He was born a man as Mercy, among the club brothers who welcomed him with awe and a little bit of fear, after that afternoon in the bloody kitchen.
But before that, there had been the body to dispose of.
He wrapped Oliver in an old blue tarp and took him out in the boat, to the shaded pool that was Big Son’s favorite spot to haunt. Off came the tarp. In went the three rocks, splashing in the water. “Come get it, you big son of a bitch.” And he slid Oliver’s body down into the black water. Even if Son wasn’t at home, the swamp would take care of the corpse.
It was a week before Mercy managed to track down the two companions, but track them he did, and they went to the water, Big Son’s dinner table, just as their friend had.
Dee, too livid to speak, fuming and spitting and red in the face, threatened to sic the police on him.
Two days later, a black and white cruiser pulled onto the clubhouse lot. Mercy had hid in the walk-in freezer in the kitchen, shivering, hating the worry that he’d brought to his brothers. Bob took him aside, explained that they all loved him, but that he couldn’t stay. To keep himself and his chapter safe, he’d have to go north, to another chapter. Someone with his “skills” was needed in Tennessee, at the mother chapter, an arrangement that would benefit all of them.
Two days after that, he headed north and east, to Knoxville.
**
Present Day
“…And he took me into the chapel for the first time, and there was this little girl, hiding in the buffet cabinet.” Mercy managed a faint smile.
Ava recalled that moment in the chapel with crystalline detail; it had been preserved, like a pressed flower, in the part of her brain that held onto small, precious things.
She nodded, to show him she remembered, because her throat was too tight to speak. Her eyes filmed over and she blinked to clear them.
“Ah, shit,” Mercy said. “I didn’t tell you all that so you’d get blubbery on me.”
She shook her head and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. What did she say to him? How did she begin to comfort someone who’d lived through that trauma? How did she convey just how much she loved him still, no matter what he’d done, with any clarity?
Mercy glanced toward the house again, eyes shifting to the small rise behind it, where the trees were thickest. “I take flowers up there,” he said softly, swallowing. “When I’m in town.” He glanced at her with more of that desperation he’d fixed on her throughout the telling of his story. “Do you want to walk up with me?”
She nodded.
They ran the boat aground on the weedy bank and Ava had her sea legs by this point; she sprang from the bateau unassisted, taking Mercy’s hand once they were both standing, when he reached for her.
The heat was somehow worse on the ground, drifts of it collecting between the close trunks of the trees as the forest shifted from cypress to oak, years of dropped leaves sliding in damp clumps beneath their boots. It was a short walk, but Ava’s clothes were plastered to her by the time they reached the clearing. Mercy’s white t-shirt was translucent where it was glued to the triangular expanse of his back.
When they reached the small meadow, floored with soft grass, Mercy reached for her, despite the boiling heat. He tucked her into his side.
The graves had been covered over with flat slabs of stone, for protection. A small wooden cross, colorless from age, marked each, in place of formal headstones.
“Gram,” Mercy said, pointing to the grave on the left. “Daddy” – the one on the right – “y’all meet Ava Rose.” He cupped the back of her head in one large hand. “They would have loved you,fillette.”
Then he became very quiet, and very still, his pulse against her cheek the only evidence that he was a living, breathing man and not a statue.
Finally finding her voice, Ava said, “Thank you for telling me about them. I’m honored that you did.”
Then he moved, startling her at first. He lifted her up off her feet and held her against his chest like she was something small and precious to him, so he could press his face into her neck, his arms locked tight around her waist.
Ava hugged his neck, letting her head rest sideways against his.
He was silent, save the rough breathing that struck her throat.
“Tell me what to do for you,” she pleaded. “How can I help?”
He didn’t respond, and she felt her tears returning, the forest blurring.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Oh, Mercy, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. And I love you so much.”
Forty-Six
