Love Mercy

by Earlene Fowler

  “I’m sorry y’all are having to go through this. My gramma Hudson had Alzheimer’s. It’s a long, hard road . . . for everyone involved.”

  She nodded, looking down at the floor. Over the store’s sound system, Willie Nelson sang “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful.” “We’re kind of figuring things out as we go along.”

  “All anyone can do.”

  She looked up, glanced over his shoulder at the exit. “Well, I didn’t find anything here, so . . .”

  He glanced at his watch. “Want to have some lunch?”

  She looked into his face, trying to decide if she wanted to even start this. There were so many reasons not to: he was too confident, he was fifteen years older than her, he knew too much about her, he was a cop.

  “A sandwich, Melina Jane LeBlanc,” he said, smiling that cocky smile that both annoyed and intrigued her. “It’s just a sandwich. And maybe some soup. A cup of coffee. A pastry if you’re feeling particularly adventuresome.”

  “You are so full of crap.”

  “Been accused of that a few times. Did you know that there’s a procedure called a toe tuck? It’s to slim down a person’s pinkie toe. They actually remove fat deposits on the tips of the toes. They say it’s to fight toe-besity.” He shifted the Christmas box from one arm to the other. “I dearly love trivia.”

  She stared at him, then, unable to help herself, started laughing. “I don’t have time for lunch.” What she was thinking was, I don’t have time for you. “I have to buy Rett a Christmas present. I want it to be . . . nice. Or rather, right.”

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders and started walking out the Farm Supply’s wide front door. She had no choice but to go with him. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  “Gift certificate, my little Cajun cutie. When they are that age and they haven’t handed you a detailed list, that’s the only gift that is truly appreciated. We can go by the Chamber of Commerce, and you can buy one good for any of the downtown merchants. That way she can get what she wants—clothes, music, food, banjo strings, toothpaste—trust me, she’ll adore you for it.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Have I ever led you wrong?” He walked her out to her truck.

  “You’ve never led me anywhere . . .”

  “Not yet. But there’s always next year.”

  She shrugged away from his arm and unlocked her truck’s door. “I don’t like being pushed, Hud. You said you’d give me space.”

  He stepped back one foot and held out one arm, palm up. “Voilà,” he said. “Magic.”

  A jolt ran through her. Did he know her father was a magician? Was he making fun of her? She studied his face, relaxed and smiling. She felt her spine loosen. He was just kidding around. Maybe she needed to quit being so uptight. Though she had no desire to even think about another romantic relationship, lunch was doable. Maybe it would be good for her. He was easy to talk to, a great . . . what was it called . . . transition person? Transition to what? Who knew, but like with what had happened with Love and Rett and August and Polly, Mel had now realized that there was no peering into the future, no guarantees. Sometimes, like Cy said to her once, you just have to run in the ocean, catch a wave, see where on the shore you end up.

  Here, she thought. I ended up here. Here in this funny little county in California with a bunch of people who are almost family. She had to admit, whoever was in control of her particular wave had done right by her this time. She was here. She was alive, and she was here. And here felt good.

  “Okay,” she said to Hud. “I’ll meet you at Liddie’s Café in an hour. The gift certificate is a great idea. I’ll run by the Chamber and buy one.”

  “You won’t be sorry.” His smile was nice this time. Not cocky, just nice.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see,” she said and smiled back.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Love Mercy

  It was four p.m., and the only person who hadn’t arrived at August and Polly’s house was Clint. Love stood at the sink in Polly’s kitchen washing her gold-rimmed Christmas holly glasses. The large window looked out over the front yard and long driveway. This view was one of the things she loved the most about Polly’s kitchen. A person could see everything that was going on as they were doing the dishes or peeling potatoes. Polly had always teased August, saying she married him partially because she loved this kitchen and its view.

  “I like seeing right away who’s here to visit,” she’d told him. “I don’t like to be kept in the dark about what’s coming.”

  How ironic those words seemed now. There was not any way she’d be able to see what was coming as things started to darken for August. The medical workup couldn’t conclusively tell them if it was Alzheimer’s, but he definitely was experiencing some sort of dementia. Nothing would be predictable; that was the only certainty.

  Love had found someone to stay with Polly and August every minute. It was working, for now. Once Love and Rett returned from Tennessee, they’d have a family meeting and discuss the future. They’d figure something out. Every day they made it through without incident was just another slice of God’s good grace. How well Love knew that.

  Love dried the holly-printed glass, set it on a tray with the others and looked back out the window. Clint was pulling up in his little green Subaru Forester. They’d have dinner, then open presents right away so that Clint could get on the road before too late. He was driving to San Francisco to spend Christmas with Garth and his family.

  “But you probably won’t reach Garth’s house until midnight,” she had said yesterday when he told her his plan to come to the Johnsons’ for Christmas Eve dinner. “You’ll be exhausted on Christmas Day.” They’d met for lunch so they could discuss the best legal strategy for Polly and August. He’d recommended a lawyer he knew in San Celina who specialized in elder law.

  “Polly specifically asked me to come,” Clint said. “She said it might be their last Christmas at the ranch, and she wanted me there. How could I refuse?”

  Love had been surprised that Polly was so open with him. He was an acquaintance, but not family or a longtime friend. She’d not spoken to Love, Magnolia, Rocky or anyone else she’d known for years about her and August possibly moving from the ranch. The worry in Polly’s eyes after hearing what the doctor said was obvious, but it was typical of her not to want to burden anyone with her troubles.

  Love stared down at her half-eaten Caesar salad. “I wish she’d talked to me about it.”

  He opened his tri-tip beef sandwich and spooned salsa on the steak. “It’s common for parents to want to spare their children the hard details. She trusts me but doesn’t have to worry about my emotional state. And she knows that whatever she tells me will eventually get back to you, so it’s her way of communicating with you without all the fuss.” He gave Love a lopsided smile; his silver-streaked hair fell across his forehead like a teenage boy’s. “I think therapists call it triangulation. Sounds deadly, doesn’t it?”

  She looked up into his kind gray eyes. “You’re not breaking any legal rules by telling me what she said, are you?”

  He shook his head. “No, because I’m technically not her lawyer, just an interested friend. Also because she mentioned that if I felt so inclined, I could talk to you about any of this.”

  Love had smiled, relieved. “That sounds like Polly.” She pushed at the salad with her fork, her appetite diminished. The thought of this being August and Polly’s last Christmas at the ranch felt like a knot in her heart. “Well, I’m glad you’re coming to Christmas Eve dinner, Judge.” She’d bought him a huge handmade coffee mug that read on the side, Trail Boss. He’d get a kick out of it.

  She carried the tray of clean glasses into the dining room where Polly was fussing with the red and green plaid napkins.

  “Clint’s here,” Love said, placing a Christmas glass next to each plate.

  “Hope everyone’s hungry,” Polly said, wiping her hands on her crocheted Christmas apron. “We’ve got enough
food for three armies.”

  “Good,” Love said. “You won’t have to cook for August and Zane for a week. Maybe you can get some quilting done.”

  She looked up at her daughter-in-law, her toffee eyes serious. “You and Clint talk lately?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Love said. “He says that John Goldstein is the lawyer you need to see to sort things out with the ranch and such. Are you okay with that?”

  She held Love’s gaze. “Do you think you might have time to come along? I’d sure like to have some company.”

  “Of course, Mom. You know I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier for you and August. Rett and I leave for Knoxville day after tomorrow and will, hopefully, be back in a couple of weeks.”

  She gave a sharp nod. “Set it up for when you get back.”

  “I’ll call Mr. Goldstein and make an appointment for the middle of January.”

  While everyone greeted Clint, Love carried the platter of ham and turkey into the dining room and set it in the middle of the table. Polly had agreed to let Rocky carve the turkey in the kitchen, saving August any trouble he might have with the large carving knife. Love gazed over the table filled with the food so lovingly prepared by Polly: baking powder biscuits, sweet corn and green beans frozen from last summer’s garden, mashed potatoes, sliced tomatoes, herb and onion dressing, homemade peach preserves, chowchow made from her own secret recipe, her famous dill pickles, which had won first place at the San Celina Mid-State Fair a record ten years in a row. It was a feast.

  Love blinked back tears, missing Cy and Tommy at that moment with a pain like the actual wound to her skin made by August’s gun. It felt as new as the moment their souls left this earth. Seconds later, her heart soared when she heard the sounds coming from the living room: the deep rumble of August’s voice, the high, girlish giggle of her granddaughter, the animal growl of Zane’s young voice, the booming sound of Rocky’s teasing baritone and Magnolia’s beautiful contralto—like a foreshadowing from the bluesy section of heaven—singing her unique version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  She went into the living room and announced that supper was served. It took a few minutes for everyone to find their seat, but once they were all settled down, they instinctively looked over to August, waiting for him to say the blessing like he had at all the dinners they’d had at the ranch over the years. He smiled, looking straight ahead, uncomprehending.

  Rocky cleared his throat. “Polly, would you like . . . ?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. Next to her, August smiled and picked up a biscuit.

  “Let’s bless this wonderful meal,” Rocky said. “Gracias, El Señor, Father God, for this blessed holiday, the celebration of your son’s birth, the hope and salvation for man and womankind. Bless this delicious food, bless those who prepared it and we who will partake of it. Bless our men and women in uniform who serve and protect us every day, both here and on foreign soil. Comfort and protect them. Thank you for your continued grace as we attempt to walk your righteous path each and every day. We ask this in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

  The meal was a joyous event with much laughing and joking and reminiscing. More than once Love’s throat tightened. This meal was so different from last year when Cy’s death was so new, barely a month gone, and Polly, August, Mel and Love forced themselves to gather around this same claw-foot table despite the fact that their hearts were raw and chapped with grief.

  Afterward everyone gathered around the Christmas tree to pass around presents and drink Polly’s cold, sweet, homemade eggnog dusted with nutmeg. Love had bought a last-minute gift for Zane, a gift card good for twenty-five dollars’ worth of downloaded songs for his iPod, a suggestion from Rett.

  “You know, Grandma, you should get an iPod,” she’d said. “You could put all your CDs on it and listen while you walk along the beach. The Nano weighs, like, nothing. Like carrying a credit card.”

  “I like listening to the seagulls,” Love said, smiling. “But I’ll think about it.”

  Actually, she’d done more than think about it. Yesterday she went to Target in Paso Robles and bought herself a teal-colored one to match the red one she bought for Rett.

  As everyone opened presents, Love instinctively took out her camera and started snapping pictures. Her mind already gave the montage a title: “Last Christmas at the Ranch.” She quietly moved around, trying to capture the happiness and the sadness: a smile, a faraway look, a moment of peace. One shot of Polly’s and August’s eyes meeting across the room while everyone tore open presents made Love lower her camera, her eyes too flooded to see through the viewfinder. Like a physical filament of memory, everything of their shared life seemed to pass between them: the joy, the longing, the sadness, the contentment, the whole long map of their joined lives. In that moment, Love sensed that August knew that their life would never be the same.

  Love watched while Mel subtly helped August when he had trouble opening a present. There was a peace in her face that Love had not seen before. Was it because the situation with Sean’s family was settled? Had her mother finally called her back and wished her a good Christmas? Love hoped so.

  Yesterday morning Love had gone to the feed store to get Mel’s advice about iPods. The store was empty when Love walked up to the counter. Before she could call out, she heard Mel’s voice coming from the back office.

  “Hey, Mom,” she said. “I’ve tried calling a couple of times. Guess you’ve gone somewhere for Christmas. Hope it’s someplace fun.” Her voice sounded young and uncertain. “Just wanted to say . . . well . . . guess I just want to wish you a merry Christmas. I sent you a card. There’s . . . uh . . . a hundred-dollar gift card in there. I didn’t really know what you needed. It’s one of those Visa ones. You can use it anywhere, I guess. Buy yourself something crazy. Anyway, call me if you have time. I . . . Merry Christmas, Mom.”

  Love backed quietly out of the store, not wanting Mel to know that she’d overheard her conversation

  How proud Cy would have been of her, how grateful for the kindness and patience she was showing with his father. For a moment, Love felt a little of what it must feel like to have a daughter, one whom you trusted and loved and, most wondrous of all, liked.

  Love watched Mel open Love’s present to her. When she unwrapped the stained glass Christmas tree hanging, her initial expression was as if someone had handed her a suitcase filled with thousand-dollar bills.

  Mel glanced up and caught Love’s eye. Thank you, she mouthed.

  Love grinned at her, delighted. Was there any greater pleasure than giving someone exactly what they wanted? She’d tease Mel later when her friend quizzed Love about how she knew exactly what to buy her.

  “You’ve mooned over that wall hanging for six months,” she’d tell her. “Did you really think I wasn’t watching?”

  When all the presents had been opened, and Polly and Magnolia were serving pie and coffee, Clint stood up and clapped to get everyone’s attention.

  “There’s one more gift,” he said, glancing over at Love, then nodded at Rett. She stood up and walked out of the room. When she came back in a few seconds later, she was carrying a beautiful guitar made of some kind of glossy red-tinted wood.

  “First, this is my gift to Rett,” he said. “It was my mother’s guitar. Neither of my boys or their kids have a bit of interest in playing it, so I know my mother would approve of me giving it to someone with so much talent and with such a love for music.”

  Rett’s face turned pink. They’d obviously discussed this already, though Love didn’t have a clue when.

  “Now we’re cooking,” Clint said, rubbing his palms together, thoroughly pleased with himself. He looked at that moment like he was Zane’s age.

  Rett fit the strap around her shoulders and nodded at Zane, who had somehow slipped out of the room and returned with a shiny black mandolin.

  She gave Love a shy look and said, “Grandma, I didn’t have any money to buy you a present. I’ll be able to ne
xt year, ’cause now I have a job.” She turned and saluted Magnolia. “But I do have something for you. I wrote this a few days ago.”

  She nodded at Zane and started strumming. The mountain sound of his mandolin notes blended perfectly with her guitar, and for a moment, Love was transported back to Kentucky, to her childhood, when neighbors came to call and you sat on the front porch of an evening and whomever had the talent played for the rest of the folks, singing the words of their lives: the hard, cold mine, how the black got into everything, Daddy could never wash it completely away, days without much to eat but crackers and canned milk, Mama singing a high, thin soprano as she sewed a skirt for Love on her treadle sewing machine, the sound of buzzing insects, the scent of frying oil, the taste of air sweet with spring flowers. How could a few bars of music capture all that?

  When Rett started singing, they all hushed, mesmerized by the sound of her voice—an odd mix of soprano and alto—not perfect, but one that held the strains of her heritage, the throat bones of her Appalachian ancestors, a people who’d spent as much of their life starving as filled, but always held hope, always believed that good times were coming. When Zane’s raspy young voice swooped in and sang soft harmony, it caused everyone to stare, aware that they were hearing something unusual, two voices that miraculously seemed to be made exactly to do this very thing: sing together.

  Love automatically brought the Nikon to her face and started taking snapshots, trying to capture the moment in the best way she knew how. After two or three shots, she slowly let the camera drop, the words that Rett sang causing her to catch her breath.

  A California boy on his way to war,

  a country kid with chestnut hair,

  Cy missed his horse and a lightning-scarred tree

  and the town where he lived near the Western sea.

  Love sat up front at the country church,

  where kudzu grew and coal came first.

  She smiled at him in his army greens,