Under the Mercy Trees (11 page)

Martin headed back down the mountain. The smoke of his father's fire wouldn't leave his lungs. “You ignorant bastard,” he rasped, striking the air with his duffel bag. Around him the mountain was still, even cowbells keeping a respectful silence.

At the general store the owner, Perry Riddle, put his hand on Martin's shoulder. “Sorry about your mama.” Martin could only nod. It hurt to breathe. He asked to use the phone, shielding himself from Perry's curious eyes as he asked the operator to dial Deke's number in Chapel Hill. The phone rang and rang. He imagined the sound echoing into emptiness in the room where he and Deke had lain, what seemed like a long time ago. The silence was indifferent.

After twenty rings, when Perry coughed politely, he hung up. He told Perry good-bye and went outside. Behind the store where no one could see, he leaned against weathered boards and doubled over, with a cry that came out as a whisper. He sat on the ground and sobbed. Wetness seeped through his trousers, freezing him through.

“Martin?” Perry Riddle rounded the corner of the store.

“I'm all right.” Martin dragged his coat sleeve across his eyes and stood up. Somewhere a mourning dove's call pushed at the cold. He accepted Perry's pat on the back and walked out to the road.

*  *  *

“Martin?” Hodge was beside him in the driver's seat, waiting for an answer.

“No,” Martin croaked. “No, I can't stay here.” Then to hide his revulsion at the idea, to spare Hodge's feelings, he made things up, commitments and deadlines waiting for him in New York, friends who had actually noticed he was gone.

“I understand,” Hodge said, sounding disappointed. “It was just a thought.”

They had reached Eugenia's dark house. Hodge waited, engine idling, until Martin let himself in, then pulled away. The house was still. As quietly as he could Martin went to the living room, turned on a low lamp and found his plane ticket in his wallet. Hodge's proposal had chilled him. He called the airline and scheduled his departure for the first flight out in the morning.

WILLOBY NEWS & RECORD
, December 10, 1986

A prayer vigil will be held at Solace Fork Baptist Church on December 14th at six o'clock in the evening, to mark the two-month anniversary of the disappearance of Leon Owenby, age 65. Mrs. Eugenia Nash, sister of the missing man and an organizer of the vigil, tells the public to bring their own candles, as the church needs to save its candles for the Christmas eve service.

15

Liza

“Please join me in the singing of ‘Amazing Grace.' I want y'all to sing loud at the part that says, ‘I once was lost but now am found.' Here we go, now.” Charlie Davis, the part-time reverend of Solace Fork Baptist Church, lifted a hand to direct the hymn.

Liza stood shoulder to shoulder with Hodge on the church's winter brown front lawn, with forty-some other citizens who had come to pray for Leon Owenby. Their collective breath puffed white in the cold night air. She and Hodge were positioned next to a crèche of large plastic manger characters, which someone had plugged into a multi-outlet adapter and then connected to three consecutive extension cords that ran from the yard into the church. Underwriters Laboratories would not have approved, but Liza appreciated the heat she was getting from the light bulb that burned within Mary. The scent of melting plastic was a comfort.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound . . .”

Martin's sister Eugenia, standing on the church steps with Reverend Davis, got the crowd started with a vibrato that was surprisingly powerful for someone so little. At the other end of their uneven row, Bertie's lips barely moved. She'd come alone, saying that James was under the weather.

“That saved a wretch like me . . .”

Liza mouthed the words, fingering the unlit white candle she'd brought, with its homemade paper collar. Beside her, Hodge sang out enthusiastically, sometimes hitting the right note, sometimes not.

“I once was lost but now am found . . .”

If Martin were here, he'd be making faces at the reverend's literal use of this particular hymn. Liza kept her eyes straight ahead, afraid she might burst into inappropriate laughter if she met anyone's eyes.

“Was blind, but now I see.”

The singers finished up, all at different times, and Reverend Davis put his arm down. “Let us now light our candles for our missing brother. Please remember to hold your candles upright so the wax won't burn your hand, and, ladies, don't catch your hair on fire.”

Reverend Davis tilted his candle to light Eugenia's. She turned and lit her husband Zeb's. He walked down the far end of the crowd, lighting the candle of the first person on each row. Dots of light staggered slowly down the line in Liza's direction.

She and Hodge waited for the flame to reach them, stamping their feet for warmth. “I wish Martin was here,” Hodge said.

“His choice.” Liza was still miffed at Martin for skipping town without saying good-bye.

“I think I drove him off,” Hodge said.

“How?”

“I tried to get him to stay here and take that teaching job Jay Daniels has open at the community college.”

She laughed out loud, then put her hand over her mouth when people stared. “Martin Owenby teaching freshman English. Good lord, Hodge. No wonder he hightailed it. That would scare anybody.”

Hodge sighed. “I know. It was just wishful thinking on my part. I shouldn't have counted on it.”

“I don't think Martin wants to be counted on,” she said.

“Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

“I haven't either.”

The woman next to Hodge lit his candle, and he lit Liza's. Around them the tiny flames gestured wildly at each other.

“Pray with me silently,” Reverend Davis said. They dutifully bowed their heads and closed their eyes. A cold, slow wind moved behind them. Liza cupped her hand around her candle to keep it from going out. She could feel Hodge beside her praying hard, hard enough for both of them.

It was always wise to bar the door if you wanted Martin Owenby to stay.

*  *  *

The January of their senior year of high school, Mr. Samuels made Martin, Hodge, and Liza stay after school to complete their college applications. He sat at his desk, correcting ninth-grade essays.

“Why do we have to do this today, Mr. Samuels? Mine ain't due for another month,” Hodge said.

Mr. Samuels didn't look up. “No time like the present, Hodge. And if you're still saying ‘ain't' when you graduate from here, I will have failed as a teacher.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Martin nudged Liza. “I'm putting your address down. The mailman knows where your house is.”

“Good idea,” she said. His parents wouldn't see the response before he did.

Mr. Samuels finished red-inking one essay and reached for another, peering over his glasses to check their progress. “Hand your applications to me when you're done. I'll mail them.”

“I'll mail mine,” said Martin.

“No, I'll mail it. I don't want anyone changing his or her mind at the last minute.” Mr. Samuels went back to grading papers.

Three months later, in April, Martin's letter came from Chapel Hill. An all-day rain bruised the sky the day it came. Liza ran from her car to the porch when she got home from school, shook water from her umbrella and saw it, stuffed in the brass letter box by her front door. The thin cream-colored envelope poked out from between a power bill and one of her father's medical journals. She plucked it out. The sight of the admissions office address embossed in gold made her heart pump faster than it had when her own acceptance letter had arrived from Woman's College in Greensboro two weeks before.

She took the mail inside, where her father sat reading in the leather chair in his study. Rain dimmed the usually bright room, giving the feel of evening rather than midafternoon. A floor lamp behind her father's chair molded weird shadows out of the furniture. She fluttered the envelope in his face. “Martin's letter from UNC.”

He grabbed it and stood up. Before she knew what he was doing he ripped the shade off the floor lamp and held the envelope to the bare bulb, using his thumbs to press the envelope against the letter inside.

She was horrified. “Daddy!”

He squinted as he read. “ ‘We are pleased to inform you.' ” He lowered the envelope. “He got in.”

“I can't believe you just read somebody else's mail.”

The light bulb's glare deepened the crinkles around his eyes and glinted off his grinning teeth. “I've got to call Samuels, get him over here to help me talk Martin into going. We need to plan this right.”

“That's silly, Daddy. Martin wants to go to college.”

“The boy's got nobody at home to even imagine it with him. He doesn't think he's going. We've got to make it so there's no way he can't go.” He reached for the telephone and got Mr. Samuels at home. “Samuels? He got in. The letter came today. Yep, I'm proud of the boy. I think you're right. It'd be best if he didn't have to work his freshman year, while he's getting adjusted. I'll lend him enough so he won't have to. Lend, give, call it what you want. When should we tell him?”

Liza listened in amazement. Her father and Mr. Samuels had obviously been conspiring about this for some time. Her father seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.

They concocted a plan, with Liza as the lure. The next day, Friday, at school, she invited Martin to come to her house Sunday afternoon, on the pretext of working on their graduation recitations. Sunday was the only day Martin's father didn't make him work.

The occasion felt momentous. She dressed with care, choosing a straight black skirt that fit her twenty-three-inch waist and a light gray cashmere sweater with a scoop neck that showed off her mother's pearls.

Mr. Samuels arrived a half hour early. He winked at her before disappearing with her father into the study. “Don't give us away, now.”

“I won't.” She went to her room and brushed her hair to a sheen, tucking it behind her left ear. When she heard Martin's steps on the front porch, she met him at the door.

He eyed her. “You look like you're about to pop. What gives?”

“Never mind. Come in. Daddy wants to see you.”

He squinted, suspicious, but followed her down the hall. She knocked on the door of the study. Her father opened it. Mr. Samuels stood behind him, looking proud enough to cry.

Martin nodded to both men. “Hello, sir. Sirs.”

“Come in, son.” Her father moved aside to let them in. He had set out his good sherry. Afternoon sunlight shone ruby-colored through a cut-glass decanter. He and Mr. Samuels already had their glasses. He poured two more for her and Martin. Martin took his, raising it to his nose for a discreet sniff.

“A toast,” her father said. “To college-bound seniors.”

Martin lowered his glass.

The letter from Chapel Hill lay on her father's desk. Her father picked it up and handed it to Martin. “I believe you got in, son.”

In an instant she saw that her father and Mr. Samuels had been right to worry. Martin froze. His eyes shifted right, as if seeking an escape. Mr. Samuels moved to the study door and shut it. “Open the letter, Martin.”

Martin had no choice. He set his glass down and slid a thumb under the envelope flap, peeling it open, closing his eyes for a moment before he unfolded the letter. In the silence as he read Liza could hear blood whooshing through her veins. Martin looked up and cleared his throat. “I got in.”

She put her sherry glass down and gave him a hug. He stood as if paralyzed, but her father and Mr. Samuels moved into action.

“You're going, son.” Her father put a hand on Martin's shoulder and led him to the closest chair, then sat with Mr. Samuels across from Martin, leaning forward. Liza took a seat behind her father's desk, out of the way. “Don't worry about cost. I'm lending you the money.” Her father held up his hand as Martin started to protest. “It's a good investment. I'm sure I'll be happy with the return.” He glanced at Liza, and she blushed a little, imagining herself married to Martin.

“Don't think for a minute that you aren't smart enough for college,” Mr. Samuels said. “You'll hold your own. I'm not concerned about that a bit.”

Martin set the acceptance letter down on the arm of his chair, as if he didn't want to touch it. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I can't believe I got in.”

“Well, you did,” said Mr. Samuels.

Martin put his arm down. He tried to laugh. “What's Pop going to say?”

“You've got to decide, son. It's your decision, not your daddy's,” Liza's father said.

Something changed on Martin's face, as if he realized he had a choice, that he could go even if his parents said no. He breathed out a long, slow breath. “I don't know how to tell them.”

Mr. Samuels leaned forward and patted him on the knee. “The doctor and I will go with you.”

“And me,” Liza said, indignant.

“Tomorrow, then, when he gets in from working.” Mr. Samuels picked up his sherry and stood up. He waited for them to join him, glasses held high, then toasted Martin. “To a fine future.”

They drank. Martin coughed, his eyes watering. Her father and Mr. Samuels moved close, pounding him between the shoulder blades. Each blow shook him, making him seem frail.

In the schoolyard the next day, Hodge recited Scripture to shore them up. “ ‘The Lord is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?' Psalm 118.”

“My daddy can do plenty,” Martin muttered.

Younger children streamed past them, walking down the road in pairs, siblings tormenting each other. Martin was pale. Liza squeezed his pinky finger, borrowing a favorite assurance from her father. “In twenty-four hours it will all be over.”

He looked ready to vomit.

She pointed to her car, parked in the side yard of the school, where its pure white top and shiny chrome put Mr. Samuels's duller ride to shame. “Let's go. We'll tell your mother we're working on some project for school.”

They got in her car, Hodge in the backseat and Martin next to her in front. The pearl-colored interior hadn't lost its new leather smell yet. Her charm bracelet hung from the rearview mirror. She backed skillfully out of the schoolyard and headed for the Owenby farm. Martin rolled his window down and stuck his elbow out. She slowed down to buy him more time.

Since her first visit to Martin's house, she had done her best to ingratiate herself with his mother. With the car, she could show up any time she wanted, and she did. If she hadn't been the doctor's daughter, Martin's parents would never have tolerated it. When the Sunliner pulled into the yard, Mrs. Owenby was in her garden at the side of the house. She straightened up from weeding. Amid the growing vegetables, with her arms akimbo and a man's straw hat on to protect against the sun, she looked like a scarecrow.

“We're going inside, Mama. Schoolwork,” Martin called.

“All right.”

They went into the house. Bread dough rose in a bowl on top of a pie safe. A pot of pole beans slow-cooked on the stove, a chunk of fatback flavoring the beans and the air in the room. Hodge's stomach growled. They opened their books on the kitchen table, to make it look as if they were studying. The Owenbys didn't have electricity. The only light came from windows along the porch, but they knew if they went outside into the sunlight Martin's mother would put them to work.

“We might as well do some real studying,” Hodge said.

“I never thought I'd hear you say that,” Martin said.

“I must be feverish.”

They did homework at the long plank table until they heard a car in the yard. Liza and Martin jumped up and looked out. Her father and Mr. Samuels got out of the doctor's car. Mrs. Owenby went over to speak to them. When the men gave her Martin's news her shoulders rose in delight and then fell, her arms sweeping right, toward the fields where Mr. Owenby was finishing his day. Beside Liza, Martin's breath came faster. The adults walked toward the house, and she and Martin rushed back to their seats.

The house shook when her father and Mr. Samuels stepped on the porch and opened the door. Mrs. Owenby came in behind them. She put a hand on Martin's shoulder. “I'm so proud.” She went over to a cabinet and pulled out a pitcher of water and stacked metal cups.