Where Mercy Flows (17 page)

Then what? Does a police officer go through her wallet to see if she marked that little box? Maybe the attending medic does
that. Next thing you know the doctors are waking up her husband. He rubs his eyes and reaches across her pillow for the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Sims? Your wife is dead, and we were just wondering, is it okay if we cut out her heart and lungs and kidneys
before you put her in the ground?”

I shuddered. Somebody was going to die. There would be pain and grief and it would ripple outward in ever-increasing circles.
Would the death be mine? I thought of TJ and my family and my heart seemed to droop lower in my chest. Any way you looked
at it, it was not a happy thought.

The voices from the study grew louder. I edged closer to the kitchen door to listen. Matt and my father were the best of friends.
I had never heard them argue, not even about politics. Now I heard only a hushed murmur. My curiosity drew me toward the study
door. Matt’s voice elevated again, both in volume and pitch. “Because it’s asinine, that’s why! Not to mention illegal. You
could never pull it off. And even if you could, there are no guarantees that all the pieces would line up. You’re a judge,
for God’s sake! Judge yourself!”

My soup began boiling loudly in the kitchen but I couldn’t move. There was a long silence. My father—a criminal? I couldn’t
comprehend it. Why did Matt come all the way up here in the middle of the week? What kind of trouble could my father possibly
be in? I remembered the strange phone call—the one he answered with bloody hands. He had snatched the receiver from me so
suddenly, as if he knew who it was. As if he had something to hide. By now my ear was plastered to the study door. “Matt,
I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I need your help. Believe me, if there was any other way—”

“There
is
another way! Don’t you get it?”

“I’ve got to have a plan B. Just think about it. Please. That’s all I ask.”

A chair screeched against the floor. I scurried quietly back to the kitchen, working to steady my breath. The study door opened
and then slammed. Matt stormed into the kitchen and stopped short upon seeing me standing there by the stove. “Sammy! Where
did you come from?”

“Hi, Matthew.” I yawned. “I was just taking a nap. Do you want some soup?”

He glanced into the boiling pot. Black stuff came to the surface as I stirred, but I don’t think he even saw it. He shook
his head and walked by me like someone who just found out his best friend wasn’t who he thought he was. He grabbed his hooded
raincoat from the back of a kitchen chair, stomped out the back door and headed for the river. The rain distorted his image
as he disappeared among the trees.

T
J SAT BETWEEN DONNIE and me on the seat of Donnie’s truck, straining at his seat belt to see out the side windows. Our valley
in October was paradise, with maples fluttering in shades of red, orange and yellow against a backdrop of cool evergreens.
The cottonwoods turned to shimmering gold. I was as happy as TJ to be getting out on such a beautiful afternoon.

Donnie wore faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves. His burly arms were no longer as brown as they had been
during summer, his short hair blondest on the ends from the sun. He whistled “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” as he drove.

TJ’s lips puckered too, but no sound came out. “How do you do that?”

“What? Whistle? It’s easy.” Donnie demonstrated, but TJ could only blow air.

“Make a tiny hole for the air to get out. Purse your lips so tight all you could get in there is a blade of grass.” TJ tried
again unsuccessfully. Donnie reached his right arm around my son and patted his chest. “You’re blowing too hard. Don’t let
the air come from here. Take a deep breath and let it out real easy, just like you’re breathing.” He was managing to do all
this while steering with his left hand and keeping his eyes on the road. “Nope. I could feel that coming from your stomach.
I shouldn’t be able to feel any movement down here.” This went on for several miles until we finally heard a peep as small
as a baby bird’s.

TJ’s eyes widened and he peeped again. Peep. Peep. Peeeeeep. And then he was off, whistling like a teakettle.

Of course I later regretted this new talent, but at the time I was so proud. Not just of TJ for persevering, but of Donnie.
He was patient with my son. I found myself gazing at him in awe sometimes and not just because he was a handsome man to behold.
There was a strength about him. I don’t mean the fact that he could probably snap a broom handle in two like it was kindling;
it was more than that. He had this quiet confidence, like he knew exactly who he was and he was okay with that. In fact, I
think he rather liked himself. I knew Donnie was not living his dream. His dream had been to become a trial attorney. A successful
lawyer in a big city. But a careless toss of a pitchfork had changed all that. And yet he was not a bitter man; I never heard
him complain.

A woman could get real comfortable with having a man like Donnie around. Don’t think I never thought about that, because I
did. Sometimes when I saw his truck coming down the drive for an unexpected visit, my heart felt like it just went over a
bump. And when he got too close to me, a powerful force field drew me to him. I found myself wanting to touch. Wanting to
explore the skin beneath his shirt. But I had gotten myself into trouble that way before.

I had a husband to think about. For five years I had regretted the mistake I made with the wrong man on the right night. I
was fertile the night I stumbled upon Tijuana in that dry gulch outside of Reno. I should have been with Tim. Tim should have
been TJ’s daddy. And now he was so close. At least I knew within a few miles where he was, for the first time in years. I
still hoped for the chance to make things right with him somehow.

“Hey!” TJ pointed excitedly. “Punkins!” Sure enough, the field on our left was strewn with row after row of bright orange
orbs.

Donnie took a quick glance at his watch and turned on his left-turn signal. “We’d better get some.”

“Woo-hoo!” I exclaimed. “Pumpkins!”

Donnie pulled into the lot where a weathered wood produce stand sported a big sign that said
PUMPKINS 9¢ LB
.
As soon as I unbuckled TJ he was out the door and running directly toward the pumpkin field. I glanced up at Donnie. “We’re
not going to be late for your football game, are we?”

Donnie shook his head. “Not if we eat our picnic in the car.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks for being spontaneous.”

He just winked. “Come on. This is a big decision. I don’t want any pumpkin with a flat side.” The ground of the parking lot
was covered with straw, but when we hit the rich damp soil, our feet began to sink.

“Wait up, TJ!” He obviously couldn’t care less about the earth being scooped into his shoes with every step.

“Look at this one, Mom! I like this one.”

“Ooh, that’s nice. Nice and round.”

Donnie shouted from about five rows over. “I’ve got the granddaddy of all pumpkins here! The pumpkin king!”

We ended up with three—“a daddy punkin, a mommy punkin and a baby punkin,” as TJ put it—rolling around in the bed of the truck.
We brought the picnic basket into the cab, where I distributed sandwiches as Donnie drove. Since both his hands were occupied,
I popped grapes into his mouth on command.

The truck turned down a dirt lane between two cornfields. Donnie drove slowly to keep the dust to a low cloud. The locals
had always called the riverside park Stilly Field, though there were no identifying signs. You just had to know it was tucked
back there—a dirt parking lot, public access to the river via a broad spit covered in smooth rocks and a sports field. As
the parking lot came into view, TJ exclaimed, “Wow, look at all the motorcycles!”

There were as many Harleys as cars and trucks combined. I looked at Donnie. “Who did you say is playing who?”

“I don’t think I did. Van’s Tavern against the Set Free Church. They’re bikers mostly. I mean the church team. I’m on the
tavern team, sort of. Actually, a temporary recruit. These guys ended the baseball season with a tie game. This is kind of
an unofficial tiebreaker, only it’s flag football instead of baseball.”

“Oh.” I knew they were the same crowd as the guests at Sarah’s wedding. How many biker churches could there be?

“It’s kind of a long walk over to the field,” Donnie said. “Want a piggyback ride?” Since hearing about the severity of my
heart condition, Donnie had never fussed over me. In fact, he rarely mentioned it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. I was sure
that he did. So I figured he was either in denial or simply confident that everything was going to turn out fine. Either way,
it worked for me. Sometimes when I was with him, I almost forgot that I might not live to see TJ wobble down the road on a
two-wheel bike.

“No. I’m fine. You go on ahead; it’s time for the game to start. I’ll just take my time. TJ, you wait for me at the bleachers,
okay?”

He skipped off with Donnie as I pulled out a bottle of water and locked the truck. I knew it was silly to get an adrenaline
rush just because some people who were connected with Tim’s sister happened to be there at the same time as me. I sauntered
toward the field, a skill I had mastered, gazing around at the trees and sky as if I was just in a daydream. Yes, I told myself,
to look at me one would think I was as healthy as anyone, just a bit distracted—or at the worst, lazy. I joined TJ at the
weathered wood bleachers that were scattered with onlookers but definitely not crowded like they would be at an official game.
I quickly scanned the crowd, not immediately recognizing anyone. We sat on the bottom row with our feet on the ground. I should
say,
I
sat. TJ came and went, climbing the bleachers and exploring the area beneath them.

The players organizing themselves on the worn grassy field were in high spirits. They threw insults and grabbed and punched
at one another, a strange barbaric form of communication common among the males of Stilly Valley. I knew the faces of some
players from both teams, either from high school or due to small-town crossing of paths. I even saw my husky biker friend
with the Jesus tattoo—the one who helped me back to my feet at the wedding. Sarah and her new husband were not there. Neither
was Tim. But why should he be?

The tavern team stripped off their shirts and players began to line up for the kickoff. Donnie spat and bent forward at the
waist, his hands on his thighs. His broad shoulders and back glowed in the afternoon sun. Once again I felt the pull. I knew
that stance. I knew the way he stretched his neck this way and that and the intense squint of his eyes as he mentally prepared
for battle. I was probably the only one there who knew how he held his tongue between his teeth and upper lip right now, which
made me strangely proud and pleased, as if I had an ownership interest in him. Donnie had forgotten about me by now. He wasn’t
thinking about Appaloosas or ranch chores or the new tranny in his truck. He was all about the game. I remembered that from
high school. Whatever he did, he threw himself into it one hundred percent. Basketball, football, the debate team. His intensity
sometimes reminded me of my father’s.

“There he is!” someone yelled. Someone else shouted, “Weatherbee! Get over here!” I followed their gaze and there was my husband,
running toward the crowd.

“Sorry!” Tim tossed his sweatshirt onto the end of the bench not ten feet away from me as he ran past the bleachers and onto
the field. Adrenaline surged through my body. He hadn’t noticed me, but I saw his face up close. My eyes followed the familiar
slope of his shoulders and his peculiar gait. There was my missing part. My only hope for wholeness. He slapped some guy’s
back and took his position in the line across from Donnie. And then, to my surprise, Donnie turned his head and glanced at
me.

A whistle blew, the ball was kicked and bodies scattered. TJ appeared and climbed onto my lap. I took a deep breath to calm
myself and wrapped my arms around him, resting my chin in his hair. “Where’s Donnie?” he asked.

“Right there. See, he’s running backward. Yes! He caught it!” We watched as Donnie let out a whoop in midair and lit on the
ground like a spring, immediately dodging an opposing player trying to capture his flag. He found a hole and charged through
it as the fans behind us went wild. “Go!” I shouted. The other spectators offered their advice just as freely as Donnie ran
full throttle toward the goal line like a speedboat with a wake of bodies at his heels.

In the excitement I had momentarily forgotten about Tim—that is, until I saw him press ahead of the throng. Donnie was only
a few feet from the goal. Suddenly Tim hurled his body forward. He grabbed the bandana from Donnie’s back pocket just as Donnie
crossed the line.

Donnie threw his arms up in triumph and at the same instant the whistle blew. Tim was on the ground. “Touchdown!” someone
shouted. “No good!” shouted someone else. Everyone both on the field and off had an opinion, which they voiced without restraint.

“What’s happening, Mom? Why is everybody yelling?”

I was standing now. “They don’t know if it was a touchdown or not.”

“Did Donnie do something bad?”

“No, baby. Donnie did good.”

“I’m not a baby.”

The coaches and players continued to argue as if it was the Super Bowl and these were real live football players instead of
a bunch of farmers and bikers playing for a crowd of about fifty between two cornfields. Finally, a decision was made. The
ruling was made in favor of the church team; Tim had thwarted Donnie’s touchdown. Play resumed on the one-yard line.

I explained the game as well as I could to TJ, who seemed satisfied with my limited knowledge of football. It took two more
plays before Donnie successfully made his touchdown.

“Samantha Dodd?” I looked in the direction of the voice as a young woman stepped carefully down several rows of bleachers.
“It
is
you. How are you?”