”Into the mercy seat I climb
My head is shaved, my head is wired
And like a moth that tries
To enter the bright eye
I go shuffling out of life
Just to hide in death awhile
And, anyway, I never lied
“And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
And in a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this weighing of the truth
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And, anyway, I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die.”
-- The Mercy Seat, Songwriters: Nicholas Edward Cave / Mick Harvey
The year is 1943, as a bright red 1941 International Harvester drives through Louisiana with a chair the likes of which the driver’s never before set eyes on inside the trailer of this truck. Lane, a prison trusty, knows what it is, and where he’s headed, on this dusty, hot road.
This story unfolds slowly, as slowly as these heat-filled, dusty days seem to last, but there is a scheduled execution to be held, soon. An eighteen-year old young man, Willie Jones, is scheduled to die for the act of raping a young white woman. Found by the girl’s father, despite protests that they were in love, the act consensual, Willie Jones is arrested, tried, found guilty, and has been sentenced. He sits in his jail cell waiting for the scheduled date of his execution.
As Willie waits, so do the various characters that make up this town, and whose thoughts we are privy to as time passes. The prosecuting attorney, Polly, dwells on his role in this case, remains unsure of Jones’s guilt. Polly’s wife, Nell, Father Hannigan, the town priest, whose thoughts also dwell on the imminent enactment of this death sentence. Willie’s father, Frank, whose heart is set on delivering a headstone to the burial site, so that his son’s final resting place is recognized. And there is Ora, who just recognizes everything that is intrinsically wrong with this system of “justice,” but is also, at the same time, consumed with worry over their son who is fighting overseas, while Ora’s husband struggles to reveal the secret he carries with him.
”She turns on the fan and sits on the bed in the semidarkness, the only source of illumination the dim light from the hallways. She puts her head into her hands, listening to the fan’s hum as she stares at her bare feet against the blue-and-white crochet of the rug. There is a stain by her big toe: coffee, from a breakfast in bed years and years ago when the bedroom was still theirs. At the memory, her heart gives an unexpected lurch. Her boys, she thinks, her boys. She lies down and curls onto her side, her head on Tobe’s pillow. She breathes in deeply, as she always does, and notices, with a pang, that his smell is fading.”
As Willie sits in his cell in the jail in New Iberia, he closes his eyes and sees his mother in the kitchen, bringing dinner to the table where his father waits, the dog patiently wandering in the yard. The edge of the bayou, a willow tree with branches gently bending over the water. He pictures the fire in the hearth of another time, the dog curled up beside his father’s feet.
”He sees his life with every bite. He swallows his memories whole.”
Race, racism, justice and injustice, seen, experienced, endured, during the Jim Crow era South, we follow how this event affects this town, and these people. The stories shared by these individuals give us a more intimate look at the changes that ensue in both these people and this town, and the sorrow and the stories that remain.
There is a lingering sense of tenderness to this story that is filled with compassion, despite the brutality of the topic or the central story, a reverence for life shared with us through Elizabeth Winthrop’s lovely prose. Although this takes place in an era that is in the past, discrimination and intolerance still remain, making this a haunting and timely read.
Pub Date: 08 May 2018
Many thanks for the ARC provided by Grove Atlantic