The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel

by Val Brelinski

  Grace seemed stunned. An idea bloomed across her face and settled. “So you are ashamed of us. Of me.”

  Their father sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Jory peered at her father. “Why did you let her come today, then?”

  “It was your birthday,” he said, sounding horribly sad.

  “So that means we get to see her again when? Only on holidays? At Thanksgiving? Christmas?”

  “Jory, I just don’t know.”

  “Christmas?”

  Grace leaned forward and tried to touch her father’s shirt cuff. Whether he didn’t realize this in the dark or whether he deliberately pulled back, Jory couldn’t tell. “Have you prayed about this, Dad?”

  “Grace.”

  “Have you?”

  “Okay. Look, it’s late now and I need to get your mother and Frances home, and, Jory, you have school tomorrow. So we will consider this discussion closed for the evening, all right?”

  Jory and Grace said nothing.

  “And, Jory, if you need any supplies or . . . anything from town, you should call me first and I’ll be happy to get whatever you want. So you don’t need to bother Mrs. Kleinfelter anymore with that kind of thing, okay?” Their father pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “Okay?”

  Grace took a step or two in the direction of the house and suddenly stopped and turned her gaze toward their father. “The way of a fool is right in his own eyes,” she said. “Proverbs 12:15.” Grace turned around again and then walked all the way across the grass, up the steps onto the porch, and into the house. The front door slammed shut.

  Jory and her father stood alone in the yard. He sighed once. Heavily. “You know that I love you two girls,” her father said. Something about the dampness of the night air, or the fact that she couldn’t see his mouth moving in the dark, made his words seem to be coming from a distance away. For some reason, Jory couldn’t think of a response to his statement. She merely watched as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat of the Buick and then stared backward the entire time he put the car into reverse and backed the car out of the long dirt driveway.

  Chapter Eleven

  The days were getting shorter and cooler now. Albertsons’ supply of Jonathan apples was spotty, and the kitten, who was named So Handsome, spent each night curled up on the quilt next to Jory’s feet. Next week, Grip was going to take her trick-or-treating in the ice cream truck. Although how she was going to talk Grace into this, Jory wasn’t entirely sure. He had come over for Sunday morning “services” twice in a row and had ended up staying till Sunday evening each time. Last Sunday night, he had taught Grace how to crochet with the old box of needles and crochet thread that Grace had found in the basement. Jory found this amazing, the sight of Grip and Grace sitting on the couch, their heads bent together over balls of yarn with a crochet book from 1949 between them. It was both thrilling and slightly troubling to see Grip’s long and slightly matted red hair leaning into Grace’s smooth, short brunette cap as he taught her about chains and knots and slip stitches.

  This morning when she got up, she found Grace sitting on the porch, concentratedly working away at some small unidentifiable square of stuff in her lap. “Look what Hilda brought me,” Grace said, pointing to something on the top step. “It’s a pattern for a baby cap.”

  Mrs. Kleinfelter was sitting in the porch swing reading a National Geographic. “How was school yesterday?” she asked without looking up.

  “Okay, I guess,” said Jory, yawning. “We made soufflés in home ec.”

  “Hm,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter. “I don’t think I’ve eaten a soufflé in my life. Nor have I really wanted to.” She turned a page in her magazine. “The Incas were more bloodthirsty than the Aztecs. A little-known fact.”

  “My friend’s uncle got eaten by cannibals in Peru.”

  “Really,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter, putting down her magazine.

  “He was a missionary and they killed him and ate him.”

  “My, my,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter. “Didn’t like his sermons?”

  “This is terrible talk,” said Grace. “Philip Albright was an obedient servant of God. He was a willing martyr for the cause of Christ.”

  “He sits next to me in earth science.”

  “What?” said Grace.

  “The guy with the uncle who got eaten,” said Jory. “Laird Albright. I already told you.” Jory lay down on the wooden floor of the porch and let So Handsome walk on her chest. “Don’t I need to get him shots and stuff?”

  “I never do with my cats, but I know that’s not very modern.” Jory had noticed that being and not being modern was often a point of contention for Mrs. Kleinfelter. “If you want to get him shots, I suppose we can take him to that vet clinic in town.”

  “I don’t want him to die or get rabies,” Jory said. She lifted each of the kitten’s feet and peered at the tiny pink pads on the bottom. “Why did Frances call these ‘doughnuts’? They look nothing like doughnuts.”

  No one answered her.

  “I’m thinking of moving into town,” Mrs. Kleinfelter said. She gazed peaceably out at the late afternoon sun.

  “What?” Jory sat up, feeling an unexpected pang at the thought of this. “When?”

  “Oh, in a little while, I guess. It’d probably take me at least a month or two to sell the main house.” Mrs. Kleinfelter waved her hand airily, as if moving and selling her house were an everyday affair.

  “I don’t think you should go,” said Jory. “I don’t think you’d like it in town. It’s really noisy and busy and stuff. And there’s tons of traffic.”

  “Jory,” said Grace.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter. “I read an article in that AARP magazine that said the chief predictor of longevity is the number of people with whom you associate—I’m quoting now—and I realized that I don’t associate an awful lot. It also said that you’re more likely to get sick and go nuts if you don’t get out much.”

  “That’s sounds like quite a quote,” said Grace, pulling another stitch onto her crochet hook.

  “I guess that last part wasn’t exactly word for word, but that’s pretty much the gist of it.”

  “You do too get out,” said Jory.

  Mrs. Kleinfelter stood up and picked up her magazine. “Well, regardless,” she said. “It’s good old tuna casserole for me again tonight.” She paused. “I bet they don’t teach you that in home ec, do they?”

  Jory picked up So Handsome and let him walk along the porch railing. “Can I come watch Jeopardy! later?”

  “If you bring your homework.” Mrs. Kleinfelter moved down the stairs and then did her strange striding walk across the yard.

  “You shouldn’t tell her what to do.” Grace carefully moved the cat away from her crocheting.

  “Why not? You’re telling me what to do right now. You’re always telling people what to do. And not do.”

  Grace looked crestfallen. “Really?” She let her crocheting drop into her lap. “Is that how I seem to you? Like I’m always bossing you around?”

  Jory said nothing.

  “I guess I need to work on that, then,” said Grace, her words coming slowly. “Jesus warns against noticing the specks in other people’s eyes and ignoring the log in your own. I didn’t realize that I was being like that.”

  Jory smoothed down the nap on her new rust-colored bell-bottoms. “Just forget it.”

  “No,” said Grace. “I don’t want to be like that. I don’t mean to be like that.”

  The phone began to ring. Jory hopped up and flung open the front door and then dashed into the kitchen to get it. “Hello,” she said, somewhat breathlessly.

  “Hey there, Miss Q.”

  “Hi,” said Jory, beginning to smile. She had given Rhea her phone number even though she knew her father would have a fit.

 
“What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” said Jory. “What’re you doing?”

  “Going to a party. And so are you. At Dave Roddy’s house.”

  “I’m invited?” Jory couldn’t keep the note of surprise out of her voice.

  “Unless there’s some other Quanbeck chick named Jory. So hey—my sister’s driving and we’re gonna pick you up around eight thirty. So be ready.”

  Jory could hardly think. There was absolutely no way she could do this. “Sure, okay,” she said.

  “Killer. Wear something really sexy, and see if you can bring some booze. Just kidding!” Rhea laughed. “See ya in a bit!”

  “Bye,” said Jory. She hung up the phone and felt her stomach begin to twist. Maybe she could call Rhea back later and tell her she was sick. She gazed faintly around the room.

  “Who was that?” Grace came into the kitchen, So Handsome batting at her heels with each step.

  “Nobody,” said Jory. “Just a girl from school.”

  “Your new friend? The one from PE?”

  “Yeah, I gave her our number so I could get homework assignments.” Jory picked up the kitten and buried her face in its fur. “In case I was sick. Or something.” Jory put the cat into the wide porcelain sink, where it began lapping at drips from the faucet. “In fact, she wanted to know if I could come over tonight and help her study for our algebra test.”

  “Where? At her house?”

  “Um-hm. Her sister’s going to come get me at eight thirty.”

  “Tonight? Oh.” Grace sat down at the kitchen table. “What do you expect me to tell Dad if he comes over?”

  “I don’t know. That I’m a normal human being and that I might need to go over to my friend’s house once every eon?” Jory listened to the escalating sounds of her own supposed self-righteous indignation. “I can’t get decent grades if no one ever helps me. I don’t know anything at all about math.”

  “I’m helping you—I can help you.”

  “No, you can’t. You just can’t.” Jory threw herself around the kitchen with abandon. “I can’t learn from you because every time you try to help me, all I can think of is how much smarter you are than I am and how Dad likes you better because you’re like him.” Jory shook her head. “I can’t help it if I’m not mathematically inclined.”

  Grace looked stunned. “I don’t know how you got the idea that I’m smarter than you. It’s not true at all.”

  “Well, that’s how I feel.” Jory gazed blindly out the window above the kitchen sink, trying to summon up any other possible personal grievances and injustices.

  What was she doing? She didn’t know what to do at a party. Not at a grown-up public high school party. She barely even knew these kids. Jory brushed past her sister and ran upstairs and sat down on the edge of the bed, breathless. Plus, she needed something really, really cute to wear.

  At eight o’clock, Jory descended the stairs to sit carefully in the brown horsehair chair, trying not to wrinkle her shirt. She was wearing her new pale blue corduroy bell-bottoms and a lacy white blouse that she had made a year ago in Pathfinders. And her new moccasins. She had also found a tiny Avon sample lipstick of Pinch-Me-Not that she had rubbed on her cheeks as blusher, and she had brushed and brushed her hair until it was smooth and, hopefully, shiny. She had her algebra I book in her bag even though it wasn’t likely that she would be needing it.

  “It would be really great if you could talk to your friend about your walk with Christ, at least a little.” Grace looked fondly at Jory.

  Jory nodded, thinking not-so-kind thoughts about Grace’s own distinct and deliberate lack of style, about her impossibly outdated hairdo and completely makeup-free face. Grace was still wearing the dress Mrs. Kleinfelter had altered for her. She had been wearing it for days, even though Jory suggested that it might be time for a change—that she and Grip and even Mrs. Kleinfelter might like to see her in something else once in a while. And Jory still could not get used to seeing her sister’s belly protruding so roundly in front of her. For some reason it made Jory feel as if her own stomach were sticking out too. What was that called? Sympathetic something or other. Jory tightened her abdominal muscles and sucked in her stomach.

  “Seriously, any chance you get to talk to her about Christianity would be wonderful.” Grace smiled.

  Jory nodded again and readjusted the lace on her shirt cuff.

  “I don’t think Episcopalians are very Christ centered; I’m pretty sure it’s a ritual-based religion. Lots of communion and incense, but no real faith-based teachings about how to live. So it would be neat if you could ask her a little bit about her own personal feelings about faith, you know?”

  Jory stood up and went to the front door. “Did you hear a car?”

  “You know I’ve been surprised lately at how open Grip has been to some of the things I’ve been teaching him about the Gospel.”

  Jory peered out the window. “I think I’m just going to wait on the porch.”

  “He definitely seems hungry for the word of God,” said Grace. “Oh, and Jory, don’t forget your Bible.”

  Jory whirled around and stamped her foot on the floor. “Shut up! Just shut up!” She blanched then and covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry, Grace.”

  Grace sat on the couch looking down at the baby cap pattern. “It’s all right,” she said.

  “No, it’s not.” Jory shook her head in dismay.

  “Yes. I’m probably pushing you too hard. About witnessing and things.” Grace still wouldn’t meet Jory’s eyes. She smoothed out the pattern against her leg. “Plus, I was telling you what to do again.” Her voice was filled with remorse.

  Headlights panned across the living room wall and a car horn beeped twice.

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  Grace half nodded. “It’s my fault,” she said sadly.

  Jory fled out the door, down the steps, and across the grass. A long blue station wagon waited in the driveway. Its passenger window rolled noisily down and a song by the Guess Who streamed out into the night. “Hey there, party girl,” Rhea yelled. “Get your ass in here.”

  Jory stared back at the house. At the light coming from the living room, and from the diamond-shaped window on the second floor, where she had forgotten, yet again, to turn off her bedroom lamp.

  She opened the car door and got in.

  Dave Roddy lived in an old farmhouse somewhere on a deserted stretch of road even farther out in the country than Henry Kleinfelter’s. Without any other cars or streetlights or stars, it was as if they had driven through a dark, winding tunnel to get there, but once inside the house it was achingly, solidly bright and filled with sound. Jory swore that the record player was playing the same song they had been listening to in the car, but she couldn’t be sure because everyone in the house was talking so loud. She recognized no one from school—not anyone that she knew personally, anyway. Rhea’s sister Connie said that this was a senior party, strictly upperclassmen, and that the only reason she had let Rhea come was because she would have had to stay home and babysit her if she hadn’t. She had lit up a cigarette after she said this, and then didn’t say anything else the whole time she was driving them there, except to tell them that if they acted weird or like freaking babies in front of her friends she would never take them anywhere ever again. Ever.

  “Here,” said Rhea now, handing Jory a Styrofoam cup. “Drink up.”

  “What is it?” Jory tipped the cup back and forth, inspecting its contents.

  “I don’t know—it’s called Purple Jesus, so I guess it’s like taking communion or something,” said Rhea. “I already had two.” Rhea was wearing a leather headband that she kept having to readjust. “Did you see the guy over by the stereo? That’s Randy Asumendi.” Rhea took a long dr
ink from her cup. “He’s the football captain, or star or whatever.” She took another drink. “He evidently thinks he’s, like, it.” Rhea snorted. “I told him I liked his shirt.” She laughed loudly. “Look at that shirt!”

  The person named Randy, who could evidently see Rhea laughing at him, began sauntering across the room in their direction. His tight-fitting shirt was made of shiny cream-colored polyester with collar points that veered sharply down toward each pectoral muscle. A wildly rearing orange horse featured prominently across the front.

  “Oh, brother,” said Rhea, draining the last of her drink.

  “Hey,” said the Randy person, smiling at Rhea.

  “Hey, yourself,” said Rhea. “I’m getting a refill.” Rhea turned and headed toward the kitchen.

  With more than a little effort, Randy redirected his attention to Jory. He gave Jory a sidelong glance. “Are you as big a bitch as your friend over there?”

  Jory could think of absolutely nothing to say in response to this. She held her cup up to her lips and took a drink. It tasted like grape cough syrup. Sort of.

  “How come I’ve never seen you before?” Randy had leaned one of his hands against the wall, so that his bare arm was now next to Jory’s head. Jory took another, larger sip of her drink.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  “What are you? Sophomore? Freshman?” His eyes seemed to take a sort of vertical inventory of her. “You’re too young and skinny for a tenth grader.”

  “What?” Jory was taking nervous sips from her cup.

  Randy shook his head. He snapped his fingers directly in front of Jory’s face. “Hablas inglés? You speak-uh zee English?” He pulled a flat glass bottle out of his back pocket. “You two are weird—you know that? You and your friend. Weird and crazy.” He made a circling motion next to his ear and laughed, then took a drink and coughed. “Whew,” he said, and laughed some more.