Somebody's Sons, Somebody's Daughters
Mercy Chapter 17
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Previous Chapter: Sweeping Statements
Isla’s mood had not improved at all between leaving Kim’s house and arriving at work. She curtly received some messages that Doreen had for her and closed her office door a little more firmly than necessary. She opened her inbox; her emails for the day included an itinerary for a conference for entrepreneurs and start-ups in Boston, followed by a second day spent visiting thriving businesses in suburbs and small towns.
With her hands, her eyes, Isla was filling out forms, answering emails. She even made some calls. But running in the background was the constant thought: It shouldn’t bother me this much; I don’t even know exactly what is bothering me. Dave was a friend; Dave was never going to be more than that. She’d never thought that; he wasn’t her type, even if he was kind and sensitive and gentle and self-sacrificing and unpretentious. She’d thought he had a rare inner strength and even a touch of class; maybe that was what bothered her. The feet of clay. She was so sure, so sure, that whatever was going on with this girl—Lacey, was it?—was nothing but a testosterone-driven urge to be the hero, to rescue and conquer the princess imprisoned by the dragon. She didn’t know why Kim couldn’t see it, and without Kim on her side, without Dave’s reliability, the world seemed a bit unstable.
Isla managed to leave for home that afternoon while Doreen was in the hallway; she didn’t want to have to say good-bye or exchange pleasantries. The long, bright hallway gave way to the cold, dark parking lot as she pushed open the glass door. She unlocked the car with her keychain remote; the night was frosty and the plastic of the handle was freezing. The door creaked as she opened it and tossed her bag in the back seat. She fumbled for the chilly seatbelt as the cold from the cracked vinyl of the driver’s seat seeped through her sweater, but she didn’t reach for the fleece that she kept in the car. She hated any restraint on her range of motion. She’d deal with it until the heater kicked in. Of course, her commute was so short that it wouldn’t kick in, if she was going home. But as she pulled out of the parking lot, she knew that she wasn’t going home. Not yet.
The huge hulking shoulders of the mills rose in the darkness, ogres crouching over the town. The lights were on in Dave’s studio, way up on the third floor, warm and inviting, but in only three of the massive windows. He didn’t light the whole space; it was just too big. She pictured the tapestry dividers that he’d erected, carving a sanctuary out of the great shadowy work floor. The space was scattered with rugs and yoga mats and lamps, bright yet not blinding. Homey. The blueish white fluorescent light from the other floors seemed cold in contrast. The warehouse lights were flicking out and she imagined the workers leaving, lunchboxes in hand. Workers from the factory might be trickling in for second shift. They wouldn’t talk in passing; maybe there was an occasional nod, but mostly an unspoken respect for the work done and the homegoing anticipated, for the labor to come and the energy required, all of one’s energy, more than all of it. Did the factory workers imagine Dave sitting on his yoga mat upstairs, soft music playing, thinking about his junkie, as they grunted great boxes into place, jammed their fingers into ancient machinery, stood on their feet hour after hour?
She could go up to see him; she wanted to go up. But she didn’t have a reason to. It was a public space, so she didn’t need a reason. But for herself, she did. She put her head on the steering wheel. It was still cold against her cheek.
She kept driving, up the alley between the mills into the dark secret spaces she’d never seen as a child in this town. They weren’t safe, they weren’t stable, they weren’t really even vacant. She knew this without being told, without seeing anything. There are things you can know without seeing them, and she knew that inside those mills, there were people in the dark, huddled together, maybe, warmed by something inside, something swallowed or injected when the world became too cold. Ragged Dickensian villains and thieves, vandals and brutes, somebody’s sons, somebody’s daughters. Looking out from the broken windows, sometimes; breaking again what was already broken, lying low when they saw blue lights flashing.
She turned off the car; it could hardly get colder than it already was. Mum would be scared if she knew where Isla was, but Mum wouldn’t need to know. She turned out the headlights and waited, not knowing what for, when not far away, something stirred in the darkness and a tiny orange light glowed. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. The shape clutched a brown tarp to its shoulders, shifted to tuck it under its legs. And she saw, in the dark shadowed space, a face looking dully out at her, seeing or not seeing her, she couldn’t tell. She saw the blue gloveless fingers hold the cigarette stub, and she imagined she felt in her own fingers the tiny bit of warmth. If she was that figure, what would stop her from setting this mill on fire, this town on fire, just to be warm for an hour? She couldn’t think of any good reason for a person like that.
The trouble with knowing, with seeing, is that you can’t do nothing, and you can’t do something. Not really. Nothing would be inhuman, and something would be futile. All the somethings you can do would help for a day, or a year. All the somethings could be traded or sold for more drugs, more booze, more poison, more sorrow. You couldn’t stop it, there was nothing you could do but try to not see. Didn’t Dave know this? She needed to tell him; she would tell him. That was the reason to go up to the studio.
She almost started the car, but no. Not yet. She put on the gloves that were lying beside her. She put on the fleece. She screeched open the door, so loud in the dark, ominous quiet; she got out. Two steps to the pile of tires leaning against the once proud brick wall. And she took off the gloves, and laid them on the tire, drawing them off slowly so that the figure would know what they were. She took off the fleece and placed it gently beside them the gloves. Back in the car, a knot in her stomach, she wondered, could her gifts be traded for drug money with someone whose fingers were colder and cravings quieter? Was she hurting rather than helping someone? Did Dave consider things like this when he helped Lacey? Isla vowed to talk it through with him.
But surely that coat would warm someone. She looked at the tarp in her rearview mirror. The orange light had gone out. She imagined she saw Rob’s face on the figure. It was impossible to tell who it was in the darkness. But it was someone.