State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  We worked on the tree house for the rest of the afternoon until it was time for Grace and Natalie to go home. Grace left first, riding slowly off in the direction of her house. Natalie, however, hung back. I knew she wanted to talk about something, though I wasn’t sure if it was the pictures or the boy in the woods. Grace had barely gotten out of sight before Natalie turned to face me.

  “So, what did she say when you guys were inside the house?” she demanded.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to play dumb.

  “You and Grace,” Natalie said. “When you guys went inside after lunch, what did she say?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly.

  “Bird, look at me.” She studied my face for several seconds and then said, “You’re lying.”

  “It’s true. She just wanted to know if she could stay over.”

  “That’s all?”

  I nodded.

  “So, what do you think about this guy hanging around the Nest?” she asked.

  “It’s kind of weird,” I admitted. Natalie waited for me to say more. When I didn’t, she began to pick at a scabbed-over chigger bite on her arm. I took a deep breath and forced myself to ask the question that had been on my mind all day. “So, what are we going to do about those pictures? The ones in Don Wan’s stuff?”

  She shook her head without looking up from the bite, which was now bleeding. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it. It’s like I said before. It’s creepy. What do you think?”

  “I thought about telling my mom, but if I do, I’ll have to tell how we found them and then I’ll be grounded for the rest of the summer. And so will you guys.”

  “I know,” Natalie said with a sigh. “I thought about that, too.” She paused, thoughtful. “Maybe we should send an anonymous note.”

  “To who?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know—my dad or the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “But who’s going to write it?”

  “I will.”

  I frowned. “What are you going to say?”

  “That Don Wan is holed up in the Montgomery house and that he has naked drawings of people in his stuff.” She paused and then said, “No . . . that he has naked drawings of kids from Edenbridge.”

  “It might work,” I admitted. “And it would be better than telling our folks.”

  “I know,” Natalie said.

  We were both silent for several seconds.

  “So, we’re all stuck at home, huh?”

  I nodded glumly. “Grace isn’t.”

  “Yeah.” She looked down the street in the direction Grace had ridden. “I’m going to miss swimming in the creek.” She raised her hand and used the fleshy heel of it to push her bangs back from her sweaty forehead. “Maybe we can figure out a way to sneak off.” She walked over to her bike, pulled it upright, and climbed on. “Meantime, I’ll work on that letter. I need to practice disguising my handwriting.” She put her foot on the pedal and pushed off. “See you later, alligator.”

  I raised my hand. “After while, crocodile.”

  “Not if I see you first,” she called over her shoulder.

  And then I was alone.

  Chapter 8

  Even as my mother insisted that I stay close to home, Grace’s mother imposed no such limitations. Most of the time, as she and Reggie slept off whatever they had ingested the night before, Grace came and went as she pleased. Usually, she would end up at the Nest where she read, napped, daydreamed, or watched the lonely, dark-haired boy play with his knife. Although he didn’t come every day, most mornings he would show up around 10:30 and go directly to the base of the old oak.

  The routine, Grace told me later, was always the same. He would take the carefully wrapped bundle to the large rock where he had sat that first day and reverently unwrap it until it lay, blade in its leather scabbard, in his lap. Next, he would slide the blade out and examine it, running his thumb along the razor-sharp edge. He had stolen a whetstone from his grandfather’s shed and now used that instead of the file to sharpen the blade.

  As she had on that first day, she watched him handle the knife, shifting it from hand to hand, feeling its weight, imagining its power. She knew the heft of the knife because she had finally succumbed to curiosity and snuck down to his hiding place and unwrapped it. It was large and heavy. She held it in both hands before sliding the sharp blade out of its sheath, the earthy scent of leather filling her nostrils. Holding the knife felt wrong, she realized, though she wasn’t sure why. Curiosity satisfied, she carefully rewrapped the blade and returned the bundle to its hiding place.

  Often, she later told me, the boy used the knife for target practice, picking out a knot or distinguishing mark on one of the trees and then attempting to throw the knife and make it stick into the spot. He tried a variety of grips, first on the handle and then the blade. Grace watched as he marched an indeterminate number of strides from the tree, turned, and threw the knife at his target. She found herself mesmerized by the flash of the blade as it pinwheeled toward its intended target. At first, he missed most of the time. But with practice, his aim improved to the point where he was standing farther and farther from the trees at which he was aiming. As he practiced, he muttered to himself. Grace could never hear the words, just the sound of his voice. But that, in addition to his glassy-eyed look, reminded her of her mother and Reggie when they took drugs.

  Grace hated what her mother had become. She knew that her friends were aware that something was going on, although they didn’t ask about the details. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, she knew. It was simply a case of not knowing what to say if she had answered honestly. She herself didn’t know what to say. How could she explain how her life had changed over the past year? Her mother’s depression. Her drinking. Her boyfriend.

  Grace hated everything about Reggie—the drugs and alcohol he gave her mother, his too-sweet cologne, his Village People mustache. Most of all, she hated how he looked at her when her mother was too wasted to notice. He leered, his eyes glassy and hungry at the same time. His gaze lingered on her body and her face in a way that was predatory. It was as if his ownership of her mother somehow extended to include her. More than once he had offered her a sip of his drink or snuck into her bedroom at night after her mother had passed out.

  As an adult looking at childhood pictures of Grace, I can now appreciate what men like Reggie and Don Wan saw in Grace. Had she lived, she would have grown into a beautiful woman. At the age of eleven, she was gangly; tall and slender with legs like a newborn colt. But you could see that she would grow into her height and flesh out her bones in a lean, willowy kind of way. You could also see in her face that she would have become beautiful. Her blond hair was long and glossy. Her chin was delicately pointed and her teeth were slightly crooked, but these imperfections disappeared once you noticed her eyes. In my memory of her that last year before her death, her eyes were tired and ringed with dark circles. But in the school pictures taken in the years before her death, her eyes were alive and vibrant, a dark green-brown rimmed with thick, dark brown lashes.

  I often consider what those eyes must have seen during the course of her short life. They were the eyes that watched her life fall apart; the eyes that saw her killer; the eyes that looked to me for the help that I was unable to give her. The realization of how I must have let her down haunts me to this day.

  I remember the two weeks before Grace’s death as being unmercifully hot, with air so thick and humid that it hurt to breathe too deeply. This was exacerbated by the southern winds that blew the stench from Mr. Holmes’ hog farm directly into town. Everyone was on edge. Farmers feared the loss of their farms. Parents worried for the safety of their children. And we kids were chafing under the constant supervision and loss of freedom.

  The only people who seemed unfazed by what was going on in Edenbridge were Puddin’ Puddin’ and Grace—the former who continued to ride his squeaky bike aro
und town and the latter who spent most of her time, when she wasn’t at my house or Natalie’s, at the Nest. While the rest of us were kept close to home for our own safety, Grace was sneaking away from hers for the same reason.

  The day before her death, Grace and Natalie came over to my house to christen the new tree house. We had finished it the day before and this was the first chance we would have to do nothing but hang out in it. I was sitting in a patch of shade along the front of the house when they rode up. Grace looked drawn and the shadows under her eyes were darker than I had ever seen them.

  “Hey,” she said as she coasted to a stop.

  “What’s shakin’, bacon?” Natalie asked as she swung her leg over the seat of her bike and coasted to a graceful dismount.

  “Hey,” I said, though my attention hadn’t wavered from Grace. “You okay?”

  Grace nodded and toed down the kickstand of her bike. Natalie’s face was florid from the heat and the ride. She looked first at Grace and then at me. “I saw the Schwan’s man on my way over. Do you think your mom would let us have ice cream?”

  “One step ahead of you.” I gestured for them to follow me into the storage room where we kept the deep freezer. “Mom just bought drumsticks.”

  “Excellent,” Natalie said. “And then we’ll go up to the new tree house because I have a great idea.”

  I lifted the scratched, white lid of the freezer chest. Icy air billowed up and we all crowded around to take advantage of the cold. Natalie reached down to finger the white, butcher-papered parcels of the side of beef we bought twice each year. “That feels so good.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I looked over my shoulder. “We better pick something or Mom will get mad about letting all the cold air out.”

  Still, we labored over our choices between drumstick, Fudgsicle, or ice cream sandwich, finally each choosing a drumstick and gripping it tightly in one hand as we climbed the boards nailed to the trunk of the tree, up to the tree house.

  “So,” began Natalie once we had settled onto the sit-upons each of us had made the year before in Girl Scouts. “I hereby call this meeting to order. First order of business . . .” She paused dramatically and Grace and I both looked up from unwrapping our ice cream cones. Natalie grinned, clearly enjoying the attention.

  “What?” I raised my eyebrows. “You’re clearly dying to tell us.”

  Natalie lowered her voice. “Did you guys hear about Don Wan?”

  Natalie glanced at me and we both shook our heads.

  “The Montgomery house was raided and he was kicked out.” Natalie was almost unable to contain her glee. “He was asked to leave town.”

  I stared. “For real?”

  “Yep.” Natalie gave an authoritative nod. “I heard my dad talking to my mom. The Sheriff’s Department got an anonymous letter. Typed.” She grinned and licked her sticky fingers. I tried to catch her eye, but she continued to act nonchalant, although, at one point, I could have sworn she gave me the briefest nod—so brief, I wasn’t sure I had seen it.

  “Dad says he was drunk and mad as hell,” she said. “He said Don tried to fight him, but Dad told him to knock it off and if he showed up in town again, he was going to arrest him.”

  “Wow,” Grace said again. Her eyes were round and her pretty mouth was pursed. “Can they do that? Arrest him?”

  Natalie nodded.

  “Yeah, for breaking into the house and stuff. But not for the pictures. You can’t arrest someone for being creepy.”

  “But he’s dangerous,” I said.

  Natalie shrugged. “At least we won’t have him creeping around town anymore.”

  We nodded and then for several long minutes, none of us spoke.

  “So, that’s my first news flash. My second one is that I have a plan so we can sneak off and go swimming in the creek.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Mom won’t let me even go near the woods.”

  Grace licked at the dribbles of ice cream melting down the side of her cone and said nothing.

  “See, that’s why I have a plan,” Natalie said. “We all tell our moms that we’re going over to someone else’s house. Grace and I will tell our moms that we’re coming over here. You—” she pointed her cone at me “—you will tell your mom you’re coming over to my house. Then, we meet at the Nest and go swimming. Am I brilliant or what?”

  She looked back and forth between us. From the corner of my eye, I saw Grace lift her narrow shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t have to tell my mom anything.” Her words trailed off and she shrugged again. “I can meet you guys anywhere,” she said finally.

  I noticed again the dark shadows under her eyes and the way she seemed to shrink into herself. I considered asking if she wanted to stay the night at my house, but then didn’t. If we were going to put this plan into action, I might be able to work it to my advantage. If I told my mother I was going to Natalie’s earlier than we were supposed to meet, I could get to the Nest early and have some time alone.

  “So?” Natalie’s voice broke into my thoughts and I looked up, quickly.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “Mom would know if I snuck my swimsuit out.”

  “I’ve already thought about that,” Natalie said. “We tell our moms we’re going over to play in the garden sprinkler—that way, when you show up with wet hair, it will be okay.” She grinned proudly. “So?” Natalie said, looking first at Grace and then me. “What do you think?”

  I shook my head slowly back and forth.

  “Come on,” Natalie said. “You know you want to. And we deserve to. We’ve been locked away all summer. School starts in just a couple of weeks. We deserve a little fun. And think how good the water is going to feel.”

  “I just . . .” I began.

  “Come on, Bird,” Natalie wheedled. “Don’t be a scaredy-cat. Your mom will never know. There’s nothing wrong with breaking the rules every once in a while. And we’re not going to get caught. I promise.” She turned to look at Grace. “You’re in, right?”

  “Sure,” Grace said with a shrug.

  “All right,” I said with a sigh. “I’m in.”

  Natalie grinned and slapped me on the leg. “Excellent. We just wait until morning to tell them. That way if they talk tonight, they won’t ask each other.”

  I pressed my lips together. If we got caught, I would be grounded. But, I told myself, it felt like I was grounded already, so . . .

  “It’s going to be wicked,” Natalie promised. “You’ll see.”

  I was the one who found Grace’s body. As we had planned, I lied to my mother not just about where I was going to be, but what time I was supposed to be there. I told her that I had forgotten to mention it the night before but that we were all going to hang out at Natalie’s house. After two weeks of us hammering together the tree house, I think she was relieved to have a day of peace. Still, she asked the requisite questions.

  “It’s okay with her mother, right?” she asked. “She asked permission?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Mrs. Stewart said it was okay.”

  “Well,” she said. “If she asked her mom and it’s okay with her, it’s okay with me. What time are you supposed to go over?”

  “Anytime after ten,” I lied.

  I left exactly at ten o’clock, heading in the direction of Natalie’s house. My plan was to cut across to the woods as soon as I was out of my mother’s sight and head to the Nest. It would be nice, I thought, if I had the place to myself. But it would be okay, too, if Grace was there. We often spent quiet time together. She would read and I would draw. There were often squirrels that raced from tree to tree, chasing each other in a frantic game of tag. Perhaps, I thought as I pedaled down the street, I could draw one of them.

  It’s funny what you remember in retrospect. Looking back on that day, I remember thinking how free I felt, not to be under anyone’s supervision except my own for a little while. I felt light-hearted and empowered as I rode, grinning like a maniac, wit
hout holding onto the handlebars. I even whistled. I rolled to a stop as I reached the path that led to the Nest, dismounted, and walked my bike along the path.

  I think I knew something was wrong before I actually saw her. It was too quiet. The buzzing of the insects that usually faded into the background was deafening in its absence. The rustling of birds and animals was missing. The woods were still. Something seemed wrong. I considered turning around but didn’t.

  I saw her body as I pushed my bike up the slight incline that led into the clearing. At first, I didn’t realize what I was looking at. Her back was to me, and from behind, she looked like a large whitish rock. Or a large frosted slab of ice. That’s what I remember thinking: It’s summer and yet there’s a frosted, oddly melted piece of ice out there in the woods. And for a second or two, as I walked closer, I wondered how it got there. But as I got within a couple of feet, I realized it wasn’t ice. It was a person lying on their—no her—side. Asleep? No. Nude? Yes. Dead? I didn’t know.

  My heart pounded. My hands tingled and grew numb. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I felt sick. I felt weak, as if my legs were going to give out. And then I realized it wasn’t just a body. It was a person—a person who was young and slight and . . . and familiar. The hair. That’s what I noticed first—her hair. It was long and blond. I let my bike fall to the ground and stepped closer. The stillness of the woods rang in my ears.

  She had died on her side with one leg pulled up under her—as if she had, in her last few moments, tried to curl into the fetal position, but lacked the energy to complete the move. Her thin arms were hugged to her chest. Smears of blood were visible on her upper arms and her hip. On the foot of the leg that was extended was a white, lacy sock. It was the only piece of clothing on her body. The rest of her clothes, her shoes—everything was strewn around the clearing.

  I circled the body and realized there was blood everywhere. I looked at her face, most of which was covered by her hair. One eye, however, was visible and it stared glassily at nothing. It was deep green with thick lashes. Its gaze was unwavering.