by Loree Lough
“I’m dying to ask what they’re looking for,” he said as the furrow deepened between his brows.
“Weird.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know why, but I figured you already knew.”
“Just because we’re neighbors doesn’t mean I’m all up in their business, y’know.”
She chose to ignore his biting tone. He’d probably had a far worse day than she had—given what he did for a living—and that was saying something. “How many kids do they have?”
“None. They had a son,” Austin said, “a firefighter. He died about five years ago when the roof of a burning building caved in, and took him with it.”
The image of it raced through her head, and Mercy grimaced.“That’s—that’s. Just. Awful.” And she meant it, with every fiber of her being. It made her angry, hearing that Flora and Bud had lost their only son—while he was performing a life-saving task, no less. And now Flora might have god-knowswhat.“What is it with that God of yours?” she demanded.
His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened. “He’s your God, too.”
“Oh, no He isn’t, either! What kind of God sits up there on His throne, watching, doing absolutely nothing while all over the world decent people die in accidents and fires and floods and wars and terror attacks.” She was on a tear and knew it, but couldn’t stop the breathless flow of furious words. “I can’t put my faith in a being that would allow such terrible things to happen to good people like the Callahans and their son.And my students. And your mom and brother. And my dad, and—hard as it is for me to get past my lips—my mom, and you and me and—”
“Mercy,” he interrupted gently, “God didn’t allow any of that to happen.”
“Oh, please! Save your self-righteous sermonizing for one of your airheaded bimbos. I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve heard all about how He’s ‘all powerful’ and ‘all merciful.’ How He works miracles every single day.” Both hands flat on the counter, she leaned closer. “Well, if that’s true, how do you explain all the suffering and evil in the world?”
Calmly, quietly, he helped himself to another piece of sushi.“Jeez. You weren’t kiddin’ when you said you had a bad day, were you?”
How many times had her dad warned her not to discuss politics or religion with anyone unless she was one hundred percent certain they held the same beliefs. Too many to count, yet there she sat, spewing ire like a human Vesuvius. She’d apologize in a minute or two, once she’d caught her breath and quit trembling with rage.
“Did the Callahans say when Flora’s reports would be in?” One shoulder lifted and she did her best not to snarl “I gather they’re expecting to hear something within the next few days, because Bud said one of them would call about a week before Thanksgiving to let me know if they can make it or not.”
Austin only nodded, so she tacked on “If Mohammad can’t come to the mountain …”
He looked up so quickly, she was surprised his neck didn’t pop. And he wasn’t smiling when he said “Was that some kind of test?”
Years ago, he’d asked the same thing in her office. Back then, though the question was out of line, it had at least made sense, given his situation. But now? Mercy had no idea what he was talking about, and said so.
“You know, a test, to see if I’d say something anti-Muslim, to retaliate for the way you slammed God just now?”
Mercy hadn’t known what he might say, but if asked to guess, it certainly wouldn’t have been that. She supposed she had it coming, because she had torn his precious heavenly Father to shreds just now.
“I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Austin. I don’t believe in any god. Not the god of the Christians or the Jews or the Buddhists or the Muslims or any other religion you can name.Life experiences have made it very clear to me that there is no god. Not in heaven. Not on earth. Not in your heart or mine.None.”
How could he sit there so cool and calm while she ranted and raved like a lunatic? For all she knew, he’d already dialed the state’s best psychiatric hospital and any minute now, a big white truck with “Shephard Pratt” printed across its side would roll up to cart her off to a padded cell. If you stop behaving like a lunatic, it’ll be your word against his.
“So no, that wasn’t a test. I’m sorry for all the yelling, because it isn’t your fault the world’s in such a sorry state, and if it makes you feel safer believing there’s a great and powerful entity up there in the sky looking out for you, well, this is America.”
He took a gulp of his drink and said “So what time’s dinner on Thanksgiving?”
It didn’t go unnoticed that he’d ignored her apology. A good sign, she wondered, or a bad omen? “Three o’clock?”
“Need me to bring anything? I’m told I make one mean spinach dip.”
He’d grinned to say it, but only slightly, and Mercy knew it was her fault that the smile never reached his eyes.
“M-m-m. Love the stuff.” If she had any sense at all, she’d thank her lucky stars that he still wanted to come to Thanksgiving dinner. But if she had any sense at all, she’d never have allowed their once strictly professional relationship to become such an important part of her life. “Do you put yours in a pumpernickel or rye bread bowl?”
He opened another tiny container of sweet and sour sauce.“I usually just slop it in bowl and serve it with crackers. But I’m happy to hollow out a loaf of bread if that’s the way you like it; whichever is your preference.”
In the weeks since they’d reconnected, Austin had never sounded—or looked—more stiff and formal as he did now. If only she’d heeded her dad’s advice, and sidestepped the whole religion thing! Why had she let her emotions take control over logic?
“Either’s fine.”
Again, he only nodded, then leaned against the stool’s backrest and patted his flat stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
She didn’t want him to leave. Ever. “You know how Asian food is,” Mercy said, forcing a smile. “You’ll be hungry again in half an hour.”
On his feet now, he stretched. “Early day tomorrow,” he said on the heels of a yawn. “Better hit the road.” Then he began stacking empty containers and paper plates from the counter.“What’re your plans for tomorrow night?”
“I don’t have any.” No matter what he suggested, she intended to go along with it. And make it clear she was happy to do it, if it meant spending time with him.
“I promised to grill pork chops for Flora and Bud, with my famous barbecue sauce on ‘em. I can throw an extra chop in the grill.” He tossed the trash into the stainless can near the sink. “If you feel like making the drive over, that is.”
“I’d like that.”
“Or I could pick you up,” he added, rinsing sweet and sour from his fingers.
“No, that’d be an incredible waste of time and energy.” It seemed to Mercy they’d had a very similar conversation in their recent past.
Their past. She had to clean up this mess her big mouth had made, because Mercy would hate it if her outburst turned the phrase into a permanent condition. “And gasoline.”
Another silent moment slid by, and then Woodrow flopped onto his side between them and delivered a happy “pet me” chirrup. When they crouched to fill his request, their foreheads collided, inspiring a round of tension-breaking laughter.
On his feet now, he rubbed his eyebrow. “How am I gonna explain a black eye to the guys tomorrow?” he joked.
“Just tell them the truth. You spent the evening with a hardheaded woman.”
Gathering her close, he kissed the tender spot above her right eyebrow. “Well, I’ll say this for you …”
Mercy looked up into his open, honest face and waited expectantly for him to complete his thought.
“… you sure aren’t afraid to tell it like it is.”
It’s a very good thing, she thought as he kissed her, that people close their eyes when they kiss, because in this instance, at least, the action helped hide her tears of relief that he
’d forgiven her tantrum.
21
Heat seeping through his favorite mug warmed his palms, and he downed a gulp of strong black coffee. It would take this—and the rest of the pot—to counterbalance his long, sleepless night.
The weatherman said temps might reach fifty today, but the slate gray sky said otherwise. Austin watched the white vapor of his silent yawn float on the cold November wind, wondering why life sometimes felt like a tapestry of “ifs.”
If he’d sewn up that hole in his pocket when it first appeared, the button of his old police-issue jacket would still be in there.And if he’d put the button back where it belonged before stowing the coat for the summer, he wouldn’t be standing here now, shoulders hunched and shivering.
If he made a list of things he’d been neglecting, it’d probably give him writer’s cramp, because he hadn’t exercised, been to the barber’s or picked up his dry cleaning in weeks. If he didn’t soon get a coat of oil on the tug’s brass, he’d spend a month, come spring, buffing away winter’s heartlessness. And if he missed another AA meeting … .
Austin couldn’t think of a time when he needed Harvey Griffin’s no-holds-barred logic more.
Well, except maybe for that awful night when Griff bailed him out of jail and dragged him into the rectory, where Austin woke up in a pool of his own drunken drool. He’d never heard the man curse before. Wouldn’t have thought a man of the cloth knew how to cuss like that. But the drill sergeant-turnedfirefighter-turned-AA sponsor-turned-minister held nothing back, not even fullblown brazen blame: “I hope you’re happy, because now I’ll have to spend hours on my knees,” he roared, “begging forgiveness for my gutter talk.” Then he’d filled both meaty fists with Austin’s shirt and gave him a good shake.“And so will you, for driving me to it!”
Austin hadn’t found anything about the situation funny back then, but now, the memory made him grin.
His smile grew as he recalled the day Griff announced that he’d quit his job and packed everything he owned into his beat-up old Chevy van. “If Charm City can’t handle me,” he’d joked, “it’ll be your fault for reminding me of all the city’s plusses.”
After a week on Austin’s lumpy couch, Griff rented an upstairs apartment in Washington Village and shocked every one of his Pigtown cousins by enrolling at the Maryland Bible College and Seminary. The family blamed the head injury, sustained when an I-beam trapped Griff and the woman he’d tried to free from the debris, but Austin knew better. After 9/11, the call to serve God was just about the only thing Griff could talk about.
His relatives hadn’t believed he’d finish the program, but Austin knew better. Once Griff set his mind on something, it was as good as done, and Austin was walking, talking proof of that.
How many times during that long, harrowing week had Griff wanted to throw his hands in the air and walk away from his drunken friend? Too many to count.
“Marines don’t quit!” he’d said when Austin questioned his tenacity.
“You haven’t worn a uniform in years.”
“Once a Marine, always a Marine,” he’d snarled, and went right back to pouring coffee down Austin’s gullet and reading from the Good Book. By week’s end, he’d turned Austin into a verse-spouting, born-again believer. Talked him into joining AA, too, and on the way to the first meeting, they’d toasted Austin’s new life with back-to-back Boilermakers …
… and Austin hadn’t touched a drop of the stuff since January 8, 2002. Oh, he’d wanted to, plenty of times! But on the occasions when temptation threatened to let go of his precarious grip on selfcontrol, he could always count on Griff to rake him over the coals until he came to his sense again.
His driver’s license said he’d come into the world on November second, and he’d given his life to God on May thirteenth, but in his mind and heart, that raw winter day was the only one he celebrated by wearing every pin Griff had ever given him. His favorite? The one that said
Yep, if anybody could help him get a handle on the yoyoing emotions about Mercy that had been bouncing around in his head, it was good ol’ Griff.
Like a mirage, the image of her floated on the frosty fog. He didn’t know how long he might have stood at the rail, staring across the Bay, if Flora hadn’t called out to him.
Smiling, he threw a hand into the air. “How’s my favorite girl this morning?”
“Favorite girl, my foot. I know I’ve been replaced, you twotimer, you!” Cackling, she pulled her thick robe tighter round her. “I’m fine and dandy. Thanks for askin’.”
But she wasn’t fine. Austin could tell by the strange tenor to her voice, and the way she moved, slow and stiff—as if each step stimulated immeasurable pain—toward the rail.
“Hear from your doctor?”
“That quack,” she huffed, waving his question away. “I heard from him, all right.”
Obviously, the news hadn’t been good, but Austin could get more details from Bud, later. “Don’t forget. I’m making you and Bud pork chops for supper.”
“You must have fallen out of your bunk last night.“Maybe he had, because Austin didn’t have a clue what she meant.
“A good whack to the head is the only viable reason I can come up with to explain why you don’t remember that I’ve never passed up a chance to eat something besides those nasty fish sticks or chicken nuggets Bud’s so fond of!” Another brittle laugh, then, “Your place or mine, sweet cakes?”
Grinning, he said, “Let’s do it over here. That way, you won’t have to lift a finger.”
“Where were you when I was husband hunting!” she shot back, one bony hand pressed to her chest. “Mercy will be joining us, I hope.”
How weird that the mere mention of her name had the power to put his pulse into overdrive. “Yeah. But I need to call her, let her know what time. What’s good for you guys?”
Flora chuckled. “We’re retired, so if it was up to Bud, we’d eat at four. You two are the workin’ stiffs, so you decide and that’s when we’ll be there.”
“You got it, gorgeous. Now get inside out of this wind.” He stopped himself from adding “before you catch your death.” A strange and ominous sensation gripped his heart, and he sent a quick prayer heavenward that she’d be all right.
“Can I bring anything?”
“Only your sassy, beautiful self.”
“Be still my heart.” Then, “When you talk to Mercy, be sure to tell her how much I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
“You bet.” There were three steps leading from the Callahans’ deck to their cabin. As she climbed them, the dread inside him grew. Always agile and spry, Flora had never struck him as “old.” Now, huddled slump-shouldered in her fuzzy pink bathrobe, she seemed to have aged ten years in the weeks since he’d last seen her. Austin added his concerns about her condition to the things he’d discuss with Griff.
He checked his watch. Too early to call a guy who usually sat up all night talking people out of making “there’s no turning back” decisions. Austin didn’t have other sponsors to compare Griff to, but he’d been a cop long enough to know a good guy from a bad one. He’d call today and see if that good one could meet him for lunch.
After emptying the last of the coffee into his mug, he flopped into his recliner and scanned the channels for a Three’s Company rerun. “Ah,” he said, popping up the footrest, “better than a tranquilizer.”
But not better than booze.
Another couple of “ifs” for his list: If he downed enough of the stuff, he could count on two, maybe three hours of uninterrupted sleep. And if Griff hadn’t dragged him to that first AA meeting, alcohol would still control every waking moment.
His cell phone buzzed and did a half-circle dance on the coffee table. Its internal clock said six-o-two, and the caller i.d.block spelled out “Harvey Griffen.”
“What, you forgot how to tell time?”
“Aw, blast!” came the gravelly reply. “And here’s me, about to ask if you forgot how to dia
l a phone.”
“I was gonna call you. Today.”
“Yeah, yeah. And I traded my Yankees cap for a pope dome.”
“How are things in Pigtown?”
“Well, I miss Babe the pigs.”
Austin remembered Griff’s story about how the B & O Railroad once herded hogs down the middle of Ostend and Cross Streets to get them to the slaughterhouses in south Baltimore. “You might look as old as dust, but no way you ever met Babe Ruth.”
“Whatever.”
“Speaking of which, whatever inspired you to call at this ungodly hour?”
“Just makin’ sure all my li’l chicks are present and accounted for.”
Austin heard the familiar zing as Griff flipped open the lid of his Zippo lighter. “I thought you were gonna quit that filthy habit.”
“I am. I will. Eventually.”
“Yeah, yeah. And I traded my Orioles cap for a Yankees T-shirt.”
Laughing, Griff said, “Seriously. How you doin’, kid?”
“Doin’ great.”
“No backsliding?”
“Nope.”
His lips popped as he took a puff of the cigarette. “Then why have you been makin’ yourself scarce?”
If he told Griff about Mercy, he’d better be ready to get an earful of the damage women can do to a man with a plan.“Mostly working,” he said, “and spending time with—”
“Mostly? Uh oh, don’t tell me you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”
“—my neighbors. You met them at last year’s Super Bowl party. They’re not doing so hot .”
“Aw, that’s a stinkin’ rotten shame. Nothing serious, I hope.They’re a sweet old couple.”
“Yeah, that they are.”
“Awright, out with it, Finley.”
“Never could pull one over on you could I?”
Griff snickered. “Better question is why do you even try?”
“I hate talking on the phone, so how ‘bout I buy you breakfast.”
“Boulevard Diner, half an hour?”
How like Griff to choose a place so near the station, Austin thought as he drove toward Merritt Boulevard. Once there, he saw the rusting brown van in the handicap slot nearest the entrance. Griff lived closer to Mercy’s townhouse than the diner in Dundalk. No way he could have made the trip that fast unless he’d called on his way over. Or from the parking lot.
