Stillwater

by Mary Jo Hazard

  Praise for

  STILLWATER

  “A deeply moving coming-of-age novel about family secrets, mental health, and the importance of girlhood friendships.”

  Teri Case, award-winning author

  “When I first read Stillwater, Mary Jo Hazard’s inaugural novel, I was hypnotized by her compelling prose and immersed in the mysteries of a small town that felt eerily all too familiar. You will speed through this gem and ask for more when the last page is consumed. Hazard has done a masterful job!”

  Dr. H, M.D., associate professor of clinical medicine at UCLA, and TV personality

  “In this bittersweet coming-of-age story, Mary Jo Hazard cracks open issues of divorce, suicide, and mental health in a time when they were taboo topics. Through rich historical details and the feisty and loveable trio of Grace, Maggie, and Louanne, Hazard shows us the power of friendship and takes us into a world where the colorful characters aren’t always who they seem.”

  Lisa Manterfield, award-winning author of The Smallest Thing

  STILLWATER

  www.mascotbooks.com

  Stillwater

  ©2020 Mary Jo Hazard. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, or photocopying, recording or otherwise without the permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information, please contact:

  Mascot Books

  620 Herndon Parkway #320

  Herndon, VA 20170

  info@mascotbooks.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68401-929-8

  For my father

  Stillwater

  runs deep...

  “Be aware of the danger—

  but recognize the opportunity.”

  John F. Kennedy

  CHAPTER 1

  When I was twelve years old, a madman tried to kill me. I lost someone special that summer—and my innocence too.

  The summer of 1956 started with a bang. Maggie and I were taking our English final when a line of severe thunderstorms rolled through the Hudson River Valley.

  “Oh my God,” I mouthed to Maggie as a sharp crack of thunder made the whole class jump.

  “Maybe Sister will call off the test,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.

  Maybe my room will clean itself so I won’t have to.

  Huge lightning bolts flashed close to the school, and a branch on the maple tree in the playground crashed to the pavement. Most of the class leaped out of their seats and ran over to the windows. But not Maggie and me.

  “No one gave you permission to get up,” Sister John the Baptist yelled over the noise of the storm. “Get back in your seats this minute, before I flunk the lot of you.” She gave a disgusted snort and looked down at the papers she was grading.

  Sister J the B could put a damper on anything—even a thunderstorm.

  I finished the test, double-checked my answers, and looked out the window. The storm had really picked up.

  “What’re we going to do?” Maggie asked after we handed in our papers. “We can’t wait outside at the bus stop. Seriously, lightning freaks me out.”

  It definitely freaked me out because we had a whole hour to kill before the Stillwater bus came. Usually when that happened, we’d walk over to Tiny’s Diner and waste an hour having french fries and cherry cokes, but the storm was getting worse, and going to the diner seemed like a bad idea.

  “Let’s just wait here,” I said, motioning toward the gym.

  “Good idea,” Maggie said.

  We ducked into the gym and watched the walkers from the window. Most of them were dressed for the weather. They had on yellow slickers and brown rubbers, and they gripped their umbrellas like Mary Poppins waiting for liftoff.

  “How come we didn’t get the memo it was going to storm?” Maggie said, raising her eyebrows and making a weird face. “We didn’t even bring jackets—let alone bumbershoots.”

  The funniest teacher in the school, Sister Mary Perdita, flew past, holding her big black umbrella with both hands, veil flapping up and down, rosary beads beating against her black woolen skirt. I waved, and she nodded.

  Mr. Kutter, the janitor, walked up behind us with his floor polisher and a bucket of paste wax. “Ain’t that nun a sight?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “Good thing you girls ain’t out there. Lightning’s fierce.” He shook his head and sniffed. “Old friend of mine got struck by lightning a ways back. Damn fool took cover under a tree and got fried—didn’t even have time to bend over and kiss his you-know-what goodbye.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows and looked at me.

  “My father was killed in an accident,” I said, giving Maggie my “It’s okay to talk about death” look. “He was at work.”

  “Sorry to hear that, little lady,” Mr. Kutter said. “What kind of accident?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, feeling embarrassed. My mother told me he died in an accident on the loading dock, but she kept the details to herself—almost like she was hiding something. I’d asked her so many times, but she’d tear up and only say, “He’s in a better place, Grace, and he’s happy.”

  Mr. Kutter swept his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. His hair was dark and greasy, and it curled over his collar. My grandfather would have said that he looked like he was down on his luck. My mother would have said he looked like ten cents worth of God-help-us.

  The janitor had thick eyebrows, and he squinted when he looked at you—the way people did when they needed glasses—and he had a weird habit of running the tip of his tongue over his bushy mustache. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned, and his undershirt had a couple of small holes in the front. His stomach rolled over his snakeskin belt when he bent down to put some wax on the floor. A black comb—with several missing teeth—stuck out of his back pocket, and his work boots were caked with mud.

  “I hope nobody gets killed this afternoon,” Maggie said, peering out the window. “Mr. Kutter, everyone’s gone, even Sister Mary Perdita. Can Grace and I wait here until the bus comes? There’s so much lightning.”

  “Sure,” he said, still staring at me. “Gonna take me that long to polish the floor.”

  His eyes moved slowly down my body and back up to my face. A shiver ran down my spine; I tensed my shoulders and looked away. Mr. Johnny, our old janitor, was never creepy like that. I reached into my book bag for my library book, climbed up a few rows of the old wooden bleachers, and sat down with my book bag between my feet.

  I wished Mr. Johnny hadn’t had a heart attack over Christmas break. He’d been at Saint Mark’s School since I was a kindergartner, but when he got sick, the doctor made him retire. Mr. Kutter was Mr. Johnny’s replacement, and I didn’t know him very well.

  Mr. Kutter put some of the Johnson paste wax on the floor and plugged the polisher into the wall. I covered my nose with one hand and tried not to breathe in the smell. The janitor noticed and smirked. I looked down at my book and tried to concentrate.

  A flash of lightning lit up the auditorium, followed by a deep clap of thunder. The wind picked up, and the rain pelted down and drummed on the roof.

  “Listen to that rain,” Maggie said.

  I looked out the window. “That’s not just rain; it’s hailing.”

  “We’re going to be stuck here all night,” Maggie yelled over the noise of the storm and the floor polisher. “The storm’s getting worse.”

  “I wish it would stop,” I yelled back. “The wax sti
nks, and it’s so hot in here.”

  “Hey,” Mr. Kutter said, turning the polisher off. “You girls hot?”

  “I’m boiling,” Maggie said, fanning herself. “My uniform’s sticking to me.”

  “Mine too,” I said, pushing my knee socks down.

  Mr. Kutter slapped himself on the forehead. “The furnace, dammit! Forgot to shut it off.”

  “Why is the furnace on, Mr. Kutter?” I said, wrinkling my brow. “It’s summer.”

  “The heater’s brand new,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “I had to run a cycle to make sure it works.”

  “You better shut it off,” Maggie said. “If it gets any hotter you might burn the school down.”

  “That ain’t a problem.” Mr. Kutter started across the gym toward the basement door and then turned back toward us.

  “You girls ever see a furnace?” His tongue slid slowly over his top lip, and he rested his hands on his belt buckle. “This one’s really big. Really big.”

  “No, never seen a furnace,” Maggie said, shaking her head.

  “Me neither, but that’s okay,” I said, rolling my eyes. “We’re good.”

  “No, you girls gotta see this thing. You know where it is—in the basement right next to your lunchroom.”

  Maggie gave me a look, and I knew that we were both thinking the same thing. Why would anyone in her right mind want to see a furnace?

  “You got time. Your bus ain’t coming for a half hour.” The janitor looked at his watch. “And we got ourselves a problem.” Narrowing his eyes, he continued. “I can’t leave you two in the gym alone. You gotta come with me.”

  Before I could say, “I don’t want to, I’ll wait here,” the library book slid off my lap and crashed through the bleachers onto the floor.

  “Darn it,” I said, getting up.

  “Whoops,” Mr. Kutter said, crawling under the bleachers. “I’ll get it, little lady.”

  Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  I picked up my book bag, clambered down from the bleachers, and walked over to him.

  “Leave your stuff here while we go downstairs,” he said, handing the book to me. “Nobody’s in the school but us.”

  “Thanks,” I said, glancing at Maggie.

  She shrugged. We were good Catholic schoolgirls, trained to obey adults and never, ever question authority figures. We left our things on the bottom bleacher and followed Mr. Kutter down the steep metal steps into the basement.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mr. Kutter hit the light switch in the hall and stopped outside the boiler room. He motioned for us to go in ahead of him. As soon as I stepped into the room, the smell of rotten eggs hit me.

  “Oh my God, this place stinks,” Maggie said, covering her mouth. “I can hardly breathe.”

  “Maggie’s right,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “Mr. Kutter, can you turn the furnace off fast so we can get out of here?”

  “You little girlies hold your horses.”

  The only light in the room came from one dim bulb that was hanging from a frayed cord taped to a pipe on the ceiling. The janitor stayed behind us, blocking the doorway.

  I blinked a few times until my eyes got accustomed to the weak light. Old rags were piled up in the far corner, and cleaning supplies lined the wooden shelves on the back wall. Cigarette butts littered the filthy floor. Several cartons of Pall Malls, the kind my mother smoked, were piled in the dirty sink next to an empty bottle of whiskey, and a box of Cut-Rite wax paper sat on the counter next to a stack of Stag magazines.

  “That’s her,” Mr. Kutter said, pushing past us and pointing at the metal tank in the middle of the room. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he reached over and touched the furnace, tapping it with the tips of his dirty fingers. “Cost a lot of money. She heats up like you know what.”

  Maggie poked me in the ribs. “Okay, Mr. Kutter. We see it, but it stinks really bad, and I’m suffocating. Can we go upstairs now?” Her voice was hopeful, as if she really thought the janitor would let us leave.

  He ignored her and unbolted the furnace door. Hot air shot into the small space, driving Maggie and me back against the wall. The flames hissed and flared up; weird shadows wove their way up and down the walls and swirled slowly across the ceiling. Maybe this was what Sister Christina had meant when she said that our class smelled like sin, and if we didn’t clean up our act, we were going to be punished in hell for all eternity.

  Mr. Kutter’s dark eyes looked different in the firelight. He flicked his tongue slowly over his top lip and rested both hands on his belt buckle. Dark shadows moved over his face, and his breathing quickened. There was something very strange and frightening about him. I wanted to look away, but I was afraid to. My back felt like it was crawling with spiders. In spite of the heat, I felt cold, and I pressed myself against the wall by the furnace, trying to disappear.

  “Not something you see every day.” Mr. Kutter furrowed his eyebrows and laughed an awful laugh. “Right, little girlies?” He slammed the furnace door.

  The sound reverberated through the small space. I covered my ears and tried to think of a furnace compliment. I didn’t know why, but something told me we had to get out of there fast.

  Maggie elbowed her way past me; I lost my balance, and my hand hit the hot metal furnace. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I said, stuffing my hand in my mouth. “That thing is really hot.”

  “Oh, Grace, I didn’t…”

  “Little girls. You gotta watch yourselves down here,” Mr. Kutter said slowly in a voice so low I could barely hear him, one far too close to me.

  He put his arm around me, squeezed me up against him, and whispered in my ear, “There’s some nice, soft butter in the lunchroom. I could rub it all over that burn of yours—make it stop hurting real quick.”

  Mr. Kutter’s breath smelled so bad I could hardly stand it. My skin crawled. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I jerked away from him. My first impulse was to scream, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good—nobody was around to hear me.

  “No, no. It’s okay,” I said, trying to fight down the terror rising in my chest. “I’ll fix it when I get home.”

  A monstrous clap of thunder shook the old building almost off its foundation, and the bulb went out, plunging the room into darkness—the only light was the eerie red glow from the furnace. Another clap of thunder rocked the school, Mr. Kutter’s laugh echoed through the room, and the lights flickered enough for me to see the way out.

  Holy Mary, mother of God, get me out of here, and I’ll never sin again!

  “Hurry, Maggie,” I gasped, running out of the room and up the basement steps.

  Mr. Kutter’s deep voice followed us up the stairs. “You girls, wait…”

  We snatched our book bags off the bleachers. My library book fell, and I didn’t stop to pick it up. Maggie beat me to the door but not by much. Saint Mark’s Church, with its tall gray steeple, towered over us, and the bell tolled three times. The worst of the storm was over; the fresh air and drizzle felt good on my face. I ran as fast as I could across the slippery church parking lot to the bus stop.

  “What the heck was that about?” Maggie said, panting. Rain dripped down her brown bangs into her face. She bent over, trying to catch her breath, and wiped the water from her eyes. “We shouldn’t have gone down there. Mr. Kutter is such a creep.”

  “He said we had to,” I reminded her, gingerly touching the blister on my palm. “But I’m never going anywhere near him again.”

  “Don’t tell anybody—especially your mother,” Maggie said, grabbing my shoulders and sticking her face an inch away from mine. “Listen, Grace, we’ll get in big trouble if anyone finds out, especially my father. They’ll think we did something to make Mr. Kutter act like that.”

  CHAPTER 3

  After dinner that night, I took a long shower and scrubbed myself twice with Ivory soap, but my skin still smelled like rotten eggs. My mother’s Chanel No. 5 was on the counter, so I squirted myself wit
h it several times before I put on my pajamas, but that rotten-egg smell stayed in my nose. I couldn’t get rid of it.

  I lay down on my bed and thumbed through my religion textbook while my mother put my younger brother to bed. My father used to call her his wild Irish rose. Back then, her long brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders, her eyes were dark blue, and her complexion was the same creamy color as the strand of pearls my father had given her on their wedding day. After he died, she cut her hair into a short bob and tucked the pearls in her top dresser drawer under her nighties. She never wore them again.

  My grandfather, Doc, lived in the apartment below us. He wasn’t a doctor—he was a retired accountant—but people called him Doc because he was wise and made everyone feel better. I don’t know what Denny and I would’ve done if he hadn’t been there after my father died. Doc played with us, read to us, and made us bread-and-butter sandwiches with sugar on top. He taught us how to play poker, and sometimes he let us win. He blew perfect smoke rings, taught us right from wrong, and never laughed at our mistakes. He loved to go to Yankees games in New York City with his friend Sulley, and that’s why he wasn’t home tonight.

  My mother walked into my room and sniffed a few times. “Did you use my perfume, Grace?”

  “What?” I answered, pretending I didn’t hear her.

  “Yes, you did,” she said, kissing me on top of the head. “I told you before; don’t use it unless you ask me. Chanel No. 5 costs a lot of money.”

  “Sorry.”

  She lay down on my bed beside me, closed her eyes, and folded her hands on her chest. “Denny’s finally asleep,” she said, “and I’m exhausted.”

  Denny was my eight-year-old brother. He had the longest bedtime routine in the history of the world, and it didn’t help that my mother babied him.

  “I thought you were going to quiz me for my religion test,” I said, thinking she had all the time in the world for Denny, but what about me?