State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  “Nonononono,” he said and reached out as if to place a reassuring hand on my arm, but thankfully, stopped before touching me. “We can find what you need. Seriously.” He looked around the art supplies section. “Were you thinking drawing? Or painting? Paper mache?”

  “Paint,” I said with more authority than I felt.

  “Great.” He rubbed his hands together. “You have a lot to choose from. Oils, watercolors, acrylics, tempera, enamels.” He glanced over at the paint aisle and then back at me. My expression must have told him everything he needed to know because he smiled kindly. “How about this: I’ll ask you some questions and we’ll go from there.” He raised his eyebrows and I gave a quick nod.

  “What do you want to paint? Do you care how long it takes to dry?”

  “I don’t know yet what I’m going to paint,” I said. “It’s going to be kind of stream of consciousness. And the faster it dries, the better.”

  Jeff rubbed thoughtfully at the whiskers on his chin.. “Okay. Do you want to be able to paint over it and do you want to mix colors?”

  “Painting over it is probably good.” I shrugged. “I’m not sure about mixing colors.”

  “Okay, are you going to paint on canvas or paper?”

  “I am assuming paper is less expensive, so probably that.”

  “Acrylics,” he said happily, as if that were the answer to everything. “They dry fast, can be painted over, and the cleanup is a lot easier than with oils because they’re water-based and you can just wash them out.”

  He gestured for me to follow him to the next aisle.

  “You’ll probably want to start out with student paints.” He pointed to a display. “They’re cheaper because they have more filler, but I think for what you’re doing, they’ll be fine. I’d recommend you start out with red, yellow, blue, white, black, brown, green, orange, purple, and maybe gray.” He began to pull tubes of paint out of their dispensers and hand them to me.

  “And brushes,” he said. “You’ll need some stiff-bristled and a couple of soft-bristled. And we’ll get you some paper, too. How big?”

  By the time he was finished, I had more than enough supplies. I surveyed them piled on the checkout counter.

  “Jeff,” I said as he began to ring them up. “This is a lot. I’m not sure I can afford—”

  “Shh,” he said, looking around as if to make sure we weren’t being overheard. “I’m going to let you use my employee discount on top of your student discount.”

  “Oh, Jeff, thank you,” I protested. “But that’s not—”

  “Stop,” he continued in his conspiratorial voice. “This stuff is way overpriced. Just remember: acrylic paint dries quickly, so don’t put too much on your palate.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.” I felt suddenly awkward.

  He grinned shyly and said, “You could buy me a beer.”

  I looked up in surprise.

  “Or not,” he said quickly when he saw my expression.

  I began to gather up the bags.

  “Sorry,” he said and then sighed. “This is all coming out wrong. How about this: if you need help or advice or, you know, just want to go grab a beer and talk, I’d really like that.” He tore off the receipt and wrote something on the bottom of it. “This is my phone number,” he said. “Give me a call sometime?”

  “Thanks,” I said as I stuffed the receipt into one of the bags and hefted them off the counter.

  Jeff nodded and raised his hand in a weak wave. I nodded quickly and hurried out of the store.

  The encounter had unsettled me. I wanted to go back to the safety of my apartment—to the familiarity of my things. Everything outside of the world I had created for myself seemed almost too busy—too full. Outside of the student union, I stopped and forced myself to take several deep breaths. The afternoon sun was mild for a change and around me students stood in small clusters or pairs, backpacks slung casually over their shoulders, talking and laughing. Everyone and everything seemed so normal.

  I thought again about Laura. Maybe there was value in going to see her. Or maybe she’ll show you just how crazy you really are, the voice in my head intoned.

  “It’s just a rough patch,” I murmured. “It’s just because of what happened with Adelle. There’s nothing wrong with me that time won’t fix.”

  Though, later that afternoon, as I sat on my bed and fingered the brushes and the tubes of paint, I questioned if that was really the case. Would time really fix this? Would “expressing myself through art” really make everything better? I imagined my grandfather and how he would sneer at the idea.

  “I don’t care what he thinks,” I said aloud. “Maybe this will work.”

  Before I could change my mind, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of trash bags. Back in my room, I spread one out on the floor and split open the other. Using masking tape, I taped it to the wall and then stood back to survey my work. Against the cream-colored wall, the filleted trash bag looked like a glossy portal to another world. I picked up one of the large squares of paper Jeff had suggested for my “canvas” and tacked it to the wall, squarely in the middle of the black plastic. I hadn’t wanted to buy an easel, so this seemed like a good alternative, although as the pins ground into the old-fashioned sand plaster, I suddenly wasn’t so sure.

  Next I changed into old jeans and a T-shirt. Jeff had said I would need rags, so I pulled a couple of old, ratty T-shirts from the back of my closet, ripped them in half, and tossed them on the bed next to the palette and the paints. I wasn’t sure what to do next, so I spread the contents of the bag onto the bed and sorted it into piles. Paints. Brushes. Palatte knife. I went to the kitchen to get the spray bottle we used for our houseplants and paper towels to blot my brush—both tips from Jeff.

  Jeff.

  His telephone number was on my dresser. I glanced over at the folded slip of paper and then up to the mirror I had nailed to the back of my door. I tried to see myself as Jeff would have. Roger had indeed given me a makeover and I had to admit, he had done a good job. My mother had been right. I had become pretty. Was that what Jeff had seen? Was that why he had given me his number or was it more than that? Appearances could be deceptive. Still, he had shown an interest and he had seemed kind.

  Kind of what? came the nagging voice in my head.

  The voice wasn’t Grace’s—it was my own.

  “Give it up,” I muttered to myself. “He’d just change his mind as soon as he got to know you.”

  The thought made me sad, though somehow, I understood its truth. I was untouchable—both because I didn’t want to touch or be touched. Or did I? The question took me by surprise. Was that what all of this was about? It seemed too much to process, so I turned my attention to the blank square of paper in front of me, waiting for whatever image I was destined to paint to take shape.

  Nothing.

  I frowned and cocked my head to the side, hoping to get a different perspective.

  Still nothing.

  Finally, after about ten minutes of staring at the paper, I decided that it wasn’t going to work. At least, not yet. I went back out to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of beer. This wasn’t working the way I thought it would. I was considering returning the art supplies to the bookstore when my thoughts were interrupted by the peal of the cordless phone on the counter. I picked up the handset and looked at the caller ID. It was Roger. We had spent several weeks not speaking after he’d called Natalie, but lately we were talking again.

  “Guess who?”

  “I have caller ID, Roger.”

  “Yeah, well, good for you. What are you doing?”

  I took a drink from the bottle and glanced in the direction of my bedroom. “Working on a project.”

  “Not anymore. You’re going out with me.”

  “I can’t,” I said quickly, preparing to launch into my usual litany of why I couldn’t, or didn’t want to, go out.

  “Yes, you can. You need to g
et out of the house and I want to go dancing.”

  I took another swig of beer. “I don’t like to dance. You know that.”

  “Well, then you can watch me,” he said. “Besides, it’s a gay bar.”

  “All the more reason—”

  “—that you’ll have a good time,” he finished. “You need to relax a little. And you don’t have to worry about anyone hitting on you or anything because they’re all gay men.”

  “Roger, it’s a school night.”

  “Which means nothing because you never go to class anymore anyway. I’ll pick you up at 8:30.”

  Before I could protest, the line went dead.

  I held the receiver in front of my face and considered calling him back to cancel, but then decided that it would do no good. When Roger was in the mood to go out, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. And, he was right about going to gay bars. There, as long as I didn’t touch anything, I felt fairly safe. And, I enjoyed the music.

  I picked up my beer, wiped the ring of condensation from the counter with the bottom of my shirt, and wandered back into my bedroom. “I should just go,” I said to myself. I studied the blank page of paper and lifted the bottle to my lips. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  Roger picked me up at exactly 8:30 and we drove downtown to the bar district and his favorite haunt, Alpha-Beta. A rainbow flag hung limply in the window, backlit by the flashing strobe lights inside. The deep throb of dance music emanated from the building as we walked from the parking lot to the club.

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Roger yelled in my ear as we entered the club and he waved to a muscular man I could only assume was his new love interest. “His name is Douglas.” Roger pointed at the bar and the man nodded. “Come on.” He grabbed my hand and led me through the throng of men posing and grinding to the pulsating beat of the music. When we reached the bar, Roger dropped my hand and leaned down.

  “Beer?”

  I nodded and he turned to the bartender, held up three fingers, and then reached into his back pocket for his wallet. When our drinks arrived, he handed one to me and watched as I pulled a wet wipe from my pocket, tore it open, and carefully wiped down the mouth of the bottle. I met his eyes.

  “What? You never know.”

  He rolled his eyes and then turned to look at the crowd. Douglas had been stopped by a group of men who were all talking animatedly.

  “So?” Roger spoke to me without taking his eyes off of Douglas. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s nice looking.”

  “And he’s great in bed.”

  Never sure how to respond when Roger shared information like this, I simply nodded. I was about to ask how they met when Douglas finally broke free of the group of men and started toward us.

  “Hi,” he said as he pulled Roger into a hug. “I’m glad you made it.” He smiled at me over Roger’s shoulder. “Hey.”

  I raised my beer bottle in greeting.

  “So,” Roger said when they separated. “Rebecca, this is Douglas. Douglas . . . Rebecca.” He winked. “She’s my fag hag.”

  His words, despite being true, stung. I scowled.

  “What?” He looked from me to Douglas and back. “It’s true.”

  I forced myself to smile and leaned forward toward Douglas, who smiled in greeting. He was at least eight inches taller than me and I had to tip my head backward to meet his eyes. I had to yell to be heard over the pulsing beat of the techno music. “Nice to meet you.”

  He grinned again and the black light made his teeth glow. There were several specks of lint on his black t-shirt. He dropped his arm casually over Roger’s shoulders.

  “So, you guys wanna party?”

  I looked at Roger who slid his arm around Douglas’ waist.

  “Poppers?” he asked.

  Douglas reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a sandwich bag with a perforated sheet of what looked like Daffy Duck stickers. “Better than that.”

  “Holy shit!” Roger grabbed the bag. “Seriously?”

  I leaned in to see the bag more closely.

  “I don’t get it. Stickers?”

  Roger laughed and handed the bag back to Douglas. “Those aren’t stickers,” he said. “What this fine specimen of manhood brought us tonight is LSD.”

  “LSD like acid, LSD?” I looked up at Douglas for confirmation.

  “Yes ma’am.” He grinned. “Just put one of these on your tongue and enjoy the ride.”

  Roger pretended to fan himself. “Some men bring flowers or chocolates, but not this one.” He slapped Douglas’ broad chest. “Let’s do it.”

  “Are you crazy?” I knew I sounded like an old woman, but I didn’t care. “Roger, that’s against the law.”

  “Law, smaw.” Roger rolled his eyes. “You need to loosen up.”

  Douglas opened the bag, removed the sheet, and tore off a couple of squares. He handed one to Roger and one to me before putting the sheet back into the baggie and sticking it in his pocket.

  “You realize you just wasted a good hit, right?” Roger looked at me. “She’ll never do it.”

  Everything about the evening and the way Roger was treating me so he could impress Douglas was making me angry. I stared at the tiny square in my hand.

  “What will it do?”

  Douglas grinned. “It will open up your mind.” He looked at Roger for confirmation. “Everything will feel so intense and real. It’s this intellectually stimulating experience that’s just consciousness-altering. It makes the unreal real, and the real . . . really, really real.” He placed his own square on his tongue and let it dissolve.

  I wondered, suddenly, if he had washed his hands after going to the bathroom.

  “Throw it on the floor.” Grace’s voice cut through the noise of the music. “Just say ‘no.’”

  I stared at the square of paper in my palm and then looked back at Roger. His expression had gone from playful to serious.

  “Actually, I don’t think you should do it. I don’t think you would enjoy it.”

  “Are you saying I can’t handle it?” I asked indignantly. Douglas looked uncomfortable and began to scan the bar for an escape from this mini-drama.

  “No,” Roger said. “It’s just that it can really mess you up if you’re not in a good space.” He glanced at Douglas, who gestured toward the dance floor, and smiled in a “just a second” sort of way and then returned his gaze to me. “Listen, this was a bad idea. You didn’t even want to come out and now, well . . .” He glanced longingly at Douglas who was edging away from us. “How about you take my car and head home. I’ll just have Douglas give me a ride.”

  “Roger, I can’t leave you here.” I looked at Douglas, who was swiveling his shoulders in time to the music. “You don’t even know this guy. I can’t just take your car and go.”

  “Believe me, I know him plenty well and I was planning on letting you take the car home anyway. Besides, I’m not sure you’d really have that much fun. I have a feeling things are going to get a little . . . ummm . . . raunchy.”

  “But—” I protested.

  “Please.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his car keys, and pressed them into my hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon,” he said, already turning to Douglas and smiling widely. “Okay, handsome, let’s go.”

  The two disappeared into the crowd.

  “Asshole,” I muttered to myself. I took a swallow of my beer and considered the situation. I had no desire to stay—especially if Roger was going to be completely absorbed with his new boy toy. I set the bottle on a nearby table and began to make my way toward the door.

  I didn’t usually go out at night by myself and was unprepared for the feeling of being completely exposed as I stepped into the darkness. Roger had parked close to the bar and I could see the car from where I stood. It hadn’t seemed all that far away when we went in, but now that I was alone, it looked like an impossible distance. In the doorway, men laugh
ed and flirted and smoked.

  “Well, at least there will be witnesses,” I murmured. “And maybe one of them will help me if something happens.”

  Remembering something I had read in the self-defense information Detective Sanchez had given Adelle, I fished my house keys out of my jeans pocket and stuck them carefully between the fingers of my left hand so that when I curled it into a fist, I looked like some sort of Transformer. Between the thumb and forefinger of my other hand, I grasped the key to Roger’s car so I could open the door without having to fumble to find it.

  “You can do this,” I told myself as I took a deep breath and forced myself to walk. It was all I could do not to run the fifty yards to the car. My heart pounded in my throat as I took measured steps, careful to stay in the middle of the street, until I reached the car. Behind me I could hear the men in the doorway laughing. It was strangely reassuring.

  “You can do this,” I said again, softly, and then felt the familiar tingle of Grace’s presence. She didn’t speak, but I could tell she was there.

  When I reached the car, I slipped the key into the lock and pulled open the door. The dome light illuminated the interior and I looked in the backseat. It was empty. Quickly, I climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut behind me, and used my elbow to lock the door. I breathed heavily and gripped the steering wheel. I had done it. I had walked to the car in the dark on my own—and nothing bad had happened.

  I grinned as I put the key in the ignition and started the car. I had done it. I had taken on the night and had won—or, at least, hadn’t lost. It was a small triumph, but one that made me suddenly hopeful. It felt as if it were the beginning of something significant and despite the temperature, I rolled down the window. The cold night air was refreshing after the hot club, the smoke machine, and fifty different brands of cologne.

  When I got home, I immediately undressed and showered, scrubbing vigorously to remove the smell of the bar from my skin and hair and then used towels to pick up the smelly clothes I had worn. As I tossed them into my dirty clothes basket, coins and dollar bills fell from the pockets.

  I bent to pick them up, and saw again the small square with the image of Daffy Duck. Carefully, without touching the ink, I turned it over and examined it. It seemed harmless enough. And then I thought about what Douglas had said, about how it opened up your mind and expanded consciousness. I turned to look at the blank paper tacked onto my wall. Trying to paint hadn’t worked before, but maybe I simply needed something to kick-start the process. I looked down at the paper in my hand and wondered again what germs might be on it.