State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  I had to laugh. If only my grandfather could see this, I thought. If only he could know that I was not only going to school with someone who was black, but that this someone was also my roommate, friend, and equal. I thought again about his treatment of Mr. Holmes and his family—of the things he said and his role in the harassment that occurred after Grace’s funeral. There had been the confrontation at the cemetery. But what happened after was one hundred times worse.

  It happened in the middle of the night, two days after Grace’s funeral. According to Natalie, Mr. Holmes and his family were awakened at about 1 a.m. by noises in their front yard. Mr. Holmes told Natalie’s father that he looked out the bedroom window and saw four men in white sheets and hoods standing around a cross that they had just set on fire. Heavily doused with gasoline, it was quickly engulfed in flames, causing the men to yell and cheer.

  “That’s what you get for dirtyin’ up our town,” one of the men yelled up at the bedroom window. “This is your first and last warning you goddamned child killin’ nigger!”

  The other three whooped.

  “We know you dun it,” screamed one of the others, the flames making his white robe appear rose-colored. “You just couldn’t resist little white girl pussy, could you, you son of a bitch?”

  As if on command, the four backed away from the burning cross in the direction of the three-deep row of trees planted to form a wind break.

  “You’d better pack up your nigger brood and get the hell out of here,” the shortest one yelled as they retreated. “Or we’ll be back! . . . and next time, no warning . . . we just bring the rope!”

  Adelle was appalled when I told her about life in Edenbridge.

  “Seriously?” She shook her head in disgust. “I can’t believe that people can still get away with that crap. It’s just . . .” She struggled for words. “It amazes me that someone, anyone, could get away with that more than twenty-seven years after the March on Washington. I have a dream, my ass.” She studied me with a serious look. “So, how did you emerge so . . . enlightened?”

  I shrugged and shook my head in an “I don’t know” gesture.

  “My mother hated that kind of behavior and she did everything she could to make sure we didn’t turn out like that. After the whole cross-burning incident, she took my sister and me with her to visit Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and take them lasagna.”

  Adelle laughed and said, “Well, at least it wasn’t BBQ or fried chicken.”

  I wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh, so I just nodded.

  “So, what happened? With the cross and the Holmes family?”

  “Not a lot,” I admitted. “The sheriff’s department investigated, but in the end they couldn’t pin it on anyone. Everyone they questioned had alibis.”

  “Ask me if I’m surprised?” Adelle said. “It’s just another example of small town mentality at work. What happened to the family? They get lynched or what?”

  I must have looked shocked because Adelle pulled back and laughed.

  “What?” she said indignantly. “I’m kidding. But don’t tell me it doesn’t sound like something that couldn’t or wouldn’t happen.”

  “True,” I admitted. “But no, there was no lynching, thank god. Just threats tossed back and forth. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes are still in Edenbridge, as far as I know.”

  She shook her head slowly back and forth. “God bless them because that’s some crazy shit.”

  It was, I agreed. I didn’t share it with Adelle, but knew why they stayed. Mr. Holmes told me. I had been sitting in the Nest waiting for Tommy. It was a couple of weeks after the cross had been burned in the Holmeses’ yard. I had heard the footsteps on the path and assumed it was Tommy. I jumped in surprise when Mr. Holmes’ head popped through the hole in the floor.

  “I thought I might find you here. Mind if I come in?”

  I wondered why Grace’s voice hadn’t warned me. I shook my head silently, scared, but also realizing I had no choice in the matter. I scooted back to give him room.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “But I’ve seen you sneak down here several times, and . . . I just . . . wanted to see if you were doing all right.”

  I stared. Most of my interaction with Anthony Holmes had been limited to polite greetings and witnessing the caustic public exchanges with my grandfather. He tipped his head and looked at me kindly.

  “You know, my family and I really appreciated the lasagna you girls and your momma brought over. Lots of oregano in the sauce. It was good. We ate on it for two nights.” He smiled, reached into his pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. “Want half?”

  I shook my head and forced my voice not to quiver. “I’m not allowed to accept candy from strangers.”

  “Ummm.” He slid the candy back into his pocket. “Good rule to follow.”

  Neither of us spoke. My heart fluttered in my chest as I watched him look around the tree house.

  “You miss Grace, don’t you?” He sighed and leaned forward. “It’s hard to lose a friend. When I was in the army, I lost a lot of friends. One of them was Mr. Hanson. You old enough to remember him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was a good man,” Mr. Holmes said. “We spent a lot of time talking. He’s the reason I’m here. He gave me the land. He gave me the life he couldn’t stick around for.”

  “Is that why you stay even though everyone is so mean to you?”

  His smile was gentle. “Not everyone is mean. There are lots of people here who are really, really nice. Like your family and your friend Natalie’s family.” He pointed a large-knuckled finger at me. “Like you. There are lots of good people here.” Then he sighed. “There are also some not-so-good people.”

  “Don’t you get mad?” I asked. “When they say things or . . . do things?”

  Mr. Holmes nodded. “I do. I get awfully mad sometimes.”

  “What do you do? When you get mad?”

  “I talk to my wife,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Or I go work on something . . . or I pray.”

  “I don’t pray,” I said softly. “What’s it like?”

  Mr. Holmes grinned. “It’s like—” He stopped and seemed to search his mind for the words to describe it. “It’s like a conversation with yourself, that’s not with yourself. It’s like talking to a good friend.”

  I nodded.

  “You can never have too many good friends,” he said. “Like Natalie or Grace.”

  We were silent for several minutes, each lost in our own thoughts.

  “I miss Grace,” I said finally.

  Mr. Holmes reached out and put a large hand on my shoulder. “I know. But, there was nothing you could have done. You need to know that. Do you want to talk about it?”

  He raised his eyebrows and waited for me to answer. His face was kind and for a moment, I considered telling him everything. About Tommy. About Grace’s voice in my head. About the fear that I had inside me. About the nightmares. But at the last minute, I refrained. The silence became awkward. Finally, Mr. Holmes made a noise deep in his throat.

  “Well, I should go. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” He slid his body toward the opening in the floor. “If you ever need anything, you just let us know. My wife, Lila, is a really good listener and you can come to either one of us if you want to talk.” His smile, before his head and shoulders disappeared from view, was kind.

  I think, sometimes, about what I must have looked like—a skinny, sad, confused girl struggling to make sense of a horrific experience. I never took Mr. Holmes up on his offer, but from that point on, he and his family always made a point at community events to come over and say hello. We weren’t friends, but we were friendly. And I always spoke well of them when Adelle asked me questions.

  Adelle and I made good roommates. In our own ways, we were both misfits, but respected each other’s right to be different. She accepted that I spent most of my time in my room reading, just as I respected her right to burn patchouli incense a
nd leave National Public Radio on all day.

  The only downside to the location of our apartment was that it was several blocks south of campus with no convenient bus route. I didn’t have a car, so my only option was to walk or ride my bike. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was manageable as long as I didn’t get held up on campus after dark—which is what happened the day I met Roger, the day I was consumed with memories of home and the day that Grace reappeared.

  It was the smell of patchouli that caught my attention that night as I walked home from the language lab. I was in front of Love Library, an imposing three-story stone building with two wings and stacks of windows that glowed with an otherworldly light. Groups of students stood outside on the steps and in the darkened alcoves, smoking and quietly talking. A girl laughed and I smiled at the sound. It was a beautiful scene. The patchouli made me wonder if Adelle was there and I considered going over to see if she was indeed outside smoking and if she wanted to walk home together. And then I heard Grace’s voice. The words were whispered and indistinct, but I could tell they were a warning. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  “Oh, what is this?” asked a falsetto voice behind me.

  I spun around to see a thin man, his face obscured by the dark wool blanket that was draped over his head like a shawl. He shuffled forward until he stood in the light. I could see his thin fingers twitching as they clutched the corners of the cloth bunched at his chest. It was Count Bob, one of the local cast of odd characters. Count Bob was actually named Robert, although I was unsure of his last name. Rumor had it that at one time he had been a graduate student who came from a respectable family in Chicago with money enough to pay for his academic training all the way through his doctorate. He was, by all accounts, brilliant. He was also, by all accounts, crazy. Later, they would invent medications for the types of mental issues he faced, but at the time he was in graduate school, the solution for conditions such as his was a lobotomy.

  Again, this was all rumor, but the breakdown occurred while he was working on his Master’s degree, the topic of which was classical versus contemporary perceptions of the vampire. His studies became an obsession—to the point that he started to believe that he was, himself, a vampire. He stopped going to classes and instead, began to prowl the streets at night, refusing to leave his apartment until after dark. Complaints drew the attention of the police department and his family. He was institutionalized and, after electroshock therapy was unsuccessful, lobotomized.

  Though he never returned to graduate school, he did move back into his apartment. Some people speculated that his family preferred to pay for him to stay in Lincoln as opposed to returning to Chicago. Others said he was simply unable to function anywhere but here. Either way, Lincoln was where he stayed and eventually earned the nickname of Count Bob. I had heard about him, of course. And I had seen him from a distance, shuffling along in his house slippers, black sweatshirt, and red sweatpants with the blanket over his head. Often, he carried a large, battered paper grocery bag full of something heavy. Many people speculated that they were the books on vampires that were missing from the library. Others guessed it was his dinner. On this night, though, his hands were free of everything but the blanket.

  “Ohhhh,” he said in the same falsetto. “Is this a church? It looks like a church with these elegant windows and the light just pooooouring out. Oh, it’s beautiful. I wonder if they sacrifice virgins there? I’m sure they do.” He looked at me then, his eyes glassy in the reflected light. “Are you a virgin?”

  The air left my body in a soft huff, as if I had been sucker punched. I tried to move, to run, but my legs were heavy, rooted to the ground.

  “I’ll bet there are virgins in there right now,” he said, the blanket slipping off and exposing his shaved head. He giggled. His fingers twitched. “There are books in there that virgins shouldn’t read. Shouldn’t read at all. They get the pretty girls into trouble.”

  Grace’s voice, no longer a whisper, echoed in my head. “Move, Birdie! Pick up your feet and run!”

  I lurched forward, fear balled in my throat. One shaky step in front of the other, I walked jerkily away into a darkness that was both comforting and unsettling. I could feel Grace’s anxiety. I tried to increase my pace, but was unable to do more than stumble quickly along—not that there was any reason to. I glanced over my shoulder to see Count Bob, still standing in front of the library, transfixed by the light and contemplation of sacrificed virgins.

  Adelle was in the living room when I arrived home, breathless and agitated. She looked up as I rushed inside and slammed the door behind me. She was sitting on a giant, purple pillow on the floor. Her algebra homework was spread around her. The BBC World News was blaring from the stereo speakers. Something about my expression must have alerted her that something had happened, though, because she leaned over and turned down the volume.

  “Rebecca, are you okay? You look freaked out.”

  “I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I just—” I struggled to stop my legs from shaking.

  “Jesus.” She rose and walked to me. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. There was—I saw—” I hesitated. “It’s nothing. I just don’t like walking back from night classes.”

  “Did someone . . .?”

  I shook my head at the unasked question. “No. Nothing like that. I just saw Count Bob and he freaked me out talking about sacrificing virgins and—” I shook my head. “He just looked so . . .” I faltered, searching for the right word. “Crazy,” I finished lamely.

  Adelle nodded and reached out to squeeze my shoulder. I pulled away, not wanting to be touched. She looked surprised, but said nothing.

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired and want to go to bed.”

  “Okay.” Adelle nodded, but I could tell her feelings were hurt. She gave me a weak smile and then gestured to the stereo. “I’ll keep the radio down.”

  “Thanks.”

  I opened my mouth to apologize again, but she was already back on her pillow, her head bowed to her textbook. I turned and walked down the hallway to the safety of my room. Once inside, I leaned back against the closed door. My heart continued to thump heavily and I tried to breathe slowly. It was ridiculous, I told myself. Count Bob was harmless. It had been a trying day. I had overreacted. I told myself these things, but I knew that the truth of the matter—the thing that I didn’t want to acknowledge or think about—was that Grace wasn’t gone. She probably never had been. All this time she had been there, watching and patiently waiting. I’d been a fool to think I had escaped my burden. My responsibility was now, as it always had been, to Grace.

  To think anything different was foolishness.

  If I were honest, I would have to admit that there’s a part of me that has always questioned if the voice really was Grace’s. On nights when I couldn’t sleep or had been awakened by nightmares of her murder, I stared at the shadows on the ceiling and wondered about the voice. I tried to imagine how it was that Grace spoke to me from the in-between world in which she was present, but also not? Was it heaven? Purgatory? An alternate plane of existence? I also considered the very real possibility that the voice was simply my own—a manifestation of my own guilt, shame, and ineffectuality.

  I discussed it once with Roger who, despite our rocky beginning, became one of my few friends. He had, indeed, taken me on as a project. A human redecorating challenge, if you will. True to his word that first day, he appeared the following class period with an agenda in mind. I had reclaimed my seat in the empty classroom and was rereading my tattered copy of A Separate Peace when the doors closest to me were thrown open. Unlike before when he had been dressed for work, the second time I saw Roger McManus, he was dressed in black Cavaricci pants, a black T-shirt, and a black jacket with a shocking red velvet lapel and a heart sewn onto the left chest pocket. His hair, which had been neatly combed two days before, was now wild and curly.

  “Ready?” He spread his
arms wide.

  I blinked, unsure how to answer. He looked down at his outfit and then back at me.

  “You like? It’s my homage to Fred Schneider of the B-52’s. I modeled it after his ensemble in the ‘Love Shack’ video.” He pronounced ensemble as if he were speaking French. “So, are you ready?”

  I swallowed, unsure if I wanted to go anywhere with him.

  “Ready for what?”

  He put his hands on his hips and said dramatically, “For today. Let’s go.”

  “But, I don’t even know your full name,” I said.

  “Ah.” He placed his hand over the velvet heart. “I’m Roger McManus. And you are . . . ?”

  “Birdie.” I used my childhood nickname out of habit and then corrected myself. “Sorry. No. I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Holloway.”

  “Great.” Roger grinned. “So, now that the formalities are out of the way, let’s go.”

  I shook my head. “I really need to stay for the lecture.”

  “Come on,” he cajoled. “What else is college for if not to blow off class?”

  “We can’t. We’ll miss information we need for the test.”

  His smile was condescending. “Really?” He tipped his head to the side and frowned exaggeratedly. “Will we really miss anything?” He began to walk down the aisle to where I sat. “Are you following his lectures? Are you learning anything from them? It’s early in the semester, they don’t take attendance, and honestly, we can get this information from the book. And it would probably make more sense.” Roger now stood in front of me. He leaned down and grabbed my backpack from where it sat next to me. “Lunch,” he said as he turned and headed back up the steps toward the doors. “Now. It will be fun.”