Read Online Mercy Among the Children by David Adams Richards - Free Book Online
Authors: David Adams Richards
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he was; and he liked my father (whom he had competed with at horse-haulings as a boy) to know that no one had more responsibility than he himself. He was a stocky man with a bull neck and the proud look given to certain kinds of limited men who believe they earned whatever they received. It makes them prosaic, fearful of exhilaration or exuberance and stingy with their children even if they do not mean to be. To him, his paycheque and his Christmas bonus were a bestowal from noone and nothing but his own hard work and worth. He believed that it could never with one swipe of dismissal be taken away.
He liked the idea that I would watch everything he did, from cleaning his truck windows to tying his boots. I could not help doing so. Griffin told me his father got calls from McVicer, sometimes at three in the morning.
Griffin had driven in a backhoe. His father cherished Leo’s trust — it was like currency, really. And Penny and Griffin knew this, and both were self-assured because of it. Penny wore a Christmas ribbon in her hair. But what I did not know was that I wore Griffin’s old pants. He had sworn not to tell, but Penny knew.
That year I remember someone asked what I was going to get for Christmas. Penny looked at me and my face froze. I looked at Griffin and he smiled when I said: “I’m going to get a bike like Griffin — just like that one there.”
“Syd, your boy is going to get a bike?” Abby asked nonchalantly across the half-dozen tables. The air had the particular scent of cement basements, of dust and old wax, and a certain futility contained within it. Abby waited for Father to speak and peeked at his daughter. Griffin, his head down, kept nudging Penny. This ashamed and infuriated me. But I could say nothing.
My father wore an ancient tie clip glimmering in the basement. He looked up at me, his face wan and tired from a life of work, as if to say (although I did not know it then), “This is your cross to bear, son.”
Abby was called immediately after this moment to take a call from Leo McVicer. So Father kept working with his head down packing turkeys and toys. Griffin glanced at me once more, his neck pinched in his white shirt by his small green tie with a reindeer on the front. After ten minutes Abby came back, rubbed his coarse unshaved face, and said he had to leave.
“Griffin,” he said, “don’t you say nothin’ — ’bout what I spoke about.”
Griffin gave me a look of accepting pity and tired superiority. I did not understand that my clothes were what he was looking at.
December 24 we went out late in the afternoon to deliver these boxes with Father Porier. If it was not Christmas Eve it would have been only another grey and lonely winter day. But Christmas Eve makes everything special for children. We delivered the boxes up and down the shore road, and I remember the sound of snow falling on each cardboard box of groceries.
The boxes were piled in the back seat and in the trunk. Each box had a present for each child of each house, had a twelve-pound turkey donated by McVicer himself, had preserves and nuts and dark fruitcake from McVicer’s own store, and barley toy candy and candy canes for the children.
Most of the houses were off the unpaved shore road, and every house was easy to deliver to except the Voteurs’. That day their father was waiting for us, with a shovel, the crotch of his pants tom out, and wind blowing chimney smoke far up over his head. He did not want a box for himself. He was drunk and was sitting on the porch step awaiting us. At five foot five and 125 pounds, he had the unfortunate name of Samson. The Sheppards were his cousins and the year before had ordered his family to move. Samson and his wife and children had just gotten back in. It was the last house before the reserve.
The bay had made ice, and the waves had frozen in midair. Glassy twilight came with the smell of smoke.
Samson sat here at four o’clock in this waning light of a bitter
He liked the idea that I would watch everything he did, from cleaning his truck windows to tying his boots. I could not help doing so. Griffin told me his father got calls from McVicer, sometimes at three in the morning.
Griffin had driven in a backhoe. His father cherished Leo’s trust — it was like currency, really. And Penny and Griffin knew this, and both were self-assured because of it. Penny wore a Christmas ribbon in her hair. But what I did not know was that I wore Griffin’s old pants. He had sworn not to tell, but Penny knew.
That year I remember someone asked what I was going to get for Christmas. Penny looked at me and my face froze. I looked at Griffin and he smiled when I said: “I’m going to get a bike like Griffin — just like that one there.”
“Syd, your boy is going to get a bike?” Abby asked nonchalantly across the half-dozen tables. The air had the particular scent of cement basements, of dust and old wax, and a certain futility contained within it. Abby waited for Father to speak and peeked at his daughter. Griffin, his head down, kept nudging Penny. This ashamed and infuriated me. But I could say nothing.
My father wore an ancient tie clip glimmering in the basement. He looked up at me, his face wan and tired from a life of work, as if to say (although I did not know it then), “This is your cross to bear, son.”
Abby was called immediately after this moment to take a call from Leo McVicer. So Father kept working with his head down packing turkeys and toys. Griffin glanced at me once more, his neck pinched in his white shirt by his small green tie with a reindeer on the front. After ten minutes Abby came back, rubbed his coarse unshaved face, and said he had to leave.
“Griffin,” he said, “don’t you say nothin’ — ’bout what I spoke about.”
Griffin gave me a look of accepting pity and tired superiority. I did not understand that my clothes were what he was looking at.
December 24 we went out late in the afternoon to deliver these boxes with Father Porier. If it was not Christmas Eve it would have been only another grey and lonely winter day. But Christmas Eve makes everything special for children. We delivered the boxes up and down the shore road, and I remember the sound of snow falling on each cardboard box of groceries.
The boxes were piled in the back seat and in the trunk. Each box had a present for each child of each house, had a twelve-pound turkey donated by McVicer himself, had preserves and nuts and dark fruitcake from McVicer’s own store, and barley toy candy and candy canes for the children.
Most of the houses were off the unpaved shore road, and every house was easy to deliver to except the Voteurs’. That day their father was waiting for us, with a shovel, the crotch of his pants tom out, and wind blowing chimney smoke far up over his head. He did not want a box for himself. He was drunk and was sitting on the porch step awaiting us. At five foot five and 125 pounds, he had the unfortunate name of Samson. The Sheppards were his cousins and the year before had ordered his family to move. Samson and his wife and children had just gotten back in. It was the last house before the reserve.
The bay had made ice, and the waves had frozen in midair. Glassy twilight came with the smell of smoke.
Samson sat here at four o’clock in this waning light of a bitter
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