Julie Garwood: Mercy

"I don't like her."

She turned away again. He gave her a little nudge to get her to look up at him. "How come you don't like her? Is she making you work too hard? Is she putting too many demands on you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Daddy."

"Is the work too hard for you to do?"

She giggled as though he'd just made a joke. "Oh, no. It's awful easy, and sometimes I get bored because I get it all done too soon, and I have to sit there and wait until Miss Perine can find something else for me to do. Some of the kids are just now learning how to read, but I've been reading since I was little. Remember?"

He smiled. "I remember when you started in reading the paper to me while I shaved. You pretty much taught yourself."

"No, I didn't. You taught me the letters."

"But you put them together pretty much on your own. All I did was read to you. You picked it up quick. Took to it like a duck…"

"To water," she ended.

"That's right, sugar. Tell me why you don't like Miss Perine. Is it because you have to wait on her?"

"No."

"Well, then?"

"She wants to send me away," she blurted. Tears flooded her eyes, and her voice trembled. "Doesn't she, Daddy? She told me she wants to make you send me away to a different school where I won't know anybody."

"Now, you ought to know nobody's gonna make your daddy do anything he doesn't want to do, but this Miss Perine… well, now, she got me started in thinking."

"She's a busybody. Don't you pay her any mind."

Jake shook his head. His little girl had just turned one of his favorite sayings back on him. When her brothers teased her, he always told her not to pay them any mind.

"Your teacher says you've got a real high IQ."

"I didn't do it on purpose."

"There isn't anything wrong with being smart, but Miss Perine thinks we ought to figure a way to get you the best education we can. She thinks you can make something of yourself. I never considered it before, but I guess it isn't written in stone that you've got to get married and have babies lickety-split. Maybe this family has been setting our sights too low."

"Maybe so, Daddy."

He knew from her tone of voice that she was attempting to placate him.

"But I don't want anything to change," she added then.

"I know you don't," he said. "You know your mama would want us to do the right thing."

"Is Mama smart?"

"Oh, my, yes. She sure is."

"She got married and had babies lickety-split."

Lord, his girl was bright, all right. And how come it took a brand-new teacher to make him realize it?

"That's because I came along and swept her off her feet."

" 'Cause you were irresistible. Right?"

"That's right."

"Maybe you ought to have a talk with Mama before you make up your mind about sending me away. She might know what you're supposed to do."

He was so shocked by what she'd just said, he jerked. "You know I like to talk things over with your mama?"

"Uh-huh."

"How could you know?"

She smiled up at him, her eyes shining. "'Cause sometimes you talk out loud. It's okay, Daddy. I like to talk things over with Mama too."

"All right, then. Tomorrow, when we go visit your mama, we'll both talk this over with her."

She started splashing her feet in the water. "I think she's gonna tell me I should stay home with you and Remy and John Paul."

"Now, listen here-"

"Daddy, tell me how you and Mama met. I know you've told me the story hundreds of times, but I never get tired of heating it."

They had veered off the subject, and he knew his daughter had done it on purpose. "We aren't talking about your mama and me now. We're talking about you. I want to ask you an important question. Put your fishing pole down and pay attention.''

She did as he said and waited with her hands folded in her lap. She was such a little lady, he thought to himself, and how in thunder had that happened living with three lumbering mules?

"If you could be anything in the world, anything at all, what do you suppose you'd be?" She was making a church steeple with her fingers. He tugged on her ponytail to get her attention. "You don't need to be embarrassed with your daddy. You can tell me."

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Your hair's getting red and so are your freckles."

She giggled. "My hair's already red, and my freckles can't change color."

"Are you gonna tell me or not?"

"You have to promise not to laugh."

"I'm not gonna laugh."

"Remy and John Paul would maybe laugh."

"Your brothers are idiots. They laugh at just about anything, but you know they love you and they'll work hard to see you get what you want."

"I know," she said.

"Are you gonna tell me or not? It sounds like you've already got some ideas about what you'd like to be."

"I do know," she admitted. She looked him right in the eyes to make sure he wasn't going to laugh and then whispered, "I'm going to be a doctor."

He hid his surprise and didn't say a word for a long minute while he chewed the notion over in his mind.

"Now, why do you suppose you want to be a doctor?" he asked, already warming to the idea.

"Because then maybe I could fix… something. I've been thinking about it for a long time, ever since I was little."

"You're still little," he said. "And doctors fix people, not things."

"I know that, Daddy," she said with such authority in her voice she made him smile.

"You got someone in mind you want to fix?"

Big Daddy put his arm around his daughter's shoulders and hauled her into his side. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say the words.

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and slowly nodded. "I was thinking maybe I could fix Mama's head. Then she could come home."

The first one was a mercy killing.

She was dying a very, very slow death. Each day there was a new indignity, another inch of her once magnificent body destroyed by the debilitating disease. Poor poor Catherine. Seven years ago she had been a beautiful bride with a trim, hourglass figure men lusted after and women envied, but now her body was fat and grossly bloated, and her once perfect alabaster skin was blotchy and sallow.

There were times when her husband, John, didn't recognize her anymore. He would remember what she used to look like and then see with startling clarity what she had become. Those wonderful sparkling green eyes that had so captivated him when he'd first met her were now glazed and milky with too much painkillers.

The monster was taking its time killing her, and for him there wasn't a moment's respite.

He dreaded going home at night. He always stopped on Royal Street to purchase a two-pound box of Godiva chocolates first. It was a ritual he had started months ago to prove to her that he still loved her in spite of her appearance. He could have had the chocolates delivered daily to the house, of course, but the errand stretched out the time before he had to face her again. The next morning the almost empty gold box would be in the porcelain trash can next to the king-size canopy bed. He would pretend not to notice she'd gorged herself on the sweets, and so would she.

John no longer condemned her for her gluttony. The chocolates gave her pleasure, he supposed, and there was precious little of that in her bleak, tragic existence these days.

Some nights, after purchasing the chocolates, he would return to his office and work until fatigue overcame him and he'd be forced to go home. As he maneuvered his BMW convertible up St. Charles to the Garden District of New Orleans, he'd inevitably start shaking as if he were suffering from hypothermia, but he wouldn't actually become physically ill until he entered the black-and-white foyer of his house. Gripping the box of chocolates in his hand, he'd place his Gucci briefcase on the hall table and stand there in front of the gilded mirror for a minute or two taking deep, calming breaths. They never soothed him, but he repeated the habit anyway night after night. His harsh breathing would mingle with the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall adjacent to the mirror. The tick-tick-tick would remind him of the timer on a bomb. A bomb that was inside his head and about to explode.