SCARS OF MERCY

Opening Scene

Willow Creek, Iowa 1885

Everett Behr shot a scowl of self-loathing at his reflection in the hand mirror. If it weren’t for having to shave, he might well refuse to own a mirror. With cautious, deliberate strokes, he drew the razor around the scars along his jaw line on the right side of his face. He’d hoped a thick crop of whiskers would hide the scars. He couldn’t abide the stares, however sympathetic. They only served to remind him the price of his arrogance would be forever branded across his face. Much to his frustration, his beard grew in patches, refusing to sprout in the scarred areas he most wanted to hide. The fragments of whiskers popping out in an irregular, crazy quilt pattern surrounded the scars instead of covering them, as if framing the ugliness for display.

He wiped the last of the shaving soap from his face just as the bell on the little church at the end of the street began calling the people of Willow Creek to worship. Everett didn’t hurry. Attending church services meant doing so on his terms. Accepting his scars was one thing, and he wanted to know more about the God who’d allowed them. He just didn’t relish mingling with people before or after the service.

He turned the mirror glass-side down on the washstand and released an involuntary huff. With practiced fingers, he tied his cravat and combed his hair—grateful he could perform those duties by feel rather than by sight.

By the time the church bell stopped clanging, Everett knew most the congregation had entered the building and taken their seats. With curious eyes now safely confined within the walls of the church, Everett picked up his Bible and prepared to walk to the church and slip in unnoticed.

He descended the recently completed back steps that afforded him a private entrance to the living quarters over the mercantile his father owned. In the past several months he’d memorized every alley and wooded path so he could avoid walking down the town boardwalk whenever possible.

A squirrel chattered from a nearby tree, scolding Everett for disturbing his breakfast. Digging into his pocket, Everett withdrew a few peanuts and held them aloft. “Here’s your treat, little buddy.” He tossed the peanuts at the base of the tree from which the squirrel regarded him, now with less animosity. But the little creature switched his bushy tail back and forth like the lash of a buggy whip and refused to come closer until Everett backed off.

“All right, I don’t blame you. Nobody else wants to come near me, either.” A twinge of guilt over his self-pity pricked him. He should be grateful to be alive.