Have Mercy Read online

  Contents

  Author's Note

  Copyright and List of Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Coming Soon

  Author's Note

  What does it mean to be Black? What does it mean to be White?

  Frequently, it seems that we rely on specific aesthetic features in order to categorize who is what. However, race and identity are highly complex issues which cannot be placed into simple categories. Within the United States, there has been a history of racialized laws and policies that placed certain races into positions of inferiority.

  For those who could, passing served as an opportunity to move beyond the subjugated status of your race. Through masquerading as a member of a different race--one that benefited from societal advantages--they could move above the oppression that members of their family and community experienced.

  When I speak of passing, I am not simply talking about "light-skinned" or "high-yella" individuals; I am referring to Black individuals who possessed the aesthetic appearance of a White person. In other words, if this person was to assault you, and you filled out a police report, you would describe that individual as a White person, not knowing how they perceived their own ethnic and racial identity.

  The main character in this story could have passed as White. No one in her family would have thought twice if she had chosen to shed her Black identity in order to reap the benefits of passing as a White person. In spite of the advantages she could have received, this character identified with being a Black woman living within the Black community.

  The subject of passing is very interesting to me. There are numerous tales of ancestors choosing to live and work within the dominant culture while keeping their Black heritage a deeply guarded secret. What about you? Do you have a story about one of your relatives passing to escape discrimination? I would love to hear about it. With the availability of genetic testing that details ancestral origins, I am sure that many people are awakening to the knowledge that at one time, one of their ancestors passed.

  Challenge your perceptions of what makes a person White or Black.

  https://www.facebook.com/siobhan00

  For those interested in learning more about passing, I will be posting links to articles and biographies on my Facebook page. Thank you for your interest!

  Have Mercy

  Copyright © 2014 Siobhán Béabhar

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

  Acknowledgments:

  I would like to thank so many people for their love and support during this process. I must thank my mom and dad. They think that I'm crazy for not using my law degree, but they've always supported my dreams. My thanks to my sisters; we're all a bit crazy. I'd love to be successful enough to treat them all to a grand vacation!

  Thank you to my beta readers and critique partners. I also wish to thank Tom Garza for creating the wonderful cover. Many thanks to my editors: Elizabeth Stock, Rachael Price, and Martin Coffee.

  Finally, thank you for sharing your time with me!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sometimes I wished the isolation would simply consume me and put me out of my misery. For the past three years, solitude had been my silent and unforgiving companion. I didn't know what depressed me more. Waking each morning and realizing that the isolation wasn't my friend, or simply waking each morning.

  I slid my fingers over my face; patches of my skin were scaly, even though I felt caked in a layer of grime. With my dry, frizzy hair and splotchy complexion, I probably looked a fright. If my mother had been alive, she would have chastised me for even considering going outside in this state of dishabille. Thankfully, I'd freed myself from my mother's prim shackles years ago.

  Hiding behind the protection of my curtains, I looked out the window and surveyed the activity on the street. Through the glass, I could hear muffled laughter and good-natured jeering coming from next door. One of my neighbors drove a riding lawnmower down the sidewalk, the motor choking as it struggled to push out pebbles and stones. The poor fool's license had been revoked, and he used the lawnmower as transportation to the local grocery store.

  Was anyone else on the sidewalk? Once he cleared the yard, it should be safe to grab my newspaper. After smoothing the front of my robe, I darted out onto my porch and shuffled down the steps to grab it. One of my house shoes slipped off, and I nearly busted my ass as I stumbled onto the concrete. I grabbed the paper and tucked it under my arm. Just as I turned to escape into the house, something struck my head.

  The impact left a dull pain. Then I saw a flash of white as rage blinded my vision. Pulling the sash of my robe tighter, I turned and took a deep breath.

  "Jamal Tucker, what did I tell you about your basketball?" I yelled over the fence. I'd built the fence when the Tuckers moved in next door because Mr. Tucker had a bad habit of peeping at folks.

  I heard muttering as the boys fought over who would take me on. One voice grumbled, "Damn, dude. I can't stand that old bat. She's always yellin' at a nigga. I wish she'd die already."

  "Who mama is that?" asked another.

  Taking a deep breath, I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to ten. It was all I could do to stop myself from running over there and knocking some grammar into their hard heads. While I was at it, I'd probably yank their sagging pants up.

  What was it about these particular children that bothered me so? Usually, I tried to keep to myself, but I had a long list of dislikes. Number one was random balls falling from the sky. "Boy, bring your black ass over here!"

  "Don't be a bitch. Go on over there before she comes over here," urged one of Jamal's friends.

  I scooped up the ball and tossed it into the air, waiting for the seventh grader to appear. He came trudging around the fence, his head bobbing with each step. "I'm sorry, Ms. Higgins. We didn't mean for it to go over the fence. DeShawn can't play for nothing." He shot a side-eyed glance in the direction of his house.

  "What did I tell you?" Counting hadn't done any good. My right eyelid twitched with annoyance.

  Jamal refused to look at me. His eyes focused on the ball. "Ma'am?"

  "What. Did. I. Tell. You?"

  His shoulders slumped under the weight of my words. "You told me to keep my ball on our side of the fence." He finally looked at me. His wide eyes fluttered with nervousness as he pleaded his case. "But, Ms. Higgins, it wasn't my fault."

  Stepping forward, I tucked the ball under my arm and pointed at Jamal. Stressing each word, I said, "Do you have any idea how many tomato plants this ball has destroyed? I can't have you ruining my plants. You hear me, boy? If it comes over again, I'm keeping it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  I held th
e ball out. Jamal moved to take it but, at the last minute, I dropkicked it back over the fence. I heard a clanking sound as it struck the side of his house.

  "Ain't that a bitch!" yelled one of his friends from the other side of the fence.

  Balling his hands into fists, Jamal glared at me. I waited, arching an eyebrow. Daring him to say something. Tilting my head back, I stared down my nose and said, "Make a move, son. Make a move."

  His eyes narrowed as he retreated a few steps. As he cocked his head back, his anger dissolved into pity. "Ms. Higgins, when did you become so mean?"

  I didn't need anyone's pity. "Chile, take your little ass back home, and keep that ball on your side of the fence!" Turning my back on him, I stormed up the steps and retrieved my dropped house shoe. Thundering back into the house, I turned and kicked the door shut. I trudged into the kitchen and set about my morning routine.

  Coffee, three slices of toast, and my morning paper. The same thing, every day, for the last three years. Sometimes I told myself that I would break up the monotony with a scrambled egg or some bacon, but that never happened.

  The phone on the wall began to ring. Hadn't I put the ringer on ignore? Oh, that's right. For the first time in a very long time, I was actually anticipating phone calls.

  That didn't mean that I had to answer this particular call. I ignored it while I stood in front of the Keurig machine and watched the rich, black liquid fill my mug. The smell of hazelnut drifted up to my nose; I inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet smell.

  I removed my cup and swirled the black brew inside. The dark pool reminded me of Jamal's wide, dark eyes. Had I been too harsh with him? Should I ease up on the boy? I could try smiling more often, I supposed. Try to act like the kind, elderly neighbor of the block.

  Who the fuck was I kidding? My eyes probably held a feral gleam. Being alone with nothing but memories was a maddening experience. I needed a new outlet for my feelings; otherwise, Jamal would continue to be my primary target.

  The phone continued to ring, grating on my already frayed nerves. I hated talking on the phone. The only people I wanted to talk to were dead. And the living were boring as hell.

  Snatching up the phone, I barked, "Hello?"

  "Is this Mercy Higgins?"

  "Hello?"

  "Hello? Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, I heard you just fine. I just thought it was rude that you wouldn't greet the other person on the line. This is Mercy Higgins, and who are you?" I already knew who it was. Another creditor. My very favorite outlet.

  "Ms. Higgins, this is Nathan Keene with Eastside Cancer Treatment Center. How are you this morning?"

  "Too late for the small talk, Nathan. What do you want?"

  "Well, um. Ma'am, this is a courtesy call to remind you of your payment. It says here that you're sixteen days past due. Would you like to make a payment and bring your account up to date?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Well, too many late payments can adversely impact your credit. Perhaps we can discuss..." I hung up the phone. These conversations were pretty regular between Nate and me. I was struggling to stay on top of my bills, but I felt like I was drowning. I was going to be paid the next day, and then I'd call to make my payment. There was nothing I could do at the moment.

  "Mercy!"

  The shrill voice startled me, and I dropped my mug. Couldn't this broad just leave me in peace? My favorite mug was now in a million pieces because of her. I shook my head, stifling a groan. My cup. My beloved cup.

  "Who was that on the phone?"

  "Hello, Caitlyn," I mumbled. I swept up the broken shards and tossed them into the garbage. I really needed to get the house key away from that girl.

  She walked swiftly into the kitchen and stopped before me, an expectant look on her face. She gave me a patronizingly cheerful smile as she gathered me in her arms. Her beefy arms squeezed me so tight that I panted for air.

  "Another creditor?" she asked as her arms tightened even more.

  I stood unmoving in her embrace. Fighting her would only cause more discomfort. "That treatment center again. I'm late for this month's payment."

  "Again?" she asked, pushing me away.

  "Yes, again." Excited at my release, I filled my lungs with air then I darted to the table and sat down. "Between them and my mortgage, I'm juggling all that I can. I certainly don't need you to badger me."

  "How much is left on your balance?"

  "I owe them one hundred twenty-five thousand, but I also owe fifty to the bank. It'll get better once I get a few tenants."

  The payments had been manageable when I was still a teacher, but when Moses's health deteriorated, I took a leave of absence to take care of him full-time. It hadn't been my intention to retire at that point, but watching him slip away had done something to me. I no longer had the passion for teaching. I no longer thought of myself as the motherly kind. I used most of his insurance money and our savings to pay down the bulk of the bill, but then I did something stupid.

  One day, I got a phone call from my bank informing me of the equity on our house. I took a loan out for fifty thousand dollars, and I made extensive renovations. Now, I was in the hole for one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Our retirement checks covered most of the monthly payments, but I'd had to take a part-time job a year ago in order to make ends meet. Renting out the spare bedrooms would help me get ahead of the debt.

  Scrunching up her shoulders, Caitlyn rubbed her sweaty hands on her uniform. "Are you excited?" Her nostrils flared with each breath. The poor girl was more enthusiastic about this than I was.

  "Excited about what?" I asked, sucking air through my teeth.

  Rolling her eyes, she leaned towards me. "Your new roommates!"

  "Tenants, Caitlyn. I'll have tenants."

  Shrugging, she sat down at the kitchen table. I wasn't in the mood for Caitlyn's unique brand of smothering. I stood and reluctantly pulled two mugs from the cabinet.

  She practically hummed with excitement. "It's kinda the same, dontcha think? There will be people here. Living in the house with you. Isn't that exciting?"

  "Tenants and roommates aren't the same thing. There is a huge difference." At least, in my mind, there was. I grabbed the cream from the fridge and dropped it onto the table. "A roommate seems like a thing young people do. You know, people your age who don't have their shit together. To me, it's much more personal than what I'm doing."

  "Eh. Not really."

  "Yeah, Caitlyn. Really." I placed the mugs on the table and sat opposite her. I cringed at the amount of cream that she poured into her coffee. I budgeted everything. I only used a teaspoon of cream occasionally. A small carton lasted me for weeks. "This is strictly a business transaction. They pay me to rent a room, and they can go about their business."

  "C'mon, you gotta be joking? You don't mean that."

  "I do," I said, not liking her train of thought.

  She blew at the steam rising from her coffee. She took a dainty sip and grimaced. I wasn't sure if it was the coffee or something she felt needed to be said. "You plan to be friends with them, right?"

  "Nope."

  "Mercy!" she said, slapping the table.

  Curling my lip, I pinned her with my gaze. "Caitlyn!" I lifted my mug and took several deep breaths. I let the sweet odor fill my nostrils before I asked, "What do you want?"

  She plunked the coffee mug down on the table. I cringed from the impact and glared at her. She sat back and folded her arms over her ample bosom. "I'm just checking on you."

  "I'm fine."

  She nodded sagely. "So I see. I really do hope you're nice to them."

  "Don't you have an appointment or something? A patient who needs you?" Caitlyn was a traveling nurse specializing in hospice care. She had helped me take care of Moses during the last years of his fight.

  "You need me, Mercy."

  "Truly girl, I don't."

  "I promised Moses that I would take care of you. He made me promise that I would t
reat you like a second mother." Damn Moses. If he wasn't already dead, I would have considered murdering him. He had developed a deep affection for Caitlyn, and even said that if he'd had a daughter, he wished it could have been her. I had resented him for saying that. We had a daughter.

  I glanced at Caitlyn's plump body. I felt scrawny beside her. For most of my life, I had been the tall and skinny one. That'd been one reason I'd felt like an outsider in my own family. They had all been short and round. Then there was that other reason. The bullshit color thing. I was the world's lightest-skinned black woman.

  Caitlyn remained silent while I was lost in my thoughts. With a troubled look on her face, she pushed the nearly full cup of coffee away and puckered her lips. I glanced at the coffee then back at her face. Her jaw tensed as if she was preparing for some harsh words. She better not waste my shit. That would seriously piss me off.

  "Mercy, you need friends."

  "I'm well enough alone."

  "But are you happy?"

  Tapping the table, I said, "I will be once you leave."

  She sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair. "I think you're going to like your new roommates."

  "Tenants."

  "You need laughter, fun, maybe even do some gossiping, or whatever. It would be better than sitting here in this musty place doing nothing. Yeah, they'll provide you with exactly what you need."

  "That's true. I definitely need their money."

  "And their companionship," she said.

  "Finish your coffee and leave."

  She was used to me by now. Winking at me, she smiled. She lifted the mug and took several small sips until she had nearly finished the coffee. When she placed the mug down, it struck the table so hard it nicked the wood. I narrowed my eyes and glared at her. She wiped her hand over the mark as if erasing the damage, stood and stepped towards me. Abruptly, she bent down and pulled me into an embrace. I pushed her away.

  Caitlyn sniffed the air and then looked at me with concern. "When was the last time you showered?"

  "Get out, Caitlyn!" Widening my eyes, I blushed from embarrassment. I knew I'd reached a new low, but I didn't need this broad to point it out.