Chapter 34

His mother’s funeral called for one of Jones’s rare excursions from the lodge. On the morning of the service, he slipped into a gray linen suit, slicked his white hair down with Murray’s pomade, and ventured forth to endure the stares of those who had come to pay his mother their last respects.

At his request I sat beside him in the church, lost in the tangle of candles, holy water, incense, and a volley of Latin that left my head reeling. Jones appeared unmoved; the only indication that he was aware of anything at all was a nervous twitching of his right thumb.

I heaved a sigh of relief when the choir started singing something about paradise and the casket was carried out of the church. There was still the burial to get through, but at least we were making progress. At the grave site, I stood beside a still stony-faced Jones. I longed to comfort him, but his rigid husk seemed impenetrable. The few tears that sprang to my eyes weren’t for the aunt I’d never known but for her hapless son and the open-ended question of what would become of him. The world was not a kind place for someone like Jones.

I tried to pay attention as the priest intoned a few prayers and sang words of Scripture. The coffin was lowered into the earth and sprinkled with holy water while we silently recited The Lord’s Prayer. Finally the priest uttered the parting words in English, something I could at last understand: “May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.”

Jones rode home from the cemetery with Uncle Cy and promptly disappeared. He completely sidestepped the food-laden reception in the dining room that the ladies of Mercy had spent days preparing. It was not his way to mingle, nor, I realized, would the townsfolk have wanted him to. Awkward enough to be at a funeral without having to express one’s sympathy to a boy they had never once spoken to before. On top of that, they would not have been able to look him in the eye without flinching.

No sympathy was wasted, though, as the citizens of Mercy heaped it in great piles upon Uncle Cy. Though he was genuinely grieving, my uncle’s hangdog look annoyed me. I didn’t think he deserved the comfort and condolences of the crowd that had gathered at the lodge. For one swift moment, as I was reaching for a glass of fruit punch, I felt the urge to stand in the center of the room and holler, “Cyrus Marryat is a bootlegger! His stash of liquor is in the cellar right beneath this room!” I nearly laughed out loud just imagining the wave of horror that would follow my announcement, knocking the expressions of grief right off this throng of sweaty faces, replacing it with wide-eyed shock and contempt. What an instant change in atmosphere, if only these people knew the truth.

But of course I held my tongue. I chose a glass of punch, looked around the room, listened to snippets of stilted conversation, and moved in a haze of heat and fatigue from one end of the dining room to the other. As I passed by a second punch bowl at the back of the room, I witnessed a scene that brought me up short. Two tidy, well-dressed men were chatting amiably when one reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, pulled out a thin silver flask, poured a dollop into his glass of punch and another into the glass of his companion. That done, the flask was then returned to the unseen pocket in one swift and uninterrupted motion while seemingly no one noticed or, if they did, no one cared. It was just as though the two men had lighted cigarettes or bitten into wedges of tomato sandwiches rather than indulging in something illegal.

Only then did I realize, in a sudden bolt of clarity, that any number of the men and women gathered at the lodge were the very people who drove through Fludd’s Service Station, carrying away something in their cars other than a few gallons of gasoline. Who, after all, would Calvin Fludd be servicing but the fine people of Mercy and the neighboring towns? Not all of them, of course, but surely some. And maybe many. Rather than the outrage I had imagined just moments before, any announcement on my part about liquor in the cellar would probably produce a riotous stampede in that direction.

I swayed slightly and felt a ripple of nausea roll across my stomach. The air in the lodge was stifling; I couldn’t breathe. The intrepid ceiling fans turning overhead were no match for the soaring temperatures and the close proximity of so many bodies. I had to get out. I elbowed my way through the dining room and hurried to the porch.

I had barely stepped into the open air when Cassandra was beside me. “What are you doing out here, Eve?” she asked, pinching my elbow playfully. She was fanning herself with a funeral parlor fan she’d picked up at the service.

“It’s too hot inside.”

“It sure is, and I’ve had quite enough of all this. What do you say we go down to the island and put our toes in the river?”

I looked at her and smiled. “Let’s go.”

She tossed aside the fan, I set down my glass of punch, and together we hurried down the steps and across the bridge to the island. The place was deserted; Uncle Cy had closed it off to guests for the day. We giggled like children as we rushed along the path to the beach, where we kicked off our shoes and stepped barefoot into the river.

Cassandra tilted her face toward the sky and smiled. “It’s just delicious!” she cried, wiggling her toes in the water. “I couldn’t wait to get away from the crowd. I thought I would die of the heat and the long faces and all the kowtowing to Uncle Cy. ‘Oh, she was such a dear woman,’ and ‘Oh, what a loss to the town.’ I bet not one of them ever gave Cora the time of day when she was alive.”

I sniffed out a laugh and said, “I don’t know, Cassandra. Maybe they liked her, some of them. After all, we never came to visit while Cora was here, so we don’t know what went on.”

“No, but I know people. They all want something. Even when they do nice things for you and act as though you’re all they care about in the world, the bottom line is what’s in it for them. I . . .” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “Well, never mind, Eve. You haven’t seen the things I’ve seen, and that’s good. You won’t end up so cynical.”

I picked up a small rock and tossed it into the water. With one hand shading my eyes, I looked up and down the river. “I think I understand what you mean. At least a little bit. I’ve seen a few things myself.”

Cassandra laughed. She didn’t believe me. That was all right. “You’re lucky to be young and innocent,” she said, “and . . . I don’t know . . . pure, I guess.”

“Pure?”

“Yes. You know, you haven’t run off to speakeasies and gotten drunk and been with the boys the way I used to. You haven’t made a mess of things. You’ve always been a good person, Eve.”

I dropped my hand to my side and shook my head. “I used to think I was,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“I said, I used to think I was a good person. Once.”

She laughed again, splashed the water with her feet. “You’re so funny. What have you done that’s so awful? Kiss Marcus?”

I smiled wistfully. If only I were as innocent as that! Maybe I would never join the dash for illegal liquor, but neither would I reveal the hiding place. What was the difference? One transgression was the same as another. I picked up another stone, threw it more forcefully, watched the water ripple away from where it landed. I wanted to steer the conversation away from me, to talk about other things.

“Aren’t you happy, Cassandra?” I asked. “I mean, with Warren and the girls?”

She paused in her splashing and appeared deep in thought. Finally she said, “Having them is more than I deserve. So while things aren’t perfect, yes, I guess I’m nearly as happy as a person can be. Still, it doesn’t erase the past. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the day I’ll have to tell Effie that her daddy isn’t her daddy. Not her real one, anyway.”

“Do you think you have to tell her?”

“It’s only fair that she knows. Wouldn’t you want to know?”

I shrugged. “I guess I would.”

“Yes.” She sighed heavily. “It will be a confession of sorts. ‘Look what your mommy did. Look at what a bad mommy you have. . . . ’”

Her voice choked up and she looked away.

“She’ll forgive you,” I said gently.

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

“Why should she?”

“Because she loves you.”

She turned to me, brushed away a tear, smiled. “You sound like Daddy.”

“Do I?”

“‘Love shall cover the multitude of sins.’ Remember?”

“First Peter 4:8,” I said.

“Yes.”

“One of the Bible verses he made us memorize when we were kids.”

She nodded. “And I heard him say it a thousand times himself. Though I don’t even really know what it means.”

I drew in a breath. I looked at the river, at the lodge, at Cassandra. “Maybe it’s mercy,” I said.

Cassandra tilted her head. “Mercy?” she asked.

I nodded. Yes. What Reverend Kilkenny had been preaching about all summer.

Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.

“Well,” Cassandra said, “maybe so. I don’t know much about that sort of thing. But I hope you’re right about Effie. I hope she’ll forgive me.”

“She will,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”

Cassandra smiled and, to my surprise, threw her arms around me and held me close. “I’m glad we’ve had a chance to . . . you know, talk about things. And become friends.”

“I hope you’ll still think so in a few months, after we’ve lived with you and Warren for a while. You don’t mind too much, do you?”

“That you’ll be living with us? No, of course I don’t mind. I don’t understand it. I mean”—she let me go and threw open her arms over the river—“how Daddy could want to leave here to go back to St. Paul.” She shook her head. “I guess there’s a lot about Daddy I’ve never understood, but don’t worry about coming back with us. It’ll be all right. We’ll make it so.”

We stood in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s company, enjoying the coolness of the water. I was comforted by the refreshing shivers that traveled up my legs and out my arms. It was delicious, and lovely, and serene. Standing here in the river with Cassandra was the first sweet moment of the day.

But only a short time later, Cassandra nodded over my shoulder and said, “Uh-oh. We’ve been found out.”

I looked back at the bridge and saw Link crossing over to the island. I gasped.

“Do you know him?” Cassandra asked.

“Yeah.”

“He kind of looks like a bum.”

“He is. He lives in the camp up the river.”

Her eyes widened. “Is he safe?”

I laughed. “Oh yeah, he’s perfectly safe. He’s actually a very nice person. I know him well enough to say that for certain.”

“Oh?” A smile spread slowly across my sister’s face as Link came closer. Quietly, she said, “Well, Eve, he’s rather handsome too, isn’t he? For a bum, I mean.”

Before I could respond, Link was there. He didn’t smile.

“Hello, Eve.”

“Hi, Link. Um, this is my sister, Cassandra.”

He nodded politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“Cassandra, this is Link.”

She smiled—rather playfully, I thought—and said, “I’ve heard such wonderful things about you. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

My jaw dropped. Link looked at me, his eyes flashing bewilderment. But he smiled at Cassandra and offered her another brief nod.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat,” Cassandra went on, “but Warren’s been watching the girls for the past couple hours, and it’s about time I go give him a break. Maybe I’ll see you again later, though, um . . . Link, is it?”

“Yes. Yes, maybe I’ll see you.”

“But—” I started, to no avail. Cassandra blew me a kiss and moved away, and I was left alone with Link.

I didn’t want him to think I’d been gushing about him to my sister, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to explain. I fumbled for the right words, but as though he’d already dismissed Cassandra’s innuendoes, Link jumped in and said, “Listen, Eve, I have to tell you something. It’s important.”

We spent a few awkward seconds staring at each other, each waiting for the other to say something. Then I blurted, “So tell me. What is it?”

He fidgeted, shifting his feet on the pebbly beach. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, though he finally settled on hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his worn tan slacks. “I don’t know how to say it, so I’m just going to say it.”

I waited.

He drew in a deep breath, all of which rushed out as he said, “Come Saturday night, I want you to be in your room by ten o’clock, and once you’re there I don’t want you to come out again until morning.”

Just as quickly as he started, he stopped. His jaw snapped shut and beads of sweat broke out along his brow, as though his announcement had raised his temperature and ignited a fever. For a moment I didn’t respond, but then a loud sharp laugh escaped me that surprised us both. “What are you talking about?” I cried.

“I can’t explain but—”

“You want me to go to my room on Saturday night and not come out?”

“Yes. I can’t explain, Eve, but—”

“Well, it just so happens that I’m not going to be here on Saturday night because we’re leaving Saturday morning.” As soon as I spoke, I gasped and raised a hand to my lips. But it was too late; the words were already out in the open.

Link frowned so deeply all his features seemed to gather at the center of his face. “You’re leaving on Saturday?”

I nodded hesitantly.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I lowered my hand from my mouth. When I spoke, it was in a whisper. “We’re going home. When Cassandra leaves, we’re going back with her.”

“You’re going back to Minnesota?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Why are you going back?”

I didn’t want to lie but I had no choice. “Daddy wants to go home, is all. He’s not happy here.”

His eyes spoke of disbelief as his face reddened. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

“I . . . I don’t really know, Link.”

“When did your daddy decide to leave?”

“Some days back. About a week ago, maybe.”

“Well, were you ever going to tell me or were you just going to disappear?”

I shook my head. Tears pressed against my eyes. I couldn’t answer.

Link looked aside and kicked at the stones at his feet. When he looked back at me, his eyes were steely. His mouth twitched. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said. “Good-bye, Eve.”

He turned and left before I could respond. Through my tears, I watched him walk away, a lone figure moving in waves across the island.