Sweet Mercy (6 page)

S
unday evenings were quiet on Marryat Island. After supper, in the cool of approaching dusk, I wandered down to the island and stepped into one of the rowboats tied up to the dock. It bobbed gently under my weight as I sat on the seat between the oars. I lowered my chin to the palms of my hands and drifted into thoughts about Marcus.

We'd danced till the end, till the band laid down their instruments and everyone headed toward home. We danced for three hours thinking only minutes had gone by, and then he walked me to the lodge and said good-night. I wondered whether that was what it was to be in love. Was it being so thoroughly happy that the joy seemed unbreakable?

Never having been in love, I didn't know. And I wasn't sure I was going to find out, because I didn't know whether the night was a one-time affair or whether I'd see Marcus Wiant again. He was unfailingly polite and a proper gentleman, thanking me for a good time and then letting me go with neither a kiss nor a promise of anything more to come. The
kiss I was relieved to do without, but I would have liked to know whether he might come around another time.

So lost was I to thought, I didn't hear the footsteps on the dock, nor see anyone approach till someone said, “If you're taking that thing out, you might want to find someone to go with you.”

Startled, I looked up to find Jones standing over me, his safari hat pulled down over his brow, its long strap dangling low beneath his chin. He wore dark glasses, a long-sleeved button-up shirt, and a pair of cotton slacks, minus the suspenders. His startlingly white feet were bare. I looked from him, to the river, and back again. “Well,” I said, “I don't guess I was planning on taking it out.”

“Then why are you sitting in it?”

Why indeed? Because it seemed a good place to think about Marcus? I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said. “Does someone need it?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“I enjoy rowing the river in the evenings, if that's all right with you.”

“Well, of course it's all right with me,” I said testily, “but there are plenty of other boats.” I waved a hand at them to prove my point.

“I like this one.”

I sighed, started to stand. “All right. You can have it.”

“No, don't get out.”

“Don't get out?”

“Just move up to the bow and let me sit there.”

I hesitated a moment. “You mean, you want me to go with you?”

“Don't you like boats?”

“Sure I do.”

“Then sit down.”

I moved to the bow and sat down. For one brief moment I wondered what Marcus would think if he saw me out on the river in a boat with Jones, but I dismissed the thought. Jones was my cousin, after all. My cousin of a sort, anyway.

Jones untied the rope anchoring the boat to the dock. He stepped in and settled onto the seat I had just vacated. “I can get more exercise if I have somebody weighing down the boat,” he said.

“Oh.” So that was it. “Well, I'm glad I can help out by being your dead weight.”

He nodded, as though I was serious. Fastening the oars into the oarlocks, he pushed us away from the dock and began to row. Because I was at the front of the boat, he was sitting with his back to me, as if I weren't there at all. If he'd told me to sit on the other end of the boat, we'd have at least been facing each other, though perhaps that wasn't how he wanted it.

For several minutes he moved us along at a generous clip. I watched, mesmerized as the oars dipped in and out of the river. Every time they came up, they dripped great pearls of river water before they quickly sank down again. Their sweeping motion formed small whirlpools that circled momentarily on the surface of the water before drifting off and dying out. I dipped one hand over the side of the boat and let it linger in the water; my fingers cut a small wake into the river.

“This is really nice,” I said, “being out here like this.”

He didn't answer. After a time he rowed less vigorously, and we moved at a more leisurely pace down a long stretch of river. I hugged my knees and breathed deeply of the cool air. I watched as a trio of sparrows soared on an upward draft. I searched the sky for the first sign of stars, but it was too early yet for anything other than a translucent hint of the moon.

We slowed down enough that we were overtaken by a couple of punts, flat-bottom boats with square-cut bows. Each was navigated by a man standing on the deck of the stern, pushing the boat along with a pole. The men wore unseasonably warm jackets and tweed caps, and in the hull of both boats were several wooden boxes labeled castor oil.

As they passed us, one of the men touched the brim of his cap and gave a nod in greeting. Jones nodded in return. I watched as the punts moved on down the river ahead of us.

In an attempt at conversation, as heaven knew Jones wasn't very good at it, I said, “Now where do you suppose they're going?”

Jones pushed his hat back a notch and looked over his shoulder after the two boats. “The Little Miami meets up with the Ohio River not too far from here,” he said. “That's probably where they're headed.”

“Funny that they're taking a bunch of castor oil down the Ohio River.”

Jones turned again to look at me. I couldn't see his eyes, but somehow I sensed they held amusement. My suspicions were confirmed when he shook his head and laughed. “Castor oil, nothing,” he muttered. “They're hauling moonshine.”

For a moment I was speechless. I frowned and wondered whether I had heard him right. “Moonshine?”

“Sure. People like them are up and down this river all the time.”

It can't be,
I thought. This was Ohio, after all, birthplace of the Temperance Movement. I knew. I had done the research. I had won first place in the essay contest. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

“Don't they know moonshine is illegal?”

Jones laughed again, louder this time. “You're kidding, right?”

“I'm not kidding, Jones. I can't believe they're hauling that stuff right out here in the open. They could be arrested and go to prison. They
should
be arrested.”

“Yeah? And who's going to turn them in? You?”

I drew back. I didn't know how to respond. “You mean, nobody does anything about it? Nobody tries to shut down the stills?”

“And just what would people drink if they shut down the stills?”

“But that's the point! People shouldn't be drinking anything at all. Aren't there any Prohibition agents around here?”

“Of course not. There aren't enough agents for the big cities, let alone a little Podunk town like Mercy. Anyway, it's a losing battle. There's stills all over the county. Too many to count.”

“But Prohibition is the law!”

“A stupid law, itching to be broken.”

“It's not a stupid law. It's one law that makes completely good sense.”

“And who are you? Carrie Nation? You go around with an axe chopping up saloons?”

“Maybe I would if there were any saloons to chop up!”

“Well, there aren't. They've all gone underground and turned themselves into speakeasies and blind pigs. And believe me, someone like you would never get in.”

“I wouldn't want to get in! I don't believe in drinking. All it does is ruin people's lives.”

He stared at me a moment, brows turned down, nostrils flaring. “I guess Cyrus forgot to tell me you were a saint.”

“You don't need to be sarcastic just because I believe in obeying the law. But then, I wouldn't drink even if the country were wet again. It's just a sin, plain and simple, and it leads to no good.”

“You're all-fired sure about that, are you?”

I lifted my chin. “I am.”

“And how do you know so much about it?”

I thought about Cassandra. I thought about the drunks down at the St. Paul Mission. I thought about the gangsters that wreaked havoc, killing each other and even innocent bystanders over the selling of illegal booze. “I've seen it,” I said. “I've seen what it does to people. But folks keep on drinking because other people, terrible people, keep on making illegal liquor and selling it.”

“Now hold on just one minute there, St. Eve,” Jones spat out. He pulled the oars into the boat and turned around on the seat to face me. “I'd wager those two men who just went by aren't terrible people. I'd wager they're not bad people at all. They're just a couple of men trying to feed their families, and they got no other way to do it except to sell spirits to people who want an occasional drink. If it's between making moonshine and letting their kids starve, they're right to choose moonshine, and you're wrong to judge them.”

Looking away, I could taste the disgust at the back of my
throat like something sour. “There are other ways to make a living,” I said.

“It's not all that easy, especially now, times being what they are.”

“The times being what they are isn't an excuse to do what's wrong. If everybody would obey the law and work together, I'm sure we'd be able to find jobs for everyone. Or at least make sure no one goes hungry. People don't have to resort to crime to stay alive.”

“Selling liquor wouldn't be a crime if we got rid of the law. Then people could just go about their business and take care of their families.”

“But it's the law and—”

“You sound like that man who said he believes the law can regulate morality and make upstanding citizens out of everybody.”

“His name is Volstead, and that's right, I do agree with him. If people acted decent and nobody drank, this country would be a whole lot better off.”

He looked at me a long time. Finally he said, “You mean, if everybody was as perfect as you, this country would be a whole lot better off.”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, but that's what you meant.” He sighed, turned around on the seat, and took up the oars. “You've got a lot to learn about being human, missy,” he concluded.

My mouth dropped open. How dare he admonish me when the law was on my side? I was glad he had turned his back to me again, because that way he couldn't see my tears of frustration as we rowed toward home.

I
climbed the stairs to my room with leaden feet, feeling as though my heart had cracked in two. In the short time I was on the river with Jones, the luster of Marryat Island had begun to tarnish. Something was amiss in Paradise. St. Paul was the devil's playground, and I'd left it for a safe place, but the serpent had found its way even here.

Passing by Mother and Daddy's door, I decided to knock and see if they were in for the night. They were. They sat in the room's two overstuffed chairs, drinking tall glasses of iced tea.
Great Expectations
was open facedown on the table between them.

“Going to bed, darling?” Daddy asked.

“Soon, I guess.”

Mother gave me that knowing look. “What's the matter, Eve?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I just found out something terrible.”

“What is it?” Daddy asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Deep furrows cut across his forehead as he gazed up at me with concern.

“I found out . . .” I paused and squeezed my hands together in front of me, “there are stills all over the place around here. People are making moonshine and selling it down the river.”

Mother and Daddy were quiet for a long moment. Finally Daddy said, “Well, that comes as no surprise, does it?”

“What do you mean?” I cried, my voice climbing a notch. “Did you know about it before we came here?”

“I think we just assumed . . .” Daddy shrugged. His face relaxed as he leaned back in the chair. “People are making their own liquor all over the country. They have been for years. Even more so since Prohibition started, you know.”

“But I didn't think . . .” I squeezed my hands till my knuckles hurt.

“What, darling?”

“I thought it would be different here.”

“Why would things be any different here?”

“Well, because . . . because . . .” How to explain? I thought it would be different because I wanted it to be different. I didn't want to be afraid, like I had been in St. Paul.

Mother must have seen the fear in my eyes. “Nothing bad is going to happen here at the lodge, Eve,” she said gently.

I looked at her and nodded my reluctant agreement. Surely Mother was right. Surely here we wouldn't see someone mowed down on the sidewalk in front of us, like the man who haunted my dreams. So there were moonshiners moving their goods on the river, but at least there weren't hordes of gangsters killing each other, or robbing banks, or kidnapping the wealthy for exorbitant ransoms.

“Daddy?” I said.

“Yes, Eve?”

“Why can't people just obey the law? Why can't they just be good?”

Daddy thought a moment. “Because there's something deep inside that won't let them, darling.”

I shook my head. “But
we're
good. We don't break the law. It's not that hard.”

“Well . . .” Daddy paused. He rubbed the side of his face with an open palm. “If you're talking just about Prohibition, then no, it's not that hard for you and me to keep the law. We're not tempted by liquor like some are. That doesn't mean, though, we won't meet temptation in some other way. There's not a man since Adam who hasn't had his share of troubles.”

I sighed; I didn't want Daddy to get started on Original Sin. If we were all so bad, why did I find it so easy to be good?

“Well, I guess I'll go to bed,” I said. I gave Mother and Daddy each a kiss and wished them sweet dreams. Then I went to my own room, cradling my sense of self-righteousness like a rare and beautiful gift.

After lunch the next day, a couple of Rolls-Royces eased over the graveled drive and came to rest in the far corner of the parking lot. I stopped sweeping the porch and watched slack-jawed as the driver of one of them jumped out and hurried to open the back passenger door. He stood erect as a soldier, eyes away from the lithe figure emerging from the car. The young woman wore a white dress, sleek and clingy, with a fur collar and a filmy waist-length cape. Her bleached blond hair was a ripple of tight marcelled waves that hung
just to her jawline. As she lifted a broad-brimmed hat to her head, the gemstone jewelry on her fingers and wrists sparkled and shimmered in the sun.

The driver hurried around to the other side of the car and held open the door for the woman's companion. He was a large fellow wearing a dark double-breasted suit and black-and-white wingtip shoes. A pink carnation was tucked into the buttonhole of his jacket, and a gold watch chain stretched across his ample waist. As he lifted his fedora and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, his bejeweled hand sparkled too like the woman's. He poked the handkerchief—surely it was silk—back into his breast pocket and then held out his arm to the white vision of loveliness that was walking around the car to meet him. They sauntered together toward the lodge as the driver turned back to the car to retrieve their luggage.

Two men from the other Rolls-Royce, well dressed, though not quite so flamboyant, followed behind, each carrying a suitcase.

What, I wondered, were these people doing here?

The lodge was a nice place to visit, so far as that goes, and many of our guests were well off, but surely this man and his wife were used to the kind of luxury that most of us only dreamed of. They belonged in New York, Chicago, London, Paris. Why would they vacation on a tiny provincial island in the middle of an unremarkable river?

I clutched the broom handle and, feeling very much like Cinderella, watched this man, his wife, and his entire entourage—including the suitcase-laden driver—climb the porch steps and enter the front hall. Not one of them so much as glanced at me in passing. I was an insentient part
of the scenery, no different from the rocking chairs that lined the porch.

Resting the broom against the railing, I moved to the door and stood just inside the threshold. Uncle Cy was coming around the front desk with his hand extended. “Mr. Sluder! Delighted to see you again.” He shook the man's hand vigorously, then turned to the woman and actually offered a small bow. “Mrs. Sluder. I trust your stay with us will be comfortable.”

He turned abruptly to the young fellow behind the counter. “Charlie,” he snapped, “help Mr. Sluder and his party with their luggage, will you?”

“Yes, sir!” came the quick response. Charlie was someone I'd been introduced to but didn't know well, a college student who helped cover the front desk for Uncle Cy part-time.

“I'm assuming you have Mrs. Sluder and me in our preferred room, Cyrus?” the man asked stiffly.

“Oh yes, indeed,” Uncle Cy answered. “The suite, of course. It's ready and waiting for you.”

“That's fine.” Mr. Sluder patted his wife's hand. “Come along, dear.”

“But, George,” his wife said, “you haven't asked about refreshments.”

“Ah yes. Cyrus, send up some fresh fruit in about thirty minutes, will you?”

“Of course, Mr. Sluder.”

I watched our newest guests ascend the stairs like the King and Queen of England. Once they disappeared, I moved across the hall and leaned my arms on the front desk. “Who in the world
is
that man, Uncle Cy?” I asked.

“George Sluder and his wife, Ada. They're regulars here.”

“They are?”

Uncle Cy nodded disinterestedly and turned aside to the mail slots. He picked up a pile of letters and started sorting them into the proper cubbyholes.

“Well,” I said, “doesn't he have to sign the guest register like everyone else?”

“He can sign later.”

“I bet he's got enough money to do whatever he wants, huh? How'd he get to be so rich, anyway?”

Uncle Cy paused and turned back to me. “You ask too many questions, Eve. Don't you have something you're supposed to be doing?”

“I was sweeping the porch before His Highness arrived.”

“Then I suggest you get back to it. And Eve, rule number one around here: We don't ask questions about the guests.”

I narrowed my eyes at Uncle Cy, but he'd already gone back to sorting the mail. Reluctantly, I finished sweeping the porch then wandered to the kitchen to see if I could do anything for Annie.

“I believe you can, child,” she said when I found her. She was wiping a frying pan with a dish towel while she stared out the side window. “I'm going to make up a plate of lunch for that young man out there. You can carry it out to him.”

When she stepped away from the window, I took over her spot to see who she meant. A stranger sat on the low stone wall separating the drive from the side yard. He wore tattered overalls, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of weathered boots. I looked quizzically at Annie. “I don't recognize him,” I said. “Is he one of the maintenance men?”

Annie shook her head. She lifted her apron to her brow to wipe away the shiny beads of sweat. The faded red kerchief
tied around her hair was moist with perspiration. In spite of the heat, her brown eyes danced merrily while she reached for a plate, as though she relished the task at hand. “I haven't seen him before neither,” she explained, “but I'm sure he's one of the men from the camp down the river. They got a way of knowing where they can find a hot meal and a cold drink.”

“There's a camp by the river?”

“That's right. Been one there for a while now.”

“You mean, like a shantytown?”

“That's what it is, child. A shantytown. The railroad runs right by here, you know. That's where the men come from, the rails. Looking for work. Far too little of that, these days.” She shook her head again and clicked her tongue as she ladled a thick helping of beef stew onto the plate. She added a piece of bread and butter and handed the plate to me, along with a glass of iced tea. “Tell him just to leave the dishes on the wall when he's finished. Morris knows to bring them in.”

“You mean, other men come by here to get a plate of food?”

“All the time.” She smiled then, her perfect teeth a sudden flash of white against her russet-colored skin. “They know we'll give it to them. Your uncle's generous that way. Anyone comes looking for food don't go away hungry.”

“Really? Uncle Cy says you should feed these people?”

“'Course he does. Mr. Marryat not going to let anyone starve. No sir, not Mr. Marryat. He's different that way.”

“What do you mean, Annie?”

“I mean, he pays no mind whether a man is white or Negro, young or old. If that man needs help, Mr. Marryat helps him. Everyone here in Mercy knows that. He's a good man, your uncle.”

A small thrill of pride moved up my spine. “I know he is,
Annie,” I said. After all, he had taken me and Mother and Daddy in, even when he hadn't seen us in years.

Annie smiled at me again as she nodded toward the door. “Now get on out there 'fore the stew gets cold and the tea gets warm.”

I pushed open the kitchen's screen door with my foot and stepped outside. I made my way to the man on the wall and handed the food to him shyly, without a word. In that moment, the difference between him and George Sluder weighed on me heavily. Such wealth in the world, and such hardship. It didn't seem quite right.

He took the plate of food with a nod. “Thank you kindly, miss,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

He balanced the glass on the wall and started scooping up the stew with the bread.

“I forgot to bring you a fork,” I said.

“Don't need one.”

“You sure?”

He nodded, swallowed. “By the time you got back, I'd be done.”

I studied him quietly while he ate. He was a young man, somewhere just past twenty, I guessed. Though he appeared to have shaved that morning, he was badly in need of a barber. His fair hair hung over his forehead in a tangle of curls and, in the back, crept like stray tendrils over his frayed collar. Other than that, he had pleasant features and clear gray-blue eyes that seemed to sparkle and dance while he ate. He was obviously enjoying the stew and was glad to have it.