Where Mercy Flows by Karen Harter

Author:Karen Harter [HARTER, KAREN]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781599953014
Publisher: Center Street
Published: 2009-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

16

WITH EACH DAY that went by my hopes of Tim showing up at the front door diminished. We had both felt the pull as we stood there by the bleachers at the football game; I was sure of it. I busied myself with the things I could do—reading, peeling potatoes for dinner, even working the crossword puzzle from the daily newspaper—but my restless soul was not easily stilled.

My mind had too much free time, and it kept replaying the desperation I had heard in my father’s voice the previous week when he argued with Matt. My father always seemed sinless to me, as naive as that may sound, so I was shocked at the bits and pieces of conversation I had overheard. Whatever he proposed had infuriated his friend. I wondered if he was in financial trouble of some sort; something Mom didn’t know about—at least when she committed them to paying my medical bills. Maybe he had made a bold investment that was supposed to be a sure windfall—and lost everything. Maybe he borrowed money that he couldn’t pay back. From racketeers? Whatever it was, Matthew seemed shocked and disappointed at the Judge’s plea to help him do something illegal, and I must admit, I was as well. But I was left in the dark with my imagination still racing in circles, bumping into walls.

I asked my mother about it one day as she was painting. The walls of her studio out in the detached garage were adorned with her completed works of art. She liked to do cows, which were flat, lifeless shapes on muddy backgrounds. The landscapes were a little better, but not much. Her forehead drew together and she pondered for a moment. “No, honey. I can’t think of any trouble your father could possibly be in. He would tell me if there was something wrong.” She was dabbing green leaves onto a canvas with a fine-pointed brush. “Are you sure you heard them clearly?”

“I heard the parts with yelling. Matt said it was illegal to do whatever the Judge was talking about. Then Matt stormed off and went down to the river. It was a couple of hours later, when you were home, that he came back. You made him change into some dry pants and sit down to dinner. Remember how quiet both Matt and the Judge were at dinner that night?”

Mom frowned. “When are you going to stop calling him that, Samantha? He’s your father, for heaven’s sake.”

She put her paintbrush down, wiped green paint from her hands, and went to the window on the rear wall of her garage studio, where she stood silently looking out at the fine, almost invisible rain and the river. Frosted-blond strands had escaped from her French roll, dangling at her cheeks. Her blue bib apron had pockets for brushes and palette knives, and the khaki painting pants she wore had permanent smudges of yellow ocher. She turned to look at me. “Whatever the problem is, your father will make the right decision,” she said.

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