Page 24 of This is Why We Lied

His need was the bottomless hole in the quicksand.

She said, “There’s no use in having this conversation. My mind is made up.”

“Seriously? You’re not even gonna talk about it? You’re just gonna fuck over your own child?”

“It’s not me that’s gonna fuck him over, Dave!” Mercy didn’t care if guests could hear her. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“Me? What the hell am I gonna do?”

“You’re gonna take his money.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’ve seen what you do when you’ve got a little cash in your pocket. You couldn’t even hold on to that thousand bucks Papa gave you for more than a day.”

“I told you I bought materials!”

“Who’s bullshitting now?” Mercy asked. “You’re never gonna be happy with a million dollars. You’re gonna waste it on cars and football games and parties and buying rounds at the bar and being the big man around town and none of that’s gonna change your life. It’s not gonna make you a better person. It won’t erase what happened to you when you were little. And you’re gonna want more because that’s what you do, Dave. You take and you take and you don’t give a shit that it leaves a person empty.”

“That’s a fucking nasty thing to say.” He shook his head as he started to walk away, but then he circled back, demanding, “You tell me a time I raised a hand to that boy.”

“You don’t have to hit him. You just wear him down. You can’t help it. It’s who you are. You’re still trying to do it to that poor man in cottage ten. All your life, you make everybody feel so goddam little cause that’s the only way you can make yourself feel big.”

“You shut your fucking mouth.” His hands snaked out, clamping around her throat. Her back was jammed against the tree. The breath was knocked out of her chest. This was what happened when Mercy’s pity ran out. Dave found other ways to make her care.

“You listen to me, you goddam bitch.”

Mercy had learned long ago not to leave marks on his face or hands. She clawed at his chest, digging her fingernails into the flesh, desperate for release.

“You listening?” He tightened his grip. “You think you’re so goddam smart? You got me all figured out?”

Mercy’s feet kicked out. She saw literal stars.

Dave said, “You need to think about who gets Jon’s proxy if you die. How’re you gonna stop the sale going through lying dead in your grave?”

Mercy’s lungs started to shake. His angry, bloated face was swimming in front of her eyes. She was going to lose consciousness. Maybe die. For just a moment, she wanted to. It would be so easy to give in this final time. To let Dave have his money. To let Jon ruin his life. To let Fish find his way off the mountain. Papa and Bitty would be relieved. Delilah would be ecstatic. No one would miss Mercy. There wouldn’t even be a faded photo on the family wall.

“Fucking bitch.” Dave loosened his grip before she passed out. The look of disgust on his face said it all. He was already blaming Mercy for making it get this bad. “I ain’t never stole from nobody I love. Never. And fuck you for saying that.”

Mercy sank to the ground as he stomped through the forest. She listened to his angry rantings, waiting for them to fade away before she dared move again. She touched underneath her eyes, but she felt no tears. She leaned her head back against the tree. Looked up at the trees. Sunlight strobed through the leaves.

There were times early on when Dave would apologize for hurting her. Then he’d transitioned into his half-ass apology stage, where he mouthed the words, yet somehow ended up blameless. Now, he was unwavering in his confidence that it was Mercy who brought out the meanness in him. Mr. Laid-Back Dave. Mr. Easy-Going Dave. Mr. Life-of-the-Party Dave. No one realized that the Dave they saw was the show. The real Dave, the true Dave, was the one who’d just tried to strangle the life out of her.

And the real Mercy was the one who’d wanted him to.

She touched her neck, checking for tender spots. That was definitely going to bruise. Excuses flooded her brain. Maybe a horse-roping accident. Fell on the handlebars of a bike. Slipped getting out of a canoe. Got caught up in fishing line. There were dozens of explanations at her fingertips. All she had to do was look in the mirror tomorrow morning and pick the one that matched the angry blue marks.

Mercy struggled to get to her feet. She coughed into her hand. Blood dotted her palm. Dave had really done a number on her. She picked her way back to the path, playing a sort of game where she thought back through all of the times he’d hurt her. There were countless slaps and punches. Mostly he was quick about it. He’d strike out, then retreat. Rarely, he would keep on her like a boxer refusing to hear the bell. There had only been two times he’d choked her completely out, both within a month of each other, both because of the divorce.

She’d caught Dave cheating on her. Then cheating on her again. Then cheating on her again, because the thing with Dave was, he took getting away with something once as permission to do it more. Looking back, Mercy didn’t even believe that he was in love with any of the women. Or even attracted to them. Some were way older. Some were out of shape or had half a dozen kids or were incredibly unpleasant people. One wrecked his truck. The truck that Bitty had paid for. One stole from him. Another left him holding a bag of weed when the cops knocked on the door of his trailer.

What Dave liked about cheating wasn’t the sex. God knew his pecker was hit or miss. What he loved was the act of cheating. Skulking around. Texting secret messages into his burner phone. Swiping through dating apps. Lying about where he was going, when he would be back, who he was with. Knowing that Mercy would be humiliated. Knowing the women he’d roped in were dumb enough to think Dave would leave Mercy and marry them. Knowing that he could fuck around and let everybody find out.

Knowing that Mercy would still take him back.

Sure, she always made him work for it, but Dave got off on that part, too. Pretending that he had changed. Crying his crocodile tears. The drama of all the late-night calls. The constant texting. Showing up with flowers and a romantic playlist and a poem he’d written on the back of a bar napkin. Begging and pleading and scraping and bowing and cooking and cleaning and showing a sudden interest in parenting Jon and being saccharine sweet until Mercy took him back.

Then a month later, beating the shit out of her for dropping her keys too loudly on the kitchen table.

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