by Sandra Moran
I don’t know how I summoned the courage to scream, but somehow, I did. My throat, paralyzed by fear, suddenly loosened and the sound burbled from my mouth. It was high-pitched and shrill. It was the sound of terror and revulsion. The sound made my throat raw. Strong hands grabbed me. Shook me.
“No!” I screamed. “No! Help me! No!”
My teeth rattled in my head.
“Birdie!” my mother yelled. “Birdie! Sweetie. Wake up. Wake up. You’re having a bad dream. Birdie! Birdie!”
I stared at her, disoriented. I was in my room. In my bed. In my sweaty nightgown. I felt relief and confusion. It seemed so real. I could still smell his sour body odor in my nose. I felt the bed and was relieved I hadn’t really lost control of my bladder. For the second time that week, my mother held me to her body and rocked me. I couldn’t stop shaking.
“It was so real,” I sobbed into her neck. “It was so real. He had a knife. And he knew about me. He knew who I was. He had been watching me.”
“Shhhh,” my mother said. “Shhhhh, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Shhhh . . . It’s okay.”
My father popped his head into the room. “Everything okay, Bird? Bad dream?”
“Uh huh,” I said, my sobs subsiding to sniffs and gulps of breath.
Thirty minutes later, I lay alone in my bed. I could hear the soft murmurs of my mother and father talking in the next room. I tried to make out what they were saying, but couldn’t. So, I lay on my side, curled around the pillow from the top bunk, and tried to dissect the dream. If I could understand it, I thought, perhaps I could take some of the scariness out of it. I knew the events were the combination of Don Wan’s drawings and my mother’s fears that something would happen to us. All of the elements made sense. But rather than making me feel better, the reality of the things that caused the dream made me feel vulnerable and fragile.
I told Natalie about the dream when she came over the next afternoon.
“It was Don Wan,” I said. “He was the one who grabbed me in the dream. I mean, it was him and it wasn’t him. You know how dreams are, where someone is a bunch of people at once.”
We were standing on the edge of the hole I had started the day before. Grace was supposed to show up at any time and I wanted to talk to Natalie about the drawings before she arrived. “So, what should we do?”
“I don’t know.” She stared down into the hole. “If we tell our folks, we’re going to be in so much trouble. But somebody needs to do something. Drawing naked pictures of kids is weird. I mean, I knew he was a pervert, but . . .”
We were silent.
“Why do you think he drew so many of Grace?”
Natalie shrugged. “She’s pretty. And she’s sort of . . . sad and mysterious. You know? She always seems to be thinking something secret.”
I considered Natalie’s description. She was right. There was something about Grace that drew people’s attention. Sometimes, it made me jealous, but most of the time I just chalked it up to Grace being . . . Grace.
“Do you ever wonder if she’s okay?” I asked finally. “Mom always asks me about her.”
Natalie nodded. “My mom does, too. And then when I tell her stuff, she just shakes her head and says, ‘That poor girl’ or ‘What the hell is Brenda thinking?’” She raised her eyes to meet my gaze before looking uncomfortably away.
“Do you think there’s anything we can do?” I asked finally. “You know, to help?”
Natalie shrugged. “Not really. I guess, just be her friend. I mean, her dad is totally busy with his girlfriend and her mom doesn’t seem to care what she does or what happens to her. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “I just feel bad for her.” I looked down the street. In the distance, I could hear the sound of a lawnmower. Grace was nowhere in sight. “Want some Kool-Aid while we wait?”
Natalie’s normally pale cheeks were already flushed from the heat. She grinned. “Grape?”
“Probably.” I gestured toward the house. “But just to warn you, Granny’s here.”
“Even better,” Natalie said and started toward the house.
My mother’s mother was at best, eccentric and at worst, slightly crazy. Her exploits and those of her brother were known throughout Edenbridge. To be fair, my grandmother came by her craziness naturally. According to my mother, it ran in the family. The younger of two children, Granny adored her older brother Hugh, who was tall, handsome, and extremely good with numbers. Of course, by the time I met him, Hugh was just a paunchy old man who wore polyester pants and silver-tipped cowboy boots. But in his day, he was apparently the star of our small town. And wherever Hugh went, so did my grandmother. The two were inseparable—even to the point that my grandmother dated Hugh’s best friend, Dale.
The trouble began when my grandmother and Dale walked into her parents’ kitchen one morning and announced that they were going to get married. Apparently, Hugh, who was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, stood up, looked at the ring, and announced that the marriage would happen over his dead body. He then strode out of the kitchen, out to his truck, and drove away.
“That was the last time we spoke for twenty years,” my grandmother would say, shaking her head.
“But why would he do that?” I would ask. “What made him so angry?”
“Who the hell knows,” my grandmother would say, lighting a fresh clove cigarette. “All I knew was that if he could act like that, I could, too. So I married your grandfather the next day. We eloped, went across the state line. My folks were so angry . . . Ach!” She waved her hand in dismissal.
This was the way of my grandmother. Everything was dramatic. She did nothing halfway. If she was told she couldn’t do something, she would do it anyway. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and how she wanted. It was challenging to the rest of us, most especially my grandfather who more often than not was responsible for tying up the loose ends left to flutter in the wake of my grandmother’s vague conception. This was especially true of her collection of animals.
My mother’s parents lived on five acres of land about ten miles west of Edenbridge. And it was on this property that my grandmother built her own private menagerie to which she added animals, on whims. She had chickens, ducks, a goat, two horses, a pony that collectively belonged to “the grandkids,” although we never rode it, and a handful of cats that roamed the property feasting on mice, rats, moles, and whatever small birds they could bring down. And then there were the dogs.
My grandmother fancied herself a dog breeder and show person of unparalleled skill. Her dog of choice was the black and tan dachshund. And it was here that she spent most of her time and energy. To her credit, she had some skill when it came to breeding, training, and showing her dogs. She traveled around the Midwest to dog shows and frequently came home with purple ribbons and trophies that sat in limp, dusty piles on the shelf that ran along the wall of her office.
At no time would she be seen with fewer than three yipping weenie dogs jumping like dark pieces of popcorn around the inside of her car or, if they were on leashes, around her feet. And such was the case on the day she sat in my mother’s kitchen wearing a Zuni-inspired shirt-dress she’d collected on her last trip to New Mexico, smoking her clove cigarettes and offering unsolicited advice about motherhood. As Natalie and I entered the kitchen, Blitz, Britta, and Edelweiss leapt from their slumber at my grandmother’s feet and rushed toward us in an excited frenzy. Because of their German heritage, all of my grandmother’s dogs were christened with German names.
“Come give your grandmother a hug,” she said through the exhaled cloud of spiced smoke. “So, what were the two of you doing out there in the yard?” she asked as she reclaimed her smoldering cigarette and took a drag.
“I’m digging a hole to China,” I said grabbing a handful of potato chips and offering the bag to Natalie. “Mom won’t let me ride around town, so I’m going to see if I can dig t
o China.”
Granny turned to my mother and raised her jet-black eyebrows. Her natural hair color was actually a light brown, but she insisted on dying her hair and eyebrows black. It was, she would tell people, a throwback to her “Indian blood.” My mother shrugged.
“Maybe you should get the girls a dog,” Granny said. “It would be a good watchdog, too.”
My mother sighed. “Mother, for the last time, I don’t want a dog. I grew up with dogs and I don’t want one now. I like having a clean house. I like not having to clean up dog sh—” She glanced at me and stopped. “Excrement.”
My grandmother stared at my mother incredulously. It was as if they didn’t have this same conversation every time they were together. She turned to me.
“Birdie, wouldn’t you like to have a little puppy?” she asked. “I just had a litter and there is one little sweetie I think you would just love. She’s ornery, spunky, and just a little rotten. Her name is Hexe. It means ‘witch’ in German.”
I looked at my mother.
“We are not getting a dog. And if we do, it’s going to be an outside dog that is bigger than a cat.”
Granny looked down at her dogs, made kissy noises, and began to speak in her puppy voice. “Don’t underestimate the ferociousness of the dachshund.” She shook her head violently from side to side, talking to them rather than us. “No, no, no. Don’t do it. No, don’t do it. They’re ferocious. Yes, they are. Yes, they are.”
I glanced at Natalie, who was watching the exchange with amusement. And, suddenly it occurred to me that maybe a puppy was what Grace needed. Something warm to curl up on her bed at night. Something sweet and loving that she could pay attention to and that would pay attention to her. Something that might protect her.
“Actually,” I said. “What about Grace? I’ll bet she would love a puppy. I mean, she couldn’t afford to buy one from you, but if you wanted Hexe to go to a good home . . .”
Granny looked at my mother.
“Who’s Grace?” she asked.
“Brenda’s daughter,” my mother replied and then turned to face me. “Birdie, I’m not sure that Brenda would want Grace to have a dog and I don’t think your grandmother is suggesting that she wanted to give away any of the litter. She was just offering it to us.”
“Yeah, but—” I began.
“No buts.” My mother held up her hand. “I—” Her words were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
“That’s Grace,” I said and gestured to Natalie. “Let’s go.”
We hurried to the door and I pulled it open with a yank. Grace stood on the front step. In her hand, she held the transistor radio that she sometimes listened to while riding her bike. Next to her stood my sister, her hands and knees covered with pastel chalk.
“Hey,” I said to Grace and then glared at Tara.
“Hey.” Grace tipped her head toward Tara. “Sorry I’m late. I had to help Tara color in one of her flowers.”
“Wanna see?” Tara asked.
“No,” I said. “We have stuff we have to do in the garage.”
Natalie and I stepped onto the porch and the three of us headed toward the garage. Tara followed.
“Sorry about this,” I said as we walked. “Mom’s just . . .” I shrugged. “You know . . . after yesterday . . .”
“It’s cool,” Grace said. “Natalie told me what’s going on. So, do you think it’s permanent?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Probably.” We had reached the garage and stood in the doorway. “But I was thinking . . . what if we build a tree house here? I mean, it wouldn’t be the same, but . . .” I shrugged again and tried not to look hopeful. Grace laughed and I turned to see Tara mimicking my shrug.
“Go inside,” I told her sharply. “Just because I have to stay at home doesn’t mean I have to hang out with you.”
“But I want to help.”
“No,” I said shortly.
“I’ll tell Mom,” she warned.
“Tell her what, smarty pants?” I asked.
“That you lied to her,” she said smugly.
“About what?” I asked, curious what she knew—or, at least, what she thought she knew.
“You know,” she said simply and then added, “About yesterday.”
I narrowed my eyes, wondering what she could have overheard in my earlier telephone conversation with Natalie. I looked at Grace and Natalie and raised my eyebrows.
“I don’t care,” Grace said. Natalie rolled her eyes.
I sighed and looked back at Tara. “Fine. But you have to do exactly what I tell you and if you get in the way, I’m going to make you go inside.”
Tara nodded happily and I turned back to Natalie and Grace.
“So, we have a bunch of wood from when Dad was trying to make some bookcases or something,” I said. “I thought we could use that.”
As a group, we walked to the back of the darkened garage and crowded around the pile of boards and planks.
Natalie studied them critically. “We could cut those in half for rungs to climb up.” She pointed to a stack of haphazardly cut two-by-fours.
“Yeah,” I pointed to several long planks of wood. “And we could use those for the floor. I don’t think we have enough for walls and a roof, though.”
Tara had wandered over to our father’s workbench and now gestured at the folded tarp my mother had used to cover the floor when she painted the living room.
“What about that?”
Natalie grinned and nudged me with her shoulder. “Not a bad idea, rug rat.”
I scowled, but said nothing.
“See?” Tara looked significantly at me. “I can help.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I turned to Grace. “You want to grab those small pieces? And Nat, how about you start hauling those long boards out? I’ll find some hammers and nails and a saw.”
“What can I do?” Tara asked.
“You can help me,” Grace said.
She looked up at me for confirmation. I rolled my eyes and shrugged.
“Fine.”
We worked the rest of the morning without stopping until around noon, when Mom brought out sandwiches, Cheetos, and lemonade for lunch. We sat at the redwood-stained picnic table and ate, Grace and Tara on one bench and Natalie and I on the other.
“I think it’s going to be cool,” Natalie said, looking up at our partially constructed floor. “It’ll be like having two houses. And we can sleep over in this one.”
“Yeah,” Grace said, her tone almost thoughtful. “Especially since we’re not the only ones at the Nest.”
Natalie and I both looked quickly at her.
“What do you mean?” Natalie asked.
Grace blinked. She looked as if she hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud. She looked guiltily down at her paper plate and picked at the crust of her sandwich. “Nothing.”
“That’s not ‘nothing.’” Natalie sounded angry. “Who else is coming to the Nest?”
“He’s not coming to the Nest,” Grace said quickly. “He just comes to the clearing.”
Natalie looked at me to see if I knew what Grace was talking about. I shook my head. “Who is ‘he’?”
“Just this boy who comes into the woods,” Grace said, still not meeting Natalie’s eyes. “Not all the time, just sometimes.”
I leaned forward. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know.” Grace looked back and forth, first at Natalie, then me, and then back at Natalie. “Maybe he’s new or just here for the summer.”
I glanced at Natalie. Her face was growing red, though from the heat or the emotion, I couldn’t tell. She assumed her interrogator tone. “What’s he look like?”
Grace shrugged and pinched small pieces of crust from the corner of her sandwich. “Tall. Skinny. Brown hair.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “High school.”
“How long has he been coming around the Nest?” Natalie pressed. “And why haven’t you told us
about him?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said. Her expression seemed almost pained. “I just . . .”
“So, tell us about him now,” I interrupted before Natalie had a chance to launch into more questions.
“I don’t really know anything,” she said. “He just hikes around the woods.”
“Just hikes around?” Natalie looked significantly at me. “Sounds a little suspicious to me.”
“Everything sounds suspicious to you,” I said and shot her a look that told her to back off.
“Yeah, well . . .” Natalie shrugged defensively. “I’m just curious.”
“Well, we need to get back to work,” I reached out to collect the paper plates and napkins and then started to walk toward the house. Grace moved quickly to pick up the cups and the bag of Cheetos. Before Natalie could corner her, she followed me inside.
“Sorry about that,” I said when we were in the kitchen. “You know how Nat is.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I just don’t want her getting all weird and telling her dad. She . . . well, you know.”
I laughed. “You’d think she was sheriff.”
Grace nodded but didn’t laugh with me. If anything, she looked worried.
“What’s wrong?”
She shrugged and picked at her thumbnail. Grace rarely shared her personal thoughts or concerns. That she was considering doing so now was significant. My heart began to pound heavily.
“Do you think I could stay over?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know.” I considered asking my mother but knew the answer would probably be “no.” Even though Grace and Natalie were allowed to come over during the day, a sleepover was a treat.
“Probably not,” I said with a sigh. “I’m still sort of in trouble for riding out of town the other day. But I could ask.”
I could hear Natalie outside talking to Tara.
“No, that’s okay.” Grace said “It’s not a big deal. I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you outside?”
Before I could reply, she turned and headed down the hallway, her shoulders hunched forward, her head down. I had the overwhelming desire to say something, to stop her, to tell her that I would ask my mother if she could stay—demand it even. But in the end, I didn’t. In the end, I watched her walk away and didn’t say a word.
