Under the Mercy Trees (13 page)

17

Ivy

I stand in my nice big laundry room, pretreating old Mrs. Larson's favorite polyester blouse. Grandmother Alma sits and spins in the corner of the kitchen near the open laundry room door. Her black dress gathers lint.

When Steven built the house for me, he made it all one level so I didn't have to carry laundry up or down stairs, and he put in a commercial-size washer and dryer. I like doing laundry for old folks. It helps them out and gives me some extra walking-around money. Old people don't have too many clothes. Most of them don't do enough to get sweaty or dirty, so they can wear things more than once. Except that Mrs. Larson does tend to drop food on herself and can't see it, so I have to pretreat. I pull old lady nylon underpants out of the dryer and peel them apart, listening to the static. I like the smell an electric dryer leaves, the softness of the clothes when they first come out. If I'd had a dryer when my babies were little, I'd have warmed a towel for them after every bath, winter and summer.

The laundry money, all cash, helps stretch my disability check. Hodge found a lawyer to help me get my disability a few years ago. My bad knees weren't enough by themselves, so the lawyer used what he called my mental health history. Being called crazy had never got me anything but grief before. I figured if it would get me something from the government after the government had taken so much away from me, I'd do it.

My disability hearing was in front of a judge but not in a regular courtroom. They stuck us in a room that looked like the court people used it mostly for storage. Lots of files and empty boxes, and a long conference table squeezed in the middle, wired with a microphone to record what we said. I told it to the judge flat, all about the ghosts I saw. The judge was polite while I told him about my regulars, Alma and Missouri. I didn't mention Shane. Then I told him about the one ghost I saw in the room with us, a tall, bent-over fellow with old-fashioned glasses, who was very busy with the files in the room. I described him down to the rough brown wool of his trousers and the smell of tonic on his neat-parted hair. I told how he stood behind the judge like a page-turner behind a church organist, putting papers down on the table for the judge to look at. He took his job seriously, even though the judge couldn't see him or his papers. When I told that part the judge got real still and thoughtful. Anyway, he decided I was crazy enough not to be able to do gainful work and gave me my benefits. It's not a lot because I never earned much, doing factory work and cleaning motels, but between the disability check and laundry money, and Steven paying my mortgage, I get by. They send my disability checks to Steven, but he knows I'm not crazy and hands them right over to me.

Alma has been quiet all morning without Missouri here to rile her. Then, as I pull the next wet load out of the washer, she speaks out of nowhere, “They say your Steven did it.”

“Did what?” I drop the clothes in a basket.

“Leon.”

I stop what I'm doing, hurt. “Who says it?”

“I hear the whisperings.”

“He never did.” I untangle Mrs. Larson's worn-out brassiere from around my washing machine agitator and pull it out. Alma's fingers twirl thread. I wonder how much thread she has spun since she passed on and what she does with all of it. “You're as bad as Missouri, weaving trouble,” I say.

“I tell you for your own good,” Alma says, righteous. “Your sister, Eugenia, has been running her mouth, talking about that knuckle knife being missing.”

When she says it I see the knife in my mind. It was made for slashing, but I've seen Leon use it for everything from pounding tomato stakes to picking his teeth.

“Your Steven has the knife.”

I drop Mrs. Larson's bra into the basket and stand there with my arms hanging down.

“Don't stare at me like a stupid cow.” Alma picks a piece of lint from between her blue teeth. “I just done you a favor.”

Missouri appears with a flounce in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a young woman as usual. She shakes her red hair like a show pony. Alma's look tells me not to mention the knife in front of Missouri. Missouri wears a store-bought dress of pink cotton, paid for with money from a source she will not name. Her small hands love the creases in the skirt. She holds the skirt out in front of her. “Press this for me.”

Alma makes a disapproving noise.

“I can't.” I untie my apron. “I'm just on my way to see Steven.”

Missouri stamps her foot.

I know the trouble she can cause. “All right.” I get my hand-held steamer down off the shelf above the washer and plug it in. Missouri loves the steamer. If they had had such things in her time, she would have owned one. When the steamer is ready I run it down her skirt, all around.

“Ow! Don't char me, girl,” she says.

“Sorry.” I squat down to get the wrinkles near the bottom. My knees crack. Missouri doesn't care that I might not be able to get back up.

“Why you going to Steven's?”

“Just to visit.” Steam pours out in a stream. I concentrate on her hemline.

“There's a gathering over there.”

I look up at her.

Her face is wicked. “The sheriff's over there, talking to him.”

Alma's spinning wheel stops. I stand up, knees aching, and pull the steamer cord out of the wall. I get my apron off and pick up my pocketbook and car keys off the counter. I walk out of my house without locking it.

“Hey!” Missouri calls after me. “What about my dress?”

18

Liza

Liza drove her truck toward Steven Owenby's body shop, with wind whistling annoyingly through a space at the bottom of her driver's-side door. Her older daughter, Sandra, had had an accident at the mall the day before, and now the truck door wouldn't close properly. Liza pulled one of her gloves off with her teeth and stuffed it against the crack to try to stop the noise. It didn't work.

“Mom, I'm
so
sorry,” Sandra had said. “There was this low wall in the mall parking lot, and I didn't see it. The truck door scraped right over it, and then I had to pull it loose.” She was close to tears.

“These things happen.” Liza ran her hand along the bottom of the driver's-side door to feel the damage. With a teenage daughter driving it was a wonder her truck didn't have more dents and scrapes.

Her husband, Raby, squatted down to get a better look, then stood up and closed and opened the door a couple of times. “I'm afraid if I try to bend it back out I'll make it worse.”

“I can take it to Steven Owenby's body shop tomorrow before work. Somebody there can give me a ride to school. I don't have a first-period class,” Liza said.

“Am I in trouble?” Sandra said.

“It's coming out of your Christmas money,” Raby said.

“Dad!”

He poked her in the ribs. “I'm just kidding. Can't you crazy women take a joke?”

*  *  *

At Steven's body shop, Liza eased her truck between cars that were parked in the small front parking lot, ready to be worked on. Someone had sprayed the windows of the little office with artificial snow, spelling out “Merry Christmas!” She went in. Martin's niece Trina was on the phone, ordering a part. She waved. Liza worked her key off her key ring. The office smelled of acetone, motor oil, other vital fluids.

Trina hung up the phone. “Hey, Miz Barnard. What can we do for you today?”

Liza handed her the truck key. “My daughter bent the bottom of the door. It doesn't close securely.”

“Steven!” Trina called.

Steven came out of the garage. “What's up, Miz Barnard?”

“Her truck door's bent,” Trina said.

“Let's take a look.”

He went outside with Liza and examined the door. “We can probably get it done for you today. It might not even need any paint.”

“That would be great.”

As they stood there, a sheriff's cruiser pulled in right next to Liza's truck. Wally Metcalf was driving, with Hodge as his passenger. They got out of the car and walked over. Hodge looked uncomfortable.

Wally nodded. “Steven, Miz Barnard.”

“How's it going, Sheriff?” Steven peered behind the sheriff at the patrol car. “Got a problem with your vehicle?”

“No, the car's fine. I need to ask you some questions, son.”

Steven wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Go ahead.”

Trina came out of the office and stood with Steven.

“It's about a knife Leon had. With brass knuckles for a handle. About this long.” Wally held up his hands to illustrate. “You know what I'm talking about?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A customer saw you with it at the shop this week. He recognized it as being Leon's and mentioned it to me.”

“What customer was that?”

“I'm not going to tell you.”

“Well, I wasn't trying to hide the knife. Leon gave it to me. I can use it if I want.”

The noise from the garage behind them had stopped. Steven's two employees leaned in the open bay doors, listening.

“When did he give it to you?” Wally said.

“A few weeks before he went missing.”

“Did anybody ever see you with it before he went missing?”

“I did,” Trina said quickly. “Several times.”

Liza didn't believe Trina, but she approved of the lie. She knew Steven was telling the truth. He wouldn't harm Leon.

“I understand that knife meant a lot to him. Why'd he give it to you?”

Steven crossed his arms. “I didn't ask him why. I got the feeling he was just ready to pass it on.”

A beige Pontiac pulled into the last open spot in the parking lot, and Ivy Owenby got out. Her normally placid face was anxious, and she hadn't taken the time to put on a coat. She went right to Steven and Trina, her breath wheezing.

“They're asking Steven about Leon's knuckle knife, Mama. You know, the one Leon gave him back in the summer?” Trina said pointedly.

“Don't do that, Trina,” Wally said.

Ivy recovered her breath. “Sheriff, Leon was giving stuff away right there at the end before he went missing. He gave me twelve hundred dollars, after never giving me a thing in my life.”

“It's true, Wally,” Hodge said. “I told you he was thinking of giving his truck to James's boy, Bobby. He hadn't decided on it yet, but at least he was thinking about it. Leon didn't spend a big part of his life thinking about giving people things.”

Wally sighed. “Where's the knife, now, Steven?”

“Hanging in there above my work bench. I'll get it for you.”

“I'll get it.” Wally pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and went into the garage.

Hodge stepped closer. “Steven, did Leon say anything when he gave you the knife?”

Steven glanced toward the garage then back. “It was weird, Hodge. You know Leon wasn't a talker. I never heard him tell one tale about the war, but when he gave me that knife something opened him up like a spigot. The man was crying, talking about how the skin on his chest peeled up. Said he saw his heart beating in his chest, but the doctors told him it didn't go that deep and he imagined it. Embarrassed the hell out of me. I don't know what to do with a crying man.”

Wally came out of the garage, carrying the knife in the plastic bag. The knife was cruel looking, the brass knuckles tarnished and scratched with use. “I've got to take it to have tests run. Don't leave town without telling me, Steven.”

Steven had had enough. He opened his mouth to give the sheriff what for, but Hodge put a hand on his arm. “You weren't planning to go anywhere anyway. Don't get upset.”

“Shit,” Steven said to Wally. “Why don't you do some real police work and find out what happened to Leon instead of harassing me?”

“We're doing our best,” Wally said. “Hodge, you ready to go?”

Hodge gave Steven's arm a squeeze. “I'll check in with y'all later.” He and Wally got back in their car. Wally backed out carefully so he wouldn't scrape Ivy's car. Nobody moved to help guide him.

When the patrol car had driven off, Steven turned to Liza. “Come on, Miz Barnard. I'll carry you over to the high school.”

Liza followed him to the curb where his tow truck was parked and climbed up into the cab. Steven fumbled in his pocket for his keys. When he pulled them out his hands were shaking. He started the engine and moved slowly into the street. Liza looked back. Ivy still stood with Trina in the body shop's parking lot, hugging herself to keep warm.

Liza wondered how Ivy had known to come.

19

Bertie

Bertie could never get warm this time of year, when the days were so short. The sun was fickle, by midafternoon snatching back any warmth it had allowed, the trailer's shadow darkening dead grass in the yard. A few snowflakes floated in the dry air, disappearing before they hit the ground. The sight of them made her feel even colder. She knew it was just her. She had the heat set on seventy-eight while she worked with James on the Christmas decorations, and James was peeled down to his undershirt and still sweating as he twisted branches into the artificial tree.

Making much of decorating for Christmas was something she and James had agreed on early in their marriage. They had to learn how from television and magazine pictures because their own families hadn't paid any attention to it. Bertie never was completely sure she'd got it right, but the kids didn't know the difference. Bobby and the girls always had a nice Christmas, at least one big present they really wanted even if it took until March to pay it off.

Usually James was as into the decorating as she was, but this year she'd felt shy about asking him to help. He was quiet as he put the tree together, staring at nothing while his hands inserted the branches. Bertie opened a cardboard box, lifting out familiar ornaments, wanting to hold up each one to ask James if he remembered. At the bottom of the box were broken bits of ornaments her children had made when they were little—Popsicle sticks with glue hardened at the ends, cotton balls from a long-lost Santa's beard, green and red construction paper, faded and curled. Bertie couldn't bear to throw the pieces away, especially the things Bobby had made, when he was still little and sweet and she held out all the hope in the world for him.

A car drove up outside, and Leon's dogs started barking. Through the window Bertie saw Eugenia getting out of her Mercury, using all of her strength to shut the heavy car door behind her.

“Who is it?” James asked.

“Your sister.” Eugenia didn't just drop in to see them for no reason, and Bertie was suddenly afraid. Hodge had called them about finding Leon's knuckle knife at Steven's shop. The sheriff was supposed to have it tested. She glanced over at James, wanting to shield him from any bad news Eugenia might bring. She went to open the door before Eugenia could knock.

“I've about had it with this weather,” Eugenia said. Snowflakes rested on the faux fur of her coat collar before melting in the heat of the kitchen. Bertie let her in, relieved. Eugenia wouldn't waste time complaining about the cold if she had something bad to report about Leon.

James came into the kitchen. “What's going on?”

Eugenia's glasses had fogged up. She took them off and wiped them with a glove, then put them on again. “You heard about the knife?”

“Yes. Anything new today?”

“Not about that, but look.” Eugenia pulled an envelope out of her pocket. “You know I had Leon's mail forwarded to us. He hasn't gotten much, just one Social Security check before I called and told them to stop, but then today this came.” She handed the envelope to James. Bertie stood beside him so she could see. The return address was some medical place in Lenoir, the Imaging Center. James pulled out the paper inside.

“It's a bill,” Eugenia said. “For diagnostic services.”

Bertie looked at the bill, for $648, from a date back in August. Leon had never cottoned much to doctors. He could have gone to the VA for free, if he'd wanted to drive to Asheville, but he seemed to believe, like a lot of older folks did, more in dancing by the light of the moon than going to a doctor.

“What's ‘diagnostic services'?” James asked.

“I called to ask, and they wouldn't tell me anything. The girl said I had to have an authorization signed by Leon. I told her I couldn't very well get him to sign anything, seeing as he was missing. Then she said I'd have to get the sheriff to subpoena the records.” Eugenia unbuttoned her coat. “I called the sheriff and gave him the account number. He's going to get those records and also see if Leon went to the emergency room for anything around that time. Sometimes it's the emergency room that refers people to this Imaging Center.”

“Why wouldn't he tell us if he was sick?” James's face looked tortured.

Bertie pointed to the bill. “What do they do at that place, anyway?”

“The sheriff said X-rays, MRIs, CT scans.” Eugenia rattled off the list like she knew what she was talking about. Bertie had heard of X-rays. She wasn't sure what those other things were and didn't think James knew either.

“I told the girl at the Imaging Center she better not expect us to pay this bill if she wouldn't tell me what it was for,” Eugenia said.

“I don't think we'd be responsible for paying it,” Bertie said. Leave it to Eugenia to worry more about that than about what the medical records might show.

“Y'all excuse me.” James put the medical bill down on the table and went outside. Bertie could see him through the kitchen window, just standing there in the yard looking up at the sky, his ears turning red with cold. His nice thick coat hung on the back of a kitchen chair, not doing him any good at all.

Eugenia put the bill back in her pocket. “I bet you're relieved they caught Steven with that knife.”

“I don't follow you,” Bertie said.

“It takes the suspicion off Bobby.”

Bertie crossed her arms. “Who says suspicion was on Bobby in the first place?”

“Now, come on, Bertie.”

Eugenia had a lot of nerve. “If James was standing here you wouldn't be talking ugly about his son like that,” Bertie said.

“About his son?” Eugenia looked at Bertie over the top of her glasses. Her little nostrils flared, like she smelled something bad. “If you say so.” She opened the door and stepped outside before Bertie could answer, stopping in the yard to speak to James.

Bertie pushed the door closed, harder than she had to. Nobody held it against her the way Eugenia did, not even James, who had the right. She wished she could grab Eugenia by her scrawny throat and explain it to her, make her listen.

*  *  *

There was one good part of Bertie's life, when her youth bloomed, her skin was buttermilk smooth, and the curves of her rump and breasts and calves drew wanting looks from every man in the county. Her hair curled soft in the 1940s perm Willoby County girls still wore a decade later. She dressed herself up in ribbons and nylons bought at a discount at the five-and-dime where she worked in Lenoir, her money all her own. She shared a room with two other working girls. They rubbed each other's feet at night, complaining about their bosses but as happy as could be to be free of parents and answerable to nobody but themselves, a precious selfishness. They spoke aloud daydreams of moving on to Winston or Raleigh, of meeting handsome, wealthy men, of brick homes in Cameron Park and maids to stroll their children.

Bertie thought the blooming was forever, a hard-won reward she'd earned for living through a childhood of deprivation and her father's violence. Nobody told her it would pass in a blink like the blush of a morning glory.

She chose James because he was handsome and good, didn't drink too much, and because if she squinted her mind's eye, she could fit James into the daydreams she clutched at the way a child does her blanket.

Her looks weren't the type that survives past girlhood, that require fine bones to hold skin in place. Jowls sagged and eyes sank in, the deepness of the lines at the corners surprising her anew every morning. It happened so fast. One day, one minute, even, she was getting the up-and-down from the boys at Riddle's general store. The next, nobody was looking at her anymore. She had to give up the daydreams she'd carried into her marriage because she couldn't play the parts any longer. She was too heavy-hipped and old for her fantasy heroes to love. Birthing two big-headed babies had made it so she wet herself when she laughed or picked up something heavy. When she should have been enjoying her husband and daughters, instead she watched her life burn like a wad of newspaper thrown on a fire, one last grand flame passing into gray ash, with her hollering after it, “Wait! Wait!”

She did it to bring herself back.

All it took was one appreciating look from a man she hadn't paid any attention to before, a rascal who didn't care what anybody thought. Riding along with him, with her elbow out the window of his truck, Bertie felt how beautifully her hair blew back. Everything she said seemed clever, sexy. Afterward, the he-say-her-say was that she'd run off to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, the one with the duck fountain in the lobby. Bertie let the rumor stand. Really they'd stayed at a motor court outside of Asheville. It wasn't fancy, but somebody else cleaned up after them, and when she stretched out on her side on top of the sheets she found again the lovely curve her pelvic bone made, a smooth ridge that disappeared into extra pounds when she lay any other way.

For three nights and three nights only, she had it all again. Then the fourth morning she woke up and saw an ordinary man. Bad breath. Snoring. Coarse black hair growing ugly all over him. He was as embarrassed as she was. Later that day, he took her to the bus station and gave her twenty dollars for the ticket home.

James came and got her at the station. He cried himself into hiccups and she just held his head. She saw that time had folded the corners of his eyes as well, but a man doesn't disappear when sun creases his face or his hair grays or thins. As deep as his hurt went, it couldn't touch what she herself had lost.

James's mouth shook the whole drive home. They reached the trailer at dusk. Her peonies had blossomed while she was gone, and lines of ants followed their sweet smell, swarming the beds. Her parents' screen door opened, and Bertie's older girl, Dacey, came running across the road to hug her. Her younger, Sue, toddled along behind, already not quite sure who Bertie was. Bertie tried to feel joy, but all she felt was despair. It would have been better if James had written her off then, instead of taking it upon himself to make things right for her. She had stolen his life as she'd wasted hers, never feeling anything good inside, and worse, not able to pretend for him. James never said another word about it, even when she told him she was pregnant and he had to know the baby wasn't his. He had always claimed Bobby as his own, no matter what kind of mess Bobby got into.

*  *  *

Bertie looked out the kitchen window, where Eugenia had finished talking to James and was getting into her car. Eugenia had planted doubt in Bertie's mind, as she'd meant to. Or maybe she'd just uncovered doubts that were already there. It was true that Bobby was frustrated with Leon for not letting him put a mobile home on the family property. Bobby wasn't at a job the week Leon disappeared. And Bobby wasn't above stealing from family—Bertie didn't keep more than ten dollars in her purse for that reason. Bertie didn't think Bobby had it in him to plan anything against Leon, but she could see him going along. Going along with Cherise LaFaye.