Little Mercies

by Heather Gudenkauf

  “No, no,” Jenny protested. “It was a great idea for a present. I just felt...sorry for it.”

  They both looked down into the small trench. “Well, how about we commence with the ceremony and then go to the Happy Pancake for supper?” her father asked, looking at her with weary, bloodshot eyes. Together they filled in the tiny hole covering the white paw with dusty earth. “Would you like to say a few words?” her father asked solemnly.

  “I’ve never been to a funeral before,” Jenny admitted. “I’m not sure what I should say.”

  “Well, I’ve been to my share of funerals and mostly there’s a lot of praying and crying. You can say whatever comes to mind and it’s all right.”

  Jenny thought this over for a moment. “Do I have to say it out loud?” she asked.

  “Nope, some of the most powerful words ever spoken are said right here.” He tapped his tobacco-stained fingers sagely against his chest.

  Jenny stood silently over the tiny grave for a moment and then her father took her by the hand and they walked the quarter mile to the Happy Pancake, both retreating to the restroom after the waitress raised her eyebrows at their dirt-encrusted fingernails.

  “The Chocolate Chip Happy Stack is $4.99, if that’s not too much,” Jenny said hopefully, scanning the prices on the menu. “And you can have my bacon if you want it.”

  “Get whatever you want, Peanut. We’re celebrating today,” her father said buoyantly. Jenny peeked skeptically at her father from behind the plastic folds of the menu. Usually, whenever her father announced a celebration, he said he was going to invite two friends over and two friends only. Brew and Ski. Her only consolation was that the Happy Pancake promised a strictly family atmosphere complete with thirty-seven kinds of pancakes and a man who dressed up in a smiling pancake costume and made balloon animals on Sundays. Beer and his problematic friends were nowhere to be found on the menu.

  “I guess I’ll have the Happy Hawaiian Stack then,” Jenny decided. She had already tried three of the thirty-seven pancake varieties and was determined to try each.

  “A fine, fine choice, madame,” her father said in his fake French waiter accent, causing her to giggle.

  “So what are we celebrating?” Jenny asked in her most grown-up voice after their orders were placed and they were both sipping on tall frothy glasses of orange juice.

  “Hold on to your hat...” he began, and Jenny indulgently clapped her hands atop her head. “We are going on a trip!” her father said, emphasizing each word with a hand slap to the Formica tabletop.

  “What kind of trip?” Jenny asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, thinking of their truck leaking dangerous black smoke from beneath the hood the last time her father tried to start it.

  “I got a call from my old friend Matthew,” her father said, pausing when the waitress appeared with their plates and slid a pile of steaming pancakes topped with pineapples, whipped cream and a brightly colored umbrella in front of Jenny. He waited until the waitress retreated before continuing, “You wouldn’t remember him, you were just a baby the last time we saw him, but Matthew called and said they were looking for some workers at the John Deere plant over in Iowa.” He looked at his daughter hopefully.

  “That doesn’t sound like a trip,” Jenny said miserably, staring down at her pancakes, the whipped cream already sliding from the stack in a buttery sludge. She pushed her plate to the middle of the table. “That sounds like moving.” She suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “It’s right on the Mississippi River. We can go fishing, maybe even buy a boat someday. Imagine that, Peanut.” Her father stabbed his fork at a piece of sausage, a wide grin on his face. “We could live on a houseboat if we wanted to.”

  This was an interesting thought. A houseboat. But Jenny pushed the thought aside. “What’s the name of this place,” Jenny asked grumpily, pulling her plate back and pinching off a piece of the pancake with her fingers.

  “Dubuque. And besides the Mississippi River, there’s a dog track and a river museum with otters and alligators and all kinds of cool things.”

  Silently, Jenny began eating—she wasn’t sure when she and her father would get their next decent meal. Eight hours from now they would most likely be splitting a bag of chips and a stick of beef jerky. Her belly felt uncomfortably full, her tongue thick with syrup. Her father was going on and on about how great Iowa was going to be, how the John Deere plant paid fifteen dollars an hour, how they’d move into an apartment, but just for a while. Once they were settled they could move into a house where she would have her own room and a backyard. Jenny wanted to ask him if there would be a breakfast nook. It sounded so cozy and comfortable, a small corner of the kitchen, surrounded by sun-filled windows. But her stomach hurt and she didn’t want him to think that she approved of his plan in any way. Jenny licked her syrupy fingers one by one. “When do we leave?” she asked in resignation.

  “How ’bout tonight?” her father asked, smiling broadly, his right cheek collapsing into a deep dimple that women loved. Then, leaning in so closely that she could smell sausage intermingled with this afternoon’s beer, he lowered his voice. “You run on home and start packing. I’ll pay and catch up with you in a few minutes. We got a bus to catch at midnight.”

  Jenny knew that her father wasn’t going to pay for their supper, but at least he was letting her get out of the restaurant before embarrassing her to death. He was thoughtful that way.

  Chapter 3

  I creep down the hallway, the wooden floor sighing creakily beneath my bare feet. I peek into the kids’ rooms. First Leah’s and then Lucas’s. Leah is tented beneath her thin white sheet, her bright pink comforter covered with multicolored peace symbols kicked to the end of the bed. A faint glow shines through the cotton and I’m hoping that she has a flashlight beneath the covers reading a book like I used to when I was little. But I know my daughter too well. It’s her handheld video game, one that Adam’s parents, Hank and Theresa, gave her a few months ago for her ninth birthday. A confusing game where the avatar goes back in time, trying to save the stolen prince and return him safely to the enchanted kingdom. It’s a lot like what you do for a living, El, Hank told me happily after Leah opened the brightly wrapped package, whooped with joy and called to thank her grandparents.

  Now that would be a superpower, I think to myself. To be able to step into a time machine and travel back a week, an hour, a minute, a second before some indescribable thing happens to a child. To stand before a parent brandishing a cigarette, a stepparent with a lurid leer, a caregiver with a raised fist and say, “Do you really want to do this?”

  “Hey, Leah,” I whisper, closing the bedroom door behind me and trying not to wake Lucas who, across the hall, is buried beneath his own blanket like a wooly bear caterpillar, even though it’s still eighty degrees outside and the air conditioner is less than reliable. Neither Adam nor I have had the time to call the repairman. I peer beneath her sheet and smile at my firstborn daughter. She looks up guiltily at me from beneath a forelock of dark hair damply pasted against her forehead.

  “It’s nearly midnight, turn that thing off,” I chide, holding out my hand for the game. She presses a button and suddenly we’re plunged into darkness but for the star-shaped night-light plugged into the receptacle next to her bed.

  “I can’t sleep though,” she protests in her gravelly voice.

  “Want me to rub your back?” I ask

  “Too hot,” she answers grumpily.

  “Sing you a song?”

  “Um, no,” she says shortly. I’m not surprised at this response. My singing is a long-running family joke. Still, I hum a few bars of a song that is Leah’s current favorite and wiggle my hips. Even in the dark I can tell that she is rolling her eyes.

  “How about a cold washcloth for your forehead and another fan brought up here?”

 
“I guess,” she says with a jaw-breaking yawn.

  By the time I go downstairs, lug up the oscillating fan, wet a washcloth beneath the cold-water faucet and return to Leah’s bedroom, she is fast asleep. I slap the washcloth on the back of my own sweaty neck, plug in the fan and position it so that the marginally cooler air is focused squarely on her sleeping form. I lean over and lightly press my lips to Leah’s cheek and she doesn’t stir. I tiptoe across the hall to Lucas’s bedroom, stoop down to kiss his forehead and he waves a hand as if trying to swat away a pesky mosquito.

  I pull the washcloth from my neck, its coolness already absorbed into my hot skin, and I turn to see my husband’s silhouette in the doorway, a sleepy Avery in his arms. “Ellen, everything okay?” Adam whispers.

  I put a finger to my lips and silently cross the bedroom, step out into the hall and pull the door shut behind me. “I’m okay, it’s too hot for anyone to sleep.” I lay a hand on his arm and brush Avery’s hair from her forehead and she smiles sleepily up at me.

  “Thanks for coming to the game tonight,” he says as we move through the hallway toward Avery’s room.

  “Oh, I like watching the boys play. They’re really improving.” Adam is the coach for East High School boys’ varsity baseball team.

  “Yeah, they are,” Adam says proudly.

  Though I’ve been a social worker for nearly fifteen years, the job weighs heavily on my chest. I’ve thought about quitting, thought about getting a job where I wouldn’t hear the voice of a client shouting in my ear or weeping for the children I’ve taken away from them. One where I wouldn’t hear the cries of children in my sleep. But of course I don’t. I know my job is important, I know I help children.

  Adam presses Avery into my arms and, as I hold my daughter, I kiss the fine, silky strands of the dark hair that tops her head. She wraps her plump arms around my neck, and her even, steady heartbeat is a metronome, calming the galloping thud against my chest. I push away all thoughts of the children I work with and focus on the one in my arms and the two that are sound asleep just a few steps away. Despite the craziness of life, the long hours, the endless housework, the sleepless nights, for now all is right in my world and for this I am so grateful.

  Chapter 4

  Jenny sat on the wobbly chair at the bus station, her red backpack at her feet. Inside it held all her worldly possessions: some clothing, a few toy figurines, a cheap plastic wallet and an old birthday card from her grandmother. Closing her eyes, she could almost imagine the swaying porch swing they would have once they were settled into a house in their new town. Though it was nearly midnight and her eyes felt scratchy and heavy, Jenny felt a bubbling anticipation that came with something new. She rocked back and forth in the lopsided chair, punctuated with a satisfying thunk each time the chair legs hit the floor, until the old woman sitting next to her started making impatient clucking sounds with her tongue. Jenny reluctantly opened her eyes to find the tsking woman wearing a red-and-pink-flowered sundress and a scowl. The woman was frowning so deeply at Jenny that the corners of her down-turned mouth seemed to have collapsed into her thick neck.

  Jenny pretended not to notice and rocked the chair a few more times for good measure and then hopped to her feet to join her father, who was deep in conversation with a young woman with midnight-black hair, an intricate tattoo that crept up the woman’s arm and a nose ring. Jenny was accustomed to this, her father striking up conversations with strange women. Jenny always knew when he was going to make his move. He would run his fingers through his shaggy, brown hair shot through with copper and rub his palms against his cheeks as if checking the length of his stubble, and there was always stubble. Women loved her father. At least for a while anyway. He was almost movie-star handsome, but not quite, which made people like him all the more. His nose was a bit too prominent and slightly off center. His skin was tanned and deeply trenched lines scored his forehead and the corners of his blue eyes, making him appear much older than his thirty years. In the past six months a parade of women had come in and out of their lives. There was the checkout girl at the grocery store that always slid a pack of gum into their bag for Jenny. “My treat,” she said, not even looking at Jenny, keeping her smile brightly focused on Billy. There was the bank teller, the lady who decorated cakes at the bakery and even the nurse at the emergency room, who spent more time chatting with Billy than attending to the three-inch gash that Jenny got when she ran into the metal frame of the opened screen door. The nurse, a lively redhead with the pretty face and the curves Jenny knew her father favored, pressed a wad of gauze into Jenny’s fingers. “Hold that against your head, sweetie. The doctor will be here in a few minutes to stitch you up,” the nurse told her while glancing surreptitiously at her father’s ringless left hand.

  “Stitches?” Jenny squawked.

  “Won’t hurt a bit,” the nurse assured her. “We’re good here.” The nurse was right—it was, for the most part, painless. Instead of stitches, the doctor applied a thin layer of medical glue to her forehead, fusing the wound together. The worst part was lying on her back waiting for the glue to dry while her father stood on one side of the examination table and the nurse on the other, making plans to meet after her shift was over.

  Then there was Jenny’s favorite friend-girl (she refused to call them his girlfriends), Connie, who he dated last winter. She was a curvy woman who always wore a sweet, dimpled smile and her curly brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Connie had long, perfectly shaped fingernails that she had manicured every single Thursday after she got off work from her job at a hardware store. Holding Connie’s small, feminine hand in his, Jenny’s father used to laugh that such pretty fingers could handle a hammer much better than he ever could. Sometimes Connie would come from the salon with her nail tips painted a crisp white; sometimes they were lacquered neon-green or painted in a shimmery blue. Jenny’s favorite was when she came from the salon and there would be tiny jewels inset into each of her nails. One day, to Jenny’s surprise, when Jenny had finally gotten used to finding Connie blow-drying her hair in the apartment’s small bathroom or coming home from school to the smell of the turtle brownies that Connie was baking, Connie invited Jenny to go with her to the salon. Jenny picked out a pearly lilac-purple shade and minuscule silver gems that formed a butterfly on the nail of each of her thumbs.

  By the time the last of the sparkling jewels fell away, the polish chipped and peeling, Connie was gone. Jenny demanded that her father tell her what had happened. Did they have an argument? Say you’re sorry. Jenny asked her father if he was drinking again. You said you weren’t going to do that anymore! Her father winced as if Jenny had slapped him when she asked him if Connie left them because of his drinking. He insisted that wasn’t the case and Jenny knew that he was telling the truth. He got up each morning, walked her to school, went off to work as a painter for an area contractor, came home each night by six. Connie would often join them for supper and they would watch TV, even play board games together. And even though his hands shook sometimes and once in a while his eyes flashed desperately for a brief moment, he didn’t act like he was drinking. Then what was it? Jenny asked. Did Jenny do something that made Connie leave? I’ll say I’m sorry. Jenny knew that some of her father’s friend-girls thought she was a pest, always in the way, but not Connie. She always made a point to invite Jenny on their outings even when it was clear that her father wanted Jenny to skedaddle.

  For about six months, Connie and her father had been inseparable and Jenny thought that they actually might get married. Though she never said anything to her father, Jenny imagined being the flower girl in their wedding and living together in Connie’s tidy little house. Unfortunately, their relationship ended as all her father’s relationships did. Badly.

  “No,” her father had said when Jenny worried out loud that she was the one who had driven Connie away. He pulled her into a tight hug. “It has nothing to do
with you. It just didn’t work out.” Jenny remembered stiffening against her father’s embrace, not quite believing him.

  A few days after Connie left, Jenny discovered the real reason for her departure. She tumbled out of bed and padded out of her little room into her father’s bedroom to wake him up for work. She found him in bed intertwined with a slim, pale-skinned woman with curly hair that fell down her naked back. The room smelled of sweat and beer and of something that Jenny knew had to do with being naked and in bed. She tripped out of the room and ran to the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it. She turned on the shower and sat on the lid of the toilet and cried.

  But still, Jenny found herself looking for Connie’s face among crowds of people, hoping to see her again if even for a minute.

  Jenny stepped in between her father and the tattooed woman who were talking about how it was too bad that they were both leaving Benton tonight on different buses. Jenny tugged on her father’s sleeve, but on and on they went.

  “Hey, Jenny Penny,” her father finally said, dragging his eyes away from the woman. “Why don’t you see if you can find our seats on the bus?” He handed her a ticket and his heavy duffel bag.

  Jenny had never been on such a big bus before. School buses and city buses, certainly. But this enormous silver-and-blue bus with the sleek dog on the side was very different from her typical modes of transportation. The mustard-yellow school bus that squealed, groaned and belched black smoke when it picked her up on the corner of Fremont Street just down the road from their last apartment, always smelled vaguely of peanut butter sandwiches and body odor.