Free Sweet Mercy by Ann Tatlock

you.”
    â€œThat’s fine.” Mr. Sluder patted his wife’s hand. “Come along, dear.”
    â€œBut, George,” his wife said, “you haven’t asked about refreshments.”
    â€œAh yes. Cyrus, send up some fresh fruit in about thirty minutes, will you?”
    â€œOf course, Mr. Sluder.”
    I watched our newest guests ascend the stairs like the King and Queen of England. Once they disappeared, I moved across the hall and leaned my arms on the front desk. “Who in the world is that man, Uncle Cy?” I asked.
    â€œGeorge Sluder and his wife, Ada. They’re regulars here.”
    â€œThey are?”
    Uncle Cy nodded disinterestedly and turned aside to the mail slots. He picked up a pile of letters and started sorting them into the proper cubbyholes.
    â€œWell,” I said, “doesn’t he have to sign the guest register like everyone else?”
    â€œHe can sign later.”
    â€œI bet he’s got enough money to do whatever he wants, huh? How’d he get to be so rich, anyway?”
    Uncle Cy paused and turned back to me. “You ask too many questions, Eve. Don’t you have something you’re supposed to be doing?”
    â€œI was sweeping the porch before His Highness arrived.”
    â€œThen I suggest you get back to it. And Eve, rule number one around here: We don’t ask questions about the guests.”
    I narrowed my eyes at Uncle Cy, but he’d already gone back to sorting the mail. Reluctantly, I finished sweeping the porch then wandered to the kitchen to see if I could do anything for Annie.
    â€œI believe you can, child,” she said when I found her. She was wiping a frying pan with a dish towel while she stared out the side window. “I’m going to make up a plate of lunch for that young man out there. You can carry it out to him.”
    When she stepped away from the window, I took over her spot to see who she meant. A stranger sat on the low stone wall separating the drive from the side yard. He wore tattered overalls, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of weathered boots. I looked quizzically at Annie. “I don’t recognize him,” I said. “Is he one of the maintenance men?”
    Annie shook her head. She lifted her apron to her brow to wipe away the shiny beads of sweat. The faded red kerchieftied around her hair was moist with perspiration. In spite of the heat, her brown eyes danced merrily while she reached for a plate, as though she relished the task at hand. “I haven’t seen him before neither,” she explained, “but I’m sure he’s one of the men from the camp down the river. They got a way of knowing where they can find a hot meal and a cold drink.”
    â€œThere’s a camp by the river?”
    â€œThat’s right. Been one there for a while now.”
    â€œYou mean, like a shantytown?”
    â€œThat’s what it is, child. A shantytown. The railroad runs right by here, you know. That’s where the men come from, the rails. Looking for work. Far too little of that, these days.” She shook her head again and clicked her tongue as she ladled a thick helping of beef stew onto the plate. She added a piece of bread and butter and handed the plate to me, along with a glass of iced tea. “Tell him just to leave the dishes on the wall when he’s finished. Morris knows to bring them in.”
    â€œYou mean, other men come by here to get a plate of food?”
    â€œAll the time.” She smiled then, her perfect teeth a sudden flash of white against her russet-colored skin. “They know we’ll give it to them. Your uncle’s generous that way. Anyone comes looking for food don’t go away hungry.”
    â€œReally? Uncle Cy says you should feed these people?”
    â€œâ€™Course he does. Mr. Marryat not going to let anyone starve. No sir, not Mr. Marryat. He’s different that