Sweet Mercy (16 page)

B
ut he came back the next day. And the day after that. He came and had lunch at the lodge now whenever he wasn't out working somewhere, which was often. Sometimes he came with several other men and sometimes he came alone, but either way, he always seemed to want me to hang around for a while.

Annie teased me, saying, “That young man ain't coming around just for my cooking anymore, honey. If I didn't know better, I'd say that man has intentions toward you.”

“Hush, Annie,” I scolded. “Plenty of men from the camp come here to eat, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but that one more than any of them.”

“He must be hungrier than any of them, then.”

“That's what I'm saying, honey. And he done seen a sweet thing he likes.”

My face took on color and I suppressed a smile, but even so, I adamantly shook my head. “You can stop your matchmaking, Annie,” I said. “Link's a nice enough fellow, but he's a bum.”

“Uh-huh.” She chuckled.

“He doesn't have a real job and he lives in a camp.”

“Uh-huh. All that's just for a time, Eve, and you know it.”

I didn't tell Annie that Link had taken college classes before the stock market crash; that would have only added fuel to her fire. I enjoyed the five or ten or thirty minutes a day I spent with Link, but still, I couldn't imagine introducing a dirty-clad, tent-dwelling day laborer to Mother and Daddy as a possible suitor. I didn't want him as a suitor. I didn't want any more suitors, and I didn't want any more broken hearts. I wanted only to concentrate on doing well in school, once it started up in the fall, so I could go on to college and devote my life to helping people.

Funny thing was—and I scarcely admitted it even to myself—but the more Link came around, the flimsier and more ghostlike the image of Marcus became in my mind. Before long, the boy who had been my first love had very little substance at all, as though he'd never been real.

Toward the end of July I was washing the lunch dishes with Annie when Morris entered the kitchen carrying a crate of canned goods. I paused with a plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other, and in that moment I heard the Reverend Kilkenny quote one of the verses about mercy that he was so fond of quoting: “He that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.”

I looked at Morris carrying the canned goods, and I looked out the window at the handful of men from the camp that had come for a plate of food, and I finally connected the two.

“Morris,” I said, “you told me there's a lot of food in storage down in the cellar, right?”

Morris nodded. “That's right, Miss Eve. About near enough to feed Noah, his family, and his whole boatload of animals till the flood clear up, I'd say.”

“Why, honey?” Annie chimed in. “What you thinking?”

“I'll be right back!” I yelled. Leaving the plate and dish towel on the counter, I rushed down the hall to the front desk.

Uncle Cy was there as usual, registering a family with three small boys. While he spoke with the father, the phone rang, and when he excused himself to answer that, I blurted out, “Uncle Cy!”

He held up an index finger in my direction, had a brief conversation with the person on the phone, dropped the receiver into the cradle, and turned back to the father.

“Uncle Cy!”

“Excuse me, Mr. Danby. Eve, what is it? Is the kitchen on fire?”

I laughed out loud, giddy at my own idea. It was such a good idea Mr. Danby could wait. “No, the kitchen's not on fire,” I said. “I want to take some food to the people in the shantytown. Can I?”

“You want to feed the people in the shantytown?”

“Yes, they need food more than anything.”

“But, Annie already—”

“But I mean, I want to take it
to
the camp—”

“Eve, I'm awfully busy right now.” The phone rang again. “Excuse me just another minute, Mr. Danby.”

“But can I, Uncle Cy?”

“What, Eve?” He put his hand over the telephone mouthpiece. “Yes, yes, take them some food. Fine, fine.” He waved me away and said into the phone, “Marryat Island Lodge. This is Cyrus Marryat speaking. . . .”

I clasped my hands together in victory and hurried back to the kitchen. “Morris, Uncle Cy said we can take some crates of food to the camp!”

Morris's eyes widened and he scratched his ear. “You just now asked him, Miss Eve?”

“Uh-huh. And he said yes. I'm sure we can take anything we want.”

“Well, now,” Annie said. “That's right nice of Mr. Cyrus, though I'm not surprised. He's a good man.”

“What do you want to be taking, Miss Eve?” Morris asked.

“Beans, fruit—I don't know. Whatever's down there. I'm sure the people living in the camp will be glad for whatever we bring them.”

“So you want I should just pack up the truck with this and that and haul it on out there?”

“Yes, but I want to go with you.”

“I don't know about that, Miss Eve. Might be dangerous, you going out among all those drifters and all.”

“Oh no, Morris, I don't think so. The men who come here for meals are very nice.”

“Especially one,” Annie interjected.

“Hush, Annie,” I said. “I've gotten to know several of them. There's Freddy and Bill and Cecil and—”

“And Link,” Annie said.

I sighed. “Yes, him too.”

“Listen honey, if you go on out there,” she went on, “you'd best be taking your daddy with you. Morris, you, and your daddy, then that's all right.” She nodded.

“I can't go today, Miss Eve,” Morris said. “Got runs to make to the train station and too much other work around
here. But you go on and ask your daddy. Maybe we can make a run on out there tomorrow, if you think your daddy can take time away from the Eatery.”

“I know he'll do it. Daddy always wants to help people. Up in St. Paul, we worked at the mission all the time. I don't know why I didn't think of this before!”

The next morning, Morris and Daddy carried up a dozen crates, cardboard boxes, and bags of fruit from the cellar and loaded them into the back of the pickup truck. After they tied everything down with cord, the three of us crawled into the cab and headed for the shantytown. None of us had been there, but we knew we'd simply have to follow the railroad tracks to find it.

Morris put the truck in first gear—I had to snuggle close to Daddy on the hot vinyl seat to avoid the gearshift—and turned right onto the road that ran behind the lodge. The road stretched out between the railroad tracks and the river, a bumpy narrow avenue between steel and water. A warm wind blew in through the truck's open windows.

“Eve, darling,” Daddy said, speaking loudly into the wind, “you're sure Cy said we could take these goods out to the camp?”

“Of course I'm sure, Daddy. I already told you that a hundred times.”

“Well, so long as we take note of what we're giving away so Jones can restock, I guess it won't be a problem.”

“I wrote down what was in each crate and box as you and Morris carried them out. See?” I reached into the pocket of my chemise and pulled out a piece of paper and a stub
of pencil. “Canned peaches. Baked beans. A bag of apples. Flour. Cooking oil—”

Daddy stopped me with a nod of his head. “All right. Give that list to Jones.”

“I will.”

We picked up speed and the truck whined as Morris shifted into a higher gear. The inrushing air pulled the short ends out of my braid and whipped them across my face. I squinted against the assault.

“That Mr. Cyrus,” Morris said, “he's a generous man. Always helping folks out. Always doing good round the town. Don't worry, Mr. Drew. He won't pay no never mind about a few canned goods and whatnot. He always glad to give to them that's needy.”

I gave Daddy an I-told-you-so look, then pointed out the window. “Look, Daddy, there's Uncle Luther's mill.”

Daddy glanced outside, nodded curtly, moved his eyes back to the road. As I watched, the muscles of his face seemed to stiffen, and his expression grew stony. Then I remembered and understood. Uncle Cy had the lodge. Uncle Luther had the mill. Daddy had run away from it all and come back with nothing.

No one spoke again until we arrived at the camp, which thankfully was just ahead, beyond the bend in the road. Morris eased the truck onto the grass, and we bumped along until we came to rest at the edge of organized squalor. There'd been a thunderstorm during the night, leaving the paths between the tents a maze of muddy walkways. The tents themselves looked on the verge of collapse, as though beaten down by the rain. Ill-clad men sat here and there on cinder blocks and tree stumps, huddled around campfires that left the air gray
with smoke. The place smelled of ash and mildew and things I knew nothing about because I had never been homeless.

Several men stepped forward to meet us as we climbed out of the truck. One of the men appeared to breathe out a sigh of relief when he recognized me. “Good morning, Miss Eve,” he said. “What brings you out this way?”

“Hello, Cecil,” I said. “We've brought a little food from the lodge to pass around.”

With that, the men took a step closer. Heads began to poke out of tent flaps and around corrugated tin doorways. The figures clustered by the fires rose one by one, hesitantly. Undoubtedly driven by hunger but at the same time cautious, they moved slowly toward us through the mud.

“Cecil,” I went on, “I'd like you to meet my daddy, Drew Marryat.”

He was a large man, Cecil, with hands the size of dinner plates, which he tried to wipe inconspicuously on his overalls before extending one to Daddy. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Marryat.”

“Likewise, Mr. . . .”

“Gutermuth. Cecil Gutermuth.”

The two men shook hands, while the others nodded and muttered greetings.

Daddy said, “My daughter here got the idea you men might appreciate a few extra provisions.”

Cecil glanced at me and I smiled. “Yes sir,” Cecil said. “That's mighty kind of you.”

“So we have just a few items in the truck, if you don't mind helping us distribute them.” Daddy nodded toward Morris, who hopped up onto the bed of the truck and started untying the cord. Daddy hopped up behind him to help.

I stepped closer to Cecil. “Is Link here this morning?” I asked.

He shook his head. “He got himself a couple days' work up near Lebanon. I saw him leave the camp before daybreak.”

I smiled to hide my disappointment. “Well, would you mind putting a few items in his tent for when he gets back?”

“I don't mind at all, Miss Eve. We're much obliged.”

I stepped aside then and watched as the men lined up while Daddy, Morris, and Cecil formed an assembly line of sorts to hand out the food. Those wearing overalls stuffed apples in their pockets and canned goods behind their bibs. The others made slings of their shirttails and carried off the goods that way. The whole procession was done in a quiet and orderly manner, men taking whatever was offered without complaint and with a word of thanks. Still, I could see the conflict in their eyes, the clash of pride with gratitude as they found themselves in the place of accepting charity through no fault of their own.

Some of the men I recognized from their visits to the lodge; others I'd never seen before. Each one acknowledged me in some way—a small nod, a few mumbled words. I smiled and nodded in return.

Morris's face glistened with sweat as he took the claw hammer to the final crate. With a grunt, he pulled off the lid and dug through the straw inside. Suddenly—back bent, head down, left hand resting on the side of the crate—he froze.

“Morris?” Daddy said.

“Sir?”

“What's the matter?”

Morris cleared his throat. He didn't speak and he didn't rise. The few remaining men beside the truck began to mutter
among themselves. Daddy moved closer to Morris. Curious, I jumped up onto the truck bed and made my way among the empty crates and boxes till I too was at Morris's side. I gazed at his profile, waiting. His eyelid twitched and the corner of his mouth trembled as though a wave of fear was moving across his face. Quietly, so as not to be heard by anyone else, he said, “That don't look like no canned peaches I ever seen, Mr. Drew.”