Finding Grace: A Novel

by Sarah Pawley

  Some people weren’t born to live a happy life…and now she knew was one of those people. Whatever happiness she’d ever known, it had always been taken away from her at one time or another. All she’d ever had was herself, and it seemed that it would always be that way.

  But for the moment, she tried not to think of it. The separation would come soon enough, and she didn't want to rush it. So she tried to smile as she met his searching eyes, which examined her face with a look of great concern. She reached out to touch his hand, comforting him. If she could not find the hope in herself, at least she could give it to him...for just a little longer.

  * * * * *

  That tone in her voice...something about it struck him cold. Even while she looked at him, trying to smile, her hand softly brushing his, he felt a sense of deep foreboding in her manner. But when he asked her about it, she just shook her head, saying she was tired and beginning to hurt again. He helped her back to her room, listening to the names she gave him of those he needed to contact in Stones Mill. Even as she spoke, her eyes grew heavy. He lifted her gently, placing her in the bed, and she was already sleeping by the time he drew the blanket up around her. Brushing the hair back from her forehead, he examined her face...so pale, even now. There were dark circles below her eyes. She was still so frail. So vulnerable. And yet, he knew her mind was as sharp as it had ever been. Which brought him back to that chilly tone he'd heard in her voice.

  What is in that mind of yours?

  If he'd been just anyone else, any casual observer, he might have chalked it up to depression over what had happened. She certainly had great reason to be distressed and sad. But he was no fool. He could see there was something going on in her head, as if she was plotting something.

  He wanted to stay by her side until she woke, even if it wasn't for hours. He wanted to talk to her, convince her to confide in him. But she'd asked him to go, to see to things that were important to her...and so he did, reluctantly, leaving her with a gentle kiss and a promise to come back as soon as he could.

  That night, he contacted the preacher, Mr. Clay. According to what Grace had said, Jack had not been in contact with his parents, and didn't intend to tell them what had happened. But she wanted them to know. And yet, Henry himself was reluctant to inform them right away. He explained himself to the preacher as they spoke on the phone.

  “It won’t be right to have them worrying for days before I can get there. I’ll explain everything when I arrive.” Even as he said it, he wondered if it would even matter to them. But he did not know for sure, and so he would spare them the details until he got there.

  He boarded the train just before dawn, and set out on his way.

  It was a quiet and lonely journey. His first class ticket had given him access to the dining car and sleeping car, so he did not lack for comfort. But he ate little, and slept fitfully. His mind was too full, too troubled to rest. Grace was lying back home in the hospital, and he would rather have been there with her, at her side. Again and again he had to remind himself…this journey he was making was on her request and behalf. But rather than being a consolation, it only served to bring him more concern.

  He kept thinking of her parents, and below his calm outer surface, his anger simmered. Over and over he thought to himself…

  If I were a father, neither hell nor high water could keep me from my child.

  It made him furious to think that any parent would need convincing to come and see their ailing daughter. When she’d first asked him to fetch them, his immediate impulse was to say no. Something inside him had said there would be no storybook coming together for her and her family…that she would have her heart broken all over again, and he prayed that he would be wrong. But if he was right…and dear God, he didn't want to be…he hated to think what it would do to her. But in the next moment he realized, she was made of much tougher stuff than that. When all was said and done, she would still be standing. His strong, stubborn girl.

  His girl. Thinking of her, he reached into his pocket and took out the little velvet box that held her ring. He’d been robbed of that first chance to give it to her. And now, he was almost afraid to ask for her hand. He wanted to make her his own, in every way. But he’d let her down once. What if he failed her again in some way? And what if she didn’t want to marry him? The thought of her rejection was terrifying. She was so independent, so unwilling to let anyone else care for her. She wanted to do everything on her own. Truthfully, she didn’t think she needed anyone. But he needed her, and he was willing to do whatever it took to convince her that they belonged together.

  * * * * *

  It was late afternoon when the train reached its destination. For what had seemed like an eternity, Henry had been looking out his window and seeing nothing but dark, thick clusters of trees, and that view was only broken on occasion when the land dipped down into some great green valley or river, and then the trees closed in again.

  He stepped down from the train to a small rail platform. No grand station here. In fact, there was no station at all. There was just a little depot with a ticket window. He looked about, expecting to see the preacher and an elderly couple, who had arranged to meet him there. He did not have long to wait.

  "Mr. Shaw?" said a small man with thinning brown hair and glasses. He was wearing the collar of a cleric, and so Henry knew he'd found the right person. Following behind the preacher was the couple, looking stunned and shaken.

  "I am Henry Shaw," he said, kindly extending his hand to each of them. He turned to the preacher. “You’re Mr. Clay?”

  "Brother Clay," the man corrected him. “And these are the Browns. They’ll be taking care of Charlie.”

  Henry nodded, and they all walked towards the baggage car, where a small group of men were waiting. The doors opened, and the men helped lift the casket out and carry it to a nearby wagon. Despite his best intentions against it, Henry felt a bit of a lump rise in his throat at the sight. It was something he had never gotten used to, and perhaps would never get used to, seeing a young man brought home to his final resting place. He had to turn his eyes away, and focus on his other task at hand. He turned to the preacher.

  "I'd like to see Mr. and Mrs. Langdon right away. I don't intend a long stay, seeing as I have business to attend to at home."

  "You wouldn't like to stay over at the boarding house? A small meal, maybe?"

  "No," said Henry. "Just a ride to the Langdon place will be enough."

  They walked to a waiting horse and buggy. He hadn’t been in anything but a car for years, and it was an odd experience traveling so primitively. It was like taking a step back in time. But as he looked around, he realized that everything around him seemed frozen in a past era.

  Most of the journey was spent in silence. His eye roved over the green and brown wilderness that surrounded them. The road was rough, unpaved. It didn’t even have the luxury of being graveled. It was just a narrow path of soft brown earth. Along the way, there were very few signs of human existence…Only the occasional white-washed farmhouse and barn, and mile upon mile of barbed wire fence behind which herds of cattle and horses roamed. How strange it was to see not a single living soul, and a memory of Grace came to his mind, of what she’d said about being lost here. One truly could be lost in this place, and feel as if they were the only being in the entire world. This was her world, the place where she had come into being, and something moved in his soul at the wonder of it.

  They turned off the main road, and the path became two thin dirt tracks, rougher than the main way had been, if that were possible. The trees closed in overhead, forming a dark green arch that blocked a good deal of the sun, and along the sides of the trail the ground dipped down in deep slopes of rock and earth, littered with fallen logs and limbs. As they moved along, Henry caught a glimpse of motion among the trees to his left. Two shadows seemed to move, and then disappear in a flash. He tried to tell himself it was just his imagination, and for a moment, he thought it might have been.
But then he saw the same ghostly movement again, this time to his right. His senses went on alert. His head lifted, his eyes dancing as he tried to determine who or what it was he’d seen. His wary stance caught the attention of the preacher, who looked at him with a strange expression.

  “There’s something out there,” Henry said in a low voice, looking around suspiciously.

  Mr. Clay glanced about, not seeming to be concerned, but in a moment he pulled the reins and brought the horse to a stop. Slowly, he rose to his feet, cautioning Henry to be still. Mr. Clay stood, cupped his hands together, and blew into them gently, and as he moved his fingers he imitated the sound of a dove.

  Then a voice…the soft, slow drawl of a young man…called out.

  "Is that you preacher?"

  Mr. Clay slowly sat down again. And he called to the young man.

  “Come on out here, boy.”

  The young man emerged slowly. As he came from the shadows, Henry could see that the boy might have been twelve or so, if he was that. And a moment later another young man appeared behind that one. This boy was a little older, but not by much. Both boys were armed with .22 caliber rifles. The preacher shook his head.

  "You Langdon boys sure are gun happy, ain't you?"

  "I'm sorry sir," said the younger boy. "I didn't know if it was you or not, with that stranger there beside you."

  Henry heard the snap of twigs, and his head whipped to the right. Almost from nowhere came another pair of young men, these two older than the others. They might have been in their late teens or early twenties, and like their brothers, they carried rifles in their hands. Henry felt as if he might be under an ambush, as quickly and quietly as this quartet had come upon them, and armed to the teeth at that. But the preacher seemed quite comfortable with it all.

  "Boys, this is Mr. Shaw," he said. "Mr. Shaw, these are four of the Langdon men." He named them from oldest to youngest. "This is Raymond, James, Thomas and Matthew. The youngest boy is at home, I take it?"

  "Yes sir," said James. "He's out playin' somewheres. He ain't old enough to go rabbit huntin' yet. Maybe next year."

  "So what brings you out this way?" asked Raymond. "And what's your friend's business here?" He eyed Henry suspiciously.

  "Mr. Shaw is a neighbor of your older brother," said Mr. Clay. "He's come to see your folks about Gracie."

  Almost in unison they stepped closer, and Henry felt his muscles tense. At the mention of their sister's name, he saw a quick flash of change in their faces, as if hearing her name so suddenly was a way of telling them something was wrong. They were now like a wary pack of wolves, these four, seemingly ready to tear him apart, should the need arise. He wasn't afraid to admit, at least to himself, that he was a little worried.

  "What's wrong?" asked Matthew.

  "She ain't hurt or anything is she?" asked Thomas.

  There was a pause, as Henry debated with himself whether or not to speak. How did he know one of them wouldn't point a rifle at him and fire? But he knew they would have to hear it sooner or later, and he decided just to let it out of the bag quickly.

  "She's in the hospital," he said.

  All at once they began talking furiously, but the preacher intervened before things could get out of hand, and with his calm and soothing voice he quieted them.

  "Boys, take it easy now. Your sister's gonna be all right."

  James stepped closer. "Well what in the hell happened, then? Why is she in the hospital?"

  "She was shot," replied Mr. Clay. "By Charlie."

  They erupted into something like an angry mob, and Henry shrank back a little as Raymond came up close to the wagon, which he slammed with his fist in a fit of rage.

  "I'll kill that son of a bitch."

  "He's already dead.”

  They all fell silent as they heard Henry’s reply. They looked silently to him, eyes wide with anticipation and hungry for more information, and Henry gave it willingly.

  "He's dead, gentleman. He killed himself in his jail cell, so there will be no torches and pitchforks necessary."

  Mr. Clay nodded. "Your brother Jack has been seeing after her health. And so has your Aunt Alice. But your sister needs family around her, so Mr. Shaw is here to take your Mama and Daddy to see her."

  "Oh they won't go with you mister," said Raymond. "Daddy was so mad when Gracie left. Mama cried all the time, but he said he didn't want to hear no more about her. He said she was with Jack, and they could stay with each other as long as they wanted, and he didn't care if either one of them ever come back."

  So there it is, thought Henry. As he had suspected, at least where Mr. Langdon was concerned, they had washed their hands of her. He wanted to turn around and leave right then. But no. He had promised Grace, and he was determined to at least give it his best try. As if thinking along the same lines, Mr. Clay spoke up.

  "Well," he said, "Me, Mr. Shaw, and the good Lord are going to do our best to change their minds."

  There was a long moment of silence as they all looked at each other. Then the preacher took up the reins and slapped them, setting the horse in motion, and the boys followed along behind the wagon as it made its way down the path.

  They pulled out of the dark woods and into a clearing, where Henry saw the house for the first time…a one and a half story structure, white-washed but in terrible need of a new coat of paint. There were even places where the paint was so faded that the wood itself could be seen. It had a sad-looking front porch that looked like it might fall down at any moment. He wondered how such a structure could be holding up the swing that hung there. Personally, he would have feared sitting in the thing.

  Several geese roamed the yard freely, when they weren't scattering away from the small pack of dogs that had come running, surrounding the wagon before it had even stopped. They leaped and barked until Henry thought he might go deaf, but the two older boys jumped down and began commanding them to silence. In a moment they were under some kind of control, though they still milled about with curiosity for the stranger in their midst. Most of them kept a short distance, buffing, but one of them came right up and began sniffing his pants and shoes, and the dog's stubby tail wagged fast and furious.

  "That's Pilot, Gracie's dog," said Thomas. "He's been so lonesome since she left. He misses her something terrible."

  Henry reached down to pat the dog on the head, and the sudden attention spurred something in Pilot, who whined excitedly and leaned against Henry's legs, rubbing like a cat. Smiling, Henry reached down to scratch the dog's ribs, and Pilot pressed himself further until he had slid down and rolled over on his back, his tail still wagging madly.

  "I can see why Grace is so fond of him," he said. "Maybe I should take this old fellow back with me to visit her."

  "I don't think so mister," said Raymond. "Pilot's an old country dog. He's hardly set foot in a house, and never been in a cage. He'd go plum crazy if you tried to cage him, and Gracie wouldn't want that. If she wants to see her dog, she'll have to come see him when she gets better."

  If I have my way, she might never set eyes on this place again, he thought. But of course, he did not voice his thought. Instead, he looked up at the front door of the house as it opened, and a lady came slowly out. She was a thin, worn looking woman with mousy brown hair that was swept up in a loose knot. She was wiping her hands on a towel as she came out, and she put it over her shoulder as she saw them.

  "Come for supper, Brother Clay?" she asked. "And who's this gentleman with you? Is he hungry too?"

  Wordlessly, Henry and Mr. Clay walked towards her. This was Grace's mother, Henry realized without hearing her name. He just knew it, and looking at her, he had a sad notion that this might have one day been the woman he loved. Tired eyes, worn hands, a battered figure…the scars of living a life of servitude. Grace had once said that her mother was married at fourteen, and Jack was her oldest boy at age twenty-seven. So that meant Mrs. Langdon must have been about forty-two. She looked much, much older but he didn't dare
say so, and he politely introduced himself.

  "I'm Henry Shaw. And I'm here to talk to you about your daughter."

  Mrs. Langdon's eyes widened. She seemed to look to the preacher for understanding. He took her lightly by the arm and ushered her into the house, with Henry following. As they came in, a small boy came rushing from the kitchen towards his mother.

  "Mama, I'm hungry, when are we gonna eat?"

  "Not now, Robert Langdon!" she scolded harshly. "Go on outside and play until I call you back in."

  Pouting his lip, the boy did as he was told, as Henry realized he'd met yet another member of the family, albeit briefly. But he didn't linger on the thought, as there were more important matters at hand.

  At the kitchen table the three of them sat, while the four older boys stood listening near the doorway. Henry looked at them for a moment before turning to their mother.

  "Mrs. Langdon, I am a neighbor of your son, Jack.”

  At the mention of that name, her eyes widened and lit up.

  “My son? You know my son? How is he? Does he ever ask about us?”

  Henry shook his head. “Mrs. Langdon, I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to talk about your daughter.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  It seemed to Henry that she seemed disappointed. It bothered him, but he ignored the feeling and went on.

  "Mrs. Langdon, your daughter was working for me recently, and was quite happy in what she was doing, until she ran into an old friend. Do you know who that friend was?"

  She nodded, still looking calm and unconcerned. "Charlie?" she answered. Then she nodded. “We were hoping he might get her to come home with him."

  "Well he has come home," Henry said, and at the mention of Charlie, his voice took on an angry tone. "He's come home in a pine box. He killed himself, Mrs. Langdon. He killed himself in his jail cell, after nearly killing your daughter."

  At last, her calm broke. Her hand came up to cover her heart. "She's dead? My daughter is dead?" She rose up slightly in her chair, horror in every limb.