The Truth About Grace

by Cassie Dandridge Selleck

  13 – Grace

  I got all my stuff put away in my room and it still didn’t look like anybody lived in it. I had an armload of clothes that looked pitiful hanging in that big ol’ empty closet. I went and found Miss Ora and asked her if I could go into Mr. Walter’s room and find me something to read. She said she’d do me one better and take me to the library downtown. We decided to walk instead of taking a cab; it ain’t but five or six blocks away. It was windy outside, but the sun was out, so it was plenty warm for just the first day of March.

  I changed my clothes and met Miss Ora on the porch. She had a couple of canvas bags slung over one arm and her pocketbook under the other.

  “Here, let me carry those,” I said. “Looks like you tryin’ to bring home the whole library or something.”

  She has a great laugh, Miss Ora does. Louder’n you might expect for somebody so tiny. I remember when I was little I would knock myself out to make her laugh, and she did. A lot. It was the first time I heard her laugh out loud in a long, long time.

  “Well, I’ve done this before, Gracie-love.” She the only one ever calls me that. “You remember when we used to pull that old wagon down to the library to bring books home for you? I never saw anybody read as much as you did. Wagon’s gone. These bags’ll have to do.”

  She right about that…always had my nose stuck in a book. Only way I could escape, I reckon. Truth is, I just love reading. When I was on the street, no matter what town I was in, I’d find the library first thing. I never had an address I could call my own, and sometimes none at all, so checkin’ anything out was not an option.

  With Miss Ora, I can get anything I want, though this ol’ library is a little slow to keep up with the times. I like the big libraries like they got in Atlanta. I spent a lot of time there. That’s where I was when Mama died. Easy to disappear.

  I felt my chest get tight and I let out a long whistling breath. I could hear Mama as if she were right there with me. “Don’t you be invisible, Grace Lowery. Don’t hide your light under a basket. You let it shine, shine, shine.” And then she would pull me tight to her chest, and I could smell bacon from that morning’s breakfast and the sharp clean smell of Dove soap – the bar kind she always bathed with.

  “Gracie?”

  I shook the memory from my head when I realized Miss Ora was talking to me. “You all right?” I looked around to get my bearings. She was about twenty feet in front of me, looking back.

  “I’m good,” I forced a smile and walked toward her. “Just lost in thought, I guess.”

  “I was just talking away and realized you weren’t beside me anymore. What were you thinking about?”

  “I was thinkin’ about – oh, a lot of things really. Mama mostly.”

  When I reached her, we moved forward together as if we’d never stopped.

  “I miss her so much, Gracie. It feels like…it feels like…like one foot nailed to the floor most days. Like I don’t know how to go through a day without her. I don’t enjoy my routine without her in it. And not because of what she did for me. I can make my own breakfast and sweep the floor. Always could, and half the time did. It was her company that made me feel whole. And now I don’t. I feel half. I feel like the smallest half, the leftover piece of pie that nobody touches because it’s the last one.”

  It would be so easy to hate her for carrying on like that. Like she the only one lost Mama and feels left behind. But I don’t hate her. I know exactly how she feels and it don’t feel good. I slipped my hand into hers. It felt cold, but soft like coconut oil, like her skin might slide right off her bones if you just pulled it with your thumb. I gave her a little squeeze and started to pull away, but she held tight to my hand and kept walking.

  “We’re going to be okay, Gracie-love. I know we are.”

  14 – Patrice

  I passed Grace and Miss Ora on the way to the courthouse for my three o’clock case, but I don’t think they even saw me drive by. Miss Ora’s arm was bent, her elbow tucked tight to her waist, and she held Gracie’s hand in both of her own. Gracie was laughing at something, her head thrown back and her mouth open wide. This is when she is the most beautiful. I can almost forget the bad things when I remember how she was as a child. We all doted on her, but she was not spoiled, not even a little bit. She was funny and happy and curious about everything. And smart as a whip, that’s what I remember.

  My case went as expected, and my client was remanded to the Lake County Jail. When will these guys ever learn? You can’t ghost your parole officer, then show up high for court. Doesn’t matter how good I am at my job, I can’t defend pure stupidity.

  I stopped by the county clerk’s office before I drove home. I had them pull all the reports they had on the death of Skipper Kornegay, including Eddie’s arrest, his bond, and his plea deal. I read the crime scene report first. I wanted to read it before I got home, and I forced myself to focus on just the details of the report, without imagining my brother creating the scene they described.

  On Sunday morning, November 28, 1976, members of the Mayville Police Department, dispatched by Skipper’s father Ralph Kornegay, the Chief of Police at the time, found Skipper’s body in a small clearing in the woods north of downtown Mayville. The report, written by Officer Horace Lindsey, states Chief Kornegay thought Skipper might have run away again, or was simply hiding at one of his friend’s houses, so he hadn’t been worried the first couple of days. I got the impression staying gone for days was not uncommon for the boy. On Sunday, after several calls from his friends, Kornegay finally became alarmed and instructed the officers on duty to be on the lookout for his son.

  According to the report, Lindsey was the first to notice the body, partially covered by leaves. After securing the crime scene, Officer Lindsey called for backup from two specific officers and asked a third to go by Chief Kornegay’s house and bring him to the location.

  The section of the report that described the scene were the most difficult to read. I didn’t need photos – and I didn’t request them – to visualize his body. I imagined his long, straight, pure white hair, matted with blood and dirt and leaves, and his wiry arms and legs bent awkwardly in death. It was fall; the ground would be a blanket of leaves then. It would be a tough crime scene to investigate. It had rained for two days and finding hair on the body or among the leaves would be like the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  There was no mention of a weapon, which makes me wonder what happened to the knife Marcus told Miss Ora he used—a switchblade owned by Skipper Kornegay. The more I thought about it, the more curious I became, so I made a mental note to ask the state’s attorney what he knew about the case. Probably not much, since it was before his time.

  I know Chief Kornegay died years ago, but I wondered what had become of Horace Lindsey and what light he might shed on the investigation. It’s unusual that a man was allowed to confess to a crime he did not commit, without too many questions being asked.

  I want to be prepared when Miss Ora and I visit the state’s attorney’s office about her case. Sounds so odd to say. Miss Ora’s case. How in the world did we get here?

  15 – Grace

  Been a long time since I was in the Mayville Library. Wasn’t even the same one as before. They built a new one down at the other end of town, so it was a good long walk for me and Miss Ora. We parted ways once we got inside, and I was glad. It took a while to figure out where to even go. They had several rows of low shelves off to the side by the front doors. A big sign said Special Collections and I figured I’d hit those first. I always liked to see what subjects the staff came up with…I should say what white people came up with, ’cause they usually the ones doing the comin’ up with. Black History Month was still on the shelves. Convenient, if not terribly creative. I knew I could count on all the regulars. Baldwin, Walker, Hurston, Hughes, Morrison, McMillan, they all there. I’ve read everything they wrote. Most of ’em twice.

  But they had a few I never heard of. This Danticat lady… Br
eath, Eyes, Memory, that’s the name of the book, even if I can’t remember her first name. That’s some heavy stuff, there. I gotta take that one slow. And I got one by Octavia Butler that I’ll give to Shawn if it’s too much for me. He likes science fiction more than I do. He don’t like to admit it, but he’s a reader like his mama. And they had a copy of In Search of Our Mothers Gardens, and I thought maybe it was a good time to read that one again. It’s mostly essays. I remember the one about her mama dying. I might not be ready for that one yet, but I’m gonna read it anyway. I picked a couple of my favorites for Rochelle from the YA section. If I’m being honest, they’re just as much for me as for her.

  I thought long and hard before I hit the checkout line. I figured whatever I got, Miss Ora’d get as much or more, and I’d be the one carryin’ all of it home. I was right, too, but she didn’t force them on me. I offered. I don’t know what makes me feel so protective of Miss Ora. Maybe ’cause she’s even more fragile than me, if that’s possible. She tiny all over.

  I used to sit beside her on the couch while she read books to me tucked all up under one arm, ’til I got too tall to tuck anymore. Mama never did much readin’, ’cept for the Bible, and that wasn’t out loud. Miss Ora was so good at it, she make all the people in the stories come alive.

  When I was on the street, I used to go to the library, dope sick and broke, and I’d curl up in a chair with a book and pretend like I was in Miss Ora’s house. It was easy, ’cause it was her voice I heard when I read to myself.

  16 – Patrice

  We are settling into our new existence as smoothly as possible. It has been two months since my grandfather died. Two months since I learned who he was and what he sacrificed for us. Two months since I learned my sister was raped as a child, and that my brother killed the boy who did it. Two months since I learned the web of lies which both bound my family together and tore us apart. There is a reason for the clichéd mantra “one day at a time.” This is the only way to navigate a shift of this magnitude. Two months. Sixty days. One. At. A. Time.

  My sister has spent most of this time at Miss Ora’s house. I made some phone calls and found a psychologist who is willing to make house-calls, and we have begun the process, not just of rehabilitation for Grace, but counseling for all of us. Kamilah is a former school mate and sorority sister of mine, but our paths only briefly crossed at the university. She is patient and has a great deal of experience with drug addicts, and yet she is no-nonsense—doesn’t let Grace, or any of us for that matter, off the hook. She is, like us, excited about the prospect of having a small residential facility—a halfway house of sorts, but that is only in the works now. We’ll have to wait and see what happens with Miss Ora. The prosecutor is still reviewing the files and her confession to see what, if any, charges will be filed.

  I would like to say we have made progress. In many ways, we have. Shawn and Rochelle are getting reacquainted with their mother, which is going as well as can be expected when you have been abandoned for as long as they were. I came home one day and Grace was helping Rochelle study for an English test. She was teaching her the phonics rules we learned back in the day, and Rochelle was absorbing them with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Apparently, they teach memorization over phonics these days, which is crazy if you ask me. Easier to learn the rules first, then memorize the words that break them.

  There is a lot to love about my baby sister. She was always very bright and excelled in her studies until she reached high school. Grace can be the sweetest, funniest creature when she is sober. It’s clear she loves her children, but she relates to them as a peer, not a parent, and that is absolutely terrifying to me. The kids started riding the bus home to Miss Ora’s house again, just like they did when my mother was alive, and like Grace and the twins did as children. We thought it would be a good way for Shawn and Rochelle to get to know Gracie again with the familiarity and oversight of Miss Ora, but I pick them up every day and take them back home with me.

  Yesterday, Miss Ora had an appointment to meet with the state’s attorney and I had promised to take her. I asked Grace if she wanted to come with us, but she declined. Said she was tired and not feeling well. I had the fleeting thought that it was not a good idea to leave her alone, but I ignored my gut. I need to learn to trust her.

  The appointment was for 1:00 p.m., so we left at 11:00, allowing time to drive over to the county seat and still grab lunch downtown. It felt good to do something normal for a change. The lunch, I mean.

  We arrived at Barrett Hammond’s office fifteen minutes early, but they took us right in. I knew the state’s attorney well enough to call him Barry, but I opted for a more formal approach under the circumstances.

  “Mr. Hammond, thanks for seeing us.” I shook his hand firmly and introduced Mrs. Beckworth.

  He gave me a brief bemused expression but took the cue and settled into a more business-like posture. Barrett Hammond is distinguished and charming with ice blue eyes and prematurely gray hair which has gone almost straight to pure silver. The fact that he is terminally handsome and a resolute bachelor is the subject of discussion amongst all the county attorneys, male and female, and he appears to like it that way. It would be easy to imagine him running for a much bigger office one day. There’s something about him that screams politician, though he rarely says anything political at all. I think that’s what gives him away.

  “What can I help you with today, Miss Lowery? Your message was a bit cryptic.”

  I laughed. “If by cryptic, you mean brief…” I said. “This one requires too much explanation for voice mail. And I’ll tell you right off the bat, this is as unorthodox as they come. I’ve never heard of a case quite like this one.”

  “I’m even more intrigued.” He leaned back in his leather chair and flexed a pencil with his thumbs.

  “Do you remember the Kornegay murder in Mayville? Back in 1976. A teenage boy was stabbed to death.”

  “Vaguely,” he said. “That was the police chief’s son, right? I was almost out of law school in ‘76, but it was a big deal back then. I remember that. Some homeless guy confessed, if memory serves.”

  “That’s the one. Skipper Kornegay was a classmate of mine. And the homeless guy spent twenty-five years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  That got his attention. He put the pencil down, slid his chair closer to his desk and leaned toward us, his blue eyes fixed on me. “If you think he’s innocent, file an appeal, Patrice.”

  “Too late. He’s dead.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “It’s a long story.” I reached out for Miss Ora’s hand. It was soft and cold and trembling with emotion. “Are you sure about this, Miss Ora? Once I tell him, we can’t go back.”

  I had warned her not to speak without my instruction.

  “I’m absolutely positive, Patrice. I don’t want to die with this on my conscience, and I can’t live with it anymore either.”

  “Do I need to record this?” Barry asked. “You’re making me nervous.”

  I shook my head. “There is a transcript of the story, and I’ll leave it with you if I need to. Clara Jean Smallwood took it down. Nothing official, but professional, nonetheless.”

  “Is she still working?”

  “She retired the same time Judge Odell did. She’s a friend of the family.”

  “Your family?” Barry asked me, looking slightly incredulous.

  “Our family,” Miss Ora pointed one finger back and forth between herself and me. “Clara was a friend of our family.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, I was just clarifying.”

  I waved away the apology. “It’s complicated. No worries.”

  “So,” Barry said, “you want to tell me the rest of the story?”

  I gave him the bare details. The rape of my sister at age six by the teenaged son of the police chief. The lies my mother told us all because the truth was far too dangerous to admit. Skipper’s death at the hands of the br
other I idolized. Eddie’s arrest and subsequent incarceration.

  Barry finally interrupted. “Where’s your brother now?”

  “My brother is dead, Mr. Hammond. He was killed in a car accident the day after the…the day after Skipper’s death.”

  “I’m sorry…” He sighed and squinted at me like he was confused. “So why are you bringing this to me now?”

  Miss Ora looked at me and I shrugged. Might as well get it all out.

  “That’s where I come in, Mr. Hammond.” Her voice was a little shaky, but she spoke with the same confidence I had always known of her. “I have a bit of a confession to make.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Miss Ora told Barry the entire story, with some details I hadn’t known. Marcus had run into Skipper downtown and confronted him about Grace’s rape. Skipper chased him into the woods brandishing a switchblade knife, but Marcus overpowered him, wrested the knife away and stabbed Skipper to death.

  “He came to my house afterwards,” Miss Ora went on. “His mama was my housekeeper and we’d had Thanksgiving dinner together that afternoon. Marcus was distraught and bleeding from lacerations to his head and hands. I cleaned him up best I could, closed the biggest wound on his scalp with butterflies I cut out of first aid tape, and got him out of town as fast as I could.”

  “Did you know he’d just killed someone at the time?”

  “He confessed it all, Mr. Hammond. I knew what he did and why he did it. The boy attacked him first. I considered it self-defense.”

  “Then why didn’t you call the police?” Barry was irritated, I could tell, but still interested in the story.

  “I’m getting there, Mr. Hammond. Bear with me.” Miss Ora coughed and cleared her throat and I stood to get her a cup of water from the cooler I knew was behind me.

  “Marcus had a driver’s license, but he did not own a car. I had a car, but no license. My husband’s Ford LTD had been sitting unused in my garage since his death earlier that year. I had to convince Marcus to take it. I gave him a bill of sale and enough money to stay in a hotel for a couple of days, and Marcus headed north on I-75. Later that morning, a tractor-trailer slowed unexpectedly in his lane and, as far as anyone could tell, Marcus never took evasive action. There were no skid marks on the road; he didn’t swerve at all. His car struck the back of the trailer with such force that the entire roof of the car was stripped off and the vehicle completely lodged beneath the trailer. They found his ID and the bill of sale in his wallet and notified our local police.