Wiley Cash - This Dark Road to Mercy

“I don’t know. Maybe, but I can’t say for sure. I ain’t in no kind of position to make any promises.”

I heard the floor creak as Wade walked toward the door that led out to the porch. I heard him put his hand on the knob and turn it, and then I heard the sound the door made when he opened it. But then I knew that he was just standing there because I didn’t hear it close.

“I want you to know that I was tricked into signing that paper,” he said. “I never would’ve signed it if I’d known I was giving them up.”

“I understand,” Miss Crawford said. “And I-” But Wade shut the door and she didn’t say nothing else.

I didn’t knock on the office door to ask Miss Crawford to sign me on to the computer because I didn’t feel like playing Oregon Trail anymore. I didn’t feel like doing much of anything right then except being alone. I crept across the kitchen and walked down the hallway, past the computer room with that empty computer, back to our bedroom. I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed and just looked around at the few things we had in there that we could call our own: the light pink bedspreads covering mattresses that sat up off the floor like beds are supposed to; a closetful of clothes; the board games and books stacked up beneath the table between our beds. I tried to imagine those things far away from here in some bedroom in Alaska, where Mom had told us it snowed so much that it piled up against the windows, where there wasn’t no sun for almost half the year and it was always dark just like the nighttime. It was impossible to picture me and Ruby and any of our things in a place like that.

I knew exactly which piece of paper Wade was talking about signing. I’d found it in Mom’s room after we’d all come home from the courthouse; it was the last time I’d seen Wade. Mom had made me and Ruby go to court with her, even though I was only nine years old and Ruby wasn’t nothing but four. I remember her saying, “I want you both to see what your daddy’s willing to do if you ask him nice enough.”

Wade was waiting on us when we got to the courtroom. His eyes were swollen and red. He rocked back and forth on his feet, and finally he just sat down in a chair and waited for things to get started. Me and Ruby sat with Mom. She wouldn’t let us go over and say nothing to Wade, even though he kept looking over at us and sniffing real loud like he was trying to get us to look at him. We hadn’t seen him in a while, and Mom acted like she didn’t even see him now. He’d tried to dress up and look nice by wearing a button-down shirt, but it still had the crease marks where it had been folded at the store; it looked like he’d just unwrapped it and put it right on.

I can’t quite remember what happened next, and I can’t quite remember what the judge said, but I do remember watching Mom and Wade go up to where the judge sat. Mom walked right up there like she couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say, but Wade just shuffled his feet and moved so slow that I thought he might not ever make it. The three of them whispered back and forth, and every now and then Wade would turn his head and look over at me and Ruby to try to get our attention. I watched him rock back on his heels, and a couple of times he rocked too far and had to grab on to something to keep from falling over.

But one thing I do remember is watching them sign that piece of paper, and I remember watching as they gave Mom a copy of it. As soon as she got that piece of paper in her hands it was over; we were out the door and walking back down the street away from the courthouse and away from downtown. She didn’t tell Wade “bye” or give the judge a “thank-you” or nothing-just gone. Me and Ruby couldn’t hardly keep up with her. She put that piece of paper in her pocketbook and took me and Ruby by the hand. “It’s just us now,” she said. “All we’ve got to worry about is ourselves-ourselves and nobody else.”

When we got home, Mom took that piece of paper into her room and shut the door. A few minutes later I heard her crying.

That night, while she was in the kitchen getting Ruby something to eat, I snuck into her bedroom and found the paper folded up on her bedside table. I picked it up and read all that I could. Across the top, it said Termination of Parental Rights. Farther down it said, In signing this document, I, Wade Chesterfield, hereby relinquish my parental rights to Easter Renee Quillby and Ruby Justice Quillby, both minors… Relinquish: I had no idea what that word meant, but I saw where Mom had signed, and I recognized Wade’s signature right by hers. I folded up that piece of paper and left it exactly where I’d found it, and I snuck out of Mom’s room and went into our bedroom. My spelling book was in my backpack, and I got it out and flipped to the back where there was a dictionary that we used to look up our vocabulary words. I found it. Relinquish: to give up ; leave ; abandon. That sounded just about right to me.

That night, after Mom had gone to bed and Ruby was asleep, I crept down the hallway to find the one thing Wade had left behind in our house. I opened the closet by the front door just as quiet as I could, and I picked up the bag and slung it over my shoulder and carried it into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and flipped on the light, and then I looked under the sink and found a bottle of nail-polish remover and a bunch of cotton balls. I sat on the floor with my back against the tub, opened up that bag, and, one by one, took out all those old baseballs that Wade had signed back when he thought he was going to be famous, and I used Mom’s nail-polish remover and tried my hardest to take his name off every single one.

Pruitt

The old man taught me how to hit a fastball by setting an empty bottle of Michelob Light on top of a T-ball tee he’d picked up at a yard sale. He tossed me the safety glasses he wore in his shop, and then he stepped back and took a swig from a fresh beer, nodded toward the empty bottle, and said, “Go on and hit it.”

The sound of an aluminum bat busting a glass bottle is just about the best thing a six-year-old can hear. The old man stood far enough away so the glass couldn’t reach him, and he laughed every time one of those bottles busted, and then he’d open another beer and drain it just so he could set it up on the tee. Beer gleamed on the bat, and my arms and shirt were damp.

After we’d gone through a six-pack he walked into the carport and got another one out of the dirty white refrigerator by the steps. He twisted the top off another beer and set the six-pack down on the hood of the car. “Could you feel that glass on you?” he asked.

When I looked down at my wet arms I saw that it wasn’t just the beer that had been sprinkling my skin; little bits of glass had been mixed in too. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said before knocking back the rest of his beer. He walked across the yard with his open hand out in front of him. “Go on and take them glasses off.” He took the glasses from my face, and then he folded them and dropped them into the breast pocket on his union suit. He balanced his empty beer on the tee and stepped back. “Hit it,” he said. He crossed his arms and waited. “Hit it,” he said again.

“Will you give me back them-” but his hands were on me before the words had left my mouth. My hands tried to drop the bat, but he closed his fingers around mine and gripped it tighter. “Hit it, sissy,” he said. He raised my hands so the bat was over my right shoulder. My nose sniffed back a sob and my eyes narrowed to keep the tears from running down my cheeks. He slapped me on the back of the head.

“Crying ain’t going to get you these damn glasses back,” he said. “Now hit it!” He turned and walked back to the carport and opened another beer and lit a cigarette. My stance was open toward him like he was playing first base, and his eyes were on me like he was waiting to see where the ball would go.