Stillwater

by Mary Jo Hazard

  “Don’t get upset, Grace,” she said, picking up my religion book. “Where should I start?”

  “Last chapter summary—morality.”

  “Hmm, pretty heavy stuff,” she said, leafing through the pages. “Okay, what is morality?”

  “Morality is—wait. I know it,” I said, trying to picture the paragraph in my mind—I was a visual learner.

  “Take your time; think about it,” my mother said, checking out her nail polish.

  “Morality is, um…it’s the distinction between right and wrong,” I said, finally seeing it clearly. “It’s the determination of what should be done and what shouldn’t be.”

  “What else? What does it deal with?”

  “What does it deal with?” I thought some more. “Morality deals with behaviors as well as motives.”

  My mother’s eyes zeroed in on the bandage on my hand. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said, turning my hand over.

  “Well you did something. That’s a big Band-Aid.”

  “It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I burned it on the furnace at school, but don’t worry. I popped the blister with a needle and put Unguentine on it.”

  “The furnace in the school basement, Grace?” My mother sat up. “What on earth were you doing down there?”

  I explained how Mr. Kutter had wanted us to see his new furnace and watched her expression change—from happy-let-me-help-you-with-your-homework mom to why-does-this-kid-always-do-this mom.

  “He took you and Maggie down to the basement?” She threw her hands up in the air and mumbled, “Dear Lord.”

  “We weren’t there that long.” My mother was a worrier, and since she was already having a cow, there was no way I was going to tell her how weird Mr. Kutter acted. Maggie was so, so right; I shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Mom,” I said, trying my best to make her understand, “Mr. Kutter said he was responsible for us, and he couldn’t leave us in the gym alone.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Grace.” Mom sighed. “You’re learning about motives. Bad things could have happened.”

  She pulled the Band-Aid half off of my hand so she could see my blister. “It doesn’t look infected.”

  “Ow! That hurts,” I said, pulling my hand back.

  “What did Maggie’s mother say?”

  “Nothing,” I said, gently smoothing the Band-Aid over my hand. “Maggie didn’t tell her.”

  “Well, Grace, she has to know,” she said, glaring at me. “And you girls should know better than to go down to the basement with the janitor.”

  My mother was the one who always told me to obey my elders, and now she was telling me not to?

  She glanced at the door. “Listen for your brother in case he wakes up. I’m going over to talk to Ruth.”

  “Mom! Don’t tell Maggie’s mother. My burn doesn’t hurt,” I begged, grabbing her arm. There’s no reason—”

  “Grace, stop it,” my mother said, jerking her arm away and walking right out of the room.

  I sank back on the bed. Maggie was going to be so mad—she was going to murder me. I closed my eyes and thought about how I could get out of this.

  Fifteen long minutes later, the phone rang. I shot out of bed and ran into the living room to answer it before Denny woke up.

  “I can’t believe you told your mother,” Maggie’s voice whispered over the phone.

  “Maggs, I’m—”

  “Shut up. I’ve got to talk fast. Mom just walked your mother to the car. Grace, they called Sister John the Baptist. She wants to see us in the morning. We’re in big trouble. Why—”

  The phone went dead.

  CHAPTER 4

  I dragged myself back to the bedroom and fell face-first on my bed. What the heck was wrong with my mother? So what if Mr. Kutter wanted to show us his stupid furnace—it was new, and he wanted to show it off. What difference did it make? Okay, I didn’t like it when Mr. Kutter put his arm around me, but he wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t gotten hurt. My mother hadn’t even known about that, and she’d flipped out. I never should have told her anything.

  I wished Doc was home instead of in New York watching the Yankees. He never went nuts like my mother; he listened.

  I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head. In my mind, I started singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” as loud as I could to drown out my thoughts. At around seventy-five bottles, my mother walked into my room.

  “Grace, are you awake?”

  “Yes,” I said, gritting my teeth. I sat up and pulled my grandmother’s old quilt around my shoulders. My mother brushed my hair back with her fingers and sat down beside me. I pulled away and sank back into the soft pillows.

  “There’s no reason to be so upset,” my mother said in her nice voice. “Sister John the Baptist told me she’d take care of everything tomorrow.”

  My mother didn’t believe that Sister John the Baptist was a mean person. Every kid in the school, including me, was afraid of her, and for good reason. For example, last month some boys in my class had started calling me “Subs.” Even Allen Montgomery—a boy who rode on my bus, liked me, and wanted desperately to copy my math homework—called me that.

  Finally, I got fed up. The next time Allen asked me if he could copy my homework, I said maybe—if he gave me two packs of M&M’s and told me what “Subs” meant. He had a D in math, and if he missed another assignment, he’d get an F, so it didn’t take him more than a minute to pull out two packs of peanut M&M’s and mumble, “It means ‘Stuck-up Bryant stinks.’”

  Maggie came over to my house after school, and we filled two of my brother’s squirt guns with equal parts Chanel No. 5 and water.

  The next day was First Friday, and the whole school had to go to Mass. The nuns said that if you were a Catholic and made nine First Fridays in a row, you automatically went to heaven when you died. Personally, I didn’t believe it, but I’d made them about five times, so I had all my bases covered just in case.

  We lined up in rows by class in the schoolyard and waited for the signal from Sister John the Baptist to walk over to the church. Bobby Farrell pointed at me and smirked. “How’s it going, Subs?” Maggie and I pulled the squirt guns out of our blazer pockets and let him have it.

  “See who stinks now, Farrell,” I said, squirting away. “How do you like it?”

  Everyone laughed except Sister John the Baptist and Bobby Farrell, who screamed like a girl. Sister John the Baptist said we could’ve blinded him with the perfume, and if we ever brought squirt guns to school again, we’d be expelled. She made us sit in the back of her class for five days and copy the entire dictionary.

  The only kid in the whole school Sister John the Baptist liked was Joanne Connolly, and that was because her older brother had stepped into a nest of copperhead snakes when he was in basic training camp for the marines in South Carolina.

  Sister had all the kids in school pray for him because everyone knew kids’ prayers meant more than adults’ prayers because kids were innocent. In spite of the innocent prayers, he died, but Joanne’s family made a big donation to the school in his name. And just like that, Joanne was Sister John the Baptist’s pet.

  “Mom, I knew Sister would blame us,” I said, trying to make her see. “Remember those thunderstorms this afternoon? It rained really hard. The thunder and the lightning were awful. We asked Mr. Kutter if we could wait inside for our bus. He let us because, and you might not believe this, lightning killed one of his friends a long time ago. He wanted us to be safe.”

  “I know you were frightened, but you should have asked Sister for help—not Mr. Kutter.”

  My mother always had perfect solutions for problems after they happened and expected me to know just what to do in the moment.

  “Grace, for the love of God, just tell her what you told me.”

  “Mom?” A picture of Sister John the Baptist popped into my mind, and I squi
rmed under the covers. I saw her in that long black habit squinting at me from behind her Heinrich Himmler glasses, her lips in a tight line, and the bristly hairs over them glistening with sweat. “Was she mad? She’s really mean sometimes.”

  “It’s angry, not mad—only dogs get mad. Why would Sister John the Baptist be angry?” Mom said. “She’s the school principal. Her job is to take care of the students and make sure they’re safe.” She yawned and looked at her watch. “Now go to sleep, Grace; it’s late.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Maggie and I paced back and forth in the schoolyard, waiting for the bell to ring. Ominous gray clouds filled the sky—a clear sign that more thunderstorms threatened. The wind blew my hair every which way, my shoes squished when I walked, and my stomach ached. I pictured Sister John the Baptist ordering, “Bring me the head of Grace Bryant,” and Mr. Kutter grinning as he handed it to her on a silver platter.

  Maggie kept repeating, “I don’t know why you told your mother. Sister is never going to understand what happened. We are in so much trouble. I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  I turned away, but I was worried too.

  We didn’t have long to wait. Sister John the Baptist called us into her office first thing. “Come in and close the door,” she said, glaring at us from behind her dark wooden desk covered with file folders, papers, and a three-foot-tall statue of Saint Joseph.

  We knew that look.

  “I hope you girls know what you did.”

  What?

  Sister banged a book on her desk, not once but twice. My library book—the one that I’d left in the gym yesterday. Her rosary beads rattled on her habit. I jumped and crossed my arms.

  “Did you know Mr. Kutter has a wife and six children and lives in the projects? The poor man could lose his job over your accusations.”

  I looked at Maggie.

  Accusations?

  She shook her head.

  Sister started talking louder and louder. Even though the door was closed, I’m sure the class across the hall heard every word she said. My head pounded, and I grabbed onto the edge of her desk.

  “How could you possibly accuse the man of something like that? I know what kind of girls you are,” she said, shaking her bony finger at us. “Stay away from Mr. Kutter. You understand me? Now get back to class. I’m disgusted with the pair of you. Grace, you’re going to hell just like your father.”

  I froze.

  She stood up and shouted. “I don’t care how bad a storm is—don’t you ever stay in the school waiting for your bus again. If you get struck by lightning, you have no one to blame but yourselves.”

  I bit my bottom lip and looked at Maggie.

  “I hope you’re happy,” she said, walking away.

  “Maggs,” I called after her. “Wait. We didn’t do anything.”

  But it didn’t matter. The rest of the week, the nuns ignored us, and it was obvious most of the kids knew we were in trouble. I pretended not to notice, but they whispered to each other and giggled when they passed me in the halls, but Mr. Kutter ignored us too, so it was okay.

  My mother asked me if Sister John the Baptist talked to us. I said yes, but I didn’t tell her what Sister said. Maggie kept quiet too. We didn’t want things getting any worse.

  CHAPTER 6

  I made it through the last week of school by thinking about the fun Maggie and I were going to have when our best friend, Louanne, got here. She’d moved away four years ago, but when she came back and stayed at her grandmother’s house every summer, it was like she’d never left. Doc used to call us the Maguire Sisters because the three of us were always together, but we called ourselves the three musketeers—one for all and all for one.

  Maggie was still mad at me, and she insisted she wasn’t going over to Louanne’s when I was there. She said that I got her in so much trouble with her father over Mr. Kutter that she never wanted to see me again. It didn’t matter how many times I said I was sorry—she just brushed me off.

  I’d set my portable clock radio for seven o’clock, but I shouldn’t have bothered because the doorbell rang a little after six o’clock and woke me up.

  “Maggie,” I heard Doc say. “What are you doing here this early?”

  “I’m meeting Grace,” Maggie said. “Isn’t she up?”

  “Let’s see,” my grandfather said, tapping on my bedroom door. “Grace, there’s an early bird out here looking for you. Are you awake?”

  “I am now,” I said, throwing on some clothes.

  Doc gave me a “What’s going on?” look when I walked into the living room. I shrugged, and he headed back toward the kitchen.

  “Are we still in a fight?” I said. “It’s too early to fight.”

  She flushed and turned away. “I just had to get out of my house.”

  Maggie had shown up like this a few times. Sometimes her eyes were red like she’d been crying, but today she just looked like I felt—tired.

  “I thought you were mad and didn’t want to see me ever again,” I said.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not anymore.”

  “Why?” I said, waiting for her to apologize. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Uh, we ran out of Rice Krispies.”

  “Really?” I said, rolling my eyes. “You came over for Rice Krispies?”

  She looked down at the floor. “Please.”

  I figured she wanted to be friends again but just didn’t know how to tell me. So since I was pretty easygoing, I smiled and pointed toward the kitchen. Doc was sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading his racing form. He looked up when we came in, but he was into the horses and didn’t say anything.

  My mother walked in when we were almost finished eating. She was wearing a frilly white blouse, a little low-cut if you asked me, and new blue pedal pushers. For years after my father died, she hadn’t cared a thing about what she wore, but now she went on shopping sprees almost every weekend. And she started piling on the makeup—especially the blue eye shadow.

  Forget Maggie; I have my own problems, I thought.

  “Have fun at Louanne’s,” my mother said, pouring herself a glass of juice. “If there’s the slightest problem, come home.”

  Maggie and I exchanged glances. My mother—the worrier.

  “Louanne’s aunt and grandmother will be there.”

  “I’m not worried about Michelle and Mrs. Dodd,” my mother said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I’m worried about Tony. Remember?”

  I remembered.

  Tony Dodd was Mrs. Dodd’s son, Aunt Michelle’s brother, and Stillwater’s boogeyman. People said that he was perfectly normal until he turned sixteen, and then, depending on who was telling the story, he became a paranoid schizophrenic—or he came down with a high fever that destroyed his brain. It didn’t matter which story you believed; even a lot of adults were afraid of him.

  My mother had known Aunt Michelle and her brother Tony since they were children. They’d grown up together. My mother didn’t worry about Tony; she worried about me annoying him, which was silly because I’m not the annoying kind. Even if I was, he slept all day.

  My grandfather looked up from his newspaper. “Like I tell you every year, Grace, Tony’s just a poor fish with mental problems. Don’t bother him, and everything will be fine. He’s a good egg.” Doc was no psychiatrist, but he was smart, and even though he was old, I trusted his advice.

  It’s true that Uncle Tony had a dark side—every so often he’d go bananas. When that happened, Aunt Michelle would call her boyfriend, Vinnie the butcher. Vinnie would lock his shop and run over to try and calm Uncle Tony down. If he couldn’t, Aunt Michelle would call O’Malley the cop.

  O’Malley would hurry over—a portable flashing light stuck somewhere on the top of his white Pontiac sedan—with the siren blaring. The ambulance would arrive right after him, and the attendants would wrestle Uncle Tony into a straitjacket. Off they’d roar to the state hospital in Utica, more than three
hundred miles away. When they let Uncle Tony out, he’d be okay for a while.

  “Grace,” my mother said, sighing heavily. “Did you hear what Doc and I just said?”

  “Yes,” I answered, jumping up to put my cereal bowl in the sink. “Come on, Maggie, let’s cut out.”

  We raced down the street to the Dodds’. They lived on Hudson Avenue, only seven houses down from us. All the houses on our side of the street had been built on the banks of the Hudson River. Small businesses lined the other side, like the candy store that sold more beer and cigarettes than candy, the malt shop, Black’s Grocery Store, the convent, and the corner store.

  Maggie’s heart wasn’t in the race. I beat her by a mile and rang the doorbell before her feet even touched the porch steps. Something smelled like cinnamon. Aunt Michelle was the best baker in town. She baked the entire time Louanne visited—cinnamon buns in the morning, chocolate cookies after lunch, and brownies most evenings. I was so jealous; my mother never baked. She bought.

  Louanne threw open the door and screamed. We screamed back and grabbed her like we were afraid she was going to disappear. I stepped back to look at her. She seemed a little different this year, not just taller—maybe more sure of herself. It wasn’t her Bermuda shorts or matching fingernail and toenail polish; it was kind of the way she carried herself. Maybe she thought we looked different too, but if she did, she didn’t say anything.

  We sat down at the kitchen table, and Louanne caught us up on things in her world while we inhaled Aunt Michelle’s cinnamon rolls. Lou told us about her tonsillectomy—her throat hurt a lot after—but the pain was worth it because her mother let her eat all the ice cream she wanted for one whole week.

  And even more exciting, Lou confided, looking around to make sure no one but us could hear her, she’d had her period last month. To celebrate, her mother bought her three new training bras. She pulled up her pink tee shirt and showed us the white lace one she was wearing.

  “Neat,” I said, wishing I had one.

  “It’s not the pointed bra I’ll get when I graduate from the trainers,” she said with authority. “But it’s a start—like a dress rehearsal. Did you two know that men like the pointy look better? I read it in Cosmo.”