Where Mercy Flows (29 page)

Donnie and David were playing chess by the fire. “I hope the jerk shows up,” Donnie said as he plunked his knight on the board.

David was not so cocky. “I hope he’s on a one-way trip to Siberia.”

“I don’t want to hear another word about this!” The Judge stood as straight as a sentinel in the doorway. “He can’t steal
our peace unless we let him. For the next two days we will speak only of what is good and right with the world. We’ll speak
of life and truth and love. No man can steal these things from us. Do you understand?”

We nodded, though at the time no one really understood.

The next morning the westerly mountains held the waves of snow clouds back like a seawall for a few hours while the bright
sun chased every dark thought away. Donnie took TJ with him to the ranch to do some chores. Mom diced celery and onions for
stuffing while Lindsey and I rolled out our traditional Norwegian potato lefse. That night, for Christmas Eve dinner, the
thin pancakes would be buttered and sprinkled with brown sugar, then rolled and cut into finger-length logs.

The Judge caught our mother beneath the mistletoe that Lindsey had hung over the arched entry to the dining room. I watched
him kiss her like it was the first time. He held her until she laughed and pulled away from him, embarrassed by this show
of passion “in front of the children.” He never passed my chair without touching me. He brought me tea. He insisted that Donnie
sit in his big leather chair because it was more comfortable for a guy as big as he, though the rest of us were subconsciously
uncomfortable with the presence of another on the throne.

That evening, when the mountain dike could no longer hold back the rolling clouds, the snow fell again. We ate Cornish game
hens with marmalade glaze and cranberry stuffing. There were stories and laughter and even an outbreak of song when Donnie
found out that TJ didn’t know the words to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” My son’s face glowed in the candle-light, his
cheeks as smooth and shiny as caramel apples.

Donnie and David brought in wood and stoked the fire in the living room fireplace. Fresh cedar branches lined the mantel,
where old-fashioned kerosene lanterns glowed. The Judge read the story of Jesus’ birth from the Gospel of Luke, just as he
had done every Christmas Eve throughout my childhood. TJ lay on the floor near his grandpa’s feet as he listened, arranging
the painted figures of the old Nativity set, propping the cow with the broken leg against the thigh of a kneeling wise man.
From time to time, he stopped to gaze at the Judge’s face.

The Judge closed his Bible reverently and looked at each face around the room. “Let’s pray.” He prayed a blessing on each
one by name, even Donnie. He talked to God about us like it was just him and God and we weren’t even there listening in. I
peeked at Donnie. His head was bowed and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. My own eyes misted as I witnessed the exchange
of love that flowed horizontally and vertically in the room. David sat with his elbows on his knees, his eyes wide open and
focused on the Judge’s face. I knew that Donnie would gladly risk his life for my father. David loved him too, I could tell.
Though try as I might I could not picture David standing between the Judge and a loaded gun.

“Lord, direct our paths. Keep us in Your tender care. You are our light. Our hope, our joy, our strength. Thank You for sending
Your perfect Son to earth as one of us, to suffer the death that we deserve for our sins so that we can live free, both now
and forever. We love You. Amen.”

“Amen.” The room remained hushed until TJ sprang to his feet. “Now can we open a present, Grandpa? Just one!”

In our family, it was traditional to open gifts on Christmas morning, though Lindsey and I had always been successful in talking
our parents into opening one or two on Christmas Eve. My mother would pass us the ones from Grandma Dodd first, which we knew
would be handmade flannel nightgowns and which we donned loyally to pose for our annual photo shoot by the tree. Grandma Dodd
had died three years ago while I was in Reno and I hadn’t known until six months after the funeral. I found that painful now
but took comfort in the circuit of life that had brought my son and me back to this place.

My father grinned. “Okay, son. Pick one.”

TJ zoomed right in on the package from Donnie, which he had shaken and sniffed and fondled all day. He tore the paper from
the package and we all oohed and aahed and shot questioning glances toward Donnie as TJ took aim and snapped his first slingshot.

My son hung his stocking on the hook beneath the fireplace mantel where I used to hang mine. Lindsey tried to talk him into
leaving a plate of cookies and some milk for Santa but TJ shook his head thoughtfully. “No, he’s too fat, Aunt Lindsey.” He
perused the contents of the refrigerator and finally produced a plate of salad. “But I don’t think he’ll eat it,” he said.
“He doesn’t have much time.”

Donnie carried him off to bed and I followed a few minutes later to tuck him in. I missed the support of my IV pole. I was
weak by the time I reached the end of the hall. The bedroom door was open only a crack and I rested against the wall, smiling
as I listened to their dialogue.

“Because he won’t come until you’re asleep, that’s why.”

“Then you better go to bed too. And my mom and everybody.”

“Okay, bud. You talked me into it.” I heard Donnie strip off his belt and the creak of the cot as he sat down to pull off
his shoes. “It’s been a long day.”

“Hey, Don?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“Maybe we can go shoot my slingshot tomorrow.”

“Sure. You come over to the ranch with me while I take care of the horses and after that we’ll set up some targets. If your
mom says it’s okay, that is.”

“And let’s don’t bring that lady this time.”

“Who, Rachel? You don’t like Rachel?”

My heart began its slow sink.

“Mm. She’s okay. I just like it better when it’s just you and me. So we can pee in the snow if we want to.”

I heard Donnie yawn and put his full weight on the cot. “Just you and me. No girls next time. Now, let’s get some sleep. Santa’s
probably up there hovering and it isn’t nice to keep him waiting.”

I returned to the living room to find Mom starting a movie. David and Lindsey were snuggled together on the sofa. “Come on,
Sam. It’s time for
It’s a Wonderful Life.
No Christmas is complete without it.”

“I’ll pass,” I said.

Mom came over and brushed the hair off my forehead. “You’ve overdone it today, haven’t you? Why don’t you just go on to bed
now, honey?”

“I think I will. Good night, Mom.” I kissed her cheek.

If Santa was up there waiting for me to fall asleep, he would be circling all night. Who on God’s green earth was this Rachel
person? I had become used to sleeping in an upright position against a bank of pillows, as it relieved the pressure my oversized
heart put on my lungs. But that night nothing worked. I tried curling up on my left side, then the right, then on my back
again, eyes open wide. Finally, I pushed myself up and pulled the curtains away from the window. There was no moon, but I
could see snow falling in the soft yellow light off the back porch. I pulled the quilt from my bed and slipped my boots on
without tying the laces. The movie was over and the house was quiet, dark except for the night-light in the hall and the colored
lights on the tree. I tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen and slipped out the back door.

Under the eaves of the porch was the old Adirondack chair that Matthew had made for my mother using pegs instead of nails.
It squeaked as I settled into it, wrapping the quilt tightly around myself. One of the pegs had broken and the left arm wiggled.
Matt was a better doctor than a builder of chairs. He would be coming up tomorrow for Christmas dinner and I was happy about
that. But at the moment, my Christmas joy was smothered by a dark cloud named Rachel.

New snow had turned the overlapping footprints of the day into indistinguishable dimples. The footprints converged at the
back door of this house, where we all belonged, together. Including Donnie. He should be TJ’s daddy. He was meant to be a
part of us. Of me. But how could I think like this? I didn’t even know if I would live to see another Christmas. Donnie, obviously,
wasn’t counting on me either. It was a pity that it took the threat of another woman to make me finally realize what Donnie
meant to me. I had taken him for granted. And now, as if seeing through corrective lenses for the first time in my life, I
was shocked at the clarity of what I saw. My vision had been distorted and I hadn’t even known it.

I used my sleeve to stifle the cough that tore from my chest. In my abundant spare time, I had read a poem in a book from
the library, an anthology of writings by organ transplant patients. It was written by a guy waiting for a donor heart. He
was upbeat and hopeful and the poem stank. The only reason I remembered it was that someone had scrawled in the margin, “Dillon
almost had his heart on August 1, 1988. He was, however, determined too ill to qualify. He died in his bed during his high
school team’s opening kickoff on September 13.”

I coughed again. The cold had seeped inside my blanket. What were my chances of living happily ever after? I stood to go inside
just as an eerie sound permeated the night. I froze. At first I thought it was the mournful wail of a coyote. The sound hung
in the air, clung inside me like cobwebs. I pulled the blanket tight and waited. Only silence. I had thought nothing of the
light escaping through the doorway and cracks in the barn until now. Didn’t the Judge usually turn the lights out after he
tended to the worms? The pain in my chest mounted noticeably and I began to shake. Again I heard the muffled sound, and then
a shout.

It was the Judge.

I
WAS OFF the steps before I knew it, headed for the barn, terrified by what I might find. My untied boots scooped up snow,
causing my feet to drag. I trudged in the footprints my father must have made hours ago, now half-filled with new snow. A
plaintive cry from the barn drew me forward, each step too slow and labored. My heart pumped sluggishly until I was dizzy.
Reason told me I couldn’t be much help, but I had come too far. Too late to turn back. I should have woken Donnie. Donnie
could have been there by now. I tried to call but my breathless voice came out as a hoarse whisper. Snow crystals stung my
face. I paused to catch my breath and then pressed on to where the yellow light from the barn door fell on the rumpled snow.

I gripped the edge of the door, which was open slightly. My father’s voice rang out clearly.

“Oh, God, my God. You always make a way. Let there be some other way!”

I was shocked to find my father alone. His back was to me and he knelt over a bale of hay. His shoulders shook and he sobbed
audibly.

My throat grew tight. In a moment I found myself at his side, my own eyes welling up with tears. “What’s wrong?”

He spun to look at me. “Samantha!” His face was wet and swollen, his hair a mess.

Without thinking about it I knelt and my arms went around his neck. “What happened?”

“Oh, Sammy.” He pulled me to his chest in a fierce embrace. “Sammy.”

I felt his arms close around me. He rocked me back and forth, his hand caressing the back of my head, and I was eight years
old again. He smelled the same. Old Spice and sweat. A warm tear fell on my neck. I held him tight.

Moments later he straightened. “What are you doing out here? You shouldn’t be—”

“I heard you,” I gasped. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“Sam, you shouldn’t even be out of the house. You should be resting.” He brushed the melting snow from my hair and studied
my face. I lifted my chin, trying to ignore the pain that radiated from my chest.

“What did you hear?”

“I don’t know. It sounded like you were dying or something.”

He pulled his shirttail out and wiped his face, and then surprised me with a chuckle. “Dying? So what if I was? It wouldn’t
be the end of the world now, would it?”

“So,” I said, suspecting that my father had lost his mind, “what are you doing out here? Just praying?”

He smiled sadly. “Just praying.”

“Oh. You pray loud.” Only minutes before, he had wailed like a Turkish widow; now he looked as peaceful as he had at dinner
with a plate of Cornish game hen before him. He sat up on the hay bale and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping the blanket that
was still on my shoulders tightly around me. I felt large. “What were you praying about?”

His eyes burned into mine. For a moment I thought he was actually going to answer my question.

“Tell me something, Sammy. What do you see yourself doing when you’re thirty?”

I stared at him blankly.

“Where will you live? What will you do for fun?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to play this game.”

“It’s no game. It’s dreaming. A very important part of life. I don’t care, call it a game. The rules are—there are no rules.
You can have anything you want, you can be anything you want, you can be with anyone you want.”

“Okay. I’d be with TJ, of course. He would be . . . what? Eleven by then, fifth grade. We would live in a little house on
the river.” I paused to think and to catch my breath. “Since there are no rules, it will be right smack-dab in the middle
of Sid Jorgenson’s pasture under the old cottonwood tree.”

My father was pleased with this. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back ever so slightly.

“I’m not really good at anything. So I don’t know what I’d do for a living. But in my spare time, whenever I’m not doing that,
whatever it is, I’d like to fish. I would teach TJ to fly-fish. I’ll probably volunteer at his school a lot too.”

“Will you get married?”

This one threw me. I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, do you want to?” He pressed my head to his shoulder and stroked my arm.

“Yeah. I guess I do. I guess I would marry Donnie. If he . . .”

“If he what?”