The Train of Small Mercies (17 page)

“Why don't you put the bait in the refrigerator,” James Colvert said, having remembered he was still clutching the small cardboard container only after he sat down. “We can try them out in an hour or so and see how it is today. With the sun so bright already, they're going to be hitting top water mostly.” He got out his keys and put them in Michael's damp hand and put the container in the other.

As Michael walked to the door he looked for any signs of the raccoon—tracks, signs of digging—but nothing looked different from the previous day. Inside he put the bait on the one shelf of the refrigerator. He held the door open and studied the few contents: three bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, a bottle of ketchup, a carton of milk, a full container of chicken salad they hadn't gotten around to eating. Opening the refrigerator made him long to be back home; he remembered the gleaming silver shelves of his mother's refrigerator, the fuzzy outline of shapes and dimmed colors in the fruit and vegetable bins at the bottom.

When he finally closed the door, he heard a muffled thump out front. It sounded like a car door, and when he went to look out the front window, he first heard footsteps by the side of the cabin. Then he saw the sheriff's patrol car pull behind the Monterey. He had seen the sheriff a couple of times at the diner, his hair shaved into a crew cut so shorn that his pink scalp shone through, like a large Band-Aid.

Michael cracked open the screen as the sheriff and his reedy deputy approached his father. But what were they doing here? Maybe the diner had been robbed, and they wanted to know if Michael or his dad had seen anyone suspicious before they left.

Michael saw them before his father did, and he thought he might learn more if he simply listened from the cabin. He had learned enough from the movies that when a kid suddenly appeared, the police officer would often cut off what he intended to say and pull nervously on the bill of his cap before shuffling off.

James Colvert was folding his newspaper in half when he heard the rustle of the equipment on their belts.

“Morning,” he said, getting quickly to his feet.

The sheriff nodded curtly. “Morning. You James Colvert?” He looked around, back Michael's way, but didn't appear to see him.

“That's right. What can I do for you fellows?”

“Do you have a son named Michael Colvert?” the sheriff asked. He was squinting into the sun.

James Colvert considered what to say. “That's right.”

The sheriff nodded again, and the deputy watched him, waiting.

“He inside?”

“What seems to be the problem? I'm the boy's father.”

The sheriff motioned to his deputy and said, “Go have a look.”

“Now hold on just a minute,” James Colvert said, and when his eyes went to the cabin they found Michael staring back. “I'd like to know what this is all about. We've paid full rent on this cabin—in advance. I've got the paperwork somewhere inside.”

The deputy didn't have to walk far before catching sight of Michael. “Hey there, buddy,” he said. His voice was high and twangy, like the country singers Michael moved quickly past while fiddling with his transistor radio. “Is your name Michael Colvert?” Michael could see that the deputy's cheeks were pockmarked, his eyes watery gray.

“Yes,” Michael said.

The deputy reached out to pat the boy on his shoulder. “Good, good. That's good.” Then he said, “Hey, Sheriff.”

Michael could feel his father's eyes on them, but he was not ready to look back at him. Michael was watching the sheriff, looking for the toothpick, but there didn't appear to be one.

“I'm going to have to take you into custody, Mr. Colvert,” the sheriff said. “The boy's mother claims you've kidnapped him from her. There's a warrant out for your arrest.” The sheriff removed his handcuffs from his belt, and the sunlight danced in a multitude of refractions in his hand. There was little shock in any of this for Michael—only in hearing the words said out loud, at last. That his mother hadn't packed a suitcase for him had seemed remarkable, and now everything else that seemed so unusual—his being taken out in the middle of class, no telephone calls, the very idea of his mother agreeing not to say good-bye—was clear enough. There had never been any arrangement.

“I'm the boy's father,” James Colvert shouted at a volume that made the sheriff stop what he was doing. The deputy turned back and walked over, in case there was going to be trouble.

“It's a matter of law,” the sheriff said gently. He had a thirteen-year-old son, and he could sympathize with a man who wanted to give his boy a summer by the lake. “Apparently you didn't work this out with the boy's mother, or some such complication. Anyway, you'll get yourself a lawyer and sort through it. But right now I have to place you under arrest and read you your rights.” And he proceeded to do so.

James Colvert held his face in so pitiful an expression that the sheriff looked down at his boots as he spoke. His deputy took notice, and because he was a young man and did not know the joys of fatherhood, he could only wonder why his boss was in such a state. When the sheriff finished, James Colvert nodded once to let the sheriff know he had heard.

The sheriff considered the boy now, and smiled. He thought to wink but caught himself. He then slipped the handcuffs around his prisoner, carefully, the way he might have helped his wife on with a bracelet, and the click made Michael flinch, since it had otherwise become so quiet.

Then James Colvert said in a low voice that sounded as if it had been ripped from his throat, “
She's
the one that ruined our family. Whoring around.” He was speaking to himself now and shook his head in resignation.

Michael knew vaguely what “whoring” meant, but it also didn't make any sense as a way to describe his mother. It was like saying she had a tail or slept in a cave. It had been so long since Michael had heard that voice—the low snarl, the name-calling through clenched teeth—but now it was so fully back in his system, and he started to back away. It was all clear now: this time was never about the two of them, father and son. It had all been a way to get back at his mother.

The sheriff turned to his deputy. “We're going to need Rusty. It's not going to do to take them in the same car. Call Rusty from the car. He shouldn't be far.”

“You want me to take the boy on with me—to the car?” the deputy asked. James Colvert's outburst had made him nervous. The sheriff looked at the father in disappointment. “Yeah, go on,” he said, and he let out a deeper sigh than he meant to.

Michael didn't look back at his father, and his father wasn't looking at him. Instead, Michael fixed his eyes on a distant spot over the water, where the sun poured across the top like a chemical spill. It was still and calm, and as the deputy put his hand around Michael's shoulder to lead him away, Michael caught sight of something breaking through and sending a spray of silvery drops ten feet or more, safe for another day.

“Come on, then,” the deputy said. “Have you ever ridden in a squad car before?” The deputy's voice was more excited than was appropriate, given the circumstances.

Michael shook his head.

“Well, this is your lucky day.”

D
elores pulled into the parking lot of her church, which had been freshly tarred over and gleamed in the intense sunlight. She and Rebecca sat across from the new fellowship hall, where volunteers picked up meals to deliver to the elderly. There were just a few cars parked out front, and once inside the hall, Delores and Rebecca could hear the scraping of pots from the kitchen. The basketball goals on either side of the floor had been cranked up toward the ceiling, and a banner still hung from one of the rims that read: “Welcome Bible Campers: Feel the Sprit!” Rebecca picked up a strip of red crepe paper off the floor.

“Look, Mommy,” she said.

Delores smiled. She then pushed open the kitchen's swinging door, unsure if she would know anyone behind it. Usually she dealt with the church secretary for volunteer activities, and the secretary was known for never being there on weekends—including Sundays. Under the hum of dim fluorescent lights were three men cleaning up the kitchen.

“Hello,” she said, too loudly for the space.

The men looked up but did not answer.

“I was looking for Mrs. Winters. She's usually coordinating the meal deliveries. It's not my day, but I have a little time I can volunteer—” She stopped when she noticed the men's eyes go to Rebecca, each of them grimacing. She scanned the room for someone who was not in a white apron, and then she grabbed Rebecca by the hand—harder than she intended—and led her back across the wooden floor. Didn't these men understand that accidents happened to little children? Or maybe they thought Delores was somehow responsible. Her shoes smacked across the wooden planks, filling the large hall with the sound of firecrackers. Rebecca was tired of getting in and out of the car and whined in frustration.

Outside they took a few steps toward the sanctuary, but already Delores could imagine the air-conditioned hush of the empty halls. Reverend Blake would surely be visiting members who were in the hospital this time of day, or possibly he was at home sanding that canoe of his to which he was always making references in his sermons. Some of the parishioners thought he tried too hard in his sermons, that he filled them with too many metaphors and made too many references to noted works of literature and paintings. “Why can't he just stick with the Bible?” Delores's mother-in-law had complained more than once. “Who's he trying to impress?” But Delores liked the broad script he unfurled each Sunday, and she willed herself to pay attention to every word, as if he were a professor back at Penn State, and she was to be quizzed on the material.

Without offering an explanation, Delores stopped and helped Rebecca back into the car, and Rebecca let out a deep puff of protest for the pointless visit. She was still holding the little strip of crepe in her fingers.

“I'm sorry,” Delores said. “You're being so good.”

As Delores turned the ignition, she saw one of the men from the kitchen approaching. He had taken off his small paper hat to reveal a scrub of jet-black hair that looked mismatched, somehow, over his deeply lined face.

The man appeared contrite with his hat off and his shoulders stooped; it occurred to her that the men had all realized their insensitivity and sent him out quickly to make amends. “I don't know if she needs any more drivers today,” he said, “but I thought I'd just—” She noticed a white slip of paper in the man's hand.

“This is her home phone number, if you want to reach her. She's left the office for the day.” He held it out, then stepped back after Delores reached for it. “All the day's meals have already been picked up.” He began to turn back to the fellowship building but took a quick glance toward the passenger side.

“Is your little girl going to be all right?” he asked, pointing a finger toward Rebecca as thick and scratched as the end of a broomstick. “Do you all need any help?”

“She's going to be fine,” Delores said, as if she couldn't imagine what he was talking about. “Thank you for the number.” The man nodded and watched as Delores backed out. She pulled to the edge of the parking lot, stopping to steal a look in her rearview mirror. The man was still watching them, and now the other two had come out to join him.

W
hen he was close enough to reach Michael's tennis shoes, Ty heard the thud of Walt jumping behind him. Michael was watching the train bearing down on them, and he smiled at Ty in a way that made Ty remember the day when Michael was one of two students left in the class spelling bee. The other boy had just drawn the word “marquisette,” and when Mrs. Nance called it out, Michael closed his eyes for a second, letting a drowsy smile grow across his face. He knew he was about to win.

“Get up! Get up!” Ty shouted, but the train's grinding churn made his words inaudible. Michael was surprised his friends didn't understand. The fun of it was seeing how close you could cut it. Why were they so panicky? At that moment Michael began—without urgency—to hoist himself up, but his friends didn't notice this. Walt was there now and grabbed Michael's arm; Ty took the other, and Michael said something that neither of the boys could hear. If they wanted to believe they were saving him, then he would play along, and he let his body go slack, his legs trailing behind like a gown. A man in a baseball cap came running over, followed by two younger men, but when they saw that the boys were safely away from the track, they stopped just in time to turn to the train, their chests heaving from exertion and fright. The train's horn ripped through, but even the conductor, at a hundred feet away, could see that there was not going to be another disaster. The conductor, who had seen the figure on the track too late to possibly stop, was shouting a prayer of gratitude—and wondering how much more peril he would be faced with before pulling into Washington.

Ty and Walt carried Michael partway down the slope; Daniel arrived too late, but when he got to them he kept his hand on Michael's shoulder just the same. They put him on the ground gently, as if he were mortally wounded, and then they turned to watch the rest of the train. The conductor sounded his horn once more, and the force of wind swept over the boys. The adult faces looking out the train windows ran together, like fresh paint sprayed with water. Michael got to his feet by the time the last car approached, and there, for a fleeting second, each of them caught sight of the American flag draped over the mahogany coffin of Robert Kennedy. It was elevated, set atop chairs, for everyone to see. And yet it wasn't what the boys had imagined, somehow. Minus the flag, the dark, mahogany coffin looked just like the coffin Ty's grandfather had been buried in the previous summer. Walt had thought maybe the casket itself would be red, white, and blue, and Daniel had thought maybe it would be solid gold, or have a bust of Robert Kennedy at the top of it, with eagles, or at least eagle wings, along the sides.