New Mercies

by Dallas, Sandra

  “Until Arthur moved here.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Did you ever love me?” It was the question that had repeated itself over and over in my head as I drove through the mountains.

  David started to answer, but I interrupted. “No. Don’t say anything. I wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

  We talked for a long time. The morning sunlight slipped away from the room and was replaced by afternoon shadows. David made a second pot of coffee, and a third. I fixed cinnamon toast, but neither of us ate it. We talked about David’s homosexuality, our marriage, and finally the divorce. At times, I wanted to comfort David—as he did me. He said we could be friends, but we could not. Sometimes, I was so overtaken by rage and betrayal that I could not speak. By the time we got up from the table, my palms were bleeding from where my nails had dug into them, and my hands ached from being clenched.

  I agreed that David could spend that night in the guest room, for he had nowhere else to go but Arthur’s place. The irony of that did not escape either one of us. In the morning, David would make other arrangements. We joked that he might rent an apartment from me, and I thought that because we found humor in the situation, we would be all right.

  But I was not all right. We worked out the details of severing our marriage, dividing up the furniture and art, the sheets and the flatware. I did not ask for alimony; he insisted on my keeping the apartment building and the house in Georgetown. Less than a week later, I took the train to Reno for a quickie divorce, staying in a downtown hotel, where women told stories about unfaithful or drunken or useless husbands. But I was silent, confused.

  After six weeks in Reno, I appeared before a judge, threw my gold wedding ring into the Truckee River, and returned to Denver, the divorce papers in my pocketbook, shame and bitterness in my heart. I telephoned David to say that the divorce was final. But we did not see each other. I kept to the apartment or spent time with Caroline and my family. Hostesses were careful not to invite David and me to the same events, but as solitary males were preferable to unescorted women, I did not receive such a quantity of invitations. After a while, some of the single men in our set invited me to attend the movies or have a quiet dinner. I turned them down.

  One morning, David called and asked if he might pick up the drapes, which I had promised him but had not yet taken down. He still had a key, and we agreed he would let himself in that afternoon while I was out.

  David was delayed, however, and when I returned, I found him and Arthur sitting in the living room, drinking tea. I was overcome with anger.

  “Hello, Nora,” Arthur said, as if he were making a social call.

  “How dare you be here?” I spat the words.

  “It’s all right,” David said. “Arthur is helping me with the drapes. You remember he helped us hang them.”

  “I never said you could bring him into my apartment again.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Get out.”

  “Nora, dear, I’m sorry about all this,” Arthur said smoothly. He wasn’t sorry at all. He had exactly what he wanted—a wife and children at home and now a secret life with David in David’s new apartment. Arthur reached for the box on the smoking stand beside his chair, took out a cigarette, and lighted it. After a puff or two, he placed the cigarette in the ashtray and leaned back in his seat, apparently enjoying our little scene.

  I began to shake, so I sat down, for fear my legs would give out.

  “There’s no need to be uncivil,” David said. “We’re all adults.”

  “Aw, she’ll get over it,” Arthur told him. He saw that his stocking had slipped down, and he pushed up his pants leg while he refastened the sock to the garter.

  The gesture repulsed me. “Get over it? Get over that my husband is a damned—”

  “Don’t,” said David, interrupting me. “Don’t let’s talk about it.”

  “You mean it’s okay for the two of you to do what you do, but it’s not okay for me to talk about it? Isn’t that a bit twisted?”

  “Muggs,” David pleaded.

  “Don’t you ever call me that.”

  “It’s not really wrong, but simply the way it is. There’s nothing any of us can do about it, so don’t be sore,” Arthur said. He had picked up the cigarette again and now blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Buck up, Nora.”

  My hands were so icy that I took out my gloves and put them on. Then I shoved my gloved hands deep into my pockets. “Does Betsey think there’s nothing wrong with it?” From the wary expression on Arthur’s face, I knew that Betsey was no more aware of their homosexuality than I had been a few weeks earlier. “I’ll ask her myself. Yes, I’ll call Betsey, and we’ll have a little talk.”

  “Come on, Nora,” David pleaded.

  Arthur said nothing, but he gave me a smug look, as if he knew I wouldn’t follow through. He muttered out of the side of his mouth, “No soap,” and then he patted David’s arm. The homey gesture, one I had made so many times myself, made me white-hot with anger. I stood up and removed the glove from one hand and went to the telephone and dialed a number. “Betsey? It’s Nora. Can we get together next week? I’ve something to tell you.”

  Would I have told her? I want to think it was only a bluff, that my better sense and my compassion would have kept me from doing something so cruel. All my life, I had acted out of love, not hate, but I had never really hated anybody until I caught Arthur with my husband. Of course, I would never know what I might have done. The threat that afternoon just five months ago had been enough. Two days later, David crashed his plane into the mountain.

  Chapter Ten

  GUILT WEIGHED ON ME LIKE the box of Amalia’s belongings that I carried. After resting for a few minutes, I walked on, shifting the burden in my arms to check my wristwatch, but I had forgotten to wind it, and the hands were stopped at 2:20. The sky had turned ink-colored, and the deserted road, black with shadows now, was less friendly. Wood smoke from burning brush filled the heavy air with an acrid smell. Crows cawed from deep in the woods. A snake crawled out of the green slime in the ditch beside me, forcing me to wait as it slithered across the road. A dead turtle lay in the dirt, crushed by some vehicle. The woods were alive with insects, and gnats attacked my eyes and nose. When I shook my head to get rid of them, something damp and clammy, like a lizard, scratched at my neck, and I dropped the box, grasping at myself, but the thing was gone. The touch remained on my skin, and I rubbed at it with my hands to rid myself of the sliminess.

  The carton lay in the dirt, its contents spilled across the road. A jewelry box had opened, disgorging a diamond that glittered in the black dirt like the eye of a crow. The candelabra was bent, and the glass on the sampler had cracked. I swore a little, gathering up the things and shoving them into the box, while the wind blew leaves off the trees, swirling them around me until my hair and body were speckled with the remains of dead foliage.

  As I started off, there was a noise in the underbrush, as if something were following me, and I realized I had heard it before. I stopped, and the noise stopped. I went on, and so did it. Only a human would track me that way. I hurried as fast as I could, my legs aching and my arms limp from the weight of the heavy carton. I looked over my shoulder but saw nothing in the gloom of the trees.

  Behind me, I heard the motor of a large car and then two staccato beeps of a horn. I moved as far to the side of the road as possible without stepping up onto the embankment, hoping the driver was not stalking me, too. The car slowed, and there was a second quick honk. I turned angrily to glare at the headlamps, hoping to forestall some masher before he could give a wolf whistle or yell, “Hey, girlie.” The car crawled alongside of me and stopped, and a man reached over and rolled down the passenger window. “Hello there.”

  The auto, a bulky Packard, was dark inside. I did not recognize the voice. Then the driver, realizing that I did not know him, said, “It’s Holland Brown. We met at breakfast.”

  “Oh.” I
was surprised at how relief washed over me. I was not used to being frightened.

  Holland put the car into neutral and set the emergency brake, then got out and stood on the running board as he leaned across the Packard’s roof toward me. “How about a lift back to the Eola?”

  “It’s not far.”

  “If you won’t let me drive you to your hotel, I’ll have to walk along beside you, for the gentleman in me won’t allow you to carry that box one more step.”

  “Was that line bred in your bones, or have you learned it since you’ve been in Natchez?” I hoped my words did not sound as abrupt to him as they did to me.

  “I’m trying to learn southern manners, and by the looks of things, I’m not doing such a hot job at it.”

  Embarrassed by my rudeness, I explained, “Walking along this road, I’ve been imagining all sorts of awful things. You could have been a fiend.”

  “No such luck.” Holland Brown’s amusement made me feel better. “That box you’re carrying says ‘Nu-Grape’ on the side—horrid sugary drink, that—but my guess is you’ve got the family jewels in there. You can hold them on your lap, if you think I’ll snatch them.”

  The remark made me laugh, because the box did indeed contain the Bondurant jewelry, although I had no intention of telling that to Holland Brown. “It does make more sense for both of us to ride.” Then, to show that I had learned manners, too, I added, “And yes, thank you, a ride would be nice.”

  Holland came around the car and took the box from me. “Ye gods! If these are your family’s valuables, they’re made of iron. It’s a wonder you were able to carry them at all.” He put the box into the backseat and opened the front passenger door for me, then got in on the driver’s side. “I’ll wager you have been out in the country, looking at your patrimony. I’ve been doing the same.” He stuck out his elbow to indicate his rolled-up shirtsleeves as he put in the Packard’s clutch and switched gears. “I’ve been tramping around it, at any rate. I hope your place is in better condition than mine. The land’s sour and parched, and the house burned down years ago.”

  “In the war?” I asked.

  “Heavens no. The Hollands would have been better off if it had. That might have forced the lot of them to move sooner. These old places just catch fire—lightning, tramps, naughty boys sneaking a smoke. Have you insurance?”

  “You’ve not seen Avoca.” I’d assumed that everybody in Natchez knew all about Avoca.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure. My condolences on your aunt’s death, by the way. Mr. Sam said she passed under mysterious circumstances.”

  “Thank you. She didn’t die under mysterious circumstances. She was murdered. After he shot her, the killer committed suicide. That’s it.”

  “Oh, I have missed a plain-spoken Yankee woman since coming down here.” Holland grinned at me, showing teeth that were very white but a little uneven. He was a large man, not fat, but powerfully built, with big features. His hand on the steering wheel was large. Holland was not especially handsome, but there was a wholesome look to him. David had had delicate features, and he’d been trim—sleek almost—with fine hair that he’d had carefully trimmed each Friday morning. Holland Brown had curly hair that appeared to have a mind of its own, the kind of hair a woman might like to comb into place with her fingers. I was not that sort of woman, however. I would keep my hands to myself.

  Holland seemed to be waiting for a reply, so I said, “They do have a way of talking, don’t they, as if they sprinkle their words with sugar.”

  “They sprinkle everything else with sugar. I’ve never been offered so much treacle in my life.”

  “What doesn’t have sugar has salt. Have you tasted the ham? And I don’t believe I have to say anything to you about beaten biscuits.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Holland said. “And grits! What sane person could grind up a perfectly good cornstalk and turn it into sand?”

  “Perhaps it’s their punishment for losing the Civil War.”

  “You mean the Lost Cause.”

  I leaned back against the woolen seat of the Packard and relaxed. Holland Brown seemed like a boy from home, his words clipped, instead of melting into one another. But unlike the boys in Denver, he did not know me, did not know about David, so he was not looking for hidden meaning in what I said. I felt more comfortable with him than I had with a man in a long time.

  He stopped in front of the Eola. “I’ll carry that box to your room for you, unless you think people will talk. They do have a way of minding each other’s business here.”

  “They have a way of doing that everywhere. We’ll just tell them to get lost.”

  “Why, Miss Nora!” Holland said in mock shock.

  “It’s just plain Nora. Do you think they’ll talk even more if I offer you a drink up there? The bellman sold me a bottle of something called ‘white mule.’ ”

  “I know it well—the devil’s poison.”

  “It’s not nearly as good as sugar moon from home. Colorado makes the best bootleg in the country.”

  “I’m partial to Chicago whiskey. It’s as nice as you please.”

  “Either one’s bound to be better than white mule.”

  “You’ve got my number.”

  My room was too stuffy for comfort. So after locking the jewelry boxes inside my suitcase—while Holland discreetly stared out the window, pretending he was not interested in what I’d taken from Avoca—I stuck the bottle into my purse, and we walked to the river, where the water was the same lead color as the sky. We watched as the night came on, taking nips from the bottle like a couple of bums, and I told him about the drunk who had approached me the night before. Sharing the story with him made me feel good. Then we walked down to Natchez Under-the-Hill and had dinner in a little dive. People ignored us, and for the first time since arriving in Natchez, I felt invisible.

  As we ate fried catfish and hush puppies, Holland told me that he had come to Mississippi after his divorce but was not yet sure he would stay for good. He did not talk about his marriage, but instead spoke about Natchez. “The people are fine, and despite what you’d think, there is plenty of legal work here, even though these are drowsing years and some folks don’t hit on all six, but . . .” He shrugged. “It’s still an alien place to me. I ain’t a southerner, not yet, at any rate.”

  “Me, neither.” I told him that I was divorced, too.

  “Love dies, doesn’t it?”

  “If it ever existed at all.” I added quickly, “I intend to be here only long enough to settle my aunt’s estate”

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  “There is a little building on Avoca that I could turn into a house, but the idea seems awfully far-fetched.”

  He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and after that, like countrymen who have found each other in a foreign land, we amused ourselves with stories about what Holland called “the natives.” “A client of mine came in wearing the oddest-looking pair of shoes, which he said were made during the war,” Holland told me. “The family couldn’t get leather, you see, so when their dog died, they skinned it and sent the skin to the tanner, and the shoes lasted into the third generation. They were so grateful, they damn near held a wake for that dog.” He paused only a moment. “Have you heard about their wakes? They serve a drink made of bourbon, cooked oatmeal, and cream. Fortunately, with the heat, the laying out is brief.”

  “It’s a good thing I arrived too late for my aunt’s funeral,” I said. Then I related Parthena’s story about a Natchez woman who had been told by a Union officer during the war that if all the women in Mississippi were as pretty as she, he had no desire to conquer the South. “You know what she replied?” I asked, then told him. “ ‘If all the Union men are as ugly as you, we have no desire to conquer you, either.’ ”

  After dinner, Holland walked me back to the hotel. For a moment, I thought he would kiss my cheek, and I wanted him to. But we were in the lobby, and so we shook hands. “I would like to see you aga
in before you leave,” Holland told me.

  I said that would be nice, and I thought, That would be very nice indeed.

  As if in punishment for the pleasant evening with Holland, I awoke with the shivers. I turned off the fan and covered myself with a blanket, although the air was still and hot. I lay in bed, my toes and fingertips cold, thinking about David, about his last minutes in the aeroplane as he maneuvered it toward Lookout Mountain, wondering if his final thoughts were not of me but of Arthur. I took a sleeping powder and did not awake until nine o’clock, the hour I’d agreed to meet Pickett and Mr. Sam at Avoca. Seeing the time on the clock ticking on the bedside table, I jumped up and threw on my work clothes, brushed my teeth, and dusted my face with a puff I took from my compact. It might be all right for me to be late in Natchez, but it would certainly be improper to arrive with a shiny nose.

  By the time my cab reached Avoca, Amalia’s bed was being disassembled in the driveway and Pickett was waving her arms at a workman carrying a small table. “Over here,” she said, and he set it down. A tiny man dressed in a white shirt and pants and carrying a walking stick, examined the table, his fingers tapping his chest.

  “It’s sure a beaut,” Pickett said, beckoning me.

  He squatted and looked underneath the table. “It’s fabulous.” He pronounced the word “fabalas.”

  “I told you so.” She indicated me. “Nora Bondurant, may I present Philip St. Vrain, the New Orleans antiquities dealer. Some people would say he knows more about American antiques than anyone else in the South.”

  “And they would be right.” Philip stood and dusted off his palms, then took my hands between his. “Miss Nora, you pretty thing, it is such a pleasure. When I heard last night what was inside this house, I could not sleep. My driver and I left New Orleans before the sun was up.”