Free Sweet Mercy by Ann Tatlock Page A

way.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Annie?”
    â€œI mean, he pays no mind whether a man is white or Negro, young or old. If that man needs help, Mr. Marryat helps him. Everyone here in Mercy knows that. He’s a good man, your uncle.”
    A small thrill of pride moved up my spine. “I know he is,Annie,” I said. After all, he had taken me and Mother and Daddy in, even when he hadn’t seen us in years.
    Annie smiled at me again as she nodded toward the door. “Now get on out there ’fore the stew gets cold and the tea gets warm.”
    I pushed open the kitchen’s screen door with my foot and stepped outside. I made my way to the man on the wall and handed the food to him shyly, without a word. In that moment, the difference between him and George Sluder weighed on me heavily. Such wealth in the world, and such hardship. It didn’t seem quite right.
    He took the plate of food with a nod. “Thank you kindly, miss,” he said.
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    He balanced the glass on the wall and started scooping up the stew with the bread.
    â€œI forgot to bring you a fork,” I said.
    â€œDon’t need one.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    He nodded, swallowed. “By the time you got back, I’d be done.”
    I studied him quietly while he ate. He was a young man, somewhere just past twenty, I guessed. Though he appeared to have shaved that morning, he was badly in need of a barber. His fair hair hung over his forehead in a tangle of curls and, in the back, crept like stray tendrils over his frayed collar. Other than that, he had pleasant features and clear gray-blue eyes that seemed to sparkle and dance while he ate. He was obviously enjoying the stew and was glad to have it.
    â€œIs it true you live in a shantytown?” I asked, my curiosity trumping common courtesy.
    â€œIt’s true,” he said, not even pausing as he shoveled the stew into his mouth.
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œUp that way.” He indicated the direction with a nod of his head. “Past the mill.”
    â€œOh.” I looked up the river, though the mill was too far away to be seen from the lodge. “My uncle owns that mill,” I said.
    â€œYeah? Busy place. You must be rich.”
    I shook my head. “We’re not rich. We’re just regular folk.”
    â€œYou work here?” Now he nodded toward the lodge.
    â€œNo. Well, yeah.”
    He rolled his eyes up from the plate and looked squarely at me. “Well, which is it? You work here or don’t you?”
    â€œYes, I work here but I don’t get paid. I live here. My uncle owns the lodge.”
    â€œSame uncle as owns the mill?”
    â€œNo, a different one. They’re brothers.”
    â€œGuess you got this town sewn up, huh?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    He tore a hunk off the bread and chewed while he studied me. Then he shrugged. “What’s your name?”
    â€œEve Marryat. What’s yours?”
    â€œEveryone just calls me Link.”
    â€œLink?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou got a last name, Link?”
    â€œSure. I got a last name like everybody else.”
    â€œCan I know what it is?”
    He didn’t answer. He wiped up the last of the stew with the bread, ate it, and licked his fingers. Leaving the plate andthe still-full glass of tea on the wall, he hopped off and stood in front of me. He was so tall I had to put my head back to look up at his face. He picked up the tea and downed it in one long swig. He was wiping his mouth on his sleeve when Morris Tweed drove by in the pickup truck he used for hauling goods from the railroad station.
    Link gazed at the truck then looked back at me. I thought he was finally going to tell me his surname, but he must have forgotten I’d asked. “Listen,” he said. “You don’t happen to have any alky in any of those rooms, do you?”
    â€œAlky?”
    â€œYou