They talked a few minutes longer, and the more they spoke, the more Sam was convinced that his mother would be wise to jump on the offer. The Browns were good people, diligent and loyal. They’d take the farm into the next generation.
After bidding the man good-bye, Sam entered the house through the front door. The familiar place held an unfamiliar eeriness about it, especially when he saw the bloodstains on the floor at the base of the stairs. Someone had wiped them up, but not very thoroughly, and the box his mother had been carrying when she’d fallen lay empty, with an array of books strewn about it. Even though it had been several days, Ruford Medker had pretty much left everything just as he’d found it the day of the accident.
His mother would have a fit if she learned that things still lay in disarray. Moreover, she’d loathe the thought of blood having seeped into the wood cracks to dry there. He was no kind of housekeeper, but he’d have to see what he could do to at least clean up the bloodstains. Sam set the box to rights, then started picking up the books and arranging them inside. They looked mostly the same—leather-bound, with titles in gilded lettering up the spines. When he picked up a smaller volume with a tattered clothbound cover of faded blue paisley print, and no title of any kind, he couldn’t resist investigating. On the first page was written, in his mother’s hand, “1863–1890.” The first entry was simple: February 14, 1863 – Heart broken beyond fixing. Lloyd and Lewis gone. All my joy and happiness went with them.
Sam gave a hurried glance at the door, as if expecting someone to come bolting through it to admonish him for reading something so private. And yet the pull to read more tugged at him harder than the obligation to lay it down. He glanced at dates that spanned the next few months and the scrawled messages of gloom, all of which said almost the same thing, over and over. Miss my precious cherubs. Life will never be the same. No use in living. Can’t find it in me to smile. Ernest tries to talk to me, but I don’t want to converse.
He skipped a few more pages, taking him to the first anniversary of his brothers’ deaths, and read several more entries. Cloudy and dreary today, just like my heart. Ernest has grown distant. I don’t blame him. Samuel has grown taller.
Samuel has grown taller. That was it? She’d had nothing more to say about her then four-year-old son? Try as he might, he couldn’t dredge up any memories from that time, nor did he want to. He sat down on the bottom step and went back to skimming pages, all of which repeated the same message of despair. Jumping ahead, he landed on 1876, the year of his mother’s affair with Oscar Evans. His eyes darted busily from page to page, looking for a clue. Finally, he found an odd entry that read, Can’t sleep. A guilty conscience devours. Soon there won’t be anything left of me. A few pages later, Ernest despises me, and why shouldn’t he? Then, on the next page, Ernest is seeing her again. Must see what I can do to win him back. No love between us, only our reputations to think about. Poor Ernest.
The entry made no sense. She hated his father, and yet she’d written, “Poor Ernest”?
Impatient to learn more, his eyes raced over the pages. The scrawled entries ran the gamut.
I ended it with O., but he won’t let it go. He wanted more from me, but I couldn’t give it—not in good conscience. We’re through. He must come to terms with it.
A bit further, he read, Samuel is so tall and handsome now. I’m filled with regret that I don’t know my son.
Then, Ernest gave her money to leave town. She’s gone, but she took his heart with her. Poor Ernest is lost without her. It’s better this way. What would folks say if he up and married her? We have to think of the family name.
And then, Ernest and I will stick it out.
Weeks and sometimes months separated subsequent entries—spans of time when her head must have been swimming with thoughts and emotions she could have recorded but didn’t. Sam flipped ahead, searching for the day of the shooting, dreading yet desperate to know what had gone through her mind. But when he came to the place where the date would have fit, she’d entered nothing. Disappointment flooded him. Only one entry existed from the time of the trial, and all it said was, Very tired. When will this end? Ernest is going to jail. Life is over. So much of this is my fault.
He thumbed through the pages until he reached the date of his father’s death. Ernest died today. Dropsy is what the prison doctor said. I pray he didn’t suffer. That was it. His eyes trailed further down. Ernest’s funeral today. Feeling numb. No one here to comfort me, but it’s all right. I don’t deserve consolation. Have come to hate the Evans clan more than ever, because of what they represent to me. If only O. had stayed away. Might have made things work with Ernest. Might have convinced him to love me instead of her. Too late for calling back the past. Bitter and depressed. Life is worthless.
Regretting having read this much, Sam decided to scan only a few more entries before boxing up the book for good. He skipped to more recent times. June 15, 1890 – Samuel entered a burning house and saved two little boys. How did he turn out so good, so brave? She’d considered him brave? Why hadn’t she said so? Removed him from the home of Mercy Evans. She looks so much like her father. I don’t like the reminder. Didn’t love him, but I admit I cared too much for him. It was wrong, so wrong. Felt good to know he found me attractive.
The next entry she hadn’t dated. Fear I am losing Samuel. Can’t blame him for hating me; I have been a terrible mother. If only I could turn back the clock and start again.
Then came another. Family hates me. I’ve spilled the truth. It is over. No more lies or secrets. Relieved in some ways, scared in others. So alone. Glad Virgil is gone. Grateful to Samuel for handling that. Like a rock lifted from my chest.
She’d dated her final entry. October 12, 1890 – Chilly today. House so quiet. No one to talk to, but can’t blame folks for staying away. I’m not very lovable. Plan to clean the attic this week. Life will get better. Must find a way. Refuse to quit.
Sam closed the book, heaved a loud breath, and slouched against the stairs, staring up at the ceiling. If nothing else, her final entry proved two things: first, his mother had not purposely thrown herself down the stairs; and, second, he was a self-centered, brutish clod, so bent on punishing her for the years she’d overlooked him that he’d failed to notice how much she loved him. If his mother hated herself, he hated who he’d become even more.
Mercy had been right—he was a belch-breathing stinkweed!
Right there, in the silence of the front hall, he went down on bent knee and confessed his sins, tears of repentance coursing down his face, his heart aching with regret, and, on the horizon, freedom in Christ bounding toward him like a song on wings.
37
Sam was different. Mercy couldn’t put her finger on it, but he had changed in the past week—quite drastically, in fact. And she found she liked the new Sam. Gone was his morose mood, even with his mother under the same roof, and even despite her somewhat cantankerous attitude about having to be waited on from morning till night. He’d been spending more time with the boys after work, keeping the suppertime conversations pleasant and nonconfrontational, and infusing the household with new, unnamed energy that helped to keep the atmosphere cheerful. As for their passionate kisses, they had yet to reoccur—their contact was limited to mere pecks. She imagined, even hoped, his mother’s presence was to blame. Of course, it was possible he’d reached a pivotal point at which he had to make a decision about the marriage—all or nothing—and he didn’t want to kiss her fully again until he’d chosen. Oh, how she prayed he’d want to keep the marriage alive.
Flora had showed obvious improvement in the days since leaving Doc’s office. She could feed herself again, finally able to hold a fork and grip a cup. She’d also regained enough mobility to tend to her personal business, and Mercy found it almost humorous, the way she made a point of announcing when she was headed for the privy, adding, “And, no, I don’t need help.” It had become a joke among the rest of them, the boys included, whenever they too walke
d to the outhouse. “And, no, I don’t need help,” they’d say before heading out the back door. Even Flora had learned to laugh at the joke. It was so rare to eke as much as a smile out of her, so an actual spurt of laughter brought Mercy enormous satisfaction.
Flora had also taken an interest in reading, so Mercy provided her with plenty of material to pass her time, mainly copies of the Ladies Home Journal. Flora had even taken to reading to Joseph and John Roy from the Golden Days for Boys and Girls periodicals, and the boys loved gathering close to her on the divan, even if Flora didn’t reciprocate the snuggles. After a while, Mercy noticed a softening in her eyes when they scooted up next to her.
She also noticed Flora reading from her Bible, which she’d started leaving within reach on the coffee table. One quiet afternoon, with Joseph at school, Sam at work, and John Roy sprawled on the rug for a rare nap, Barney and Roscoe curled up beside him, Mercy saw Flora with her nose buried in the Good Book. Not wanting to interrupt her reading, Mercy offered to make her a cup of tea. Flora accepted, and when Mercy returned with the steaming beverage, Flora lowered the Book to her lap and deftly clamped the cup between her bandaged hands. Mercy was about to return to the kitchen when Flora’s voice halted her.
“It’s been a source of comfort…your Bible.”
It was the first time, in Mercy’s recollection, that Flora had initiated conversation, and she silently prayed for the wisdom to say the right thing. She sat down in a chair by the hearth. “It always brings me joy and comfort, too.”
Flora lowered her gaze and picked at a lint ball on her skirt. “I didn’t say anything about joy. It’s been a long time since I felt that particular emotion.”
Help me, Lord. “Why do you think that is, Mrs. Connors?”
“First off, would you kindly start calling me Flora? I am your mother-in-law, after all.”
Finally, she’d acknowledged the relationship. Mercy gave a light giggle. “I’d be honored to call you that. I just wasn’t sure of my place. I didn’t want to offend you.”
Flora actually smiled. “I can understand why you’d worry about that. I’m such an old grump.”
“No, you’re not.” Of course, she was, but Mercy thought it best not to agree with her. “Never mind that. Why is your life absent of joy?”
“What is there to be joyful about? I’ve lost my husband, my family, and, presently, my independence. Suffering saints, my own son only talks to me out of a sense of obligation.”
“I don’t think that’s the case—about your son. Yes, you’ve had a rocky relationship, but there’s always hope. As for your family, they’ll come around, you’ll see. Just give it time. I think you’re feeling a little depressed right now, with all that’s happened to you, and haven’t we all felt like that a time or two?”
Flora raised her eyebrows. “You? Depressed?”
Mercy tossed back her head and laughed with abandon. “Your expressions are priceless, Mrs.—er, Flora. I should start writing them down.”
The corners of the woman’s mouth lifted slightly. “I could say the same for you, Mercy.”
It was the first time Flora had addressed her by name, and Mercy’s soul took to humming “God Moves in a Mysterious Way.”
“Maybe so, but to answer your question, yes, me. I’m far from perfect, but when I place my full trust in Jesus, I find myself dwelling less on the things that sadden me and more on the joy that comes from serving Him. When I find myself overwhelmed, unsure, or plain heartsick, I make a habit of saying, ‘Jesus, help me.’ That three-word prayer brings such sweet assurance, for when we cry out, making ourselves vulnerable to our heavenly Father, it’s like lovely music to His ears. Think of it—the God of the universe, our Creator, is nearer to us than a drop of dew on the morning grass.”
She had no idea where that had come from—she’d never been known for flowery talk—so she cringed to imagine what Flora must think. She braced herself for the harsh words that were sure to come.
There was a long silence, and then Flora cleared her throat. “That was…quite profound, if I do say so.”
Profound? Mercy couldn’t recall one profound thing she’d said in her life. She attributed it to her earlier prayer for wisdom. “Well, it’s true,” she went on. “God doesn’t want us living in sad, lonely states. He wants to fill our hearts with joy. That’s not to say we won’t have periods of sadness or despair; but when those times come upon us, we don’t have to remain defeated and without hope.” She gestured to the Bible in Flora’s lap. “May I?”
Flora nodded, so Mercy rose and lifted the Book. Sitting back down, she leafed through the pages until she reached Psalm 3. “Here’s one of my favorite verses, if you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. Please, read it to me—and any others you consider favorites.”
She couldn’t believe her luck. But then, it had nothing whatever to do with luck and everything to do with God’s perfect timing. “All right, then, here it is. ‘But thou, O Lord, art a shield about me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.’ That is to say that when you’re feeling especially disheartened, He is right there with you, ready to lift you up and bring encouragement.” Without waiting for a response, she hastened to the next verse God put upon her heart, finding it faster than she thought possible. “Here’s another verse, this one from Psalm forty-two. ‘Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the health of his countenance.’ Did you catch that? His countenance is our health. In other words, God’s smile is the reason we smile.”
Rather than present Mercy with her usual sour face, Flora actually grinned, showing her pearly teeth. “Well, isn’t that something? You’ve given me much to think about, Mercy. Thank you.”
“Thank you”? Her heart could barely contain those two simple words, the very first ones of gratitude the woman had uttered. Miracles seemed to be pouring in from every direction.
“You’re welcome.” She stood and handed the Bible back to Flora, then hesitated, wondering if she’d outstayed her welcome.
Flora must have sensed her indecision, for she motioned at the chair. “Sit, please. I have something to say.”
Mercy did as told, again silently praying for God’s will to be done in all things. After straightening her gingham skirt, she clasped her hands in her lap and straightened her posture, as if awaiting a lecture from the president of the board of education.
“Nothing really untoward, other than kissing, ever happened between your father and me.”
If a bolt of lightning had stretched its hot fingers through the roof and pierced her in the side, she could not have been more shocked. “I—you didn’t have to tell me that.”
“I know.”
“What’s done is done, and I hold no grudges.”
“That’s very generous of you, but you should still know the truth, so there won’t be any question. I liked your father very much, but I appreciated his attention more than anything else. It wasn’t what you’d term love—at least from my side. Ernest had started doling out less and less affection after our twins died, and even less than that when he found someone else. I was plain lonely, and Oscar came along and filled the void. I’m not saying it was right. I just want you to know that it never went beyond a few kisses. Now, I’ll tell you he wanted to pursue the relationship, make it into more than it was, but I refused. He even told me he loved me, but I never uttered the words back to him. After that, things started going very sour, and my life went even more topsy-turvy. Your father…he was very lonely, and there were no other women in all of Paris he cared about chasing after. Truth is he found me a challenge, and that challenge kept him busy and his mind occupied.”
“Sam told me everything from that night he went out to confront you.”
“Good. There should be no secrets between husbands and wives. That’s what came between Ernest and me…that, and my inability to cope with my grief over the loss of our sons. After they died, I
didn’t treat Samuel the way he deserved. I still had him to dote on, but I couldn’t see past my own selfish needs to reach out to him. I will carry that guilt with me for the rest of my life.”
“You needn’t. God will take it away, if you will just confess to Him, as well as ask Sam to forgive you.”
Flora looked at her lap, entwined the eight fingers that hung out the ends of her bandages, and then glanced up and smiled. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a mighty fine lady evangelist?”
Mercy smiled. “I’m no evangelist, and God knows it. I’m just a woman who loves Him and wants everyone to share in the same joy He’s brought to me.”
“You have been aptly named, my dear.”
“My dear”? Her soul kept up its humming. “It’s funny you should say that, since Sam said it to me just the other day.”
Flora’s head bobbed up and down. “Then you should know it’s true. But, back to what we were discussing…since Samuel told you of our talk, have you anything further you want to ask about what happened between your father and me?”
Mercy shook her head. “I would love to put the whole thing to rest, and in truth, I don’t need, or even desire, to know another thing. That is between you and God.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped, as if weary from a long day of work. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, where moisture had collected. “Then, may I ask you to…forgive me…for bringing so much grief upon you and Samuel?”
As if springing from the blocks in a footrace, Mercy leaped from her chair and went to Flora. In one fluid move, the women embraced, Flora’s hug a bit more awkward, with her arms bound up as they were, but Mercy’s making up for it. She clung to her tightly, with tears running down her face, and wept the more when Flora’s wall of emotion shattered and her own tears gushed like waves upon a shore.
***
One woman in tears was more than Sam could handle, but two pushed him over the cliff. When he and Joseph came through the door, disturbing not only the women’s private moment but also rousing John Roy from a nap, he wanted nothing more than to walk back outside and return later.
Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams) Page 30
