed the remainder of soda and tossed the bottles in the grass. Marcus had told me about the childless great-aunt whose recent death provided enough inheritance to get Marcus through his freshman year. I thought the timing was a stroke of good luck, and yet . . .

“Don't look so sad,” he said.

I shrugged shyly. “I'll miss you.”

“It's two months off.”

“I know but . . .”

He smiled. “You can't get rid of me that easily, you know. I'll be back.”

“And you'll write?”

“Sure I'll write. Of course. You worry too much.”

But there would be girls there, pretty girls, and I would be here. Still in high school. Just a kid, compared to them.

“Don't worry,” he assured me, as though he knew my thoughts, and there, in the moon shadows on Marryat Island, he kissed me, a brief and gentle kiss—my first.

I believed him that I had nothing to worry about. Everything would be all right now. Everything was unfolding in my favor, and love was possible.

We danced until long past midnight, and I sailed into Sunday on the fragile wings of little-girl dreams.

At a little after nine the next night, the phone at the front desk rang. I was sitting alone on the porch pining for Marcus when Uncle Cy opened the screen door. “Phone's for you, darling.”

“For me?” I echoed. “Who is it?”

“She says her name is Marlene. Just don't tie up the line for long, all right?”

Inside, the black receiver lay curled on the desk like a wounded cat. I shivered.

“Hello?”

“Eve, can you come help me?”

“What's the matter?”

“It's Jimmy.”

“What's wrong?”

“Just come over.”

“Where are you?”

“At the station.”

“But it's closed.”

“I know that. Jimmy has the key. Please come.”

“But—”

The line went dead.

Without telling Uncle Cy or anyone else where I was going, I ran across the street to the station, my mind tumbling with questions. Marlene was waiting for me when I reached the front door. She took my hand and pulled me into the dimly lit room, a stark place with shelves of auto supplies, a lone folding chair, and an ancient wooden cash register that was large enough to hold plenty of money. The place felt oily and smelled of grease.

“What's going on?” I asked as I glanced around suspiciously. My voice quivered and I was finding it hard to breathe.

“I'm scared, Eve. I've never seen him so drunk.”

“Who?”

“Jimmy, of course.”

“He's been drinking?”

“That's not the worst of it. He's threatening to kill his father.”

“Why?”

“For beating him up again.”

“His father beat him up?”

She tugged at my hand. “Come on.”

My gut told me to run, but I allowed Marlene to pull me into the back office. Jimmy sat on an overturned crate, a bottle of something in one hand, an open pocketknife in the other. Each hand was resting on a knee, and his head hung low, as though he were dozing.

Marlene and I exchanged a horrified glance. My eyes asked,
What in the world?
while hers said,
I told you so.

Softly I called his name. “Jimmy?”

With effort, he lifted his head. His swollen eyelids opened slowly and reluctantly, like shades that are stuck. He had a split upper lip and a dark bruise across his right cheek. He took a deep steadying breath, though his head bobbed slightly as he said, “Eve. What are you doing here?”

I glanced again at Marlene. She nodded. “Marlene called me over. She was worried.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, winced as the rough cloth met the wound. His head went down again.

“Jimmy,” I said quietly, “what happened?”

He mumbled something I couldn't hear.

“I didn't understand you.” I took a tentative step closer. “What did you say?”

The head rolled up and he struggled to keep his eyes open. When he spoke, his words were slow and slurred. “I said, I'm going to kill the old man. I'm going to kill him.”

“What happened, Jimmy?” I asked again.

“I'm tired. Tired of being his punching bag.”

“Your father did this?”

Jimmy sniffed out a laugh. “Yeah. That surprise you?”

“But everyone will know. How does he think he'll get away with it?”

“He'll just say I got in another fight. By now I've fought with every kid in town.” He lifted the bottle up to the light. “Down the hatch,” he said. He emptied the bottle and lowered it to his knee, where it slid down his pants leg and landed with a small thud on the floor.

Marlene moved to him and, kneeling, picked up the bottle. She turned it toward the light so she could read the label.
“This is Scotch,” she said. “Real Scotch. Jimmy, where did you get this?”

His head came up with a jerk and his glassy eyes shimmered. “Right here!” he cried. “I got it right here. And I'm covering for that . . .” He swore at his father, a loud barrage of curses that trailed off to mumbled oaths.

I waited till his anger was spent. Then I asked, “Jimmy, what are you talking about? What do you mean, you got it right here?”

His shoulders heaved in a great sigh. He looked first at Marlene and then at me. “I'll show you.” He closed the blade of the knife and stuck it in his pants pocket. Then he pushed himself up and staggered on unsteady legs. He stumbled to the door leading to the small bay where they worked on cars. With his hand on the door, he turned back to us. “But wait here a minute. Wait till I call you.”

“All right,” I said. Marlene nodded.

He went into the bay, and we heard a pounding noise before he hollered, “All right, you can come in.”

We ventured in. Jimmy didn't say anything. He didn't have to. One narrow section of the wall between the bay and the front room was not a wall at all but a small storage space filled with crates. Jimmy lifted one off the top and settled it on the floor at his feet. The lid was already missing. He reached inside, dug around amid the straw and pulled out a bottle of Scotch, identical to the one he had just emptied. He unscrewed the cap and waved the bottle dramatically. “That's right, folks! Come on in for a gallon of gas, a pint of oil, and all the booze you can drink.” He upended the bottle and drank; it dribbled down his chin and dampened his blood-stained shirt.

Marlene and I stared at him in silence. Finally Marlene managed to whisper, “Jimmy, where does this come from?”

Jimmy stumbled as he turned to look at Marlene. Righting himself, he said, “Canada. Got to be Canada. Goes to Cincinnati. Comes here.”

“But I mean, how does it get here?”

“I don't know. It just keeps coming. And the old man keeps unloading it. He thinks I don't know, but I do. Know all about it. I'm not stupid. Cars come in the car wash, roll out with a full tank.” He laughed loudly at that, took another swig. “Yeah, he thinks I don't know, but I know. I know what he's doing.”

“He's bootlegging,” I said.

Jimmy looked at me with his glazed eyes. Spittle flew from his mouth as he hollered, “Bingo! The old man's a bootlegger. I oughta turn him in, have him arrested.”

“Why don't you, Jimmy?” Marlene asked. “Why don't you turn him in and have him arrested?”

“Because he'd kill me. Or have me killed. Even if he went to prison, he'd find a way . . .” Jimmy finished by drawing a finger across this throat. “So I stay quiet. Me and Marcus, we don't say anything.”

“Marcus?” My eyes widened and a rush of light-headedness rolled over me. “Does Marcus know about this?”

“Sure, he knows. He knows because I told him. Just like I'm telling you.” Jimmy's voice trailed off as his expression grew pained. He moaned pitifully and started to cry. “I shouldn't be telling you,” he wailed. “The old man's going to kill me.”

I went to him and put a hand on his arm. “Jimmy, if Marcus knows, why doesn't he tell his father? His dad's the sheriff, after all. Why doesn't Marcus tell him?”

“You don't know the sheriff, do you, Eve?” he asked,
pulling away from my touch. He sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He was angry again. “He's more interested in lining his own pocket than in keeping the law. Marcus and I figure his old man knows. He's just looking the other way. Gets paid off to pretend like he doesn't know nothing. Liquor's flowing through this station, and no one knows about it. Not me, not Marcus, not the sheriff.”

He lifted the crate back into the hiding place. Then his foot hit something—I wasn't sure what—and he slid the wall shut. “I'm tired,” he mumbled. He looked at the bottle of Scotch in his hand, took a sip and slowly made his way back to the office. There, he pulled the penknife out of his pocket and clutched it in one tight fist. At the same time, he sank to the floor and curled up on his side.

Marlene kneeled beside him. She cried openly now, great silent tears sliding down her cheeks. “Eve, what should we do?”

I moistened my dry lips with my tongue and took a deep breath. “Leave him. He'll sleep it off.”

Marlene gently touched a hand to his cheek. His eyes fluttered open. “Don't tell,” he whispered. “Don't you dare tell. Old man'll kill me.”

“I won't tell, Jimmy. I promise.” She bent over him and kissed his brow. Her tears left little pools of grief on his skin. “We're going to get out of here. Soon, Jimmy. We'll leave and never come back.”

She drew in a deep trembling breath. Tenderly uncurling his fingers, she lifted the knife from his fist and slipped it into her skirt pocket. After a moment she stood. “I don't want to leave him.”

“You can't stay,” I said. “Your folks won't know where you are.”