Mercy Among the Children (45 page)

The wind came sharp, and the roadways were icy — the wires heavy, the bay frozen.

“It will get dark early — we should head up early — besides, we want a good seat — to see her,” Leo heard Cynthia say nervously as she mixed pancakes. “People will be coming for miles and miles. Bishops, seminarians, and all that fuckin’ crew!”

Leo made it down the stairs slowly — it took twenty minutes — and walked across the living room and opened the door to his daughter’s room.

“Oh, Daddy,” Gladys said, trying to sit up in bed, “you should not walk on your own.”

The wind howled and snow battered the walls of the house. Both of them sat in Gladys’s small doll room off the back of the kitchen, invalid, and alone.

Cynthia set the table carefully, spoon and fork and knife and plate and coffee cup, and tried to remain calm.

Mathew went to wake Rudy, who had stayed that Thursday night at Pit’s house. He was a loud talker the night before, but now he tried to get out of going to his father-in-law’s. He said he didn’t know the combination to the safe, but he had told so many lies Mathew did not believe him.

“You and I are in this together —” Mathew said. “After all I did for you, you owe me this. You have robbed me — you owe me! We have no choice — do you understand, Rudy? Just as you said last night — we have no choice — we should have done this two months ago — I kept thinking Cynthia would help — but we have no choice now! Connie has told — do you understand me?”

Rudy began to shake spasmodically and then got sick to
his stomach. Mathew stood over him with a facecloth and paper towels and looked far away across the road. It snowed over the great country of ice, over the bogs of cedar and spruce; the wails of coyotes in the fields; the windows and houses crusted with frost.

Cars were few and far between on the highway, and people were stuck in their houses. Schools were closed and locked, and the snow wisped silently against their small alcoves and worn steps.

Rudy stood before the mirror in a pink suit with cowboy boots. There was a sudden snap. And Mathew brought the 12-gauge pump action up to his face.

“We’ll have no problem,” Mathew said.

“But that’s Gladys and Leo,” Rudy said in astonishment. “We can’t hurt them! And what about your own sister — I mean —”

“Yes — Cynthia,” Mathew spit. “Trying to sneak away with my money. And they really treated
you
well. They lied to you, they stole your ideas — and Gladys is having an affair with Gerald Dove.”

Rudy felt hot pins cover his entire body.

“We will go and do it — and go — to Australia,” Rudy said, a smile of regret on his face. But his arms were limp and his legs were shaking.

EIGHT

I too waited for the snow to start falling heavily, and left Percy alone. I had to, even though I promised Autumn I would be
with him. I told him I would be back home soon and help take Scupper to the vet. He waved with three fingers of his right hand as if, I believe now, he was waving goodbye.

“Lock the door after I’m gone,” I said.

I walked outside and waited, and knocked on the door. Percy opened it. He looked up at me and smiled. I have never seen such a smile before or since.

“Lock the door,” I told him angrily.

I closed the door and waited until I heard it lock. Then I turned into the storm and followed Autumn’s half-obliterated tracks up the road. I reached the house after an hour of circling.

Devlin’s house was closed, the blinds drawn, and it seemed so peaceful and sleepy in the snow. I knew that he had police now and again coming by, but they wouldn’t be down here today; nine out of ten squad cars would be off the road, and the only calls that would be answered would be emergencies. I pulled out my knife and slipped in the back door.

The house was dark; the snow smelled metallic and wind whispered in the porch. Didn’t I tell my father I would kill him? And should I?

I searched the house. I heard a noise and went into the basement. It was dark, the windows were small and green. There was a clothesbasket filled with laundry. I waited, and watched. I heard a squeak on the floorboards upstairs.

Upstairs, I thought. I will go and get him now. I looked at my watch. It was quarter past one in the afternoon. By quarter past two he would be dead.

I had had many arguments with my father about the nature of goodness. About pacifism I quoted George Orwell against him, who in his essay on the Spanish Civil War said that foolish people believe that not resisting evil will put an end to it. It never did, I told my father proudly. It is best to take up the fight.

To both him and my mother I spoke of the Christian Brothers
at Mount Cashel, the buggery of boys by priests, the cruelty of convents by stupid and inflexible nuns, the crawling of popes, like fiendish Pope Pius XII, after worldly power. Still nothing could convince them. Worse is that Mother shortly before she died said to me:

“So what if that
is
true? That does not make
me
less true — it does not make your father less good, or his bravery less real. Nor does it make a mockery of Saint Thérèse of the child Jesus.”

But did it make me less true to be holding my knife? I walked back up the stairs, silently moving toward my destiny.

There was another creak, far down the hall.

“I’m coming for you,” I said. There was only silence. I opened the cellar door and turned to my left, and proceeded down the orange carpeted hallway, with January light oozing through the one petty window. I took my gloved hand and lifted the phone. The lines were down. I heard a monotonous crash of icicles from the back roof. In the small living room with its new heavy leather chair, I smelled what I had always smelled from Connie Devlin — the leftover staleness of cigarettes and Kraft Dinner burned in a pot on the stove and eaten in front of the television.

Perhaps he has not had time to digest his food yet — and I will kill him, I thought. Well, that’s too bad for him — he never thought of anything when he killed my father and left him somewhere to die.”

The snow was falling hushed along Russell Road; the highway was down to one lane, hobbling along. I turned slowly and saw his bedroom door. I could see myself as I walked, feel every fibre of the carpet. Suddenly I was inside the bedroom. I looked at the bed, the phone beside it, the clock ticking.

Near the corner on the floor was Dad’s black bag. I knew it from the time I was three. The last time I had seen it, Dad had it at the kitchen table, the day before he went away.

The window was dark blue, the room was grey and cold. I heard a soft clawing from the closet, a little like a cat. I held the knife and slid the door open.

At first I thought Connie was doing some sort of dance. He was staring straight at me, and I at him. His eyes were large, his cheeks huge, and the tuft of hair stuck straight out like a unicorn horn. He was swaying slightly back and forth, like he was doing a slow twist at the community centre on a Saturday night, his expression getting more and more serious, his eyes staring at me more and more fixedly.

I realized in a delayed way that he was in the process of hanging himself. The rope was tied to a rafter far above the closet proper. The squeaks I had heard were from his efforts in trying to accomplish this. But he had given up his squeaking and was looking at me in almost a reflective manner, his feet dangling a foot from the floor as I held the knife.

I cut him down.

He fell, sprawling in front of me on the floor, choking and spitting. I picked him up and sat him on the bed. Then, and I don’t know why, I found myself running to get him water.

“Tea would be nice,” he said politely.

I boiled the kettle, made tea, and brought it to him, in a cup. He took a drink.

“Water’s too hot — tea hasn’t
steeped
,” he said, with an effeminate emphasis on the word
steeped.
He looked at me contemptuously, and shook his head. He knew his tea. Then he took another slurp and put the tea on the night table.

“Baby biscuits,” he said. “Up in the cupboard.”

I ran and got him the biscuits. He looked into the box, reached his hand in carefully, and took one. He picked up his tea and dunked his baby biscuit into it, and then, munching on it carefully, he began to tap his feet, the rope still around his neck.

I picked up my father’s bag and held it close to me, smelled it.

“I’m afraid I spent most of it,” he said.

“How much?” I asked in a whisper.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“God almighty, Connie.”

“I was tempted,” he said.

“What did you do with it?”

“Ordered a car.” He handed me a brochure from the night table. “Power everything — power brakes, windows, airbags, seats — leather interior. Oh, I know I won’t get it now — but —”

Then he lifted a Venetian blind and looked out the window.

One could not see a foot because of the macabre swirling snow.

“Is the heat off?” he said.

“Might be.”

“Go and check.”

I went to the thermostat and got the furnace running. I had a strange feeling that I was ordained to be here by my father. I looked at the knife and it was foreign to me, just as Mathew and Rudy and Cynthia were now.

“It was snowing,” Connie said as I walked back to his room. I could not go in to him, but stood sideways leaning against the wall to listen.

“Your dad had to stop for me many times. He got us turned around twice, and I blamed him for it. But both times he got us back out on the upper side of Otter Brook, going toward the road. My, the wind was cold, my mitts were freezing. I told him he didn’t care for me — I asked him to wait up — and of course you know your father — he stopped and waited for me. I told him he shouldn’t take such big steps because I only had little feet. Finally I just sat on a spruce stump and cursed him. I yelled at him, told him my toes were bleeding. How
would you like it if your toes were bleeding, I said to him.” Connie cleared his throat, munched a cookie, and continued.

“Syd told me the day would get neither longer nor warmer. But I told him I would not go until he made me a fire. So Sydney looked off toward the powerlines and then, sighing, set his knapsack down and lighted a fire for me. It was a nice fire. I liked it. I stretched my feet toward it, so steam came off my boots, and lighted a cigarette and watched how Sydney ran about for me. ‘Collect some boughs,’ I would say, and he would run and get them. ‘How bout a snack?’ I would say, and he opened his knapsack and gave me some doughnuts. It was when he opened his knapsack I saw his black bag stuffed way down in there. I asked him what he had in it, and he didn’t answer. He went off to get more wood. It was when he was gone I looked into the bag and saw the money. So I put it inside my jacket. I could always tell him it had fallen out of his sack. I was contemplating how much money it was, and my boots caught on fire.

“I jumped up and began to run around in the snow trying to put them out. I started to run, and ran right over a cliff. We were still miles and miles from help of any kind. I fell to a ledge and lay there. I couldn’t get back up — so after a long while, your father had no choice but to try and get me. But he had fallen over a stump in the woods and was in pain. I could see that. He was sweating yet the day had gotten colder. I knew he was in pain. It was his appendix.

“Of course he came down after me. He had to, it was as if we were on the church roof years ago. Did you know, Lyle, that when I went to the church picnics I used to pretend that Elly was my wife and we were at a big dinner? Elly was the only woman who was ever kind to me.

“Your father kept trying to get us out of the woods. He was so determined, Lyle — he fought like an animal inside himself
to get rid of the pain and get us home. It was snowing so much we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us. It reminded me of us as children shovelling the church roof years ago. How it seemed that nothing and everything had happened to us since that moment. When he got down to me, I knew he wasn’t going to get back up, so I took his boots. I told him to give me his boots and I would make it to the highway and get help. It was all I could do. Your father tried to stand, and fell. I put his socks and boots on my feet, so he was in bare feet — and the bag of money was in my jacket. I told him I would be back — but perhaps he didn’t think I would be. I left him on the ledge and was able to use the rope to get up.

“I couldn’t wait for your father. I knew he was in pain, but I would not last two hours, certainly not the night, if I stayed there. Your father had carried me a mile that afternoon. But something was wrong with him. I’m not a doctor, Lyle. I wish I could have helped him. It was his appendix. He had them acting up since he was a child of eleven. Please look at it from my point of view. I wish people would look at things from my point of view for a change — things might go easier for me then. It’s not been easy for me, you know — your dad knew that. That’s why he let me take his boots.

“When I got to the top, I could hear him crying and calling out to someone. I realized he was talking to Elly.

“I don’t know why I didn’t step off that cliff and leave your dad in peace. Your dad would have made it out without me — and I would have had my problems solved. But it was I who made it!

“Let me tell you, I was in a terrible spot. Still, it’s strange the things he said. He was speaking to you all. But the pain had gotten to him. He spoke about his poems too. He asked me to take them out of his knapsack and bring them home with me, and take the money to Elly. He didn’t know I had
the money on me, I guess. Well that’s what I sensed. But then I figured Elly wouldn’t miss the money — what she never had, she’d never miss. And then, well, who could blame me — thinking of that car — like I said, power everything.

“He lay on the ledge. He was lying on his left side speaking to me. I begged him to get up and to try it again. But he said he could not stand anymore. I kept looking at my watch, the hands turned green in the night, and yelling to him to get up. I called him names to get him to move. But I felt the black bag in my jacket, with his twenty-five thousand dollars.