Mercy (28 page)

“Why not? Castor did it enough times. The moss doesn’t seem to mind.”

“No, I mean about getting me into position.”

“Suit yourself.”

He stands slowly, extends his arms and starts shuffling in the direction of the door.

“A little to the left.”

His fingers meet the door and search out the handle.

“The porch is about six feet deep.”

“Thanks.” He hangs back, the night air on his face giving him second thoughts.

“Don’t just stand there letting the bugs in, Reverend.”

“Okay, okay.” He steps out quickly, pushing the door shut behind him. Once out of her sight, he drops again to his hands and knees. A sliver jams into his palm, and after
that he lifts his hands rather than sliding them, setting them down cautiously, like an injured cat. When one of them meets empty air, he suffers a sudden, dark vertigo, as though he’s come to the edge of a great bluff. Unwilling to stand, he rises up shakily on his knees.

His ears are ringing, insects coming at him from all sides. Waving them away with his free hand, he looses himself hurriedly from his briefs, releasing hours’ worth of urine in a hissing, splattering stream. The sound comforts him a little, along with the spreading sensation of relief. Before him, the night is vast. He shakes his penis gently before tucking it away.

There was to be no schoolroom for me that Sunday. No sweet teacher worrying, watching me where I crouched. That Sunday you kept hold of me, fingers clamped to my shoulder, digging in.

The congregation was ill at ease, but you stared them down, singing loud enough to make up for those who had trouble belting out praise in the face of my discoloured eyes. You raised your free arm as the hymn crested to its end, held it aloft in the ensuing hush.

“Brothers and sisters,” you began softly, “some things are out of our hands.”

A murmur of assent, heads nodding, front pews first, the movement rippling back. It was your special genius, Preacher, that gift for intimacy from afar. I saw them
through your eyes now—women and men, small children, even teens—all of them hungry, ready to swallow anything you saw fit to share.

You let the arm drop. “Many of you will remember when I lost my darling wife.”

Again came the murmur, reaching higher, dying back to a moan.

“Those of you who knew Jenny will remember her as a gentle soul. She was delicate, like this child. Fair.” You lifted two fingers from your grip, flicked the white-blonde curl that dangled from behind my ear. Then bowed your head. Let them hold their breath until the weaker ones began to feel faint.

“When I lost her,” you went on, raising your eyes, “I told myself the same thing I tell each and every one of you who comes to me in the shadow of grief. God never gives you more than you can handle, I told myself. He never gives you more than you can hold.”

The teacher’s face appeared at the far end of the room, wedged in the schoolroom door. Her bloodless lips were a crack like the crack where she stood, half in, half out, as though she wished to come forward but didn’t dare. As though she wished to speak.

You cleared your throat before beginning again. “I thought that was the worst I’d have to bear.” You stepped out from the pulpit and knelt down behind me. Both hands on my shoulders now, you held me out like a shield, bracing yourself against the small bones of my back. “You see this child before you?” you demanded. “This poor, afflicted child?”

The mothers surged in their pews, fighting the urge to
rush the aisle, to thunder up the stairs, and fold me—or was it you?—to their breasts.

“Maybe you’ve noticed her before. Noticed she was different, a little too quiet. Or maybe you’ve seen her throw a tantrum. Something wrong there, you might’ve thought. Something not quite right.”

As if on cue I balled up a fist and slammed it into my eye. The congregation recoiled. You caught hold of my wrists, binding them with a hand behind my back. The teacher swayed forward, then withdrew.

“I’ve taken her to the doctor,” you soldiered on, “and she is indeed afflicted. The details don’t matter. What matters, good people, is that the Lord is testing me, the Lord is laying on another Cross. Now why should I be surprised? Didn’t He test Abraham to see what he was made of? Didn’t He test a man called Job? Isn’t this very life one long test to see if we have what it takes to live forever in the glory of God?” You paused, your face working hard. “Still, you find yourself asking why. Not even, Why me, Lord? but, Why? To what purpose? What is it You want me to see? I asked these questions. Over and over I asked. And last night, brothers and sisters, the Lord answered.”

A squeal of delight sounded from halfway back.

“We have spoken often of the Godless world. Those who cannot see. Those who refuse to see. Worst of all, those who refuse to let their children see. We have spoken time and again of these lost sheep, fretted over them until we are sick to our very hearts. What can we do, Lord? we ask. How can we save them? Help them save themselves? Well, I don’t know about you, but when I have a question, there’s only one reference book for me.”

You didn’t need the Book. You’d long ago learned the effect of the memorized Word, how the Saviour Himself seemed to speak through your lips when your eyes remained free to caress the crowd.

“ ‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the Kingdom of God belongs.’ “You paused to let the passage sink in. “It’s right there in the Good Book—the Kingdom of God belongs to the children. The children are our future, not just in this life but in the next, and if that’s the case—” You rolled your eyes heavenward. “Look around you, good people. Look at the newspapers, look at your neighbours, open your eyes to the plight of the Godless children of today!”

You swept your gaze over a sea of helpless stares.

“Brothers and sisters, I have done just that, and that’s what I’m here to tell you today. By blighting this child, this
only
child of mine, the Lord Jesus has opened my eyes, opened my heart to
all
children. He has shown me that they are in need of something, in dire and desperate need.” You lowered your voice. “Today’s children need the Lord Jesus Christ. It’s that simple.”

Quantity over quality, Preacher. All that talk of children and you’d forgotten your own. I’d taken the shape of a lectern, wooden in your spirited grasp.

“Simple? you ask yourselves. Here, in the city? In this Babylon of modern life? Why, you can’t turn around without meeting temptation.” You shook your head. “So where does that leave us? Nowhere? Or does it
lead
us? Does it in fact lead us somewhere very special, somewhere holy, even, somewhere where Jesus is waiting for all those lost little children, waiting with wide open arms?” You began
gently to nod. “I spoke earlier of an answer. Well, it was more of a vision, really, a picture set before me by the Lord.”

They yearned forward in their seats. What could it be? A flood? Angelic revolution? The longed-for Day of Judgment at last?

“A camp.”

The church was all sighs. The Apocalypse was well and good, just not quite yet.

“That’s right, brothers and sisters, the Church of the Water of Life must found a camp, a sanctuary where today’s children can come to know the teachings of Jesus Christ, where today’s youth can learn to take up the Cross and follow in His path!”

The congregation began to buzz. You stood up, your grip still firm, and they lifted their adoring eyes. “And what’s more, I know just the place. The Lord has shown me.”

More than shown, Preacher—He’d taken you there the previous fall. The rural tour was nothing all that serious, mostly a lot of fishing and taking local ladies for long rides in your car. You’d planned to bypass Mercy—Jenny had spoken of it rarely, and always with regret—but in the end curiosity won out. Good thing, too. It turned out your late wife’s hometown had a fine-looking woman for a mayor.

You couldn’t see it, could you, Preacher? The same slight hips and wrists, the glowing hair and eyes. Only my mother’s flesh had lain softly on her bones, and those had been her true colours—blonde and new-leaf green. The mayor resembled her as only a golem could. You gave her life by blurring your eyes.

“Mercy,” you called out suddenly, your voice booming through the nave. “Believe it or not, brothers and sisters,
the town is called Mercy, and it’s surrounded by some of the prettiest country you’ve ever seen.” You smiled broadly. “Can you picture it? Can you see the children, the little lambs of God?”

The women were dewy-eyed, hearts in their throats, a maternal turn-on warming their laps. The men shifted on their wallet wadges, intuiting your call for funds. As if by magic, the collection plates appeared.

“Remember the words of the Lord Jesus.” Your tone was Mafia-gentle. “ ‘Anyone who is an obstacle to bring down one of these little ones who would have faith in me would be better drowned in the sea with a great millstone around his neck.’ ”

Unable to lie waiting any longer, Lavinia’s wrapped a short, matching robe around the teddy and slipped an apron on over that. She stands at the kitchen counter now, one knee propped on a chair to keep the weight off her aching heel.

The butter’s too hard, so she microwaves it for a minute on low before dumping it into the bowl. She wouldn’t even have it in the house, but Mama’s cookies call for a full cup of unsalted, and there’s no point making them if she doesn’t do it right. She squashes the beaters into the yellow mess and switches them on, adding sugar in a gradual stream.

She has the recipe firmly by heart. It stands to reason—Mama demands them every visit. Doesn’t know her own name, but knows she wants those cookies, and won’t be fooled by store-bought, or even bakery-fresh.

It’s the first time Lavinia’s been moved to bake them for a lover. Late start or no, she’s had a fair number of men in her bed—in her life, even, for a few months at a time—but none she’s been tempted to spoil.

She cracks and adds two large eggs, watches them whirl and disperse. Fighting the urge to lick the beaters, she sets the mixer aside and begins folding in flour, soda and salt.

The thing is, Carl isn’t just
any
man. She knew it the moment he set foot in her office last fall. He was on a tour of Manitoba towns, he explained, scouting possible locations for a satellite church. She’d never heard anyone speak with such passion. He went on at glorious length about the Water of Life, his desire to pour it like a healing balm all over her town. Raised United, Lavinia had rarely missed a Sunday service in her life. It was a detail that played well during elections, but the truth was, she hadn’t felt a thing for Jesus in years. Until Carl. The way he talked that day, she felt some part of her rise up joyfully, as if in recognition of its spiritual home.

Hugging the mixing bowl to her belly, she tips in a cup of slivered almonds, then two cups of semi-sweet chocolate broken into jagged chunks.

They both knew there was nothing spiritual about the invitation she issued—dinner at her place, a couple of T-bones and a good bottle of wine—yet he accepted without batting an eye. He wasn’t a generous lover. He didn’t kiss her fingers or stroke her neck, didn’t deliberately please her in any way. Just backed her up against the china cabinet and made her come harder than ever before.

He was gone when she woke at six. She went for her usual run, held off phoning the Mercy Motor Inn until
shortly before lunch. Only then did she learn he’d checked out before coming over. Packed his bags and had them waiting in the car.

A glob of ready dough bristles on her wooden spoon. She eyes it steadily, considers gobbling it down, then takes a deep breath and scrapes it loose with the rubber spatula, letting it drop to the Teflon sheet.

Despite her prior experience with casual encounters, Carl’s wordless departure caught Lavinia by surprise. Wounded her, even. For months she expected to hear from him—she simply couldn’t believe there wasn’t more. It turned out she was right. Three weeks ago to the day, she glanced up from her Powerbook to find the prodigal lover returned.

It seems a body’s demons inevitably humiliate its flesh—even a magnificent body like the Reverend’s. Having watched him stumble back across the room and lower himself clumsily into bed, Mary can’t help but compare him with the only other man in her life. It was a good night when Castor found his way between the covers. Many a morning she awoke to find him splayed out on the floor.

She got hold of a bottle herself once, when she was all of nine years old. It had nothing to do with getting drunk. She wanted to see things the way Castor did, even though the visions left him weak as a kitten—as if he’d run the whole way there and back instead of slipping through
space. The rye looked sweet, but it went down fiery and sour. She managed half a quart, didn’t see a thing but the floor flying up to meet her.

Castor never let her forget how he saved her life that day. He must have told the story a thousand times—not as a reminder of how much she owed him, but as a testament to the depth of his love.

“So in I come and there you lie, dead to the world with a dead soldier leakin’ beside. I look down on your skinny back and I think, No. No way in hell is my Mary dead. So I lift up my hands. I can barely stand, but I lift ’em and I say, Arise. You don’t, so I cross my fingers, both hands, mind, and this time I yell it—Arise! Arise and live!”

Here her own memory kicks in—the moment when, in response to his bellowed command, she let out a groan, rolled over on her side and started chucking it all up. Castor fell down on his knees beside her and gathered her hair in his hands, holding it back from the mess.

When she was all emptied out, he took her by the shoulders and shook her, then pulled her against him, holding her so she could scarcely breathe. “Christ, girl, what in hell do you want with that poison? You wanna end up like ol’ Castor? Wanna rot yourself clean through?”

Later, he put the kettle on to boil and made her drink a whole pot of Labrador tea. From then on he kept liquor out of her way whenever he had the wits to think of it. He needn’t have bothered. That once was all it took to put her off the taste of it for life.