G
It took until Friday for Jory to come back to herself all the way. On Thursday night, the emergency room nurse had found the tiny square of paper in her pants pocket and then the doctor had given her a shot of something strong to counteract the effects of the first drug. Mrs. Kleinfelter had driven her home stretched out in the front seat of the truck and Grace had put her to bed, where she slept for the next fourteen hours. On Friday evening, Grip came to see her, but Grace met him at the door and sent him away. On Saturday night, Jory was lying on the dead cat couch trying to read Act IV in Romeo and Juliet when the back door opened and Grip walked clear through the kitchen and into the living room before Grace could stop him.
“Grip,” said Grace, standing up. “Go away.”
“Nope,” said Grip. “Not going.” He moved over to the couch, right next to where Jory was lying. “I’m so, so sorry, Jory,” he said. He had an old brown hat that he kept twisting around in his hands.
Jory realized with a sudden little jolt that she had never heard him say her name before. Ever.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not your fault.” Her voice sounded faint and unconvincing, even to her. She cleared her throat. “It was just an accident. I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing or anything.”
“I should never have taken you out there. It was a stupid idea. Stupid.”
Grace coughed briefly.
Jory sat up on the couch and pulled her knees up to her chest. “It’s no one’s fault. And I’m okay, so let’s just forget about it.”
Grip sighed and sat down on the arm of the couch. He glanced at Jory and then at Grace. “I took a little drive back out there last night,” he said, “after you kicked me out.” He gave the brown hat a toss and it sailed across the room and landed with a skid next to the horsehair chair. The kitten pounced on it and tried to drag it off toward the kitchen, his head held high.
“To the hippie house?” Grace put her crocheting down on the floor. “Why? What for?”
“Just wanted to repay the favor, that’s all.”
“Oh, no,” said Grace. “What did you do?”
“Not much. Not nearly as much as I wanted to.”
Jory’s eyes widened. “You hit him?”
“Only a couple of times.”
Jory let out a whoop of laughter and then covered her mouth with both her hands. “Oh, wow. That’s awful,” she said, suddenly looking serious. “No, it really is.”
“That idiot deserved it.” Grip shook his head over and over. “And somebody should have messed me up for taking you out there in the first place.” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry,” he said again, looking at Jory. “Really sorry.”
“Hey,” said Jory. She stood carefully up from the couch. “Look—I’m perfectly fine. See?” She shrugged her shoulders and tried to smile. “No more Aramaic.”
“Don’t, Jory.” Grace took a deep breath, and then she too stood up. “This whole thing was just awful. I thought you were dying,” she said to Jory. “I thought you had been poisoned or had had a stroke or an aneurysm or something. And the whole ride to the hospital, that whole long, horrible ride, I was thinking desperately about how I was going to explain this to Mom and Dad. How I was going to have to call them up and tell them that you had died.”
“I didn’t though,” Jory said feebly. “I didn’t die.”
Grace now stood in the kitchen doorway.
“This is all my fault,” said Grip. “Every bit of it.” He gave Grace a beseeching glance.
“It’s all of our faults.” Grace stood in the doorway a moment longer looking at Jory, and then she turned and went into the kitchen.
Jory sat on the couch with her head in her hands while Grip stood, shifting from foot to foot. “Oh, hell,” he said suddenly. He had moved across the room and was looking out the front window. “Whose car is that?”
“Huh?” said Jory, pushing up behind him and moving the curtain aside. She gave a small gasp. “Oh, no—oh, no. That’s my dad. You have to go.” She gave him a shove. “Through the kitchen. C’mon . . . hurry up.”
“But my truck’s out front.”
“I know, I know . . . just go out back behind the bushes or the shed or something until he leaves.”
“Behind the bushes?” Grip scooped up his hat from the floor and crammed it on his head. “Jesus.”
Jory continued to push him through the kitchen. “Dad’s here,” she hissed at Grace, who was pulling dishes and cups out of the dish drainer.
“I guess you might as well just face the music,” Grace said, opening the cupboard and stacking the plates on top of each other.
“I hate that phrase,” said Jory in a fierce whisper.
“Knock-knock,” their father was calling out from the front door. The front door opened and then closed with a loud squeak and a sigh. “Anybody home in there?”
“Oh, shoot,” said Jory, and sank down against the stove.
“It’ll be okay,” said Grip.
Jory gave Grip an incredulous look.
“Whose truck is that in the driveway?” Their father strolled into the kitchen, smiling quizzically and carrying a bag of groceries. He glanced at Grip. “Oh,” he said with a small start.
Grip stepped forward and stretched out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Their father shook Grip’s hand with the briefest of motions. “And who are you exactly?”
“I’m a friend of your daughters.” Grip gestured toward Jory and Grace as if to make clear exactly which daughters he was referring to.
“Thanks so much for bringing us the groceries, Dad.” Jory tried to look pleased.
Grace walked directly between the two men and placed a handful of silverware down on the kitchen table. “Grip has been coming to our Sunday morning devotions, Dad. He’s very interested in learning more about the Bible and how it relates to Eastern religious thought.”
“I see,” said their father. “You couldn’t find a church of your own?” He cocked his head at Grip. “There are quite a number of good churches all over the city. Probably a half dozen of them.”
Jory took the bag of groceries out of her father’s arms. “Well, Grip’s new to town and didn’t know anyone or where to go to church or anything, so we said that until he found a home church of his own, he could come worship with us, like temporarily, because obviously we’re not as good as a real church or anything but until he learns his way around Arco and everything, well, we thought it would be better than nothing . . .” Jory shifted the bag of groceries from one arm to the other.
“I see,” their father said again. “And you girls are conducting services on Saturday nights now, too?”
“Oh, I just stopped by for a moment to see if Jory was feeling all right, sir,” said Grip.
“You’ve been sick? Grace didn’t say anything about it on the phone.” He turned his gaze toward Grace.
“I’m fine now,” said Jory. “Perfectly fine. It was nothing really.”
“Well,” said Grip, “I should probably be taking off and leave you folks to your dinner, or whatever. It was nice meeting you.” Grip stretched out his hand again and grasped their father’s. “You have some very lovely daughters, Mr. Quanbeck—Dr. Quanbeck, sir, and, you know, I value their friendship very highly.” Grip turned slightly. “Jory, I’m certainly glad you’re feeling better.” He nodded at the three of them and walked toward the front door.
“I’ll walk you out,” their father said, and he followed Grip out through the living room.
“Oh no oh no oh no,” Jory whispered. As soon as the front door shut, she made a beeline for the front window. From her vantage point behind the curtain, she could see her father and Grip now standing next to Grip’s truck. Grip had his hands in his pockets. Her father was doing all the talking. Every once in a while Grip looked up at her father
and nodded briefly, his lips pressed together, not even attempting to speak. After a moment or two, Grip got in his truck and her father turned back toward the house. Jory ran quickly back into the kitchen.
Grace was draining the boiled potatoes. “Mashed?” she said, not looking at Jory.
She shrugged disconsolately. Grace handed her the bowl and the red-handled potato masher.
Their father came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “So what have you girls got going there?” Their father’s voice sounded deliberately and overly friendly. He rubbed his hands together. “What delicious thing are you cooking up tonight?” Jory was shocked by her father’s tone. His strange lack of anger seemed to indicate something even worse.
“We’re having hot dogs and canned corn,” said Grace.
“And lumpy potatoes,” said Jory.
“Hm,” said their father, pulling a chair from the table and sitting down. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Say, I wasn’t planning on staying long, but I think maybe we should have a little talk. So I think I’ll stick around for a bit, if that’s okay with you two.”
“But you don’t eat hot dogs,” said Jory weakly.
“Oh, I suppose one probably won’t kill me. I’ve read that rat particles are a fairly good source of protein.” He laughed briefly. “So, is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can set the table.” Grace pointed to the left kitchen cupboard. “Plates and glasses are in there.”
Their father eased his long legs out of his chair and walked over to where Jory was now standing next to the sink. “I talked to Mr. Mullinix yesterday,” he said, opening the cupboard above her head, “and he said that the incident in earth science won’t become a part of your permanent record. But that if there were a repeat episode—these are his words, not mine—you would be immediately expelled from school. And that that information most definitely would be placed in your file.” Her father got down three dinner plates and stood next to her, holding them. “It made me wonder for a minute whether or not you did this thing simply to get out of going to school there.” Her father sounded not just solemn, but sad. “Because if you did, that was certainly not the smartest way to go about it.” He held the plates flattened against his chest as if protecting them from harm. “I would hate to see you ruin your high school career merely to prove a point to me.”
Jory kept her eyes on her mashing. “I just didn’t know the answers,” she said, “and I was scared to flunk. You didn’t even enter my thinking.”
“I see,” he said. Grace set two platters down on the table and seated herself next to Jory. Her father stood there a moment more, and then he pulled out a chair and sat down, taking a quick drink of milk and then clearing his throat again. “Actually, part of the reason I came over tonight was to bring you something, Grace.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim colored brochure that he then laid on the table next to his plate, although he kept his hand on the bottom of the brochure as if worried that it might escape. Jory could see that there was a young woman on the front of the brochure who looked both serious and peaceful. The Greatest Gift was written in gold script right beneath the peaceful girl’s face.
“What is that, Dad?” A hint of alarm had entered Grace’s voice.
“Well,” he said, “I sent for some information in the mail that I thought I would share with you.” Their father sounded determined. He still had not moved his hand from the bottom of the brochure. “Your mother and I have been talking lately, and we want to make sure that—well, that you are able to go on with your life. That you are able to go to college and get your degree and be with people your own age. Things that are very important to a young woman.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We think that this would be best for everyone—for you, and for . . . everyone.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
Jory couldn’t tell whether Grace was genuinely ignorant or willfully so.
“Well,” said their father, giving the brochure a final pat and then sliding it in Grace’s direction, “I’d like you to take a look at this.”
“What is it?” said Grace, still refusing to look down at the brochure.
“Well, there are choices that a girl . . . in your position needs to consider. And I think, and your mother thinks—we both think—that this is the all-around best choice for everyone involved.” He moved the brochure farther across the table toward Grace, but Grace pulled her hands away as quickly as if a large hairy insect were heading toward them.
“What is this best choice you’re referring to, Dad? I’d like to hear you say exactly what it is.”
“Grace,” their father said in a now miserable voice. “This would be for your own good. All I want is for you to have the very best possible future you can have.”
“And what about my baby’s future? What about that?”
Jory had never heard Grace use that phrase before. My baby. Not God’s baby. Not an angel’s baby. My baby.
Their father picked up the brochure and quickly flipped through its glossy pages. “It says that they only place the children—the babies—with financially responsible, loving couples who are unable to become parents on their own. You would be doing them the hugest favor possible.” Their father’s voice wound down and dwindled. “It’s the greatest of gifts,” he said finally.
“You want me to give my baby away.”
Their father said nothing.
“You want me to give my baby away, is what you’re saying.” Grace shoved her chair back from the table. Her napkin fell to the floor. “Isn’t that what you mean?”
“Oh, honey,” their father said. He reached out toward Grace, who evaded his grasp. “Now, I want you to think realistically for a minute. How were you going to raise this child by yourself, with no money, no job, no husband? Have you thought about what that would mean?”
The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel Page 28
