Echoes of Mercy: A Novel

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Guilt nibbled at Letta. Miss Carrie would be plenty worried when she got back and found out they were gone. And of course, leaving meant Letta wouldn’t be able to get those four dollars for going to school. Without those four dollars she’d have to find a job. But she’d make the boys go to school. They could share their lessons with her, same as they did the days she stayed at the hospital with Pa. She’d keep learning. Sure she would.

  Lesley tripped over something and fell flat. He came up spluttering, both knees of his britches torn. Blood dripped from his chin, the heels of his hands, and his knees. He let out a screech loud enough to wake Pa from the dead.

  Letta clamped her hand over his mouth. “Hush that! You want people to think someone’s bein’ murdered? They’ll set the cops on us!”

  Lank scuttled forward and gave Lesley’s shoulder several pats. He looked at Letta, rain dribbling down his freckled face. “Yuh-yuh-yuh-you gotta cuh-cuh-carry him.”

  Although she wasn’t keen on the idea, she knew Lank was right. Lesley wouldn’t take one step now that he’d hurt himself. She turned her back on the boys and bent forward. “Heft him on, Lank.”

  Lesley’s weight settled on her back, and his skinny arms wrapped around her neck. She looped her hands under his knees and took off at a clumsy trot. At least they didn’t have far to go. Their house waited just on the next block.

  Lank dashed ahead and had the door open and waiting when Letta stumbled into the yard. The moment she stepped over the threshold, she tipped sideways and dumped Lesley. Lank caught hold of him and kept him from tumbling onto the floor. She gave the door a slam, sealing them in the dingy room. Pa had kept a lamp on a shelf in the kitchen, and she pawed her way to it, leaving a trail of murky water. Lank and Lesley scuttled behind her, one of them holding tight to her soggy dress. She thought about shaking the hand loose, but it was kind of nice to know they were there.

  A little box of matches sat next to the lamp, and after three tries she managed to get one lit. She touched it to the wick, and immediately the glow made her feel warmer even though she continued to shiver.

  “Lank, get some wood from the wood box so I can stoke the stove. Lesley, go fetch dry clothes from the bureau. You two can change while I get the stove goin’.”

  Lesley hovered near, hugging himself and blinking away drops of water that ran into his eyes. “An’ you’ll make cocoa?”

  “I’ll make cocoa. Now scoot.”

  The boys scurried off in opposite directions. While Lank filled the stove’s belly with chunks of wood, Letta used Pa’s knife to carve one chunk into kindling, the way she’d seen Pa do a hundred times. It took more effort, though, than she’d imagined. By the time she got enough kindling to feed a fire, the boys had changed out of their wet things and stood beside the stove in their bare feet, wet hair straggling across their foreheads.

  “Hurry up, Letta.”

  “Goin’ as fast as I can, Lesley. While you’re waitin’, get me a pot an’ that can o’ milk. Make yourselves useful.” She cringed, hearing Pa in her words. But the boys moved off to obey, letting her focus on starting the fire. If she weren’t so wet and cold and shivery, she’d have no trouble. She’d started the stove every day since Ma left. Of course, Pa’d kept the wood box and kindling bucket ready. She reckoned that would be her job now. Worry struck. Had she taken on more than she could handle, running off with the boys?

  She poked at the little pieces of splintered wood, pushing them together so they’d work better. Lesley limped over, pan in hand, and Lank followed with the can of milk and the can opener. Lank held out both items to her, and she snorted. If she was going to take on more responsibility, the boys would have to help. “You ain’t helpless, Lank. Poke that can your own self.”

  Lank shot her a startled look. Pa had never let them mess with the opener—the sharp point could do some damage. But after a moment’s hesitation, Lank placed the can on the table, hooked the opener on the ridged edge, and gave a push. Frothy milk bubbled up around the hole and trickled down the side of the can. Pa would’ve been upset about the mess and the waste, but Letta didn’t scold.

  “Pour it in the pan now. Lesley, step back and give Lank some room.”

  When Lank carried the pan of milk to the stove, a grin creased his face. Letta’d never seen him look so proud. She rewarded him with a nod, then set the pan in the middle of one of the lids at the back of the stove. She didn’t want Lesley poking his nose over it and getting burned.

  She dug the pieces of chocolate from her pocket. Their wrappers were sodden, but hopefully the candy inside wasn’t ruined. She laid them on the table and then pointed her finger at the boys. “Stay outta these. I won’t put ’em in ’til that milk’s steamin’ good. I’m gonna go change into dry clothes, and I’ll finish the cocoa when I get back. You two just sit close to the stove an’ get warm. All right?”

  The pair nodded in agreement, then settled side by side on the bench closest to the stove’s heat. Satisfied they’d be fine, Letta hurried to the bureau. In the shadowy corner out of the boys’ sight, she scrambled out of her wet things and into a dry petticoat, camisole, and gingham dress. She started to pull on a pair of Pa’s wool socks—her toes felt close to freezing—but she couldn’t make herself put them on. So she crossed on bare feet to the stove and sat next to Lesley, slipping her arm around his narrow shoulders to make up for being rough on him during their walk.

  “Your knees an’ hands feelin’ any better?” She used a gentle voice this time.

  “They sting some.” He touched his chin. “Hurts here, too.”

  Letta tipped his head up and squinted at the spot. He’d have an ugly scab by morning. “You’ll prob’ly be sore for a few days. You hit hard. But you’re tough. You’ll be all right.”

  Lesley grinned.

  Lank held his hands toward the stove. “Wuh-wuh-we goin’ tuh-tuh-to school tuh-tuh-tomorrow?”

  Letta chewed the inside of her lip. Much as she wanted to keep up with lessons, school would be the first place Miss Carrie’d come looking for them. They’d have to lay low for a few days, hiding under the bed or even in the neighbor’s outhouse if somebody came snooping, until Carrie gave up on finding them. She shook her head. “Not tomorrow. Maybe not for a week or so.” She turned stern. “But then you’ll be goin’ back. You’ll learn all you can, an’ you’ll share it with me, you hear?”

  Lank scowled, and Lesley’s lower lip poked out in a pout. Lesley said, “What you gonna do while we’re goin’ to school?”

  “I’ll be workin’.” Letta turned a sour look on the boys. “Somebody’s gotta buy food, ya know.”

  Lesley nudged Letta’s arm. “Miss Kesia’ll feed us, don’tcha think?”

  Letta shifted and scowled at Lesley. “You two stay away from Miss Kesia, you hear me?”

  They both stared at her, wide eyed. Lesley said, “How come?”

  “You go to the café, and Carrie’ll find out about it. Then she’ll take us to her place again, an’ she’ll give us over to Aunt Gertrude. That what you want?”

  Lank shook his head hard, but Lesley shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “Well, then, lemme tell you. You don’t wanna go to Aunt Gertrude’s. She’s real fat, an’ she’s mean, an’ she’ll make you sleep in the barn with rats.” Letta had no idea if she was speaking the truth, but she had Lesley’s attention. “She hated Pa, and she hates us. We’d be sorry as sorry can be to go to Aunt Gertrude’s.”

  Lesley scrunched up his face. “Then why’s Miss Carrie wantin’ us to go to Aunt Gertrude’s? I thought Miss Carrie liked us.”

  Letta sighed. “Miss Carrie does like us, Lesley. But she ain’t our ma. She ain’t our aunt or cousin or nothin’. She’s just a lady, an’ she can’t be takin’ care of us. That’s why she asked Aunt Gertrude to come. She wanted to find somebody to take care of us. The thing is, she don’t know Aunt Gertrude like I do.”

  Steam rose in curling ribbons above the pan. Letta jumped up and stirred the milk before i
t scorched. Swirling the spoon through the creamy liquid, she added, “But you two don’t need to worry none. I’ll take care of you. You just gotta do what I tell you, all right? Long as you do what I say, we’ll be fine. All right?”

  They bobbed their heads in unison, and Letta let out a breath of relief. Five days. Maybe a week. Even if Aunt Gertrude did come to Sinclair, she wouldn’t stick around longer than that. She’d put Pa in the ground and then skedaddle. And Miss Carrie’d give up by then and go on about her own business. If she and the boys could stay out of sight for just five days—maybe a week—everything would be fine.

  Caroline

  “I’m sure they’re just fine.”

  Ollie’s bland statement did nothing to calm Caroline’s ire. Lightning flashes split the sky, followed by booms of thunder. The wind blew, sending the heavy rain sideways. She paused in her hundredth trek from one side of the lobby to the other and stared out the window, praying for the storm to pass so she could go track down Letta and the boys. Thinking of them wandering around in the torrential downpour tied her stomach into knots.

  Ollie rose from the sofa, where he’d plopped himself an hour ago, and crossed to her. “Carrie, Letta’s a resourceful girl. She’d take her brothers to shelter. You don’t need to worry so.”

  Why must he be so calm and rational? Of course Letta was resourceful. Of course she’d take her brothers to shelter. They’d returned to their house—Caroline was certain. But just because they weren’t wandering the streets didn’t change the fact that they’d run away from her. From her, who’d been nothing but kind to them! Their choice left her heart bruised and aching. She didn’t deserve to be treated so thoughtlessly, and the moment the storm cleared—she wasn’t foolish enough to go out with lightning bolts sending spikes of fury toward the ground—she intended to pound on the warped door of the Holcombs’ shack and demand an explanation.

  She aimed a disgruntled look at Ollie. “I’m not worried. I’m mad.”

  He raised one eyebrow. A grin tweaked his cheek. “Oh, you are, huh?”

  “Yes. Good and mad. At the children and at you.”

  Both of his eyebrows flew high, and he traded his teasing grin for a look of surprise. “At me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Why me?”

  His genuine confusion sent her frustration up a notch. Folding her arms over her chest, she glowered at him. “Because you’re so … so unflustered. Those children did a foolish, thoughtless thing by leaving the way they did. Just because I know where they are doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be upset with them. And you should be, too!”

  He blinked twice. “I should?”

  “Of course you should! Here you are, stuck in the lobby of my boarding hotel in damp clothes when you could be snug and warm in your own bed, soundly sleeping.”

  He burst out laughing.

  She balled her hands into fists, battling the urge to punch him on the arm. “What’s so funny?”

  At her reaction he stilled the raucous laughter, but his eyes continued to twinkle. “I’m sorry. But if you could see yourself.” Another chortle escaped, but he turned it into a cough—a feeble attempt to mask his humor. “You might be fierce enough to go to battle, but you’re the sorriest looking warrior I’ve ever seen.” He reached out and tugged a loose strand of her hair, which trailed against her cheek. “Why don’t you go up to your room, change out of your water-soaked dress, and run a comb through your hair? It would make you feel better.”

  The fact that he was right only infuriated her more. She turned her back on him, aiming her gaze out the window again. “I’m just fine.”

  “You’re not fine, Carrie.” He moved closer—close enough that his breath touched her cheek. “You’ve been given a tremendous fright, your feelings have been hurt, and you’re cold and wet to boot.”

  So he did understand. Even so, she didn’t want him to be calm and reasonable. She wanted him to get angry. To stomp his feet. To rail at the children’s insensitivity. His unperturbed behavior only served to make her feel childish and melodramatic. But to tell him so would probably earn another round of laughter.

  He went on quietly, “Changing clothes won’t fix your trampled feelings, but it’ll help some. So why not go?”

  The storm wasn’t letting up. It might last all night. Did she intend to stand here stewing in a muddy dress with her hair hanging down her face in tangled ribbons, watching lightning decorate the sky? She should do as he suggested. But she didn’t move.

  Hands descended on her shoulders. She didn’t resist when he turned her to face him. Instead of humor, concern glowed in his eyes. “Carrie, by now Letta, Lank, and Lesley are probably sleeping in their own beds. They’ll be fine until morning. Go take care of yourself. Please?”

  His hands, so broad and strong, gently caressed her shoulders. The caring in his eyes sent warmth spiraling through her. Caroline’s resolve to be stalwart, to be independent, to never need anyone slowly faded, and she felt herself leaning toward him, wanting to simply melt into his embrace.

  What was she doing? She bolted away from his touch and skittered toward the staircase. “You’re right. I … I should change.” More than her clothes. “You … you should.” He should what? Leave? Stay? She was an investigator. She was supposed to solve problems. But she hadn’t a clue what she wanted him to do. So she turned and ran.

  Oliver

  Oliver waited until after midnight for Carrie to return to the lobby. But she stayed upstairs. Twice he set off for his own apartment, but both times lightning chased him back. He finally lay on the couch in her lobby and slept. He awakened early to birdsong. A peek out the window showed clouds hanging like ghostly sheets in the gray sky, but no rain was falling, and fingers of sunlight sneaked through tiny gaps in the clouds, promising the storm had passed.

  He stretched and twisted his torso, working out the kinks the lumpy couch had put in his muscles. Then he set off in the damp morning toward the Holcombs’ house. After Carrie had gone upstairs last night, he’d had a chance to think through what she’d said, and he’d discovered a niggling hint of irritation. Even in the midst of mourning, Letta should have had enough sense not to go traipsing off in the middle of a thunderstorm. She’d put herself and her brothers in a potentially dangerous situation, and he intended to let her know without any uncertainty how displeased both he and Carrie were with her choices.

  After he’d delivered a thorough scolding, he’d haul all three of them to Kesia’s for breakfast. He’d missed his dinner last night, thanks to those runaways, and he was half-starved. He might as well fill their stomachs, too, while he was at it.

  His feet were soaked—again—by the time he reached the Holcombs’ little house. Shaking each boot by turn to remove as much mud as possible before stepping inside, he frowned. The leather was cracked, the shaft peeling away from the sole. He’d probably have to throw them out. Another reason to take those children to task. He gave the door several solid thumps with his fist, then turned his ear to listen. Only silence from the other side. But they had to be in there. Where else would they go?

  He knocked again, banging hard enough to rattle the door in its frame. This time a timorous voice called, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Ollie Moore, Letta. Open up right now.”

  Muffled whispers, scuffling feet, and a series of thuds and bumps sounded behind the planked door. Oliver grabbed the knob and gave it a violent wrench. The door opened inward on three children scrambling out of nightshirts and into everyday clothes. He stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him. All movement stopped. Three sets of round blue eyes peered at him from beneath mops of tangled red hair.

  Oliver balled his fists on his hips and scowled at the trio. “Finish getting dressed. Then we are going to have a talk.”

  Letta held a tattered dress against the buttoned front of her cotton chemise. She thrust out her chin, her eyes sparking. “You can’t come bargin’ in here an’ bark orders at us. You ain’t our p
a.”

  No, he wasn’t. But in the absence of one, he supposed he was the closest thing to a father they had. The thought both scared him and made him feel accountable. He decided offense was better than defense. “No back talk. Just do as I say.”

  “I ain’t changin’ my clothes in front of you.” Letta inched backward, holding up her dress like a shield. “Gonna change in Pa’s bedroom. C’mon, Lank an’ Lesley.”

  Oliver waved his hand at the pair of boys, who hadn’t budged. “Go on. Get yourselves changed. But make it quick. Like I said, I want to talk to you. And I’m short on patience.”

  The boys whirled and clattered after their sister. The door slammed into its frame, and silence fell in the main room. Oliver sank onto a bench next to the stove and rested his elbow on the table. A pan, empty save a scorched ring on its interior, sat on the stove. The table held three mugs and a smear of melted chocolate. Apparently they’d at least had a little something for supper.

  Minutes ticked by as he waited for them to emerge. How long did it take kids to pull on a dress or britches and a shirt, anyway? He called out, “You about done in there?” No answer. He raised his voice. “Letta, hurry up now. Do you hear me?” Again, not a sound in reply. Frowning, Oliver stomped across the room and pressed his ear to the bedroom door. Nothing. But cool air crept from the crack under the door.

  A sick feeling replaced his hunger. He yanked the door open. The window yawned wide, the simple muslin curtain flapping against the windowsill. And all three children were gone.

  But they hadn’t been gone long.

  Oliver spun and ran to the front door. He reached for the doorknob, but before he could grab it, he heard someone call, “Letta, are you in there?” and the door swung inward. It hit him square in the side of the face. Stars exploded behind his eyes, dizziness assailed him, and he fell backward. On the way down he slammed his head on the bench he’d vacated. He lay on the floor, his head pounding and the room spinning.