The Turn of the Screw:
Jean Thompson's “Mercy” from Who Do You Love
First written in 2007
A cop with a dog named Beowulf has to be a pretty good guy. Smart, and at least fairly well read. And thoughtful. Beowulf, that heroic Dane of legend and literature, crossed the sea to save Hrothgar’s people, who were at the mercy of Grendel at the time. A foreshadowing?
Well, not exactly, but as it turns out, Quinn, the cop in Jean Thompson’s “Mercy,” is cool. Divorced with no children, he rides the graveyard shift and likes it. He deals with shoplifters, thugs, druggies, and misfits practically every night. He is efficient, dispensing justice with mercy. He, like the epic hero Beowulf (but unlike Quinn’s dog Beowulf, whom Quinn calls “a complete moron” and “a big fat slob”), wants to save people (35). But it takes more than a cool, merciful cop to make a story work. An inquiry into the workings of this story proves interesting.
One night, very late, Quinn is dispatched to the house of Bonnie Livengood and her son Gary, who are involved in a fracas which seems ready to turn violent. The son, around sixteen, has broken furniture and screamed “FUCKING BITCH!” at his mother (40). Quinn separates them, talks to each one, calms them down. Bonnie ends up falling asleep in his cruiser as they talk, and when she awakens five or ten minutes later, she simply opens the car door and goes back into her house. Quinn waits in the drive to see if she’ll return to finish their conversation, but she does not. An inconclusive, temporary fix, he feels. The reader feels a mixture of pity and disdain for Bonnie. She seems to be a totally ineffective mother, but who would wish Gary on anyone?
Interesting, to a point, but not gripping, and we’re twelve pages into a thirty-four page story. Something had better start happening soon. And it does. An entire season passes in the next paragraph, and before the end of the paragraph comes an accident call that Quinn answers. A black Camaro has ended up sideways in a ditch, the occupants two white male juveniles, intoxicated. The reader knows before Quinn that this car belonged to Bonnie Livengood’s son Gary. Quinn doesn’t remember the car, but does remember the name when he sees it on the report he’s filling out back at the station. The boy has died. Talking about the accident to a colleague, Quinn remembers how he had written the boy off, how “he’d instantly thought of him as doomed, even expendable,” and that memory shames him (49).
Perhaps for some writers this would be the end of the story. Fifteen pages about a good cop who did something he now considers bad—though at the time the reader felt about Gary the same thing that Quinn felt. A morality tale, of sorts. But this would have been too easy for Ms. Thompson, who pushes her stories for all they’re worth. So she has Quinn stop by Bonnie’s workplace to offer his condolences. Bonnie finally recognizes him and she tells Sonny, her boss, that she’s taking the rest of the day off, walking out of the room with Quinn.
What now? They go to a restaurant, have a bite as they try to talk to each other, but Bonnie—who was surely never bonny and was surely not livengood—is contentious, pretty much finding fault with Quinn for everything. He’s too sad, too apologetic, she tells him. Her moods are mercurial and Quinn doesn’t know how to react. He tries one thing but it pisses her off. He tries the opposite but she rejects that approach, too. Finally he offers to drive her back to work, but she’s not going back to work. She wants to go home, and on the way she cries, and then she laughs. Once home, she shows him her son’s room, a fairly typical room, he thinks. It’s there that she comes on to him, and he is receptive. They move to Bonnie’s bedroom where they make love.
When they awaken, they talk. It’s nice. Bonnie’s friendly, feeling good. But Quinn has to go home to let Beowulf out of the house before he reports to work for the night. He promises to call her. Tomorrow. Bonnie’s response is “You better. Now go take care of that dog” (63).
So Quinn, on a mission of mercy, one might say, gets laid by an attractive younger woman, and his “body body felt light and dispersed, like the mild air” (64). He feels as giddy as a school boy—as does the reader for him—but then he begins to worry: “Maybe they should not have done what they’d done. . . Women got funny about such things. . . brooded, felt guilty, got mad at themselves and then at you” (64). He doesn’t even give himself time to enjoy this small moment of happiness.
Of course he calls the next day, but she doesn’t answer. That’s fine, but when he cannot get her to answer the phone for the next week he starts driving by her house, which remains dark. He worries. Finally he decides to stop by R and K Vacuum, where she does the bookkeeping. They chat for a minute before coming to the center of the matter, Quinn saying that Bonnie could have told him that she and Sonny, the owner of the store, had something going. Irritated by Quinn’s manner and questions, Bonnie says, “Christ. I felt sorry for you. You and your sad-sack face and your stupid badge. It was a mercy fuck, OK?” (68).
These four little sentences, especially the last, pack a heavyweight punch, and Quinn bails out. Bonnie tries to apologize, but everyone—both Quinn and the reader—knows that she meant exactly what she said. Those last six words have become a sonic boom, shaking the core of the earth and the soul of the character.
And now we understand why Jean Thompson did not stop her story after twelve pages. We had just gotten hooked into the intricate weaving of a much greater story, and Thompson knew when she should not, could not quit.
Works Cited:
Thompson, Jean. Who Do You Love. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999.