The Unraveling of Mercy Louis (9 page)

Up at the football field, running stairs with Annie later that afternoon, I broach the subject during a break, trying to make sense of it.

Doubled over gasping for breath, she says, “Dad's going to run for mayor. Election's in November.” She spits onto the pavement, where the heat evaporates it immediately. “He's planning to put on his pious face and visit every church in town as part of his campaign. Wants to be governor one day.” She straightens up, stretching her hands overhead. “He'll need a miracle to win. You know, we still get skinned critters on the front porch.” She looks at me and wrinkles her nose. “Before the memorial service last February, someone left a tiny jewelry box on the front step. Lourdes opened it, and for the longest time, we couldn't figure out what the hell we were looking at, pearls or what. But then I saw it, this dark spot in the center of one. It was a filling. They were teeth, Mercy. From the site.”

I swallow, feel the sweat trickling down my neck. “Pray for the dead,” I say.

“And fight like hell for the living,” she says, tearing at a fingernail with her teeth.

“Maybe he wants to be mayor so he can make amends,” I say. “Help people.”

She looks at me like I'm mule-stupid. “We Putnams watch out for ourselves,” she says.

As the old Lincoln groans down the road to church, Maw Maw glances at me through the rearview mirror, eyes serious. “Bet it's the Loup Garou ball tonight,” she says. “By the looks of the moon. Lives by the blood of sinners, Tee Mercy, the devil prowling around in the skin of man.”

The Loup Garou—body of a man, head of a wolf—is one of Maw Maw's favorite tales.

“He'll be taking babies tonight,” she says in the exaggerated voice she uses for her stories, so I can never tell just how much of it she believes. “Stalking into bedrooms of new mamas, waking them, asking permission to take their babes. Better not be drunk or otherwise compromised, because you might just say yes, and then your baby's lost forever.”

Maybe the Loup Garou caught the LeBlanc Avenue baby's mother by surprise, stole the child away, and left her in the dumpster. Maybe the baby's mama, sick with grief, wandered out of town never to return.

At church, Beau Putnam has situated himself near the main door as a kind of unofficial greeter. His silver hair sits thick over his lined forehead, his tanned face handsome in the way of newsmen and politicians. Someone, probably Lourdes, has ironed his Wranglers; there's a crease down the front. Fancy ostrich-skin boots peek out from beneath the cuff of his jeans.

“Where's Annie?” I ask as I pass inside.

“Ladies' room,” he says before turning his attention to Maw Maw. “Something important I'd like to talk to you about, Ms. Boudreaux.”

Though I'm curious to hear what he says, Maw Maw gives me a sharp look, so I make for the washroom to find Annie. Before I reach the entrance, she emerges, frowning when she sees her father with Maw Maw.

“What are those two up to?” she asks.

I shrug. “No clue.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “You better tell.”

“For real, I don't know,” I protest.

Before Annie can say anything more, Maw Maw strides over, gives us a strange smile, then takes me by the elbow and leads me to our usual spot. After the sermon, Pastor Parris invites Beau to the platform, but Beau doesn't say what I thought he would—nothing about his campaign for mayor, no catchy slogan for us to latch on to. “I just got off the phone with Chief McKinney,” he says. “And the medical examiner said that baby took breath outside the womb.” A woman exclaims and a murmur ripples through the crowd. A few people stand to pray, arms upraised, calling out to Jesus. I feel nauseated. I want to close my eyes and pray, too, but after Friday, I'm afraid of what I might see.

Beau clasps his hands, purses his lips, and dips his nose toward his thumbs, waiting for his words to sink in. Then he announces that he is offering a reward of ten thousand dollars to anyone who has solid evidence leading to the capture of
the baby killer.

“I don't know about y'all, but it makes me sick to see my hometown trashed on the national news.” He shakes his head. “We have got to come together as a community and find the person responsible for this heinous act. We've got to show the country that we're a town of honest, hardworking people, that we raise good girls, and that we don't accept this kind of behavior. Only way we can do that is if we catch who did this.”

Before he leaves the pulpit, he invites everyone to Annie's Purity Ball. I startle at the words.
What?
He says Maw Maw will be in charge of planning it, and he nods graciously in our direction; Maw Maw beams back at him. It's a service she and the Purity Coalition perform for the daughters of the town's believers, though some families opt for a quieter purity ceremony instead of a ball, fathers bestowing promise rings to daughters in exchange for a pledge of abstinence until marriage. Beau Putnam doesn't do anything quietly, though.

From my place near the front of the room, I turn around, scan for Annie. The look on her face tells me that she's as shocked by this news as I am. It's late for a Purity Ball—Annie just turned seventeen. And there's the issue of her reputation. We're taught that it's never too late to commit to abstinence, but I wonder if Annie can uphold the promise, or if she even wants to make it.

Maw Maw takes my hand across the pew. “Finally, that girl's going to raise herself up to your level,” she says.

I smile. Even though the idea of a ball for Annie is odd, I'm relieved, glad, even. For years, I've loved someone who continues to damn herself. Do you know what that does to a heart? Only look into Maw Maw's ruined face to know for sure. As we make to leave the church, I see Annie at the cookie table. I wave and start to approach, but she scowls, then turns her back to me and moves to the end of the table. From the way she stands there—arms crossed, jaw set—I can feel the fury burning off her in little waves, smudging her hard edges. I can't tell if she's angry with me or the world, but I know that she needs space, so I turn toward the door. Outside, the sound of a distant chain saw, a plane passing far overhead. I wonder how I can convince Annie to wear the white gown and accept the ring, and, most of all, to keep the promise she'll make before God and the town.

THAT NIGHT I
can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Charmaine. Sometimes it's the lonesome woman from the photo, and sometimes it's the woman from Maw Maw's stories, the one who keeps bad company and has scars that crater the skin around her mouth like the surface of the moon. To clear the images away, I visualize my free-throw ritual: place right foot slightly ahead of left, line up right elbow directly above knee, bounce ball twice, hard, backspin it once, cock wrist and balance ball off the palm, just under nose, then arc, release, follow through. Swish. And again. Swish. Again. Again. Again.

My alarm clock glows eleven o'clock when I hear Maw Maw clearing her throat in the hall. It's miles past her bedtime. Perhaps a vision has jolted her from sleep. The night's silence delivers sounds from the hall so clear, I don't need to move to know what she's doing: dialing the phone, which sits in the hall halfway between her room and mine. Quietly, I slide to the door, butt down, feet wide in my best defensive crouch to avoid creaking the boards. I could stay like this for hours, my quads volcanic rock, alive with burn inside.

I listen at the crack of the door.

“I'm not going to let her play,” she whispers. Pause. “I got a bad feeling, gut-deep, is why.” Pause. I realize she means basketball, and that she must be talking to Coach, and my stomach drops somewhere between my haunches. “What with this baby, I think it's best to keep the girl close, I keep seeing girls falling . . .” Pause. “Don't you patronize me, you know my visions are a gift from the Lord.” Pause. “She goes where I say she goes.” Pause. “Hmph. Obviously concerned you enough to wait a week to tell me.” Pause. “No, I don't think twice about it. That's why it's called faith, not doubt, Jodi. Starting to regret ever getting you involved, though.” Pause. “You don't know that, only the Lord can know how it would've gone.” Pause. “You're bluffing, you'd never . . .” Pause. “Fine, but only because I'm a woman of my word.”

The soft click of the receiver returned to its place. The shuffling of slippered feet. The thunk of a door closing. Back in bed, sheets cool against tingling thighs, I wonder if Maw Maw would really forbid me to play.

Through the empty stretch of deep night, I don't sleep a lick, instead reading and rereading Charmaine's letter. By dawn, I can recite it top to bottom.
Maybe I will come to your game just to see who you have grown into. You don't need to talk to me if you don't want.

But see: there is a world of difference between
want
and
need.

IN THE NEWSPAPER
the next morning, there's a color photo of the memorial at the dumpster. The headline reads,
MEDICAL EXAMINER SAYS BABY DOE BORN ALIVE
,
DEATH RULED NEONATICIDE
. I sit down at the kitchen table to skim the story.

           
Two days after the discovery of a fetus in the dumpster of the Market Basket convenience store on LeBlanc Avenue, the autopsy results are in. Medical examiner Tony Reina says there is evidence that the fetus, approximately twenty-four weeks old, was born alive before perishing due to high levels of the ulcer medication misoprostol found in its system. Dr. Reina says that the baby died about one week ago, judging by signs of decay found on the body.

I take the newspaper back to my room, sit down at the desk, and write a letter to Charmaine. I don't put a salutation because any endearment, even her name, seems too kind, and I'm in no mood for kindnesses.

           
I already know all I need to know about you. Maw Maw has told me everything. I know that you would've been no better than this girl, would've killed me if you could. You say you want to get to know me but that is a privilege for the people who love me. You say you want to learn all about me as if it will all be good and pretty, just because I'm Mercy Louis and in the newspapers up in Austin. But I can tell you it is not all good, it is sometimes ugly. If I were you, I'd be scared to learn all about me. Please, leave me alone, let me try to be good, or at least better than you.

Hand trembling, I cut out the article and fold it into the envelope next to my note. From Maw Maw's sewing drawer in the hallway, I sneak a stamp. At the post office, I drop the letter down the slot. In my chest, a loosening like a bad cough breaking.

FOR A WEEK,
I can't get through to Annie, though I call her every day. Finally, I go to the house, peer through the beveled glass of the towering front doors. When Lourdes answers, she tells me apologetically that Annie isn't feeling well. But then Annie appears, teeth flashing like I'm a bone she wants to gnaw. Lourdes blushes at the lie she's been made to tell and then scuttles away. Annie stares as if waiting for an explanation, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. I've seen this look before. In fact, it's the look that Annie directs at most everyone else, a fearsome mix of anger and contempt and haughtiness. In the silence, I hear Goldie, the family retriever, barking from her pen in the backyard, the nattering of mockingbirds, the hiss of sprinklers.