Under the Mercy Trees (25 page)

33

Martin

Martin woke up in an unfamiliar room, wearing a pair of large men's Christmas pajamas, the red flannel still bearing the creases of store packaging. One of the more surreal awakenings he'd experienced but not the only strange one. He sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor, rating his hangover an eight on a ten-point scale. He walked over to the window and looked through the blinds. Liza's front yard. At least now he knew where he was. Scattered memories from the night before pasted themselves together in a familiar collage of remorse.

The house was silent. An alarm clock by the bed said eleven o'clock. Liza and her daughters would be at school. He had missed his exam at the community college. So much for his job. He opened the bedroom door and walked out the front door to the porch, closing the door softly behind him. The sun was bright enough to stab. He held onto the porch rail and closed his eyes.

The screen door flapped open, and Raby stepped out on the porch. The door banged behind him, hurting Martin's head. Raby handed him a mug of black coffee, keeping another for himself.

Martin wrapped his fingers around the mug, too dispirited to thank him, and looked out at the yard. “I'll be out of here shortly.” He was sure Raby would want him gone, and probably Liza would too.

“Don't go avoiding her. You owe her that much, at least.”

“I doubt she'll want to talk to me after last night.”

“She ain't wrote you off yet.”

“Why hasn't she,” Martin said under his breath, not for Raby to hear.

“Boy, you know how it is with certain people in your life. People you knew when you were young, when the cracks to your heart were still open. She'll take all kinds of crap from you. If I thought it hurt her I'd put a stop to it, one way or another, but it doesn't. She's not stupid about you. She just loves your sorry ass, as much as you'll let her.”

“I love her, too,” Martin said.

“I know you do, as best you can.” Raby clapped him on the back, rippling Martin's coffee.

“I was never jealous of you.” Raby was completely matter-of-fact, not threatening or insulting. “When I first started going with Liza, everybody told me I could never compete with you, but I never worried. I've known some other men like you. I say, so what. Liza knows, too. You aren't fooling her either.”

“I figured that,” Martin said.

Raby set his coffee mug down on the rail. “You want anything to eat?”

Martin shook his head, wincing as his brain sloshed from side to side.

“Anyway, you need to tell Liza you're sorry the next time you see her. Right now, go ahead and get cleaned up.”

Martin looked down at the pajamas he was wearing. The felt Santa stitched to the front leered up at him.

“You can keep those,” Raby said. A laugh tried to crack his straight face.

“Let me guess. From your girls.”

“I hadn't had a chance to open them yet.”

“I bet.”

Raby picked up his mug and poured the rest of his coffee over the porch rail. “Come on. I'll lend you a razor. Liza washed and pressed your clothes.”

Thanks to Raby's hot shower and shaving supplies, Martin didn't look or smell too bad when he left Liza's. He got in his truck. Raby had pushed the seat back, to accommodate his longer legs. Martin readjusted it and drove toward his apartment, thinking about Liza.

*  *  *

When her father died, Martin made his way by ferry and bus across the state, arriving in Whelan the evening before the funeral. He hitched a ride to Liza's house. A full moon lit up the yard, its white light overpowering the artificial lights that blazed in the house and on the porch. The visitation was winding up. People walked back to the cars they had parked all along the street and on to the next block. Couples passed him, shaking their heads, still murmuring their regrets. Dr. Vance was much loved.

Dirty and rumpled from traveling, Martin stood in the front yard for a moment before going in. The door opened. Liza's aunt Fran told a visitor a gracious good-bye, her deep voice following the man down the wide porch steps and out to the walk. Martin started up onto the porch, and Aunt Fran saw him. “Martin.” She grabbed his arm, almost pinching it as she pulled him inside. “Honey, I'm glad you're here. I'm so worried about Liza.”

He stepped into the foyer of Liza's house. A slight clinical odor from Dr. Vance's infirmary underlay the house's other smells: funeral cooking, aging books, the housekeeper's furniture polish, the light scent of wildflowers that was Liza's own. He left his duffel bag in a corner and followed Aunt Fran to the formal dining room, where covered dishes weighed down a large antique table and matching sideboard. A dozen people huddled in small groups, eating and talking quietly. Liza stood on the far side of the room, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was as pale as he had ever seen her. She clutched a white china cup, as if for warmth. A woman beside her talked at her, her fingers touching Liza's arm. Martin could tell Liza wasn't taking in anything the lady said.

Aunt Fran said, “Liza, Martin's here.” He walked across the room. Liza saw him and reached out helplessly. He took the cup out of her hand and set it on the table and wrapped his arms around her. Her sobs were hoarse. He felt them rattle against his chest. Aunt Fran waved the other mourners away from them. Liza drew in a deep breath to try to calm herself. She lifted her head. “Can you take me away from here? I don't want to see any more people.”

“Go change clothes. I'll get your car keys,” he said.

Liza left the room, wiping her eyes. Aunt Fran sent him a questioning look from over by the door. He tried to reassure her with a nod and went into the kitchen, where the keys to Liza's Sunliner hung on a hook above the sink. Aunt Fran entered the kitchen.

“I'm going to take her for a drive,” he said.

“Do what you can for her, Martin. She's about to fall apart. I don't know how she's going to get through the funeral tomorrow.” Aunt Fran blinked back tears. Her striking gray hair, normally perfect, was falling out of its bun. She could have used Martin's comfort, too, but Martin just stood there, awkward.

Liza came into the kitchen wearing jeans and a sweater. The night air was cooling off. She slipped a cold hand into his and tugged him toward the door without speaking.

“We won't be out too late,” he told Aunt Fran.

Liza let him drive. In high school she always drove. She was better at it than he was and didn't adhere to the southern female tradition of ceding the wheel to a male. But that night she was in no shape to drive. Her whole body shook. Long shudders ran through muscles that had held tight for too long. He grasped her hand to try to calm the shaking.

He took the winding road up to Rendezvous Falls, where there would be no traffic and they could just drive. Moonlight flooded farmland on both sides, then spiked plant shadow into the road when they entered woods. The Sunliner climbed without effort. Liza cried in a whisper in the passenger seat.

The car glided around a last curve, and Rendezvous Falls rose up out of the darkness, wide bands of white water dropping forty feet to the rocky base below. Martin parked and got out to open Liza's door. The waterfall sprayed them with a greenhouse mist. She shivered, but before he could tell her to get back in the car, where it was warm, she had brushed past him and started up the worn trail to the top of the falls. He grabbed a flashlight from the car and stumbled after her. Plants on either side of the trail reached for his clothing, rhododendron and holly branches, a tangle of galax and sedge, dog hobble and others his mother had taught him the names of. Where overhanging branches obscured the moonlight, Martin shone the flashlight just in front of Liza's feet so she could see where to step.

They came out on the bald rock face above the falls. Martin called out to Liza to be careful, but the noise of the waterfall covered his voice. He stepped closer and touched her arm. “Let's go back.”

She pointed to the long crevice that ran like a gutter down behind the waterfall itself. “Come with me.”

“No, Liza.”

“Please,” Liza said. In the moonlight, Martin could see the tracks tears had made on her cheeks. When he didn't move, she took the flashlight from him and sat down in the fold of rock, letting herself slide a few steep inches at a time until she disappeared behind the wall of water.

Droplets thickened the night air. Over the pounding of the water Martin thought he heard Liza call his name. He knew how little he had to offer her, but he couldn't leave her on her own. He followed her down.

At the bottom, Liza stood on a relatively dry shelf of rock about five feet deep. The stone wall behind her angled forward, leaving just enough headroom for them to stand. He reached out to touch the sheet of water that coursed past them. It stung his hand. He turned back to Liza. She had set the flashlight down and was taking off her sweater, then her blouse, moving toward him as she undid the buttons. She wasn't wearing a bra. The light from the flashlight carved a deep shadow between her bare breasts. She dropped her clothes and stepped toward him, pressing against him, slipping her hands under his shirt. He traced her breasts with his thumbs. She pulled his head down and kissed him, vulnerable, needy, her tongue pushing into his mouth, her teeth clicking against his. She tilted her hips upward, grinding against him, fumbling with the zipper on his pants.

He and Liza had made out many times, before he met Deke Armstrong. Martin remembered heat between them but felt none of it now, only the coolness of the rock behind him sweeping a stripe across his back. He pulled away from her and held her wrists when she tried to reach down to touch him. She was frantic. “I want you inside me. Why are you stopping?”

He couldn't answer. She searched his face and then let out a wail that echoed past the tons of water that rushed in front of them. He let go of her arms. She turned and picked up her clothes from where she had dropped them, pushing Martin away when he tried to help her put them on. He retrieved the flashlight and helped her climb back up the crevice to the rock face. She wept all the way back to the car, her mouth and arms open but empty of him.

*  *  *

It was one of the great blessings of Martin's life that Liza had become his friend again after enough time had passed, and now he'd blown it.

He drove the rest of the way to Hodge's house and let himself into the apartment. The garbage bag he used to hold his empty bottles bulged from under the kitchen sink. He pulled the bag out. He could sneak and dump it before Hodge and Claudie got home. His last bottle of Scotch sat on top of the minifridge, an inch of amber liquid in the bottom. Not enough. He pulled out his wallet and counted the bills remaining from his paycheck. When he took out the money for his rent, there was just enough left for the booze he needed. He would worry about food later. He stuffed bills, mostly singles, back into his wallet. The money made the billfold too fat, and he started taking things out that he no longer needed—his New York library card, his expired Authors Guild membership, the stub from his last plane ticket. Behind a dead credit card he found the photograph of him and Liza that Leon had taken at their graduation. The image had flaked, leaving a white gash like a wound across Liza's cheek.

34

Bertie

Bertie ended up being the one that had to go with Bobby to see the sheriff.

“I can't get off work for it, Bertie. I already used up all my leave,” James said.

“Can't it wait until your day off?”

“I don't think it'd look good if we tried to put it off.”

“James, please don't make me. Can't he go by himself?”

“Somebody has to keep him from talking too much or getting his temper up. I'm sorry.” He looked as upset as Bertie felt, so she let him alone.

Bobby picked her up a little before eleven and told her Cherise would drive her own car and meet them at the Sheriff's Department. When they got there, Cherise was walking Haylee in the lobby, trying to get her to stop screaming. Bertie started toward Cherise with arms stretched out to take the baby, but Cherise pulled Haylee away. Bertie dropped her arms.

Sheriff Metcalf must have been watching for them. He came right out.

“Hey there, Bertie, Bobby, Cherise. I appreciate y'all coming. If you don't mind, I'm going to meet with Cherise by herself first.”

Haylee was still squalling.

“Bobby, how about taking the baby so Cherise and me can talk,” the sheriff said.

Bobby didn't look happy. “Can't we go in together?”

“I'd rather talk to each of you separately.” The sheriff waited. He was calm, but he expected to be obeyed.

Cherise shrugged a diaper bag off her shoulder and dropped it on the floor, then rolled the screaming baby into Bobby's arms. The way he held her was all wrong. As soon as the sheriff and Cherise had disappeared down the hall, Bertie took the baby from Bobby, and Haylee stopped crying. Bertie reached down with her right hand and felt around in the diaper bag until she found a bottle of formula. Cherise didn't want to mess with breast-feeding, which was too bad because a mother's milk does make a baby stronger. Bertie breast-fed all hers. Eugenia tried with her daughter, but her milk didn't have any strength to it. The doctor made her go out and get Karo syrup to mix with condensed milk. That was the only thing Bertie ever did better than Eugenia. Of course Eugenia's daughter lived off somewhere now and made a lot of money, and Bertie's breast-fed Bobby was still here, causing aggravation.

“Get that bag,” she said to Bobby. “I'm going to go sit over here.” She sat down in the lobby's softest chair and gave Haylee the bottle. The poor little thing sucked on it like she was starving. Bertie bent down to kiss her head. Cherise wore some perfume that had rubbed off on Haylee, but Haylee's natural baby smells came through it, so sweet.

Bobby sat in the chair next to Bertie. He leaned forward, fidgeting. “What's he asking her in there?”

Bertie looked around. Deputies and secretaries ignored them. “Don't talk so loud.”

He lowered his voice. “That deed is genuine, Mama.”

“Bobby.”

“It is!”

Haylee took her mouth off the bottle to breathe. “Hand me a cloth,” Bertie said. Bobby dug in the diaper bag and handed her a burping cloth. Bertie draped it over her shoulder and lifted Haylee up. The baby's head wobbled against her cheek. “You're better off not saying anything than saying something that's a flat lie,” she whispered. “I mean that, Bobby.”

Bobby swore and got up. He went outside to pace. That was all right. She and Haylee were fine without him. Bertie burped the baby, then laid her on her lap and played with her fingers until Haylee fell asleep.

Cherise was in with the sheriff for about twenty minutes. Bertie couldn't read her face when she came out. Cherise was used to hiding things from people.

“The sheriff says go on back. Give me the baby.”

Bertie handed Haylee over without waking her up and went outside to fetch Bobby, and she and Bobby walked down the short hall to Sheriff Metcalf's office.

Men didn't decorate. The only thing hanging on the sheriff's wall was a map of Willoby County. His desk and the bookshelf behind him were dark brown laminate. On the shelf were a dozen or so trophies the Sheriff's Department's sports teams had won, going back to the two sheriffs before Wally Metcalf. Things were dusted, though. The sheriff was not messy, Bertie had to admit. There were papers and files here and there, but they were patted into neat piles. He had one file open in front of him. She tried to see if it was Leon's, but the sheriff had laid a piece of paper over it.

“Y'all have a seat. Thanks again for coming in.” There were two chairs facing his desk. He came around and pulled one out for Bertie, then closed his office door. Bobby waited until the sheriff had sat back down before taking the second chair. Bobby looked surly, there was no other word for it. Bertie wished James was here instead of her.

Sheriff Metcalf didn't waste time. He leaned forward, lacing the fingers of his hands together, and locked eyes with Bobby. “Tell me about this deed.”

Bobby squirmed. “Didn't Cherise tell you?”

“I'd like to hear it from you.”

Bobby gave a big sigh, like he was put out. “Leon must have mailed it before he went missing, and it got delayed. It had Cherise's trailer park address on the envelope but not the lot number.”

This was a twist to the story Bertie hadn't heard before.

“So you saw the envelope?”

“Yeah, I saw it before Cherise threw it away.”

“Why in the world did she throw it away?”

“I don't know. It got in with some other stuff she threw out.”

“That's quite a coincidence, Leon sending a package to your uncle in New York and getting the address wrong, then doing the same thing with y'all.”

Bobby rubbed his finger under his nose, the way he always did when he was guilty or about to tell a lie, either one. “I guess he didn't know much about mailing stuff.”

“Which raises another question. Why would he mail you something? Why not just hand it to you the next time he saw you?”

“How should I know?” Bobby's voice went high. “How should I know why the man did what he did? Why'd he mail that book to Martin?”

Bertie reached over to lay a warning hand on Bobby's knee. He moved away from her, but he stopped talking.

Sheriff Metcalf leaned back in his chair. “See, Bobby, I just don't buy it.” He looked over at her. “And Bertie, I know you and James had nothing to do with this nonsense.”

Bertie couldn't show that she agreed with him, but she was glad he understood.

“Here's the thing, Bobby,” the sheriff said. “Even if that deed was the real thing, signed by Leon and notarized by the pope himself, it wouldn't help you out, because Leon didn't own that piece of property. I know your mama and daddy told you that after our meeting the other night.”

“Well, he could still deed his share over to me, couldn't he?” Bobby said.

“Here's what I got to say about that, and Bertie, forgive me for giving this boy a talking-to.” The sheriff pointed a finger at Bobby. “That deed is a lie. You know it and I know it. If I thought your lying about the deed meant you were lying to me about anything else connected to Leon, I'd haul you to jail so quick you wouldn't have time to blink. But I don't think that. The reason I don't think it is I don't think you're smart enough to have planned killing Leon in order to get that land.”

“Now, hold on,” Bobby said.

“You hold on, son. There's a reason I didn't ask you to bring the deed in here with you. The reason is, if you gave the deed to me, acting like it was real, I'd have to do something about it. As it is, you haven't shown it to me, and you haven't tried to record it. Let's keep it that way. Keep it at home in your bureau drawer. Consider it a souvenir of a big mistake you almost made. Don't ever try to tell anybody else it's for real. I'm giving you this chance because you got a new baby and nobody's been hurt yet by your lie. It's the only chance I'm giving you. Do you understand?”

Bobby was almost doing a dance in his chair, stamping his feet to show how offended he was, swinging his head to look anywhere but at the sheriff.

“I want to hear you say you understand me.”

“Fine!” Bobby looked down at his feet. “I understand.”

“Good.”

That was the end of it. The sheriff stood up. He walked around and held the door open for them to leave. “Thanks again for coming in.”

Bobby jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and stalked out of the office. Bobby might not be too happy, but Bertie felt better than she had in a while. If Wally Metcalf didn't think Bobby had anything to do with Leon disappearing, then he must not have. She felt an easing of the anxiousness that had come from not being sure about her son.

Cherise was waiting for them in the lobby. She and Bobby exchanged a look, and Bertie knew they would compare notes later, when she wasn't around.

They pushed through the double glass doors of the Sheriff's Department, out into bright sunlight. Cherise knew enough to pull a corner of Haylee's blanket over her head for protection.

“Y'all come back to the house for some lunch,” Bertie said. “Leave Cherise's car here, and we'll all ride together. I'll watch the baby for you this afternoon so you can get out.” She made the offer carefully, afraid Cherise would say no just for spite, but Cherise was ready for a break. “All right,” she said. They walked to Bobby's truck.

Bertie rode in the middle, with Cherise on her right holding the sleeping baby. Bobby and Cherise wouldn't use a car seat, even though James got them a perfectly good one at a yard sale. Cherise said a baby belonged in its mother's lap. Haylee's little lips moved in a dream, like a dog's legs do when it imagines chasing rabbits. Bertie felt like all the cars on the road were aiming at them, ready to hit them and make that sweet child go flying through the windshield. Bobby got right up on the tail of other drivers and gave the finger to two people he said cut him off. Bertie was relieved when he finally pulled into her driveway and stopped.

Cherise climbed out first and carried the baby toward the trailer. Bertie slid across the seat. She'd been forced to leave her house too many times of late and was looking forward to holing up inside. Bobby got out and slammed his door. When he did, his glove compartment opened and a man's wallet fell out in Bertie's lap. She picked it up to give to Bobby, thinking it was his, then saw the vulgar condom ring worn in thirty-year-old black leather. It was Leon's wallet.

She ran into the trailer, where Cherise and Bobby were settling the baby in the bassinet Bertie had bought to have at their house. She waved the wallet at them. “What did you do?”

Bobby's eyes got big. He raised a hand to rub under his nose, then dropped it again.

Bertie opened the wallet and turned it inside out over the floor. It was empty. “Where's his money? Leon always kept cash. Where is it?”

Bobby looked over at Cherise for an answer. She wasn't going to help him. “I don't know, Mama,” he said.

“You took it!” The wallet felt cold and dead in Bertie's hand.

“What if I did?” Bobby said, defying her. “So what if I took money out of his billfold? He owed it to me. I drove the man around whenever he needed, ran errands for him. He could have said thank you by letting me put a trailer up, but no, that was too much to ask.”

Cherise's eyes beaded out of her fat face. Bertie pointed at her. “Was she with you?”

“What?” Bobby said.

Bertie stepped up to him and slapped him with the wallet as hard as she could. “Was she there with you at Leon's?” she screamed, shocking him. Haylee woke up and started to howl.

“Jesus, Mama, get out of my face! She was there. It ain't no big deal.” He clutched his cheek where Bertie had hit him. The skin reddened under old pockmarks.

Bertie turned on Cherise LaFaye. She drove her fingernail into Cherise's chest, backed her up until Cherise had to sit down on the couch. “You put him up to this. I know you're the one got him to do it. What did the two of you do to Leon?” Bertie was screaming her throat raw. Cherise looked genuinely scared, and Bertie wanted to keep her that way.

“We didn't hurt him,” Cherise said. “All we did was take the wallet, honest! It was laying there. Leon wasn't around.”

“You lying hussy,” Bertie yelled at her.

Outside in the yard, Leon's dogs heard her and set to barking. Their noise disturbed Bertie's mama. Bertie heard her mama's screen door knock against the house and imagined her starting to walk across the road.

“Get rid of it!” Bertie grabbed Cherise by her arm and tried to haul her off the couch. Cherise lurched to her feet. Bertie shoved the wallet into Bobby's hand. “Get rid of it!” She pushed them both toward the door. Cherise dug in her heels and slipped behind Bertie, heading back into the living room toward Haylee's bassinet.

“You leave that baby here!” Bertie shrieked.

“No!” Cherise grabbed Haylee and shoved past Bertie, holding the baby away so Bertie couldn't get her. Bertie followed them out and stood in the yard while Bobby started up the truck and they pulled away. Then she kept on standing there, crying.

“Bertie?” Bertie's mama stood on her porch in her housedress.

“It's nothing, Mama.” Leon's dogs howled, as miserable as Bertie. “Go on back inside.”