Book of Mercy (14 page)
“The point is,” Annaliese continued, “pregnancy does something to your perspective, darling. It makes you think you can take on more than you can chew.”
“Ah,” Antigone said, understanding. “And you think this book situation might be too much for my plate?”
“Not necessarily,” Annaliese said. She had that protective look she gave students who were carrying an impossible course load and just discovering it in mid-semester. “I just don’t want it to upset you—at this time in your life.”
“Don’t worry, Mother, it’s just given me a little indigestion, or maybe that was the Greek warship I ate at the Dairy Queen.”
“The thing is,” Annaliese frowned, “people in these situations—heated situations—seldom take the long view.”
Henry nodded. “The historical perspective.”
Annaliese said, “They’re afraid of ideas. They don’t want to let them out of the bag because then how will they control them?”
“Control is the main diet of the Mercy Study Club,” Antigone said.
“Well, I don’t blame you for not wanting to eat at their table,” Henry said. “The whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies. People having to watch what they read, what they say, what they think.”
“You were right to challenge them,” Annaliese said. “Although I imagine the Thornes don’t agree.”
“I’ve been avoiding any deep intellectual discussions with Marian.”
“That’s my wise daughter.” Absently pulling her sleek coat away from Fancy’s nibbling lips, Annaliese caressed Antigone’s cheek. She tugged the coat closer and shivered. “Temperature’s dropping. I’m going in. There’s a chapter I want to finish before diving into William’s gastronomical explorations. Don’t stay out here too long, you two. You’ll catch your death.”
Antigone nodded. She watched her mother gingerly cross the yard, her high heels wobbling on the uneven ground, her long legs as beautiful as ever. Out of courtesy, as a guest in her daughter’s home, Annaliese would be on time for dinner. This was not always the case when Antigone was growing up. Sometimes her parents forgot about dinner completely, unable to tear themselves away from their books, from the words and ideas of strangers long dead. When she was young, Antigone fantasized about snatching the books that held her parents’ attention when she could not, those books full of words that would always defeat her. She would grab them out of her parents’ hands and fling them into the fireplace. But every time the same thing happened in her daydream: The books put out the fire.
Now, anxiously awaiting being with her own child, Antigone realized that while she had often been jealous of books, she also had prized them. They pictured so prominently in the wonderful moments in her life—the times her mother or father had stretched out on the bed beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and read to her. She could almost hear them. Her mother whispering of a little girl all alone in an orphanage in Paris. Her father chuckling at the antics of a curious monkey.
“You know,” Henry said, as the deer searched the ground for remnants of apple. “I kind of like William’s cooking.” William with his kick-ass cobra tattoo—“the result of one helluva bender in Calcutta”—claimed to put the spirit of India into every dish at the O. Henry Café.
“He’s good all right,” Antigone smiled. “He’s my self-appointed nutritionist.”
“I’m glad he takes care of you.”
“All the men in my life take care of me.”
For as long as she could remember, Henry had liked to tell his daughter jokes. He skewed toward the math jokes, of course, like “What did the zero say to the eight? Nice belt.” When he didn’t have a joke, he always had a quote. Today was no different.
Henry tucked his hands in his coat pockets and offered an elbow and another quip to his daughter. “Since we have books on the brain, I think Groucho Marx is in order.”
“Yeah? What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Outside a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside a dog, it’s too dark to read.’”
Antigone’s lips curved, as she took her father’s arm. They leaned against each other, slowly making their way across the yard. Softly, she heard Henry say, “Your mother and I are proud of you, you know. What you’ve done here, in this town, the new life you are bringing.”
Antigone swung toward her quiet father in surprise. She would have stopped, but he kept pulling her along. “I always considered myself something of a disappointment as an academics’ daughter,” she said.
Her father ignored the remark. “Remember how I used to measure you when you were small?”
“Notches on the door frame in the library.”
“The marks are still there. I thought if I could get the statistics down I could figure you out.”
“And did it help?” she asked.
Henry held the gate open for his daughter and then shook his head sheepishly. “You’re still a mystery to me, but then I’m a man who likes mysteries.”
Antigone squeezed his arm.
Together they made sure the gate was secure before going into the house.
I
T WAS A
T
HANKSGIVING
Day like no other for Ryder. Suddenly, the house was bursting with strangers. He’d been demoted to the living room couch with a sleeping bag. The Browns were situated in his room, while the Thornes occupied the other spare bedroom. Marian Thorne looked at Ryder, as if he might mug her on the way to the bathroom at night. Jonas Thorne was determined to lasso Ryder into watching the Thanksgiving Day football games with him. Ryder thought football was for jerks like Art Junior. The Browns seemed decent enough except they were always talking about books and ideas and stuff.
As he helped the men wrestle with the leaves of the dining room table, he heard the sounds of the Thanksgiving Day parade on the television and thought of his sister Angela. On their final Thanksgiving together, he’d taken her to the Macy’s Parade, bundling her up against the November cold and holding her high on his shoulders. She’d squirmed in delight and waved at the giant balloons tethered above the crowded streets of New York. Ryder could still hear her giggles, still feel her small hand patting his head in happiness.
After the parade, he had taken Angela for a real Thanksgiving dinner at the Salvation Army—not the grilled cheese and potato chips his mother thought they ought to be thankful for. Angela had charmed everyone at the soup kitchen, from the smelly old guy seated next to them to the volunteers, mostly white people from the suburbs in their neatly pressed chino weekend slacks and ugly handwoven holiday sweaters decorated with autumn leaves and weird-looking vegetables.
There were rules about Thanksgiving dinner at the Salvation Army. Each plastic plate held out by often dirty and trembling hands received
exactly
two slices of turkey, a plop of stuffing, a pile of green beans, a wiggle of cranberry sauce, and a roll. The stuffing server fashioned a dip in the stuffing. The gravy server filled it with gravy, sometimes smothering the entire plate with the brown sauce. Pumpkin pie and ice tea were distributed at separate tables.
With her warm smile, his three-year-old sister had incited mass benevolence among the servers and her fellow diners. The volunteers, spooning out helpings from pots big enough to carry Angela in, gave them extra turkey and stuffing. One old guy sitting next to them shoveling stuffing into his mouth insisted Angela have his roll: “Watching my carbohydrates,” he said. Ryder had cleaned his plate and finished Angela’s leftovers. He pocketed both his and her rolls for Angela to eat later.
As the guests left the shelter, they were allowed to take one meal to go—the exact same one they had just been served—already boxed in Styrofoam containers and growing cold. The volunteers, who had been extra-friendly while they were serving, were stubborn about the boxed meals. One meal per person, they said firmly but absently. Their minds were already back in the burbs, where probably a twenty-five-pound bird was spinning in a new rotisserie oven.
“Why can’t we give them more?” asked one woman, an aging hippie in macramé jewelry and a tie-dyed dress smelling of incense.
“Because they’ll probably just sell it once they get out on the streets,” said a woman with sharp manicured nails that nervously played with the gold necklace around her neck.
“So what?” asked the hippie.
A man wearing a Rolex and tassel loafers leaned across the hippie to hand over a box. “If we give them too many, other street people might be tempted to steal from them. Too much could get them into a fight, perhaps stabbed or murdered. This is for their own good.”
Angela had politely thanked the hippie then and, pointing to her macramé necklace, said, “Pretty.” When the others weren’t looking, the woman slipped an extra container in Ryder’s hand. He nodded his thanks.
Ryder had tried to keep the dinners for Angela and make them last a few days, but one of the Boyfriends cleaned them out after smoking a couple of joints. Ryder found him, big head in the refrigerator, and said, “Get the fuck out of there. That’s for my sister.”
Without a word, one big paw filled with stuffing, the doper turned toward Ryder and smacked him with the other paw so hard he flew across the room.
Ryder’s mother came running from the bedroom and immediately began to soothe the Boyfriend. “He don’t mean nothin’, baby.” She glared at Ryder, that don’t-mess-this-up-for-me look he knew so well. He shrugged and wiped his busted lip.
T
HEY SAT DOWN TO
Thanksgiving dinner—Antigone, Sam, Ryder, Mr. and Mrs. Thorne, the Professors Brown, William, Star, and her mother, Earthly Sims. They studied the table. In the center was William’s tofu turkey shaped not in the traditional turkey position, breast up with knobby legs sticking in the air, but like a wild gobbler strutting through the woods in full plumage.
William did the carving with a running commentary on the side dishes. “To begin with, we have pumpkin soup, rich in fiber and beta carotene and good for the eyesight…”
“Pumpkin soup?” whispered Jonas.
Marian shushed her husband.
“But Marian, I like my pumpkin in pie, not soup. I can’t eat
orange
soup.”
Marian gently stabbed his thigh with a fork. “Of course, you can. You’re a grown man.”
“Ouch,” Jonas said, rubbing his leg.
William ignored the whispering from the Thornes’ end of the table. “We have Earthly to thank for the pumpkin soup.”
Jonas avoided looking at Earthly.
“One of my Thanksgiving holiday favorites,” William continued, “a dish that really takes me back to those Pilgrim days, is the acorn squash stuffed with fruit. Our friend Annie at the apple orchard sent this squash my way. Thank you, Annie.”
“Thank you, Annie,” concurred Star.
“We’ve got warm sweet potato salad made by Antigone, a carrot and zucchini puff, and Annaliese and Henry’s peanut butter raisin bread. And for dessert,” everyone held their breaths, “hot fudge sundaes courtesy of the Thornes.”
“Well, of course,” muttered Jonas, “we couldn’t have pumpkin pie; that was already in the soup.”
Marian shot her husband a look, then turned to smile brilliantly at the rest of the table. As everyone began passing serving dishes in various directions, she said over the clicking of silverware, “So, Antigone, what are you going to name the baby?”
“We haven’t thought about that yet,” Antigone said, handing Sam the squash.
“I think you should name her something pretty,” said Star, snagging a slice of bread as it went past.
“It might be a boy, dear,” Marian said. “The Thornes have strong Y chromosomes.”
“Oh, no, it’s a girl,” Star said with confidence.
“How do you know?” Marian frowned.
“I just know,” Star said, talking around a mouthful of squash. “She’s going to be the most beautiful baby any of us have ever seen. And we’re all going to love her so much we’ll just sit around and look at her. I think we should name her Daisy or Sunbeam.”
“That’s a toaster,” Marian said.
“So?” Star raised an eyebrow.
“Well, you can’t name human babies after household appliances.”
“Why not?” Ryder asked.
Star giggled, and Ryder winked at her.
Marian cleared her throat with authority. “Well, I always say consult the Good Book. That’s where we found Samuel’s name. You could do worse than a good Old Testament name.”
“There are many wonderful names in mythology and literature, such as Antigone,” Annaliese said, casting a smile toward her daughter.
“All those mythological names are the names of heathens,” Marian argued, turning to Antigone. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Antigone said.
“The Greek gods were gods,” Annaliese said.
“Not in my neck of the woods,” Marian muttered.
T
HE CALL CAME AS
William was pushing seconds. The Thornes exchanged glances of relief. Saved by the bell. “I’ll take another serving. Eating for two,” Antigone said, as she rose to answer the telephone on the fourth ring.
It was Dash Morgan from the newspaper. After several minutes, she returned to the table.
One look at her and Sam was out of his chair. “What is it?” He took her arm and guided her to her seat. “Tigg, are you all right?”
Silence fell on the room.
Suddenly, Antigone felt about fifty pounds heavier. The tiredness dragged at her spirit. “That was Dash at the paper. The review committee made its decision last night. Four to three to return the books to circulation.”
“That’s great!” Star smiled.
“Superintendent Mitchell has decided to ignore the committee’s recommendation. He refuses to return the books.”
“Why would he do that?” Annaliese asked, puzzled.
Sam answered, his eyes still intently watching his wife, “Pressure. Bradford Mitchell wants a new football field. The Mercy Study Club can get it for him.”
Antigone sat back and listened to the roar of opinions that filled the vacuum created by Dash Morgan’s news, the review committee’s recommendation, and the superintendent’s spinelessness. The Thornes applauded the superintendent and the Study Club, while the Browns were appalled at their actions.
“We need leaders with strong ideals,” Jonas said. “This Mitchell guy could be the next Newt Gingrich or George W.”
“The man’s an idiot,” Annaliese said. “He makes Neanderthal look like Einstein.”
Sam said, “Let’s talk about this after dinner.”
Everyone ignored him.
“Well, I for one, think this town is showing some guts. All this hogwash about freedom.” Marian sniffed. “There’s freedom, and then there’s freedom.”
“You mean, your definition of freedom is correct,” Annaliese said. “And everyone else’s is wrong. Literature is our past, present, and future—all rolled up in one. Would you erase whole parts of our past by denying them? Next thing you’ll tell me that you don’t believe the Holocaust happened or that they were right in changing the facts of history to make a Smithsonian World War II exhibit politically correct.”
“History is up for interpretation,” said Jonas.
“That’s true as we learn more every day,” Annaliese said, “but history
happened.
It cannot be sanitized.”
William, who’d sailed to ports in about every autocratic country in the world, rose and began clearing the table. “The first thing dictators do is revise history.”
The Thornes did not appreciate comparing good old common sense to totalitarianism and stormed from the table. The Browns exchanged glances and excused themselves with a pat on Antigone’s shoulder. Soon Antigone and Sam heard the voice of a football announcer crackling in the other room. Star pulled Ryder outside. Earthly Sims just shrugged and said, “In-laws.” Rising, she hefted a stack of dirty dishes. As the former ACLU lawyer swung through the kitchen door, Antigone heard her mutter, “We ought to sue their book-banning butts . . .”
Antigone and Sam sat alone at the table, not touching.
“Well, that’s that,” Sam said. “Now, life can get back to normal.”