Jodi Picoult - Mercy

MERCY

JodiPicoult

I'mindebtedagainto Ina Gravitz and Dr. James Umlas. Thanksalso to Fran Kaszuba, Christopher Gentile, Aaron Belz, Laura Gross,Laura Yorke, Jane Picoult, Jon Picoult, and Paul Constantino, chiefof police in Sterling, Massachusetts. Hats off to Andrea GreeneGoldman, legal guru, who didn't mind consultations at midnight andwho graciously waived her hourly fee. And special thanks to myhusband, Tim van Leer, who gave me fly-fishing lessons on ourperfectly dry back lawn, and all the time I needed to write.

Contents

PROLOGUE

Whenshe had packed all the artifacts that made up their personal historyinto liquor store boxes, the house became strictly a feminine place.She stood with her hands on her hips, stoically accepting the absenceof old Boston Celtics coasters and the tangle of fishing poles, theold dartboard from a Scots pub, the toolbox and downhill skis, thesilky patterned ties which sat in the base of one box like a writhingmass of snakes. Without these things, one tended to notice the brighteyelet curtains, the vase filled with yawning crocuses, a needlepointpillow. True, it looked more like a scene from a Martha Stewartmagazine than a home, but that was to be expected.

Shepacked away the matching mugs hand-lettered with their names, and thevideo camera they'd bought for their last anniversary, and aframed sampler some relative had stitched to commemorate theirwedding. She painstakingly dismantled the frame of the big brass bed,lugging the pieces into the living room until all that remained was athick and silent mattress.

Shethanked God, and in advance, the groundhog, for the unseasonablywarm day. When it hit 50 degrees in the shallows of January, peoplecame out of their houses, and the more people to venture outside, themore people there would be for the sale. She dragged the boxesoutside and turned them over and arranged the items on top of them.She ran a line between the two elm trees in the front yard and neatlyhung his clothes up, even his spare and dress uniforms. She emptiedhis bedroom drawers and organized the things she found in smallercartons: socks, ten pairs, for fifty cents; sweatshirts, two for adollar. She set the bed up behind her folding chair, where shewouldn't have to see it.

Shewent back into the house for a final quick check, since curiousneighbors were already milling on the front lawn. The walls were bareof his ancestral paraphernalia. The living room seemed empty, nowthat his old leather wing chair was sitting in front of the azaleas.Overall, the house looked much like her apartment had eight yearsago, before she had met him.

Therewas only one thing left in the house that reminded her of him. It wasthe panel of stained-glass, the daffodils on a blue border, that he'dgiven her just a few months before. She stopped in the bedroomdoorway, staring as the sun filtered through it and burned the colorsand pattern onto the mattress. When he gave it to her that day, she'dheld it up to the light, turning it back and forth, until his handshad come over hers, stilling. "Be careful," he had said."It's fragile. See the soft lead? It bends. It can break."

Shewondered why she had not perceived that conversation then the sameway she did now: as a shrill and distant warning. Instead shehad only smiled at him, smiled and said that she knew this; that ofcourse, she understood.

G lancingaround her, she took a quick calculation of what had sold, what stillremained. The strongbox in her lap held over seven hundred dollars atlast count; she could easily believe that half of the people in thetown had stopped by at some point to browse, if not to buy. Thefishing tackle and his grandfather's bamboo fly rod had beenamong the first things to go. All of his suits were gone. The headteacher at the nursery school had bought every last uniform, sayingthe four-year-olds loved to play policeman, and wouldn't this be awonderful addition to the dress-up corner?

Theonly things left were his boxer shortsshe supposed they wouldhave to be sent to Goodwilland a stack of travel magazinesthat she'd found quite by accident behind his band saw. Inspired,she stood up and took the stack, then walked to the edge of thedriveway. She handed the one on top-blue ocean, white beach,"200 Top Caribbean Hotels"to a man with a littlegirl in tow. "Thank you for stopping by," she said,offering the magazine like a theater Playbill, ora parting gift.

Atten past five, she sat down on her folding chair. She rememberedreading once about tribal Indian societies centuries earlier, inwhich women had the power to divorce a husband simply by stackinghis shoes outside a tipi. She pressed her knees together and triednot to think about the sun that was blinding her eyes and giving hera headache.

Herhusband drove up at 5:26. "Hi," he said. "I made goodtime."

Shedid not say anything.

Heglanced at the overturned boxes, the pile of underwear to the left ofher feet, the bare strung clothesline, the box on her lap. "Gettingrid of some stuff? It was a good day for a garage sale."

Shedid not turn to face him as he gave her a strange look and walkedinto the house. She counted how many breaths it took before hethundered down the stairs and out the door, to stand in front of her.His face was red with anger and he blocked out the low sun so thatthe edges of his hair and his shoulders seemed to be on fire.

"I'msorry," she said coolly, coming to her feet. She gesturedgracefully around the lawn. "There's nothing left."Clutching the strongbox beneath her arm, she walked down the drivewayand into the street. She put one foot mechanically in front of theother in the direction she knew would lead to the center of town, andshe did not allow herself to look back.

PARTI

Whowill not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?

EdmundSpenser, TheFaerie Queene

Aman gazing on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddleson the road.

AlexanderSmith, Menof Letters

ONE

Inthe moments before, she laid a hand on his arm. "No matterwhat," she said, giving him a look, "you cannot stop."He turned away. "I'm not sure I can even start." Shebrought his hand to her lips, kissed each finger. "If you don'tdo it," she said simply, "who will?"

Fora long while they sat side by side, staring out a streaked windowat a town neither of them knew very well. He watched her breathingpattern in the reflection of the glass, and tried to slow his ownheart until they were equally matched. The quiet dulled his senses,so that he became fixated on the clock beside the bed. He would notblink, he told himself, until the next minute bled into the last.

Witha fury that surprised him, he turned his face into the bow of herneck, trying to commit to memory this softness and this smell. "Ilove you." ,.

Shesmiled, that crooked little curving of her mouth. "Now,"she said, "don't you think I know that?"

Inthe end, she had struggled. He wore the scratches like a brand. Buthe had held the pillow to her face; calmed her by whispering inher ear. Mylove, hehad said, I'll bewith you as soon as I can. Atthe words her arms had fallen away; then it was over. He had buriedhis face in her shirt, and started himself the very slow process ofdying.

Forthe hundredth time that day, Cameron MacDonald, Chief of Police inWheelock, Massachusetts, closed his eyes and dreamed of the Bay ofBiscay. If he got it just rightthe thrum of silence in thestation, the afternoon light dancing over the corner of his scarreddeskhe could make himself believe. There was noSmith and Wesson jabbing into his side; there was nomountain pass outside the window; hell, maybe he wasn't even CameronMacDonald anymore. He opened his mind as wide as he could, and lethimself tumble into the beautiful blue of it.

Heblinked his eyes, expecting the bobbing shoreline of Prest, or thesweet scent of the Loire Valley that you could carry in your pocketwhen you were within a reasonable distance, but he found himselfstaring at the pale, pasty face of Hannah, the secretary at thepolice station. "Here's the file," she said. "He wasindicted." She turned to leave, but stopped for a moment withher hand on the door. "You sure you're not coming down withsomething,