A Matter of Mercy (4 page)

“She’s in the hospital tonight.”

“Oh no, is she worse?”

“I don't know. The doctor says it’s terminal, but not right now. This is to drain fluid from her lung so she’ll be more comfortable. I was already there most of the day. She’ll be home again tomorrow. She’s on hospice. I’m hoping to be able to keep her at home—I mean, you know, the whole time.”

He shook his head in sympathy. “You want a beer?”

Caroline was confused. “You want to go into town?”

“No. Here. I got it,” he said, interrupting. Rooting again, under his seat this time, he pulled out first one, then a second bottled beer and handed one to Caroline after he flicked off the cap with his thumb. “Warm,” he said, an apology.

Caroline gave a small shiver. “It’s just as well. Warm’s good.”

Rid made no comment but started the truck up again and put the heat on. Caroline stuck her hands in front of the vent.

Fists of rain pummeled the top and hood and the jumble of equipment and nursery bags in the truck bed. No lights at all now from the rise around the bay inlet. Rid sucked a long draw of beer and sighed. “Power’s out. I hope my nets don’t get too fouled.”

“Weird, isn’t it? I mean logically, you wouldn’t think more water,” she gestured at the rain, “could mess up things that already grow under water.”

Rid pulled in his chin and looked at her sidelong.

“What?”

He rolled his eyes. “God, that’s so
woman
.”

“That sounds dangerously like an insult, Mr. Neal. How so?”

“Using logic to be completely illogical.”

Caroline smacked his sleeve with the back of her hand.

They teased that way for several more minutes. Rid drained his beer and when Caroline finished hers, he pulled two more out from under the seat. Again, he popped off the top before handing Caroline hers.

“Sir, you are a gentleman,” she said lightly.

“Uh oh. Sounds like a compliment. A minute ago you were as good as calling me a pig.”

“Okay. A gentlemanly pig.”

In full darkness now, the rain flogged on. The truck felt like a tank to Caroline, impervious, though every now and then the force of the wind swayed it and occasional debris banged the exterior. Rid glanced at the bay, winced, and looked away. There were breakers, as if they were on the ocean side instead of in the quiet natural harbor.

The second beer and most of the third and fourth were spent on comparing kids they’d known in high school, cataloging geeks, preps, dopers, drudges. “You were just a baby,” she complained. “You’re naming people who were little brothers and sisters of people in my class.”

“Oh, yeah, and you are sooo ancient.”

They went on to teachers, praising a few, trashing more. “Nah,” he said once. “Didn’t take Algebra or Geometry, none of that stuff. General math, and I do believe I failed it, too. Truth is I pretty much fit the stereotype of the dumb local. I was probably the mold for it, in fact. Had a
lot
of fun, though.” He laughed and shook his head. After that, Caroline was careful not to talk about teachers who’d had only college prep classes. American History, English and Government; everybody had to take those. Not French, not Chemistry, not Anatomy and Physiology.

When he said no, he hadn’t taken Music and not Art either, she said, “Why didn’t you? I mean, you’re smart, Rid. You could have gone to college. Did you just not want to?”

“Outta my league. God, I spent more time suspended than I did in class. I could talk a good game, but I never could keep it together to pay attention to all that stuff when it came to taking tests or writing reports. Plus no money for it. Plus it did not sound like fun.”

Her old teaching mind wondered if he had a learning disability and she asked if he’d ever been tested. Dyslexia? Attention deficit disorder?

“Prob’ly. Don’t remember, don’t care.” He looked at her then and grinned. “Listen to you.
Teacher
. Why’d you really quit anyway?”

There was a strange vulnerability in the question, Caroline thought. Still, she didn’t like his pressing her. She’d already put him off the subject once, and he was risking the implicit rejection were she to shut him down again. She hesitated, an honest answer on one side of the balance scale in her mind, a joke on the other. She looked across at him, weighing her response. The darkness erased the squint and sun lines around his eyes and the sanded tan of his skin. He had a light growth of beard on his square jaw, and in this light, he looked young, like a memory of himself years ago.

“You must know about it. It was in the papers. The accident.”

He swung his head no. “What accident? Was this while I was in prison?”

Caroline realized he was reminding her of his history. “It was such a big story, I mean, I assumed you’d know.”

“What happened?” Again, the forthright question. She’d never seen before how asking a question left you unguarded, sometimes as much as giving an answer.

But still, she couldn’t say it headlong, give it out straight. “There was an accident,” she said. “A fatal accident. Actually, a lot of lives were lost. Including but not especially mine. And that’s why I got divorced, too. Or, more accurately, I should say
was
divorced.” Her little laugh was almost a giggle, the scalloped edge of drunkenness.

“How so?”

Pleased that she’d been clever, leading him to a branch off the main path he’d been following, she tipped her head back onto the headrest and exhaled. “I was the divorced, not the divorcee. I mean, the divorcee wasn’t actually the divorcer. She was the divorced.”

“Huh?”

Giggles, like bubbles through the wand of her mouth. “A divorce was enacted upon me, I was not the enactor.”

He wasn’t as far gone as she. Maybe he’d had a late lunch. He didn’t laugh. “You mean you didn’t want the divorce? That’s rough. Did he have someone else?”

“Not then, but now. And a baby.”

“Why’d he want a divorce?”

Was there no end to these naked questions? They weren’t so bothersome now, though. She felt almost nothing when she answered, “He wanted children. I couldn’t bear—get it, bear? —to have them. A plus B equals C. Oh, sorry. I forgot about you and math.” She was short-changing him with her flippancy, and she suddenly felt cheap, a too-bright portrait of herself. “The
couldn’t
was a
wouldn’t
turned to stone. There’s just too much
bad
that can go down. I couldn’t give it a chance to happen again,” she said quietly.

It was more than she’d said to anyone about it almost ever. Rid gave an empathetic
yeah
, that he got it, how things could turn out that way. Caroline shook her head, and he started to say something else when his stomach made a feral growl. He slapped a hand against his belly and laughed.

“You want something to eat?” she said, glad to divert him.

Rid peered through the windshield, squinting as if he could discern something, but the darkness was exceptional, elemental and mysterious. To their left, Caroline could make out stutters of white surf lines that broke like arguments, the incoming tide hard and its own answer.

“Drive between lightning strikes, huh? Where do you want to go? Couple places in Eastham got generators, might be open. Road might be closed, though. Prob’ly trees down.” Rid leaned forward and grasped the key, dangling from the ignition as it had been when they got in.

“My house,” she said, reaching to stop him. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d think about letting that truck move, not with someone who’d been drinking at the wheel. She’d put her body in front of it first. And not entirely because of her history, reason enough, but she wanted his company, a small bonfire by which to warm herself. He had a good laugh, chest-deep and unreserved.

“That wind is dangerous. Debris flyin’. And we’ll get wet,” he said. It was several hundred yards across open beach just to the dirt lane in front of Caroline’s path, another hundred feet to her house.

“A big problem, that one, since I’m so incredibly dry right now.” She held up a strand of wet hair for him to inspect. “Fortunately, I don’t melt. Do you?”

“I work the flats. Let’s go.” With that, Rid flung open his door. He’d made it almost around the truck as Caroline was still getting out of her side and he grabbed her elbow and tried to slam her door hard, as he had his, but the wind fought him for it until he used two hands and the weight of his body to lever it. He shouldered a half-step ahead of her into open beach and hammering rain. Sometimes the wind pinned them in place or lurched them backward. Rid grabbed her hand as they pressed on, heads down. Once he jerked her sharply to the side to avoid a long chunk of driftwood. Flocks of debris had taken to the air, as beach grass flattened under the torrent. Rid tripped. “Watch it,” he yelled as he caught his balance. The umbrella of pines and hardwoods only slightly dulled the density of the rain once they crossed the lane, where Caroline splashed calf deep into a dirt pothole, another spill of water into one of Eleanor’s boots, and were on the brief pine straw path. The darkness was primal, the edges of the house utterly obscured. Caroline pitched forward when she miscalculated where the first step should be, her feet slogging in waterlogged shoes inside waterlogged boots. She dumped both on the front porch.

Inside, they were both gasping. “Whooie,” Rid said. “Nasty night.”

Caroline felt for furniture edges and walls, making her way to the corner cabinet drawer handle, her feet cold in wet socks. Yes. Still there, a supply of candles and matches. There were flashlights in the emergency box in the basement, and a Coleman stove and lantern, but she wanted the candles. She struck a match and used its small circle of amber light to find a wick that in turn made a bigger circle. “Hold this.” She handed the first candle to Rid while she used its light to gather up holders. She took back the lit candle and used it to light five more, finally setting up the one she held and distributing them about the room. Self-conscious, she tried to finger-fluff her hair, but it was too wet. She imagined it, drab and flat, and was glad for the darkness. She shivered and clung briefly to her own elbows, feeling gangly and uncomfortable in her skin and clothes.

“I gotta get out of these,” Rid said. He unhooked the suspenders of his waders and peeled them down, stepping out of them. “I’m sorry about the mess,” he said, pointing with his head toward the wet spots around him.

“Forget it. I did at least as much damage as you. Wet floors are the least of our problems.”

“Hmmm. What’s the most of them?”

Caroline opened the refrigerator door. “Food. Everything I’ve got is, um, let’s see…applesauce…ice cream…mashed potatoes…you’ll love the contents of my refrigerator if you’re a hospice patient. Ah ha. Now we’re making some progress.” She pulled out a block of cheddar cheese. “I can’t believe we don’t have any oysters. How derelict of you!” She closed the refrigerator and started opening cupboards. “But look! Hospice comes through again—saltines. And the true
bonanza
, which I can’t say is hospice fare, but actually caregiver fare.” She lifted a bottle of cabernet sauvignon over her head triumphantly. “This stuff may have been here since 1980, but hey, it all improves with age, right?”

“Of course. Like the lady.”

“You sweet talker you.”

Caroline handed him the bottle and an opener. “You may do the honors, sir. I’ll fix us emergency rations.”

“You got it, sweetheart.” It was a bad imitation of some movie star she couldn’t identify, but Caroline smiled. “Not only that, I’ll get a fire going. Where’s your wood?”

“Ah, well. Didn’t get around to that yet.”

Rid shrugged. “I guess you haven’t been back that long. Sure your Mom doesn’t have any?”

“No wood. We can set the couch on fire if you want. Or you can just open the wine.” Caroline searched the cupboards, finding a can of marinated mushrooms and a jar of artichoke hearts to drain and add to the tray of cheese and crackers, baby carrots and Granny Smith slices she’d scrounged from the refrigerator. Little party toothpicks and napkins from one of the hutch drawers, leftovers from her wedding to Chuck, completed the spread.

Rid whistled. “Not bad. Wicked good, in fact.”

The beer they’d had in the truck first. Candles on the mantelpiece, candles on the coffee table, the tray of food between them, the wine glasses refilled and then refilled again, the afghan knit by Caroline’s grandmother around both their backs, the wind and rain beating on the windows. His hand on her thigh in sympathy when she got teary about Eleanor dying. Later when Caroline tried to figure out why this time, this man—Rid, of all unlikely choices—she catalogued these elements and was ashamed that she’d just had too much to drink and succumbed.

No place felt clear of baggage except the floor, which had been Caroline’s choice, so they’d started on the braided rug and the good green quilt she’d dragged out, but it hadn’t been long before they agreed they were both too old to lie on the floor and pretend they were comfortable. Rid had tried to lead her to the hospital bed, but she’d resisted. Her own room had a narrow twin. They ended up in the big bed in Eleanor’s room, no longer in use.
My parents’ bed
, she thought afterward.