State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  “Unbelievable,” my mother said, her voice tight with anger. “Where the hell does he get off acting like that?”

  My father shrugged. “You know how he is when it comes to—” He glanced down at me and seemed to struggle for words. “—people like Holmeses.” He pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had taken off his suit jacket and sweat rings stained the armpits of his dress shirt. “I’d better go talk to him.”

  My mother stared at my father incredulously. “You’re joking.”

  “Nance,” he said and shook his head. “Come on. Cut me some slack. I . . . I have an obligation to make sure he’s all right.”

  “Unbelievable,” she said sharply. “And what about your obligation to your family? Or, let’s see, what about your obligation to set a good example for your daughter?” She pointed at my grandfather, who was retelling the story to a small group of people clustered around him as if they hadn’t been there. “Is that the sort of behavior you want your daughters to see—to grow up thinking is okay?”

  She glared at him for a long minute and then threw up her arms in disgust. “You know what?” She extended her hand for the keys to the car. “You’re right.”

  “Nance—” he began.

  “Keys,” she interrupted, punctuating her demand with a single jerk of her upturned hand.

  His mouth tightened, and they stared at each other for several long seconds before my father sighed, reached into the pocket of his pants, and pulled out the keys.

  “Birdie,” my mother said without looking away from my father, “Are you okay to walk?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes,” I said in a small voice.

  “This isn’t over,” she said pointedly to my father and then turned. “Mark my words, John. This is just the beginning.”

  Chapter 10

  After Grace’s funeral, everything about our small community seemed to change. Everyone had a theory as to who had murdered her and why. Gossip ran rampant and truth blurred into fiction as people recounted what they suspected, what they knew, or what they thought they knew. The only person who seemed to be unaffected by Grace’s murder was Puddin’ Puddin’. Unfazed by what was going on around him, he continued to ride around town on his rusted bike making his engine noises. Gossips around town wondered out loud if he was the murderer, pulling plot devices from The Grapes of Wrath. Did he find Grace by herself and try to touch her? When she screamed, did he try to make her be quiet? Yes, they said, he had the intellect of a child, but he also had the body of a man—a body with urges and desires he might not be able to control. It wasn’t, some people whispered, out of the question that Puddin’ Puddin’ was the killer.

  “Lord knows that Otis and Susan don’t keep a good eye on ’im,” Randy Jenkins said to my father two days later. He had needed gasoline for the lawn mower and I had ridden to the station with him to fill the gas can. Randy was manning the pumps and sharing his observations with anyone who would listen.

  My father, who had climbed out of the pickup and stood next to it while Randy filled the canister, nodded but didn’t say anything. Instead, he squinted up at the late afternoon sky.

  “So, who do you think done it?” Randy asked.

  “Dunno,” my father said.

  “Your girl found ’er, right?” Randy asked, peering at me through the rear window of the cab. I shrunk down, embarrassed and not wanting to be the subject of any more curiosity. “She see anybody?” He looked straight at me, his expression almost menacing. “Did you see anybody out there?”

  “Randy, leave her alone,” my father said and stepped in front of him. “She’s been through enough and she doesn’t need to be talking about it.”

  Randy scowled and then turned, flipped the lever on the gas pump, and returned the nozzle to its cradle.

  “Want me to put it on your tab?” he asked sullenly, sneaking a quick glance at me.

  “If you don’t mind,” Dad said as he pulled open the driver’s side door and slid inside. “I’ll settle up this weekend.”

  Randy nodded, hawked up a gob of spittle, and spat as he walked back into the station. As we pulled out onto the street, Puddin’ Puddin’ rode past. He was dressed in his usual pants and long-sleeved shirt, his head down and his fingers tightly clasped around the cracked plastic grips of the handlebar.

  I looked at my father, who glanced quickly at me but didn’t speak.

  I shared what Randy had said with my mother when we got home.

  “Idiot,” she murmured to herself and then said more loudly to me, “I’m sorry, sweetie.” She pulled me into a hug and then pulled back and looked into my face. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but you don’t need to be repeating what Mr. Jenkins said. There’s enough gossip going around right now as it is.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anybody about this,” I said miserably. “You should have seen how Randy—”

  “Mr. Jenkins,” my mother corrected.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” I amended with a scowl. “You should have seen how he looked at me. It’s like I’m a circus freak or something. I hate everyone looking at me, asking what I saw when I found . . . her.”

  “I know, baby,” she said and reached out to cup my face. “I’m so sorry you had to—that you’re having to go through this.” She paused and then said, “Hey, I have an idea. What if we invited Natalie over? Would you like that? You two could have a sleepover and—”

  Before she could finish, I shook my head.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to see her.”

  “Sweetie, I know you two had an argument, but it wasn’t her fault this happened,” she said. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. If you just talked to her, I’m sure—”

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to her or answer her questions about what happened or . . . anything. I just want to be left alone.”

  My mother studied me for several seconds without speaking. Finally, she sighed and said, “All right.”

  “All right,” I echoed. “I’m going to go to my room,” I said and started down the hallway. I had only gotten a couple of steps when she spoke.

  “Birdie?” Something about her tone caused me to stop. I turned to face her. Her dark eyes were sad. “I love you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I stared at her, unsure how to answer. I didn’t feel anything—not love, not hate, just . . . numbness. Finally, I nodded.

  “I love you, too,” I said, even though it felt like a lie.

  She nodded, reassured. “This will get better,” she said. “Just give it some time.”

  After several days of listening to, and trying to defuse, the gossip, Reverend Ackerman took it upon himself to drive out to the Glenderson farmstead and talk to them about their son. According to my grandfather’s eager retelling, Otis Glenderson told Reverend Ackerman he could go to hell because their son was a legally recognized adult and could do whatever the hell he wanted. Undaunted, Reverend Ackerman thanked him for his time and then drove into Winston and purchased a silver Huffy bicycle with reflectors on the pedals and wheels. Puddin’ Puddin’ rode it for a day before the bike was found parked on the church porch with a handwritten note that said, “We do not need your charity.” Later that day Puddin’ Puddin’ was again seen riding the antiquated, rusted bike he had pulled out of the brush down near Settler’s Creek.

  “I swear, I don’t know what’s wrong with that family,” my mother said one afternoon as Puddin’ Puddin’ rode past our house making his engine sound. Surprised that my mother would say such a thing, I looked up in shock.

  She saw my stare.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly. “I’m sure he’s a nice boy, he’s just . . .” She trailed off and then looked at me. Her expression was serious. “Does he ever try to talk to you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Has he ever tried to get you to go with him?” she pressed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, into the woods o
r down to the creek?”

  “No, Mom,” I said. “Geez. He just rides around on his bike and pretends it’s a motorcycle.”

  She nodded thoughtfully and then sighed as if she had made a decision.

  “So, I’ve been thinking and . . .” she said and then stopped. “Could you go get your sister? I want to talk to both of you about some things.”

  I nodded, slid off the bar stool and went to the kitchen doorway.

  “Tara,” I yelled in the direction of my sister’s room. “Come here.”

  “Birdie,” my mother snapped, “Go get her.”

  I sighed and trudged down the hall to my sister’s room She looked up from her Barbie dolls when I pushed open the door.

  “Mom wants you,” I said and then added wickedly, “I think you’re in trouble.”

  Tara’s blue eyes widened and she dropped the red plastic shoe she was attempting to shove onto Skipper’s foot. She looked worried. “Why?” She pushed a curl of blond hair back behind her ear. “I didn’t do anything.”

  I shrugged as she scrambled to her feet.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But she wants to talk to you. She looks pretty mad.”

  With a final worried look, she hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen. I followed at slower pace.

  “I’m in here,” my mother called from the living room.

  Tara hurried into the living room, where our mother sat, hunched forward over a stack of index cards. She motioned for us to sit on the couch.

  “I didn’t do it,” Tara said quickly.

  Our mother blinked in confusion and then looked knowingly at me. Tara caught our mom’s expression and realizing what I had done, frowned.

  “No one is in trouble,” Mom said, her attention once again on Tara. “I wanted to talk to both of you.”

  She smiled and gestured toward the couch. Dutifully, we both went over and sat. Tara, who got there first, managed to pinch my arm without our mother seeing.

  “Ouch,” I said loudly and rubbed my arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom said.

  “Tara pinched me,” I said and glared at Tara who, in turn, looked innocently at our mother.

  “You probably had it coming,” she said finally and winked at Tara. I frowned, angry at being the odd man out.

  “Now,” our mother began, “what I want to talk to both of you about is what to do if someone you don’t know—or even someone you do know tries to . . .” She sighed and seemed to search for the right words. “We’ve talked about strangers,” she began again. “And what to do if a stranger tries to get you to get in his car, right?”

  We both nodded.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  I glanced up at Mom, who was waiting expectantly for my answer.

  “I say ‘no,’” I said.

  “That’s right,” she said and nodded in approval. “But what do you do if he tells you that . . . I don’t know, he’s looking for his puppy and needs your help. What do you do?”

  “I tell him that’s too bad about his dog and that I hope he finds it, but I can’t help him look for it,” I said.

  My mother smiled encouragingly.

  “Right,” she said. “And what if he offers you money to help—or shows you a picture?”

  “I still say ‘no,’” I said.

  “Good,” she said and then turned to Tara. “So, what do you do if you’re at school and a grown-up you know comes to the school and says I told him to pick you up? What do you say?”

  Tara glanced at me and I shook my head slightly and mouthed the word “no.”

  “No!” she yelled, surprising both my mother and me. “I’ll say ‘no’ and run back inside.”

  “Good,” my mother said. “Good. You probably don’t have to scream or run, but better safe than sorry.” She grinned and then became serious. “What if it’s your grandma or grandpa?” she asked.

  Tara looked at me and I shrugged.

  “Yes?” she said.

  My mother seemed unsure of the answer herself. “Probably, it would be all right,” she said. “But to make sure, the school should call me or, if I’m sending anyone else to pick you up, I’ll call the school.”

  “Why would Grandpa or Grandma not be all right?” Tara asked. I wondered the same thing myself.

  “They probably would be,” my mother said. “I’m just thinking about why they would be coming to get you, you know? Just thinking about what would be going on that that would happen.”

  She waved her hand dismissively.

  “Anyway,” she said. “What do you do if someone tries to grab you and force you into their car?”

  “We scream ‘no,’” I said.

  “That’s right,” my mother said. “But you have to be ready to fight, too. Do whatever you have to. Scream ‘no’ if you can. Kick or hit them between the legs as hard as you can. Go for their eyes, too.” She paused. “Do everything you can to make noise, scream, scratch, hit,” she said. “Because the minute they have you in their car or have you away from other people . . . well . . . just fight them. And scream. Don’t yell ‘help’ either. Yell ‘fire’ or ‘no’ or something like that.”

  Her eyes were wide and serious. Her fear was suddenly palpable and its intensity made Tara begin to cry. Mom looked at both of us and realized just how much she had scared us.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I know I’m scaring you.” She pulled both of us into her arms and held us tightly to her. “I just love both of you so much,” she whispered. “I could never stand losing you. I just want you to know what to do. I don’t want either of you to get hurt. That’s all.”

  She rocked us against her until my sister stopped crying. Although I usually didn’t like being cuddled, that night I leaned against my mother, my ear to her chest, and listened to her heart as it pounded away, rapid at first and then, finally, slower. We were all scared, I realized.

  It was that fear which caused me to make amends with Natalie. Deep down, I knew the blame for what happened was no more hers than mine. We had let Grace down and we had to share that burden together. Her tone was cautious when I called her a week later.

  “Hey,” I said when she came to the phone. “Look . . .” My voice trailed off as I searched for words. “I . . .”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Know what?” I asked, wondering for a moment if it would really be that easy.

  “You’re sorry,” she said. “I am, too.”

  I exhaled deeply, not realizing I had been holding my breath. “I am. I shouldn’t have said that—at the cemetery.”

  Neither of us spoke for several seconds and then she said, “So, you wanna come over?”

  The idea of leaving the safety of my house caused my stomach to tighten. “I don’t think I can,” I lied. “I’m . . .”

  “Or I could come over there,” Natalie said when I didn’t finish the sentence. “We could cut a window into the tree house and boss Tara around.” She laughed and I found myself smiling. “Come on,” she wheedled. “It’ll be fun.”

  Okay,” I said.

  “Right on,” Natalie said. “Let me ask Mom.” I heard her ask Mrs. Stewart in the background and then she came back on the line. “I’ll come over after lunch.”

  Unlike in the past when Natalie would race madly into the driveway and then skid to a stop, on this day, the first day we spent together since the funeral, she rode sedately into the drive and stopped without any kind of show.

  I was sitting in the shade of the open garage. I stood as she coasted to a stop.

  “Hey,” I said and smiled. It was the first time I had really smiled since Grace’s death.

  “Hey,” she said. She was sweating and her face was ruddy from the heat and the ride over. She didn’t climb off her bike, but instead stood with her feet planted on either side and looked at me, waiting perhaps to see if I was going to start yelling at her. Instead, I studied her face. Her brown eyes looked tired.

  “Whatcha been up t
o?” I asked, unsure how to begin.

  She shrugged. “This and that. Just watching TV and reading. Mom’s been taking me into Winston to the library for books and . . . you know.” She hesitated. “How are you?”

  Rather than meet her eyes, I looked down at her fingers where they rested lightly on the curved handlebars. The nails had been chewed down, their edges ragged like tiny saw’s teeth. I glanced at my own fingers, which were bloody and raw from the constant picking and chewing on my cuticles. I held them out for her to see. She nodded knowingly. It was one of the things we shared in common.

  “It’s kinda weird,” she said and looked around.

  “What is?” I asked, unsure which of the many things that had changed, was weird.

  “No Grace,” she said.

  I nodded. “It seems wrong,” I said finally. “I mean, you and I did things alone before, but she was still sort of there. Now, she’s . . .”

  “Not,” Natalie finished for me. We were both silent.

  “I miss her, too,” she said.

  “I had a dream that Don Wan did it,” I said without thinking. “He was going to come after us, too.”

  “He won’t hurt us,” she said. “He couldn’t. It would be too fishy if all three of us were . . .” She stopped speaking and shrugged. “You know . . . if something happened to all of us.”

  I nodded and dropped my eyes, looking again at my mangled cuticles.

  “Wanna go up in the tree house?” I asked finally, more for something to say than because I wanted to climb into it.

  Natalie peered around the side of the garage and into the backyard. The tree house was invisible under the canopy of leaves. She nodded and then carefully climbed off her bicycle, used the toe of her sneaker to pull down the kickstand, and turned to follow me into the backyard.

  “We did a better job with the Nest,” she said once we had climbed the tree and were sitting on the platform.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to go back there,” I said.

  She nodded, understanding my reluctance. I waited, anticipating her questions about that day, about finding Grace, about the murder scene. Instead, she picked at a jagged piece of fingernail. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” she murmured after several seconds.