Under the Mercy Trees (18 page)

25

Martin

Martin woke up in his clothes, teeth furry, the outside door to the apartment unlocked. When he got up to pee his head still buzzed. He looked out the basement window, set just a few inches above the frosted ground. February was depressing no matter where you were. It was late morning on a Saturday. After two whole days of white-knuckled self-deprivation, he had fallen headfirst off the wagon, landing mangled on the pavement like roadkill. No memory of how he got home from the bar last night. Leon's green truck sat in the driveway, parked more or less straight. He went outside to check it. No new scratches or dents. A Styrofoam box, his leftover supper, sat in the passenger seat, so no one drove home with him.

Another lost trip home.

Back inside, the house was quiet. Hodge and Claudie were in Georgia for a bridge tournament. Martin couldn't relate to their passion for the card game, but there was something sweet about this thing they had found to do together in their middle years. And it gave Martin the house to himself most weekends.

He straightened the apartment, emptying his wastebasket into the garbage bag Claudie left in the downstairs hall, but bagging his liquor bottles separately, to drop in a Dumpster the next time he was out. Hodge and Claudie liked him. He didn't want them counting the bottles. During the week, when abstinence failed, he did his drinking late at night so he'd be sober if they invited him upstairs for dinner or to watch television.

His briefcase was spilling over with the irrelevant memos that clogged his faculty mailbox every day. The college didn't pay him enough to read them. He threw them away and pulled out the first stack of papers his students had turned in. He had made the assignment glibly, forgetting how much work it was going to be to grade the papers. He put them on top of his minifridge. In the side pocket of his briefcase were the photos Leon had sent. He took them out for another look. Still no word on Leon's medical problem. Martin had thought at first that Leon sent the photos by accident, forgetting they were tucked in the back of the ledger, but if Leon were seriously ill, he may have wanted the photos out of his house, afraid of who would find them if he died. If so, Martin was an unlikely trustee.

He put the photos back in his briefcase, trying to identify the tight feeling in his rib cage, the tinny taste in his mouth. He thought it might be hunger and went upstairs to the family kitchen to forage. Claudie had cleaned up before she left. The Formica tabletop gleamed. Packages of cookies sat on the counter, but nothing tempted him. The harvest yellow refrigerator hummed in the quiet, displaying family photos, birthday cards, scribbled notes. Martin realized he was lonely.

He was not one to take time for loneliness. He had spent the past decades surrounded by men. One-time men in bars where he went equipped with his bar name and not enough money. The loud, fluid group of men he and Dennis called friends, the ones AIDS hadn't culled, men he realized now were more Dennis's friends than his, if they were anyone's. Always someone around to shout down any introspection. Until now.

He opened a package of vanilla wafers, just for something to do. One other time he had felt like this, during the mosquito-ridden summer of 1955, when Deke Armstrong got a part in the
Lost Colony
outdoor drama in Manteo, on Roanoke Island on North Carolina's outer banks, and Martin followed him there.

*  *  *

It was Deke's second summer in Manteo, a waterfront town of a few hundred people if you didn't count tourists. A friend of Deke's got Martin a job as desk boy at the newly opened Queen Elizabeth Inn, its fake English half-timbering a tribute to the queen's failed colonization efforts. The hotel took money out of employee paychecks for room and board and the cost of laundering their logoed shirts, but the job still paid better than picking cucumbers or tobacco. Even if Deke hadn't invited Martin to follow him, Martin would have found a job somewhere other than Willoby County.

Deke didn't suggest Martin live with him, and Martin didn't ask. Deke and three other men in the cast rented a dilapidated house on the beach south of Nags Head, over the Washington Baum Bridge from Manteo. Sand drifted against the east side of the house, threatening to bury it. Weather had warped the wooden shingles on the outside walls and knocked some out like teeth. Green mold streaked the window frames, and storms had ripped away the screens on the sleeping porch, but the house's crooked wooden stairs led right to the beach. Deke and his friends partied there every night until three or four in the morning. The actors didn't have to be back at the theater until the next afternoon. Martin's own shift started at eight in the morning, but he was young. He bought a used bicycle to make the five-mile trip from the inn to the beach house, pedaling over the long, flat bridge. On the Nags Head side, old hurricane floods had caved in the sides of the road. Sand blew over pavement. Scrub grew along the road, keeping its head low, knowing the wind would strip bald any branch that reached too high. In the early mornings Martin could ride the entire flat route without meeting a single car.

For four weeks, it was paradise. The houses on either side were unoccupied that summer, and at night the beach was pitch-black—except for the bonfire they built, the stars, and the faraway light from the Bodie Island lighthouse. Martin and Deke could be ten yards away from the others, screwing right there in the sand, and no one could see. They knew but they couldn't see. He and Deke came back to the fire with sand burns on their bodies, their eyes feverish. Deke moved away from Martin around the circle, molding the conversation, putting upstarts in their places, standing at ease in his perfect skin. Martin tossed driftwood and debris onto the fire, watching sparks cascade, then die on the sand. When Deke looked at him, the heat that shimmered over the fire softened his hard face. Martin rode back to the inn at sunrise and suffered through his shift until he could return for more.

Liza wrote him long letters that summer, witty and full of questions. When the first one arrived, Martin realized that in his infatuation with Deke, he hadn't thought of her once. Feeling guilty, he stole a postcard from a room the maids had left open, with a picture of the hotel on the front, and wrote her a few words on the back. He would have to tell her his plans had changed but not yet.

The fourth week, an Englishman named Clive Davies moved into the beach house after his landlady in Manteo evicted him. Clive played Sir Walter Raleigh in the play and coached the other actors on the proper British accent for their lost colonists. He was a prick. He pronounced his last name “Davis.” The extra
e
only reinforced Martin's contempt. He was loud, had lived in London, and was far more interesting than Martin or anyone else there, except Deke. Deke made fun of Clive, using Martin to test out his cutting jokes about English pansies.

Monday was Martin's day off, and there was no performance of
The Lost Colony
that day. Deke usually slept until one. Early in the afternoon, when he thought Deke would be awake, Martin got on his bike and pedaled out to the beach house.

When he walked in the door, a stray cast member lay facedown on a tattered sofa, snoring. One of Deke's housemates stared bleary-eyed into the refrigerator, as if waiting for something palatable to appear. He didn't acknowledge Martin, who was as much a fixture at the house as he was. In the bathroom off the kitchen, a toilet flushed and someone in the shower screamed at being scalded. Martin walked down the hall to the back of the house and opened the door to Deke's room. He didn't knock because he thought he belonged there.

Deke's single bed was built into the wall. Deke's fabulous back and thigh muscles strained as he held himself above Clive Davies. That image elbowed space in the front of Martin's brain for years. Deke's perfect body, no longer his.

He stood there for a second before Clive noticed him and said, “Shit.”

Deke turned his head. And with Martin standing there in the doorway, he finished what he was doing, then pushed himself off Clive. Clive got up, patting Martin on the shoulder as he passed on his way out. “Sorry, old boy.”

Martin stared at Deke, unable to speak. The window above the bed was open. Seagulls complained and the ocean twisted and roared as it always did.

Deke picked up his shorts from the floor and put them on. “Don't be a baby about it.”

“You don't even like him!” Martin shouted stupidly.

“What does that have to do with it? Look, Martin. What did you think? That we'd live happily ever after together? Grow up, sport.” He turned his back and went over to the closet, rifling through it for a shirt.

Martin left. Out past the groggy housemates to his bike. The ride back seemed interminable. Sweltering sun had softened asphalt. It sucked at his bike tires, slowing him down. His breath ripped around the lump in his throat. He turned his handlebars and rode over sea oats and sand to the beach, where he left his bike on its side and started walking. Hot wind whipped sand against his right side, stinging his face and filling his ear with grit. When the wind let up, horseflies descended. He stepped into the water to escape the flies and felt the surf plotting, wrapping itself around his ankles and shins, trying to pull him in. The beach ran for miles, the cottages nicer and more numerous as he looked north. Staring up the beach, he was struck by the flatness of it and wanted his mountains. But he couldn't go home.

He walked down the beach until the right side of his face was numb, then turned around and went back. The hotel manager took one look at his drooping cheek and mouth and sent him to a local doctor. The doctor diagnosed Bell's palsy, brought on by the wind. He told Martin he would have feeling back in his face in a few days or a few weeks. The hotel manager took him off the front desk because his face scared the guests and put him in the laundry room. Martin was glad not to have to deal with the public. The feeling gradually returned to the right side of his face. It took longer to get other feeling back. When he could drink without drooling, he went back to the front desk. Tourists, honeymooners trooped out nightly to
The Lost Colony
and came back mosquito-bitten, talking about the performance. He listened for them to mention Deke by name. Once, a couple dropped their autographed playbill in the lobby. Martin saw them lose it, and when they went upstairs, he took it. Later, in his room, he rubbed his thumb over Deke's strong black scrawl before tucking the playbill away in a drawer.

At the beginning of the summer, Martin had shunned the other hotel workers in favor of Deke's theater crowd. By the time Deke dumped him, the hotel social group had solidified without him. He made a feeble attempt to join in, but couldn't fake enough enthusiasm for the heterosexual intrigue that went on among the young people who staffed the hotel. He worked extra shifts at night to have an excuse not to go out and slept his days away in a fog of depression.

The inn housed hotel staff in a row of closet-size rooms in the basement. The first week in August, he lay on the bed in his room with the door open to keep cool. The communal phone at the end of the hall rang. Staff were allowed incoming calls on the phone, which was connected to the hotel switchboard, but couldn't call out long distance. It suited Martin. He had no desire to call his family. They would have been bewildered if he had.

When the hall phone rang, he ignored it because it was never for him. One of the girls, who camped by the phone to take calls from a boyfriend in Raleigh, knocked on the door. “For you, Martin.”

He thought it was Deke. He got up off the narrow bed and arranged his voice, ready to sound reluctant, disinterested, when Deke asked to meet him. He took the receiver. “Hello.”

“Martin?”

It was Liza but not as he had ever heard her.

“Liza?”

“It's Daddy, Martin. He had a stroke. He's dead.”

She was crying. This was the one loss that could break Liza's cool. Martin held the receiver away from his ear, knowing that grief was coming his way, crackling through the telephone line.

“Can you come home?” she pleaded. “Please, please come home.” In the background, he could hear a female voice, soothing her.

“Who's there with you?”

“Aunt Fran. Will you please come?”

“Yes.”

“He was out seeing a patient and he collapsed. He was dead by the time they got him to the hospital.” Her voice gulped in hysterical waves. “I didn't even get to say good-bye.”

He told her he would catch the ferry to Manns Harbor in the morning and get a bus from there. He got her to put her aunt on the line, to assure him that she wouldn't leave Liza alone. As he walked back to his room, he wondered how he would pay for school now without the doctor's money, and then felt ashamed for thinking of himself instead of mourning this kind man who had believed in him. He packed his things. In his bottom dresser drawer he found the playbill he had stolen, with Deke's autograph. He had seen Deke practice his signature when he thought no one was looking. Martin tossed it in the trash can, with a pain like the tearing off of a scab.

*  *  *

The phone rang in Hodge's kitchen. Martin let the machine pick up, thinking the call was for Hodge or Claudie, but it was Steven. “Hey, Martin. They're putting Shane's monument in at noon on March second. It would mean a lot if you'd come. Holler back at me.”

On Claudie's pristine counter a single black ant darted among the vanilla wafer crumbs Martin had dropped. He crushed it with his thumb. The doctor. His mother. Shane. Leon. When he looked back on it, it was always death that brought him home.

26

Liza

Bright sunlight streamed through the windshield of Liza's pickup, trying to fool her into thinking it was warm outside. She knew better. They'd had three days of highs in the twenties, and wind gusts rocked her truck.

She had finally called Martin to accept his lunch offer. On the passenger seat, in a long manila folder, was the task she had come up with if he was serious about redeeming himself for his rudeness. He was going to hate it. She grinned as she drove the last mile to the restaurant he'd named, Bailey's Olde Time Tavern, a chain near the community college that specialized in burgers and cold draft beer. She slowed for cars trying to exit Kmart and pulled into Bailey's parking lot. They were eating early so Liza could make her daughter Sandra's horse show, and only a few other cars dotted the lot. Martin had parked his green truck as close to the entrance as he could without taking a handicap space. The truck's narrow tires seemed too flimsy to support its heavy body. Martin wasn't in the truck. She gave him points for getting here early.

She left the folder in her truck and went into the restaurant. Martin was waiting for her in front of the hostess stand, holding his briefcase, his coat draped over his arm. His eyes were bloodshot but he looked well. He'd put on some weight, no doubt from Claudie Goforth's cooking, and it became him. He kissed her on the cheek. The hostess led them to a wide booth in the nonsmoking section. Bailey's tried to look like an English pub. The booths and other woodwork were stained a dark walnut. The lighting was dim. Their booth gave them a view of no fewer than three television sets, all with the sound down, showing different Saturday sports events.

She took off her coat and held her menu close to the table's red mosaic candle holder, which sat on doilies left over from Valentine's Day, with candy hearts scattered over them.

Martin made his selection and put down his menu. He poked through the candy hearts and handed her a yellow one. “They don't have one that says ‘I'm sorry.' Will this do?”

She took it and read the message. “ ‘Hubba-hubba'?”

“And I mean that sincerely.”

“Then I accept your apology.”

Their waitress came and introduced herself. “Can I interest you in one of our draft beers today, or perhaps one of our featured cocktails?”

Liza watched Martin closely, sure that he was tempted, but he declined. “Sweet tea.”

“Tea for me also,” she said. They gave the rest of their order.

When the waitress left, Martin lifted his briefcase onto the table. “Here's what I wanted to show you.” He pulled out a ledger and a stack of photographs. He spread the pictures out on the table between them.

“This is what Leon sent you?”

“Yes.”

Liza picked up the ledger. “I know you're happy to have this.” She turned the brittle pages.

Martin pointed to the photos. “Any idea who she is?”

Liza looked, not wanting to touch any photograph taken by Leon Owenby. “No. Too bad they're so unclear.”

“My brother was no Ansel Adams. Oh, well.” He gathered the photos. Liza handed him the ledger, and he put everything back in his briefcase.

The waitress returned with two frosted beer mugs of iced tea. She tossed down cardboard coasters and straws and disappeared again.

Liza lifted her tea to her lips. Sweet but not too sweet. “Are you ready to hear what you'll be doing in order to restore yourself fully to my good graces?”

Martin looked wary. “I was hoping you'd forget about that.”

“No such luck.”

“All right. Lay it on me.”

She put her tea down. “In my truck are the semifinalists from our high school short story contest. The winner gets twenty-five dollars and publication in the school newspaper, for which yours truly is the faculty adviser. You, my dear, are my final judge.” She smiled at him, daring him to say no.

He cleared his throat. “How many stories?”

“That's the good news. Only fifteen, none longer than twelve pages. Enough to torture you but not kill you.”

He nodded his head slowly. “I can do that.” He seemed to be trying to convince himself.

“Thank you. All you have to do is pick the winner and two runners-up. And maybe write an encouraging comment or two on each one. You don't have to do a detailed critique.”

“When do you need them?”

“A month from today.” She gave a deadline six weeks before the paper actually went to press, so she could find another judge if Martin didn't come through.

He raised his mug in a toast. “It shall be done.”

The waitress brought their sandwiches. Martin slid out of the booth. “I need to use the restroom. Back in a minute.”

Liza bit into her club sandwich and turned to watch the overhead television set that was closest. The noon news was on, text running across the bottom of the screen for the hearing impaired. The word “body” jumped out at her. She swallowed her food and got up, standing on tiptoe to turn up the volume. A local reporter described the spot where a hiker had found the body of a male, on state land where the lower Jefferson River fed into the creek that flowed through Solace Fork and the Owenby farm. The site was less than five miles from Martin's family home place.

Liza glanced toward the restrooms. Martin hadn't come out. There was a pay phone between the men's and women's bathrooms. She headed for it, fishing in her pocketbook for change and her address book. She tried Hodge at home first, but no one answered. She called his office, and a dispatcher put her through.

Hodge picked up on the first ring. “Hodge Goforth.”

“Hodge, it's Liza. The body on the news. Is it Leon?”

“No, it isn't. This fellow was younger, looks about forty, a homeless guy. I've been here all morning, trying to reach the Owenbys before the story hit. I've tracked down everybody but Martin.”

“He's with me. He hasn't seen it yet.”

“Thank you, Jesus. Tell him it's not his brother. It's a good thing we don't get too many unidentified bodies turning up in this county. I don't think I could take the stress.”

Liza hung up and returned to the booth. Martin came out of the bathroom and walked toward her. He looked up at the television, where the reporter was still talking about the body. Before Martin could register what he was hearing, she said, “It's not Leon, Martin. I just called Hodge. It's not him.”

Martin watched for a few more seconds, until the reporter signed off and the weatherman came on, then sat down. “That could have ruined a perfectly good lunch.” His words were flippant but his voice shook. She let him eat his sandwich so he wouldn't have to talk.

The hostess seated another couple at the booth behind them. The man got up and changed the channel to a NASCAR race. Liza and Martin finished eating. When the waitress brought the check, Martin handed her cash, waving off Liza's offer to pay the tip. They put on their coats and waited for the waitress to return with change.

“Did I tell you Ivy bought a monument for Shane's grave?” he said.

“Hodge mentioned it.”

“They're having a ceremony next week to install it.” He looked at Liza and sighed. “I hate going to things like that.”

“I know you do, sweetie.” She searched through the candy hearts at the base of the candle holder and nudged a pink one across the table to him.

He picked it up and read it. “ ‘Awesome.' ”

“Go to the installation,” she said. “Be awesome.”

“Hubba-hubba,” he said.

When the waitress came back, Martin left the tip, and he and Liza walked outside. She got the folder of short stories from her truck and handed it to him.

“I suppose the punishment fits the crime,” he said.

“Don't think of it as punishment. Think of it as an opportunity.” She pulled her coat tighter around her. “Don't let them down, Martin. My budding authors are very sensitive.”

“I won't.” He squinted against the glaring sun. “Hey, Liza. Thanks for calling Hodge like that.”

“You're welcome.”

He raised the folder of stories to his forehead in a salute and got in his truck. Liza climbed into her own truck and drove behind him to the parking lot entrance. Cars streamed past on the four-lane road in front of them. No one would let them out. She could hear the throb of Martin's engine even with her windows closed. Black smoke from his tailpipe puffed around his one good brake light. When there was finally a gap, his truck leaped left into traffic, its wheels almost lifting off the ground, leaving her behind.