A Matter of Mercy Read online

  There wasn’t something comparable she could do when someone from her old life up in Provincetown happened into the library. Furtive studies of the angel on her shirt, then her face, then the quick, guilty aversion of their gaze galled her. Peoples’ eyes were palpable as cotton on her skin when they looked at her that way.

  Terry felt that prickle when the tall woman with the highlighted hair checked out a strange sandwich of books. The top and bottom volumes were on funeral planning, the middle title was Living With the Decision: A Woman’s Choice. She saw the woman’s eyes read her nametag, then travel to her pin. Even as Terry’s hand was traveling to cover the angel, pinned on her blue turtleneck where a college girl would fasten a fraternity pin, her eyes brushed Terry’s face. The woman hadn’t intended eye contact; immediately, she pretended interest in the clock behind Terry and then studied the flurry her own hands were making of extracting her card and rummaging for her keys. Terry guessed that she must be from Provincetown, someone who’d worked with John or known a family member. She was one of the people who knew who Terry was, as if her ruined life gave off an embarrassing odor or left a scar on her forehead. Sometimes Terry wanted to slink and hide from those people and sometimes she wanted to draw a fist, or spit on their shoes.

  Chapter 9

  He’d made himself look like a real dickhead, and Rid knew it. It still ate at him as he picked the largest oysters out of the tray, weighing and checking each by feel, tossing empties and partially open shells onto the cultch-strewn bottom where they landed with a soft plash. Those that weren’t quite large enough yet clinked back into the tray. Rid was as fast and efficient as his father had been. He hardly had to look anymore to know exactly how good an oyster was.

  He was bent from the waist over one of the big four-by-six-foot trays toward the back of the grant, exposed now at dead low tide. It was backbreaking and time consuming, but not absorbing; his mind was free to sail the coast of his worries. Too many of this tray had suffocated when he hadn’t gotten the sand off them fast enough after the hurricane in September. These were three year oysters, too, the most frustrating to lose. He hadn’t repaired all the trays that were damaged in that blow yet, either. He was behind in his orders, which could cost him even his most patient and loyal customers, because he was stealing work time to talk to people about fighting the lawsuit. And now he’d been an asshole to CiCi and he couldn’t say why, except that he couldn’t afford one more thing on his mind, even a woman he liked. Especially a woman he liked with a trunk full of her own problems who didn’t have the first clue about his.

  He glanced over at her house. Or still her mother’s house, he guessed. He hadn’t seen a death notice in the paper. It had to be rough, and he felt bad for her. When his Dad died, his mother had moved in with his sister and brother-in-law down in Falmouth, and he knew he was lucky that way. By straightening up—which he had to do anyway, his back was complaining—and taking ten steps deeper into the bay, which let him stretch his legs, Rid could see the parking area to the side of CiCi’s house. There’d been a detached garage back there once, but it had been rebuilt into a studio for her mother. He could see its skylight glinting from where he stood. There were two cars there now, so he guessed CiCi wasn’t alone. Sometime he really ought to knock on the door and ask if she needed anything. Maybe leave off a couple dozen quahogs she could steam for dinner.

  He shook his head at his own stupidity. Who takes clams to a dying woman’s house? It’s supposed to be soup or homemade something, like his mother or sister would do. Something way out of his league.

  A couple of the guys had kicked in way more than he and Tomas had thought anyone would for the lawsuit. They’d collected almost five thousand and they weren’t through talking to everyone, so there was some good news. On the other hand, there was the ominous unknown. Just yesterday, Tomas had parked his truck below the high water mark but come directly onto Rid’s grant where he was already at work, rather than to his own. “Something’s up. Lorenz wants a meeting in his office in the next couple of days. Maybe Pissario got wind we’re organizing?”

  “Or maybe Lorenz wants to break wind and have us there to discuss it so he can send another bill,” Rid had muttered. He and Tomas had fielded a lot of questions about how high the bill might go, and neither of them could even fake an answer.

  “Yeah, could be that,” Tomas said, squeezing his forehead between thumb and forefinger and then rubbing his eyes. He looked tired.

  It was the afternoon tide, still the front side, but Rid had been following it out, early for once, working each section of his grant as the water receded. A cold sting of offshore wind whipped spray against his face, chapping early this year.

  “So what do we do?”

  “We go. All we can do. I thought day after tomorrow rather than tomorrow because the second tide will be too late to work anyway—too dark. Wanted to check with you first, though. And Mario. Okay if I tell him three o’clock?”

  Rid pieced the sentences together as a word here or there was swooped away on the wind. “Sure. Want me to tell Mario?” he said.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I should finish with my list of people?”

  “Now more’n ever.”

  “Right.”

  So today, he had to get ahead on picking for the weekend restaurant orders in P-town and Chatham. It was a good thing there wasn’t a private party or a wedding this weekend, though that was always good money, because he had six or seven more people on his list to talk to, and the meeting with Lorenz tomorrow. He had a heaping plateful to be worrying about now, and he just couldn’t add CiCi to the pile.

  Rid turned and sloshed back to the oyster tray. He stood and looked down, studying it a moment, then raised his head and slowly took in the measure of his grant. His gaze covered the salt marsh where Blackfish Creek entered the harbor at his far left, up over Lieutenant’s Island and the Audubon sanctuary and the sailboat-dotted sweep of the bay all the way around to his right to what he could see of where the harbor jutted out on the far side of the horseshoe beach and on toward Great Island. His father might have liked his beer too much to be what anyone would call a good family man, but he’d sweated for this place, clung to it, babied it into abundance, put Rid’s name on it and taught him what he knew before he died. Once Rid had comforted himself that his father had loved him because he’d given him the grant, but as he stood ankle-deep and thought of losing it, he thought no, it all had to do with loving this. Dad couldn’t stand the idea of not having it any more. And, more amazing to Rid, he now understood and felt the exact same way.

  Beneath him, Rid’s legs felt like broken pencils, wobbly, insubstantial next to this blessed bountiful beauty over which a late weak sun fought the cloud cover to unveil the first hint of sunset. He lifted his face to the west, toward the wispy tendrils of pale fire and thought come on, you can win this, and tears came until he wondered if he was melting into the water, his salt mixing into the bay as his father’s had.

  * * * *

  Strange, all of them cleaned up this way again in the middle of the day. This only happened when they were going to a funeral. As soon as the word came to mind, Rid wondered again if CiCi’s mother had died yet, but he was immediately distracted by their attorney, who was tapping the eraser of his pencil against his desk as he spoke. It made him seem nervous, which made Rid nervous.

  “Mr. Pissario has, I’m afraid, filed asking for an injunction to stop your work until the court rules on the suit.” Lorenz’s face did not flicker when he spoke and it was impossible to guess his emotion or if he had any.

  “He can’t do that!” It was Mario, in an instant boil. Without even looking at him, Rid, in the middle of his two partners, shot a restraining hand onto Mario’s arm. The amount of pressure he exerted was a warning.

  “He can try,” Lorenz said, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. “We have the opportunity to file a response showing why the judge shouldn’t issue the injunction. That’s wh
y you’re here. We have to make that case. So let’s get to work.”

  The attorney’s office, in the weak light of a waning gray day, was even less impressive than Rid remembered. It wasn’t exactly run down, but sparse and devoid of any particular sign of financial success, even though Barnstable itself was a wealthy area. It reminded him of a public defender’s office, and public defenders hadn’t exactly saved Rid’s ass in the past. Lorenz had had two things to recommend him. First, his initial consultation fee had been just over half of what the two big Hyannis firms had quoted. They were the ones, presumably, with the shoe-swallowing carpet, leather chairs, and precedent-researching paralegals. Second, Lorenz had been slow deciding to take the case, which made all of them think that they might have trouble getting another lawyer. None of it gunned their confidence to a roar, that was for sure.

  “Who’s the judge?” Tomas asked quietly.

  “Judge Atwood, most likely.”

  Tomas sat back and grinned.

  “I like seeing that on your face, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. If he knows you, or has any personal connection, he’ll have to recuse himself.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Sam.”

  “Heard of him, don’t know him.” He swung his head to Rid and Mario in turn. “Either of you two know him?”

  “Nope.” Mario said, not getting it.

  “Not me.” Rid echoed.

  “Excellent,” Tomas said.

  “So what’s the deal?” Lorenz asked.

  “Just that Atwood is an old, old Wellfleet name back from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Lotta people named Atwood lost at sea. I mean, take your pick: Sukie Atwood’s house still is over on Chequessett Neck Road. Her first husband, her second husband, her son, then her grandson all went down. She’s the one who said, ‘the ocean is my cemetery.’ Sometime around 1870, that was. Anyway, in 1929 the family moved her house from South Truro to where it is now, overlooking the harbor.”

  Rid started to grin widely, enjoying Tomas’ meandering because he knew where his friend was headed. Not too many people knew Wellfleet history like Tomas. Lorenz looked befuddled.

  Tomas registered the attorney’s confusion, and disingenuously took the long route to clarification, enjoying himself. “Oh, yes, sure, she’s long gone. But see, there’s the Simeon Atwood house on East Commercial Street, too. Now that guy was a state legislator in the 1860s; did everything from that to being an inspector for the port of Wellfleet, a justice of the peace, a church choirmaster, and Republican moderator. Lived about six lives in one. Old, old family, like I said. Long roots buried deep. Mr. Lorenz, I’m just not thinking that a Wellfleet native is real likely to issue an injunction to shut us down because some washashore wants him to. You see where I’m coming from? Fishing is Wellfleet. It’s what we do and who we are. I’m not one to complain about the art stuff around town now. It’s fine, but it’s not what supports us. The flats are home to the natives.”

  Lorenz tilted his chair back, a slow smile of comprehension starting in his eyes and spreading finally across his mouth. “Well. Well, well. All right then. From your lips to God’s ears. And you do understand that this is just the opening round. The suit itself is a different matter. That has to do with ownership. A sympathetic judge still can’t rewrite the law. Right now I’m looking into every precedent, every interpretation. And, you know, it’s occurred to me: I really should check the specific deeds for the Indian Neck subdivision. It’s time-consuming. I’m sorry about that.”

  He was referring, of course, to the mounting bill. He sent it monthly, regular as the moon. They’d made three payments but each month the total was higher than it had been before they’d made the last payment.

  Tomas was undaunted. “You know, I just have to believe that there’s more to ownership than a piece of paper. If Pissario got an injunction, I don’t know how we’d be able to keep going. But I’m betting it’s not going to happen.”

  “He’s right,” Rid added, slapping his thigh lightly. “Tomas knows what he’s talking about.” He hoped this meant Marie would back off Tomas some. He didn’t know what he’d do himself if he had a wife and kids to worry about now.

  “Yeah, man. A local’s not going to screw us,” Mario chimed in. Rid could tell Mario was dying for a smoke, going for the Marlboros in his shirt pocket and then dropping his hand back to his lap as he remembered he couldn’t light up in the office. He’d asked in the first meeting, and the attorney had said no.

  “All right, then. Once again: from your lips to God’s ears. Let’s prepare the argument about the impact of an injunction. We’ve got to give the judge the excuse to rule with his sympathy, presuming you’re right.”

  Chapter 10

  Caroline’s heart thudded on long after she was in the car. She started the engine and pulled out of the library parking lot but instead of going home, she went a half-mile in the wrong direction on 6A, up to Dutra’s Market, where she parked outside the little grocery store, feeling as if she were being followed. That was ridiculous. Teresa DiPaulo hadn’t given any gesture of recognition. And why would she? It wasn’t as if Caroline’s name had been on her library card. Nothing but a bar code there. Anyway, if it had been, it would have been a long jump with just a first name as a starting point. All she’d ever known was the name Caroline Vance, that of a married woman now long gone from the face of the earth. Teresa hadn’t been in court when Caroline had pled guilty and been sentenced. Only the child’s father, John, and other family members had been present. Caroline had heard the child’s mother was under sedation.

  Caroline looked at the book titles next to her on the passenger seat and flushed with shame. She tried to calm herself. There was no way she could have known Teresa DiPaulo worked there. She’d gone to the Truro library because it was big and new and right off Route 6 on her way back from the Stop & Shop in Provincetown. Wellfleet didn’t have any big chain grocery stores, so every two or three weeks she went either to Eastham or P-town to stock up. The little family-owned local groceries were poorly stocked in the off-season.

  There was nothing to do but go on home. Of course, she’d never return the books, not to the Truro branch. There’d be no need, thank goodness. Her card was good at any public library on the Cape. She could just go back to Eastham or P-town. Even the Wellfleet library, though people would know her there for sure.

  * * * *

  “Honestly, she’s hanging on for a reason,” Elsie said. “I don’t know what it is she needs. Maybe something from you.”

  The morphine drip had been in place for several weeks, and most of the time Eleanor alternated between fitful and deep sleep. When she was awake though, she knew Caroline and responded to her. “Her mind is certainly intact,” the respite caregiver had commented the day before. “She asked me where you were.”

  The November chill permeated the low-slung grayness, and Caroline had lit a fire. She and Elsie sat near the fireplace, while Eleanor slept in her bed, pushed up close to the window so she could have an unimpeded view of the bay. Not that Eleanor’s eyes were often open anymore.

  Elsie’s bangs fell in a fine spray across her forehead, which she furrowed as she spoke. A long-fingered plain hand wrapped around a mug of tea in her lap. When she leaned forward, Caroline thought surely it would get on her clothing, but it didn’t. “Have you told her it’s all right to let go?”

  Caroline hesitated. “I don’t want her to think—oh, I don’t know. That I want her to just go ahead and die. That I don’t need her.” She pushed her hair back off her face. It was dirty, and her lips were chapped. “I had no idea how much I needed her,” she whispered.

  Elsie leaned forward. “I truly don’t mean to pry. I hope you won’t mind my asking, but are you pregnant? I saw some reading material you’d left in the kitchen.”

  Caroline had looked all over for it, in fact, and decided she’d accidentally thrown it out. It was material from the Women’s Center in P-town and Plann
ed Parenthood in Hyannis. She didn’t have a lot of time left.

  Caroline let silence answer for her.

  “Maybe you want to tell her?” Elsie said. Caroline wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, the inflection was that subtle.

  “I … don’t think I’m going to keep it.”

  “But you’ve not made a final decision?”

  “I think I have.”

  “Maybe this has to do with trouble letting her go?”

  Caroline flared. “Something else to feel guilty about.”

  Elsie didn’t take the bait. “Not at all,” she said calmly. “Your mother would be the first to say that your needs are as important as hers. Maybe you still need something from her. Or maybe you just want her to know. Either way.”

  “That seems so terribly wrong, so unfair. To burden her now. Of all times, I mean.”

  A long pause. “Ordinarily I might agree with you. And I’m not trying to tell you what to do. This is your mother, your call. But maybe something is burdening her now.”

  * * * *