Under the Mercy Trees Page 16

  21

  Liza

  The phone rang in Liza’s kitchen as she and her younger daughter, Alissa, were unloading groceries from her truck. Alissa bolted into the house to answer it. Liza threaded the handles of four plastic grocery bags over her arm and nudged the truck door closed with her shoulder before going inside.

  “It’s for you.” Alissa handed her the phone, sounding disappointed.

  Liza dumped the bags on the counter by the refrigerator and took the phone, waving Alissa out of the kitchen. “Hello?”

  “I’m back.” Martin’s voice, so familiar.

  “So I heard.”

  “Still speaking to me?”

  She opened the freezer and pushed things aside to make room for the frozen foods she’d bought. “I haven’t decided yet.” She transferred the phone to her other ear and lined perishables up along the counter so she could put them away with one opening of the refrigerator door.

  “I’m sorry for leaving without telling you,” Martin said.

  “Are you sorry for not calling for two months?”

  “Sorry for that, too.”

  “Your manners leave a bit to be desired.” She shoved the crisper drawer shut with more force than necessary.

  “They always did.”

  She closed the refrigerator door. “I hear you’ve found work.”

  “It’s not official yet, but yes. Any pointers?”

  “Yes. Pee before class starts, and don’t let your students smell your fear.”

  “Don’t let my students smell my pee. Got it.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “I really am sorry, Liza.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  She held the phone between neck and shoulder and used both hands to ball up the grocery bags. “Good. I think you should.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Let me take you to lunch.”

  “It’ll take more than a lunch.”

  “I know. I just want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “I got a package from Leon when I was in New York. It went to my neighbor’s apartment by mistake. A ledger my mother used to keep and in the back some photographs Leon took.”

  Nausea swept over her. “Photos of what?”

  “Leon and some woman I didn’t recognize. Nothing pornographic. I just wish I knew why he sent them to me.”

  She let out a slow breath.

  “Don’t mention the photos to Hodge or my family, please. I haven’t shared them yet.”

  “All right.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re still mad.”

  “Yes, I am. And I can’t do lunch this week or next. My daughters have horse shows. I’ll call you when I think of a suitable way for you to make up for being a jerk.”

  “Fair enough.”

  They hung up. Liza leaned against her kitchen counter. She remembered Leon Owenby’s camera very well. Apertures, cold chrome dials, the way he gazed down into it to find the picture, never lifting his head to look up at the people he was hurting when he clicked the shutter.

  There were five in the Solace Fork School graduating class of 1954—Liza, Martin, Hodge, and the two Gaddy sisters. Liza’s aunt Fran helped Mr. Samuels set up chairs in the schoolyard, where the shiny dark leaves of rhododendron bushes provided a backdrop. Aunt Fran covered a long table with her best lace tablecloth and borrowed a punch bowl and glass cups from the Episcopal church. She and Mrs. Gaddy made cookies. The week before, as Aunt Fran measured Liza for alterations to her white graduation dress, her aunt worried, “Should I ask Nell Owenby to bring anything?” Liza didn’t have an answer. Given Mr. Owenby’s reaction to Martin’s college announcement, none of them was sure the Owenbys would come to the ceremony.

  Graduation day was hot and humid, the sky cloudless. Yellow jackets buzzed around Aunt Fran’s punch. The Gaddy twins’ faces were pink and sweaty, their hair frizzed. Liza handed Nancy Gaddy her silver compact so Nancy could powder the shine from her nose. “You both look beautiful,” she told the twins, watching the road for Martin. A few dozen people milled about, family members and students from the grades behind them. Her father passed out fans he’d begged from Ferris Funeral Home. Hodge struggled to stabilize a rickety podium on the uneven ground, finally leaning a chair against it to keep it from falling over. The middle button of his new suit strained over his pudgy middle. Five minutes before it was time to begin, as Aunt Fran and Mr. Samuels were beginning to whisper nervously, the Owenbys’ farm truck drove up to the schoolhouse, with Leon at the wheel. Martin and his brother James jumped out of the back. James brushed the dust off Martin’s wool suit. It was some brother’s hand-me-down, but it fit him well. James’s girlfriend, Bertie, helped Martin’s mother out of the passenger side. Liza assumed Bertie was responsible for getting James here. It was anyone’s guess why Leon had come along. He sat in the truck, his left leg dangling out the open door, fiddling with something in his lap. The other Owenbys walked across the schoolyard. Liza’s father went to greet them.

  Mrs. Owenby looked frail. She wore a stiff navy blue dress and thick stockings. The bun in her salt-and-pepper hair was so tight it pulled her ears out from her head.

  “Nell, we’ve saved a special seat just for you.” Liza’s father took Mrs. Owenby’s arm and led her to a seat next to Hodge’s parents. Aunt Fran walked over and patted Mrs. Owenby on the shoulder, whispering something in her ear to make her smile, putting her at ease. Liza walked over to where Martin stood with James and Bertie.

  Leon finally got out of the truck, slamming the door, and joined them. A camera hung around his neck, in a square case of brown leather, with circles cut in the leather for knobs and handles to stick through. Liza’s father had a Brownie camera that was broken at the moment, but she had never seen a camera like this. It swung against Leon’s chest, its sophisticated gadgetry incongruous against Leon’s plain white shirt.

  Her father returned from seating Mrs. Owenby and whistled when he saw the camera. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Bought it cheap off a German who works at the plant. He needed the money. It’s the kind professionals use.” Leon held the camera out for her father to examine, but didn’t take it from around his neck.

  Liza’s father fingered the knobs, intrigued, careful not to touch the lens. “Where do you develop the film?”

  “The German fellow says he’ll do it for me in his darkroom.”

  “Isn’t that something,” her father said.

  Leon took the camera strap from around his neck and slipped it over Bertie’s head. The weight of it bent her forward. Leon grabbed Martin roughly around the neck and pulled him close. “Take a picture of us, Bertie.”

  Bertie looked flustered. “Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to do with all these knobs and things. I might break it.”

  “It ain’t hard. I’ll show you.” Leon let Martin go. Martin rubbed his neck.

  “This here’s the focus.” Leon and Bertie stared down into the top of the camera. Leon’s dark hair was perfectly parted, comb marks preserved in Brylcreem. “See how it gets fuzzy, then sharp?”

  James looked at Martin and Liza. “I believe I’ve heard all I care to about that camera.”

  “Knock it off, Leon,” Martin said. “I’m here to graduate.”

  Mr. Samuels approached them, clearing his throat. “We should get started.”

  Bertie took the camera strap from around her neck and handed the camera back to Leon. Martin and Liza went with Mr. Samuels to the part of the schoolyard designated as a stage, where the Gaddy sisters and Hodge had already taken seats. Aunt Fran’s deep, genteel voice echoed around the yard as she herded people to their places
.

  When everyone was still, Mr. Samuels went to the lectern, careful not to lean on it. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for this momentous occasion. Hodge Goforth will now deliver the invocation, after which we will hear a recitation from each of our other graduates. I have some awards to give out, and then we will adjourn and celebrate with refreshments.”

  Hodge gave the invocation, his eyes scrunched tight. Nancy Gaddy read an excerpt from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha, while her sister, Betty, too shy to speak in public, beat a soft rhythm on the bottom of a bucket. When they sat down, Liza approached the podium to read from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. Her father winked at her from the front row. Behind him, Bertie sat between James and Leon. James picked at a callus on his hand. Leon reached a finger and thumb and gently lifted a fallen hair from Bertie’s shoulder. She looked up at him to smile her thanks, then turned back to listen to Liza. When Liza finished, Martin went to the podium and recited Thomas Moore’s The Meeting of the Waters from memory.

  “Show-off,” Liza whispered when he sat back down next to her. He grinned.

  Mr. Samuels took the podium again. “Ladies and gentlemen, it has been my privilege to teach these young people this year. They have all worked hard. You know we don’t designate valedictorians or salutatorians here at Solace Fork School, but I have awards to present to each graduate.” He looked back at the graduates, a stack of calligraphied certificates of achievement in his hand, and called them up one by one. The Gaddy sisters got perfect attendance awards. Hodge got most improved student. Liza was best all-round. When Martin came forward to accept his certificate for most likely to succeed, Mr. Samuels reached behind the podium for a small package. He rested a hand on Martin’s back, hardly able to contain his pride. “This young man has shown a talent for writing unsurpassed by any student I have ever taught. I expect great things from him. In recognition, I am presenting him with a book award.” He held out the package. “Martin, it’s Eugene O’Neill. I hope it will inspire you and that one day we will see your own work in print.”

  Martin accepted the book with reverence. Liza felt her eyes tear up for this boy she loved, for everything he had overcome and the man she was sure he would be.

  “Would the other graduates please come up.”

  They joined Martin next to the podium, and Mr. Samuels presented them with their diplomas. “Ladies and gentlemen, parents, friends, I present to you, the graduating class of 1954.”

  Their families clapped loudly. People streamed forward to congratulate them. At the refreshment table, Mrs. Gaddy began ladling out punch, and younger children shoved cookies into pockets.

  Martin positioned himself behind Liza. She could feel his breath on her hair. Body heat rose from his wool suit, which was too warm for the weather. She wished all these people would disappear and leave the two of them alone. She would take his hand, lead him through cool woods to the clearing where the creek forked, get him out of that suit, push him down on his back on the rocks, feed him early blueberries and sour grass, dots of nectar from shepherd’s whistles. She reached back and squeezed his hand.

  Leon muscled his way toward them, head bent over his camera’s viewfinder. He waved his long arms, directing them without looking up. “Martin, Liza, move closer together.” Liza didn’t need urging. She put her arm around Martin’s waist. He put his hand over hers, interlacing their fingers.

  Leon fumbled with buttons and blew invisible lint off the lens. Liza’s father and aunt and Mrs. Owenby waited behind him, afraid to come forward and spoil the photograph. Liza could feel Martin growing impatient beside her. She looked at his profile, smooth-shaven, precious. Leon snapped the picture just as she leaned in and kissed Martin’s cheek.

  After graduation, Martin was stuck in the fields, his father determined to get as much work out of him as possible before he left for college. Liza wanted time with him before the fall separated them, but the one evening he made it to her house for dinner, he fell asleep at the table, head lolling forward, fingers still clutching his fork, until Liza’s father cleared his throat loud enough to wake him. Liza’s own summer job as a counselor at a YMCA day camp wouldn’t start until July. With nothing to do one morning, she drove up to the school to see if Mr. Samuels needed help closing up his classroom now that the younger students were out for the summer.

  The school was built two feet off the ground. When she walked up to the small porch, she earned a growl from a dog that had crawled underneath the building to sleep.

  “Be quiet. I belong here, not you.” The front door was propped open to let in the breeze. She stepped into the dark center hallway, breathing chalk dust and old paper, the smells that made her want to be a teacher.

  From the classroom down the hall she heard Mr. Samuels talking to someone, his voice rising and cracking. “Why are you doing this?”

  She stopped at the doorway, where she could see but a book rack hid her. Mr. Samuels stood behind his desk, leaning on it with both hands flat. His starched white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and veins stood out on his tanned arms. In front of him was Leon Owenby with his camera around his neck.

  “I saw you,” Leon said. “Coming out of the men’s room at the Lenoir bus station. I know what you boys do in there that time of night.”

  “You don’t have any proof.”

  Leon brandished the camera at Mr. Samuels, swinging it by the straps like a lantern. “You can deny it, but the camera don’t lie.”

  Liza knew just enough to understand what Leon was talking about, from pulpit stories of Sodom and Gomorrah and jokes overheard from men on the porch at the general store. They didn’t have a word for gay in Willoby County then. Until you can put a name to a thing, you can pretend it doesn’t exist. Mr. Samuels’s face paled. Sweat circles darkened his underarms, outlining his undershirt.

  Leon tapped his camera. “You be gone by tomorrow, or I’ll show these to anybody who’ll look.” He turned and headed toward Liza, sweeping papers off Mr. Samuels’s desk with the side of his hand as he came.

  Before Leon could see her Liza snuck back down the hall and outside and waited for him on the porch. When he came out, she grabbed the camera strap with one hand and twisted off the lens cap with the other. She had some idea of ripping the film out, if she could figure out which catch to press to expose it, but Leon grabbed her wrist, wrenching it, until her breath caught with pain.

  “It ain’t your business.” He thrust her away, then whistled. The dog under the school scrabbled out to meet him, arthritic hip bones grinding, a pencil-size erection obscenely pink.

  “Not you, too,” Leon said to the dog with disgust. “Nothing but perverts around here.” He and the mutt headed down the deer path, into the woods. Without looking back at Liza he called, “I’ll send you that graduation picture when I get the roll developed.”

  Liza shoved Leon’s lens cap into her skirt pocket and kneaded her bruised wrist. It made her sick to think of her image trapped in Leon’s camera on the same roll of film as the photographs he was using to blackmail Mr. Samuels. She ran back into the school.

  Mr. Samuels squatted on the classroom floor, trying to gather up the papers Leon had scattered. She knelt beside him. “Mr. Samuels, don’t let Leon Owenby bully you. I’ll tell Daddy. He’ll talk to the school board.”

  Mr. Samuels’s face was red now, with embarrassment and fear. She reached her hand out, to let him know she didn’t think less of him, but he moved away. “There’s nothing anyone can do.” He stood up, knees cracking, and looked around the room. He grabbed a wooden apple crate that held supplies, dumped it out on the floor, opened his desk drawers, and began throwing personal items into the crate. His framed college diploma, an ivory-handled magnifying glass, the arrowhead he’d found the day of the first class hike, all tossed now like ballast.

  “You can’t just give in,�
�� she said.

  He stopped. “Oh, Liza. You don’t understand.” He reached into the crate and handed her the arrowhead. Sun from the classroom window struck it, defining every facet. He drew in a long, tight breath. “You’re going to be a fine teacher. Remember my teaching, not my skulking away.” He turned back to his packing.

  She stared at him for a moment, then headed for her car and roared down the mountain until she had to brake, hard, behind a slow-moving chicken truck. She passed it on a curve, scaring the driver. The truck swerved toward the ditch, feathers flying. She slowed down in town, mindful that if she didn’t, the neighbors would report her to Aunt Fran. When she got home she left the car door hanging open and ran around the side of the house to her father’s infirmary, bursting in just as he was walking a woman and her sobbing little boy out to the waiting room.

  “That hurt!” the child shouted through his tears.

  “I know, son, but the shot hurts less than smallpox.” Her father reached into the candy bowl he kept on a windowsill and handed the little boy a sucker.

  Liza opened the door for the woman to get them to leave faster. “Do you have any other patients, Daddy?” she asked once they were gone.

  “No, I’m closing up for lunch.”

  Liza locked the door.

  “What’s the matter, honey?”

  She told him. If she expected shock, she didn’t get it. A look of knowing, of pieces fitting together, settled on her father’s face. “Ah. I see.”

  “You have to do something, Daddy.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Talk to the school superintendent. Mr. Samuels is the best teacher this county has ever had. Or the police. Isn’t blackmail illegal?”