The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel

by Val Brelinski

  Miss Smith nodded. “Not a bad idea,” she said. “You girls better hurry if you want to be dressed before the bell rings.” She turned and slapped back up the concrete steps in her shower room thongs. The gym door slammed in the distance.

  “Thanks a whole lot, Durham,” said Jude.

  “Anytime,” said Rhea cheerfully.

  Jory looked down at the floor and pulled on her corduroy pants. She turned toward the far wall and held her towel around her shoulders while she tried to slip on Grace’s bra.

  “So modest,” said Jude as she leaned against the bank of clothes lockers.

  “Just like me,” said Rhea, deliberately pulling her T-shirt off over her head and stepping boldly out of her cutoffs.

  “We’ve all seen your fur line already,” Jude said. “God—haven’t you heard of electrolysis?”

  Rhea stood in the middle of the room in her red bra and panties. “In Europe none of the women shave their legs or their pits,” she said.

  “That’s because they’re all dykes or lesbians,” said Jude.

  “Aren’t all dykes lesbians?” Jory said, and then instantly regretted this remark.

  Jude let out a laugh and stared at Jory with a certain amount of surprise.

  “I just meant logically speaking.” Jory wrenched her head through the top of her sweater. She pulled it down around her waist and began tugging her boots on.

  “Besides,” Jude said, turning pointedly to Rhea, “it’s not your pits I’m talking about. And this isn’t Europe, either, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “What?” said Rhea. “Arco isn’t in Europe? I want my money back.”

  Jory peeked up at Rhea. Her body was tan and muscular, like a boy’s almost, except for the breasts that overflowed from the red bra. Jory was amazed at the way they hung there suspended in space like things half solid and inverted. She grabbed her book bag. “I’m gonna miss the bus,” said Jory.

  “You ride the bus?” said Jude.

  Jory blushed. Riding the bus was obviously the worst form of social suicide.

  Rhea still stood straddle legged in her underwear. “Hell, yeah, she rides the bus. She rides the bus. She rides the bus. She rides the bus. She rides the bus!”

  “Wow,” said Jude. “That was weird. And really unattractive.”

  “I’m going,” said Jory.

  “So long,” said Jude, smiling and shaking her head.

  Jory glanced back at Rhea. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  “You bet, track star.” Rhea smiled and crossed her arms. “Hasta mañana.”

  “Four miles,” Jory said, taking a long swig of milk. “Can you believe it?”

  “That’s pretty amazing.” Grace sat at the kitchen table with a stack of books and their father’s slide rule. She was still wearing Henry Kleinfelter’s overalls. “I’ve never run that far in my life.”

  “Me either!” Jory put the milk carton back in the refrigerator and gave the door a happy slam. “Maybe I should go out for track.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m just kidding, of course. I’m not staying there. In a few weeks I’m going back to ACA.” Jory sat down at the table across from Grace.

  “I know.”

  “Dad said I could.”

  “Um-hm.”

  “He did.”

  There was a quiet knock at the front door.

  “Dad doesn’t knock,” said Grace.

  “I’ll go,” said Jory.

  Through the glass in the door she could see Grip standing on their doormat and smiling. He was holding a rectangular package in his hands. His hair was in a kind of bun on the top of his head.

  Jory’s heart thrilled piercingly. There had been a part of her that feared she might never see him again. She didn’t care about anything he had previously done, or said, or said that he’d done. She put her hand on the doorknob.

  “Who is that?” said Grace, who had come out from the kitchen and was now standing behind Jory.

  “Oh, um,” said Jory in a small voice. “Well . . .”

  “Jory, for Pete’s sake,” Grace said, reaching around Jory and opening the door. “Hello,” she said, smiling her best work-and-witness smile at Grip. “Can we help you?”

  “Oh, hey.” Grip switched his gaze from one sister to the other. Jory could feel the skin on her neck getting hot. “Well, say, I have something for Jory here,” he said. He held the box out. “A sort of back-to-school present, I guess. But I could come some other time. Later or tomorrow or something.” He half grinned. “Y’all are probably in the middle of dinner, aren’t you?”

  Grace gave Jory a wordless look. Jory stared at the floor. Grace opened the door a bit wider. “You’re not a schoolteacher of Jory’s, are you?” Puzzlement still flickered across her face.

  “Now that would be something,” he said, stepping into their living room.

  “This is Grip,” Jory said finally, her voice sounding as if she’d never used it before. “And this is my sister Grace.”

  Grace shook Grip’s hand. “Grip?”

  “It’s my cross to bear.” He put the box down on the coffee table. “A mother with a warped sense of humor.”

  “So, how do you two know each other?” Grace folded her hands in front of her.

  “Grace.” Jory whispered.

  “Just curious,” said Grace.

  “Well, lemme see. Jory was in my employ this summer.” Grip cleared his throat. “She was my assistant and right-hand man during the months of June and July. I guess you must have been in Mexico during that time.”

  “Grip tried to teach me how to swim,” said Jory. Suddenly this statement seemed like less of a good idea.

  “Really?” said Grace, glancing from one of them to the other, as if trying to determine something without actually having to ask.

  Grip shrugged and smiled again.

  “Well,” said Grace slowly. “You’re welcome to eat with us if you’d like. Grip.” She turned and then walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.

  “Shoot,” Grip said, moving a step closer to Jory. “Is this not a good idea?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jory. She found herself whispering for some reason she couldn’t explain. “It’s just so strange. I never imagined the two of you meeting.”

  “I didn’t think about her answering the door.” Grip shrugged. “You know,” he said, glancing toward the kitchen, “she doesn’t look so crazy.”

  “She’s not, exactly.”

  “Hey,” he said, and leaned over the coffee table. “Here. Come on, open ’er up.” He handed the box to Jory. It was wrapped in newspaper with a white paper napkin swan on top. “Origami,” he said. “I’m a master.”

  Jory sat down on the dead cat couch and held the box. “It jingles,” she said. “Is it for Christmas?” She peered up at him, suddenly shy. With great carefulness she pried at the tape at one end and then on the other. The newspaper came off in a sheet and fell to the floor. She lifted the lid on the box. Inside were moccasins. Brown suede fringed moccasins with tiny silver bells attached to the laces. They were the palest shade of mocha brown and soft to the touch, like the ears of a fawn Jory had once touched at the Boise petting zoo. “Oh,” she said. For some strange reason, she felt tears gathering in the back of her throat. She held the shoes in her lap.

  “I don’t know if they’re your size,” he said. “They look pretty close, though.” He picked one up. “Try them on.”

  She bent down and pulled off Grace’s old boots. She slipped her feet into one of the moccasins, and then the other. They were the tiniest bit big, but she could wear thicker socks. Thicker socks would make them nearly perfect. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Grip smiled. “Those girls at Schism won’t know what hit ’em.”

  “Ha,” said Jory, wiping at he
r eyes. “They think I’m a complete and total weirdo.”

  “Nah,” he said. “They’re just jealous.”

  “I don’t think so.” Jory gazed in wonder at her feet. She didn’t recognize them. She took a step and listened to the silvery sounds the bells made. Pocahontas, she thought. Sacagawea. Tiger Lily. “Thank you,” she said again.

  Grip nodded. “I guess this was my lame-ass attempt at an apology.”

  “Oh, hey—that’s okay. I shouldn’t have bugged you about that juvenile detention stuff anyway.” She tried to shrug and make her face look as unbothered as possible.

  They both glanced down at the floor and neither said anything for a moment.

  “Guess what?” she said finally, turning her eyes up toward his. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Really? You’re kidding.”

  “On Sunday,” Jory said.

  “Well, what do you know,” he said, shaking his head. “Nineteen, right?”

  Jory smiled.

  Grace walked into the living room holding a can opener. “What’s that jingling noise?” she asked.

  “My shoes,” Jory said. She held her left foot out toward Grace. “Grip got them for me.” She smiled at Grip. “For my birthday.”

  Jory could feel Grace taking Grip in, seeing him as if for the first time. His hair, the blue tattoos, the slightly spotted brown work shirt. “Well,” she said. “They’re very pretty.”

  “They’re even the right size,” Jory said.

  “What do you two think—beef stew or chili?” Grace pulled her eyes away from Grip and smiled faintly at Jory.

  “Oh, wow,” said Grip. “I should have said something. I don’t really eat meat.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “A vegetarian?” Grace stood still holding the can opener.

  “Yeah, I know it’s a pain in the ass. But you know, I can make my own stuff, if you’ll let me. I do it all the time no matter where I am.”

  “Dad’s a vegetarian,” Jory said.

  “No, he’s not.” Grace frowned.

  “Well, he might as well be.”

  “Hey,” Grip said. “How about you let me take a peek in your kitchen and see what I can rustle up?”

  “Oh,” Grace said. “Well . . . okay, I guess.” She turned away.

  “Come on, Indian Maiden, you can help me.” Grip tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen.

  Jory followed behind him, listening to the snowy sound of her shoes as she walked.

  The three of them sat at the kitchen table beneath the hanging light. A salad with lettuce and canned lentils and red beans and other exotic-looking ingredients Jory and Grace had been keeping at the very back of the cupboard now filled a large blue bowl.

  “I’d like to pray first,” Grace said. “If that’s all right with you.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Grip. “Y’all do whatever you’d like. Whatever you normally do.”

  “That’s what we normally do,” said Grace.

  “Not always,” said Jory.

  “Nearly always,” said Grace. “And if not in literal speech, then in spirit.”

  Grip’s eyebrows scrunched together in thought. “Does that mean that you’re thinking a prayer in your head, or that you’re just kind of meditating on something like Buddhists do?”

  Grace leaned forward in a way Jory was very familiar with. She gazed at Grip without blinking. “What it means is that even if you aren’t speaking the words out loud, you are still communing with God. You are actively trying to listen to the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit so that you can praise and thank Him even more fully.”

  “You know—” Grip nodded his head. “That’s so weird that we’re talking about this ’cause just last week I read this article in some magazine—Psychology Today, maybe—and it said that when you’re really praying, it’s like you’re in an alpha mind state.” Grip picked out a piece of lettuce from the salad bowl and popped it in his mouth. “That praying or chanting can produce a state of optimal creativity or something. There was a photo of this old black woman who makes crazy quilts like spiders on acid after she prays—all these wild purple and blue and red stars and comets and stuff all stitched together.” Grip shook his head. “It was incredible.”

  Grace resettled her napkin on her lap. “That’s quite fascinating. Although I’m not really sure that making strange quilts is what prayer is all about.”

  “Oh, well, sure.” Grip lifted a slice of cucumber out of the bowl and began crunching loudly. “Just goes to show you the power of prayer, is all.” He smiled.

  Jory reached for a piece of bread.

  “Although,” Grace said, “there seems to be less and less point in saying grace now.”

  Jory let the piece of bread drop back onto the plate. “Sorry,” she said.

  “Me too,” said Grip. “Hey—” He reached out for Jory’s hand and then Grace’s. “C’mon, you go right ahead and pray.”

  “Well,” said Grace, “all right.” She looked down at the table, at their newly linked hands, and Jory could see Grace’s cheeks flushing a light shade of pink, the way they did when she was mad or embarrassed or suddenly pleased. Grace closed her eyes and then cleared her throat. “We thank thee, Lord, for this our food, for life and health and all things good. May manna to our souls be given: the bread of life sent down from heaven. These favors we ask in Christ’s name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said Grip loudly. He smiled at Jory and gave her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “That’s a sweet prayer—is that what you folks pray at every meal?”

  “Yes,” said Grace. “It’s the prayer we learned when we were little.” She blushed again, turning her birthmark an even redder shade. “I don’t know why I keep repeating it. It’s childish.”

  “Nah. Things like that can be comforting.” Grip spooned some salad onto Jory’s plate. “You have to at least try it now—I worked hard on this.” He scooped up some more. “Grace?”

  “Okay. All right.”

  Grip arranged the salad on Grace’s plate. “Is that enough? How about just a little more?”

  “Oh, no—that’s plenty.”

  “C’mon—don’t tell me you didn’t have stranger stuff than this in Mexico.”

  Grace didn’t bother looking at her plate; instead, she turned to Jory. “You know, I thought you said you were babysitting this summer.”

  “I was,” Jory said, stirring the food on her plate.

  “But in between times, she was a big help with my sales and my deliveries.” Grip nodded. “She’s highly efficient.” He gave Jory a wink.

  “Your sales? What do you sell?”

  Grip drank down the last of his iced tea. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Oh, you know, the essentials—frozen dairy treats and such.”

  Grace lifted a forkful of salad toward her mouth. She chewed for a moment and then swallowed. “You’re the ice cream man,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yup.” Grip smiled. “Guilty as charged. Although I’m trying to remain open to other, less glamorous career possibilities.”

  A sound came from the living room—a soft knocking quickly followed by the front door opening and shutting. “Hello,” a female voice called faintly.

  “Who’s that?” Grace turned around in her chair.

  “Oh,” said Jory, her fork in midair. “That’s Hilda.”

  “Who?” said Grace.

  Mrs. Kleinfelter now stood hesitantly in the kitchen doorway, peeping at the three of them. “I’m sorry to be interrupting your suppertime,” she said. “I was just hoping Jory might come help me fix my television set. My show’s on and I feel strange if I can’t see it.” She twisted her hands together as she spoke.

  “You know how to fix TVs?” Grace sounded more than surprised by
this new information.

  “Well,” Jory said, “no.”

  “How about your young man here?” Mrs. Kleinfelter turned toward Grip. “Do you know anything about old RCAs?”

  Grip put his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back and stood up. “Is it the sound or the picture?”

  “The picture. I don’t give a hoot about the sound. I just want to see Art Fleming and the questions.” She had already started back toward the living room and Grip was following her. “Is that your truck out front in the drive?” she was saying. “It’s parked a little close to my mums.” The front door shut with a bang.

  Grace scooted her chair back and then stood up from the table and walked toward the cupboards. She took out a glass and then turned around. “Just how old is he, Jory? Twenty-five? Thirty? I can’t believe Mom and Dad actually let you work for him.”

  “Well, they did,” Jory lied bravely.

  “And why is he bringing you presents? What do you think Dad would say if he knew that man was coming out here to see you?”

  “His name is Grip, remember?” Jory stared down at her plate, at the strange half-eaten salad. “And he’s my friend. And now that I have to go to Schism, he’s my only friend. So I guess I’m not supposed to have friends anymore? Or birthday presents?”

  “Oh, Jory.”

  “Grip is the only person that really cares about me.”

  “That is so not true.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Jory. “He understands me.”

  “He doesn’t even know you.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  With a ringing sound, Grace set the drinking glass on the counter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Grace sat back down in her chair. “Jory. Have you done something?”

  “Have I done something?” Jory looked at Grace.

  Each of them sat silently, as if contemplating the feasibility of continuing the track of this conversation.

  The front door opened and shut again. Grip walked through the living room and kitchen doorway and then stood next to the table. “Blown tube,” he said, frowning. “Too bad, too. I think she’ll have to go to a repair shop to get one. Those old cathode tubes are nearly impossible to come by now.” He scratched at his head. “I was thinking maybe we could entertain her for a little bit. She seems kinda lost without her show. So I hope it’s okay—I invited her back here.”