State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  “Okay,” I said to Toby as I opened the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As we drove into La Veta, I was once again struck by the intersection of new and old. The fort and the depot, which were preserved as historical sites, were juxtaposed against tiny art galleries tucked into the closely situated buildings. It was a progressive community that was firmly anchored by the traditional values of hard work, honesty, and community. Everyone from the crusty ranchers to the lesbian bakery owners worked in unison to make it a place of worth and value. That was one of the things that drew me to the town. The other was the fact that people in La Veta respected each other’s right to be themselves—myself included. I knew I was regarded as an oddity, that crazy artist woman who lived all alone with her dog. But no one seemed to care.

  Despite the September chill, I rolled down the window so Toby could stick his head out as we drove slowly down Main Street. People milled about, their breath visible in hazy billows. It was a Saturday, I realized, when I saw the tourists ambling down the boardwalk, toothpicks sticking out of their mouths, their bellies full of hearty mountain breakfasts. I pulled into a parking place in front of Charlie’s Grocery and grabbed my list.

  “You wait here, buddy,” I told Toby as I climbed out of the Jeep and slammed the door with a metallic clang. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried into the store and began to collect the supplies I thought I would need for the next couple of months. I knew from experience that once the snow began to pile up, I could be left to my own devices for several weeks, so I filled the cart with canned goods and foods that could be frozen or stored in the pantry. As I stood at the checkout counter, the woman ringing up my items smiled at me.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” she asked, looking at the pile of dog food and treats. She reached under the counter and pulled out a Milk-Bone dog biscuit. “You should give him this. We keep a supply for all of our canine customers.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced out the front window and saw Toby sitting upright behind the steering wheel. He looked like the getaway car driver. His expression made me laugh. The cashier’s gaze followed mine.

  “That him in the Jeep?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, still laughing. “His name is Toby.”

  “They’re like children, aren’t they?” She grinned and extended her hand. “I’m Marjorie. I’ve seen you in here every month or so for the past couple of years and I always mean to introduce myself and then don’t.”

  “Rebecca,” I said and shook her hand quickly and tried not to think about what she might have touched before shaking my hand.

  “You’re that artist that lives up in that cabin way off of Highway 11, right?” she asked. “In Harry Beterman’s old place?”

  I nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Nice property,” she said. “Kinda remote, but still, nice. You probably get snowed in some, huh? Not many plows head up that little road.”

  “Well,” I said, “It’s not uncommon.” I gestured to the pile of groceries. “But I’m ready for any emergency.”

  She nodded in approval and rang up the rest of my purchases.

  “That’ll be $279.93,” she said. “Need help out with this?”

  I shook my head.

  Back in the Jeep, I nudged Toby back into the passenger’s seat and then handed him the treat.

  “That’s from Marjorie,” I said as he gobbled it down.

  Next, I drove to the hardware store, bought rock salt and bird seed, and exchanged the empty tank of propane I had put in the back of the Jeep the week before, for a fresh one. My final stop was the liquor store, where I took my time choosing a couple of cases of wine. As I climbed into the Jeep, I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It wasn’t even noon and already I was tired of interacting with people.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” I told Toby as I started the engine, put the Jeep in reverse and backed out of the parking lot onto the main street. I rolled down the window slightly for the drive back to the cabin. The air tasted of coming snow.

  Back at the cabin, I immediately began unloading the groceries. During each trip to and from the kitchen, I made it a point to ignore the blank, unplugged computer. There was, I knew, a message from Tommy. I sensed it. But I was torn between wanting to see it and being frightened of what it might say and Grace’s recriminations.

  “This is stupid,” I said aloud as I put the last can of green beans in the pantry.

  I glanced out the kitchen window at the neatly stacked firewood on the back porch. I had worked for almost a week cutting and splitting the logs. One remaining tree lay in pieces, waiting to be split into firewood. I would do it today, I thought resolutely. The physical activity would do me good and take my mind off of Tommy and Grace. I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, opened it, and then used an alcohol swab to carefully wipe off the mouth of the bottle. Even though it was cool outside, I soon would become sweaty and a beer was usually what I craved to cut the thirst.

  Four hours, three beers, and two blisters later, I had split most of the logs and stacked them neatly on the growing mountain of wood. I had a chainsaw but preferred to use an ax. My body was tired and pleasantly sore. All I wanted was a bath, something to eat, a glass of wine, and the comfort of a fire in the fireplace. First, though, I had to deal with the issue of Tommy. It had been bothering me the entire time I was working and I had decided that the only way to deal with it was to face it head on. Moving quickly before I changed my mind, I plugged in the computer and waited while it slowly came back to life. As it hummed and whirled, I decided to skip the bath and take a quick shower. Within ten minutes I was dried, dressed, and seated in front of the waiting terminal with a glass of wine. Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the AOL icon and waited. Not only was there this morning’s e-mail from Tommy, but also a reply from Roger and one from my mother. I clicked on Roger’s first.

  Dearest Rebecca:

  Two things:

  A. I refuse to take blame for something I didn’t do, but I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and simply say that I don’t know what you’re talking about and I did not violate our agreement. Think what you will, but you’re wrong.

  2. You ARE coming to visit. You don’t know it yet. We will arrange for a dog-sitter. Or, since I’m sure you can’t stand the thought of anyone in your house, we can get Toby boarded. I’ve checked. There are several places on the way to the airport.

  I will not be dissuaded.

  XXOO

  I considered what to say. Nothing came to mind. He wasn’t going to admit what he had done. Fine. I had made my point. As for Chicago, I would deal with that later. I clicked on my mother’s e-mail. Both Tara and I had been surprised when our mother announced that she had purchased a computer and that she was going to be online. But, it had turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened. By communicating via e-mail, we were much better able to keep in touch—but at a distance.

  Hello sweetie:

  How are you? I was thinking about you the other day. We (the girls and I) were at coven and one of the women was talking about herbs and energy work to clear blockages in mind/body unison. I know you’re against medication, but what about herbs? St. John’s Wort is wonderful for depression—not that you’re depressed. And Valerian is great for relaxation and sleep enhancement. I’ve talked to her about dosages and will be sending you some in the mail. You don’t have to take it—just think about it. Oh, and while I’m thinking about it, when I’m there for Christmas, I’m going to smudge your cabin (burning sage to cleanse it).

  Let’s see . . . what else? Nothing much is going on here. Mrs. Spencer from next door passed. Apparently, she had been keeping track of everything everyone in the neighborhood had been doing. I guess they found hundreds of notebooks with notations of times and dates. Lord knows what she thought of some of the things that went on here!

  Tara sends her love. She and Andy are looking at getting a timeshare in California.

/>   Well, that’s all I know. Write when you get a chance.

  Love you.

  That left Tommy’s message. I returned to my inbox, where it sat boldfaced to indicate that it hadn’t been read. I stared at it. Grace did, too. I could feel it and I didn’t even try to hide it from her. I felt my heart begin to beat faster.

  “Go on,” she said finally. “You want to. And you’ve made it clear I can’t stop you.”

  Her words caused me to stop for a second. She was right. She couldn’t stop me—at least not physically—from doing anything. I had that control.

  “You’re right,” I said and clicked on Tommy’s e-mail.

  Birdie:

  I’m not sure there are answers, to tell you the truth.

  Why did I run away? I don’t know. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me was scared the person who did it was still there. But really, I think a lot of it for me was that I was scared everyone would think I had done it because it was my knife—well, sort of. I had stolen it from that little store on the corner. I had been using it for target practice. My fingerprints were all over it. I thought if they connected me to the knife . . . you know. I guess, deep down, I was just a coward. I was scared. I don’t know if that answers your questions, but that’s the best I can tell you.

  Tommy

  I tapped my fingers on the table as I read and then reread his reply. In my head, I felt Grace’s smug satisfaction—a mental “I told you so.”

  “So what?” I said. “He told me about the knife of his own accord. I didn’t have to ask. He volunteered the information. So what does that say about him?”

  I thought about how to respond. I wanted to know more, but at the same time, continuing the conversation felt like playing with fire. Still, I wanted—make that needed—to know more. I felt Grace’s disapproval and frustration that she couldn’t stop me, couldn’t control me. I clicked Reply.

  Tommy—

  I’m not sure what to say. I appreciate your honesty, but your confession—or, more accurately, series of confessions—is unsettling to say the least. How did your knife end up being used to murder Grace?

  Birdie

  “I can tell you,” Grace said. “Better yet, I can show you. Want to see my rape and murder? I know I’ve refused to let you see it in the past, but I think it’s time you saw what really happened.”

  “Go away,” I spat.

  “You’re going to regret this,” she said. “He’s not who you think.”

  I ignored her and reached for my glass of wine. I sipped as I waited to see if he was online and if he would reply. I didn’t have to wait long.

  Within ten minutes, his response appeared.

  Birdie:

  I don’t know where to begin. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, so I’ll tell you everything and then let you make the decision about where to go from here. I don’t know how much you remember about me, so I’ll start from the beginning.

  I was at my grandparents’ that summer because my parents thought my friends were bad influences. What they didn’t know was that I (and I’m ashamed to admit it) was the ringleader. It was serious stuff—robbing and beating up gay men in parks, running errands for drug dealers. We never got caught, but still . . . Please understand, I’m not proud of what I did back then. It was stupid and wrong—not to mention dangerous—which is why my parents sent me to Edenbridge to stay with my grandparents. I think they were trying to figure out what to do with me and figured that Edenbridge was as safe a place as any.

  When you met me, I was angry. I hated Edenbridge. And then one day, I wandered into that little store. I saw the knives and I thought . . . why not? So, I stole one. I thought it would make me cool—that I could go back home and impress my friends. But I couldn’t let my grandparents see it, so I hid it in the clearing, at the base of a big tree that was right near your tree house.

  I wanted to throw it, kind of like they did it in the movies. So I went to the clearing to practice. There was never anybody there. At least, I thought I was alone. But one day, while I was practicing, I heard someone sneeze. It was Grace, up in the tree house watching. Turns out she had been watching me practically every day.

  I have to admit, my initial reaction was anger . . . and embarrassment. She didn’t laugh, though. Or make fun. She simply said that I was getting pretty good and asked if I could teach her how to throw it. When I asked her why, she said she needed protection. As we got to be friends, I realized who she needed protecting from and why.

  I know this is going to sound strange, but the time I spent with her made more of an impact on me than any amount of punishment my parents could have doled out. She seemed so smart and mature. A lot of the time I forgot that she was only 11. I told her about the things I had done and she was cool. She didn’t judge. And she told me about her mom and Reggie. She was scared to be at home with him there.

  Before you ask, I don’t know who killed her or why. If you ask me, I think it was Reggie. But that’s just my opinion. All I know is that when I found her, she was already dead. She had been stabbed and I assumed, from how she was left, raped. I didn’t know what to do, Birdie. I saw the knife and knew it was mine. Maybe she had pulled it out for protection. I don’t know. All I do know is that I realized that my fingerprints probably were all over it. And, because no one knew we were spending time together, I figured people would think the worst. So, I ran. I ran back to my grandparents’ house and I stayed there.

  When you saw me that first time, I was there because I missed Grace. I just wanted to be in the place we used to spend time together. I know I probably scared you when I climbed up in your tree house. I’m sorry. After we spoke (you and me) I realized we were struggling with similar issues. When I talked to you, I didn’t feel so alone.

  I know that’s a long answer to your question, but I wanted you to know everything. Grace changed my life. Her death . . . when I went back to Chicago, my perspective had changed. I understood the value of life and the devastation that comes with the taking of life. Grace made me see that.

  I know you’re a private person and you have boundaries, Birdie. But for good reason. Just know that at some point, I’d like to become friends.

  Tommy

  I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. I thought back to that summer and I remembered our meetings and our conversations. I knew what he meant about not feeling so alone. And then it hit me—our correspondence, our discussions, weren’t chance. They were part of a larger plan. Someone or something continued to throw us together. Before, we were there for each other when Grace died. Now, as I struggled with Natalie’s death, he was here again.

  “Bullshit,” Grace said. “You’re seeing what you want to see.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know more than you.” I could feel her pacing. “I know that you can’t trust this guy. Ask him about the other rape.”

  “What do you mean? What other rape?”

  “You’ll see,” she crowed. “Natalie thinks he’s trouble, too.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean? “Natalie’s there?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Grace said slyly. “She’s here. Not in your head, of course. But in the great nebulousness of death.”

  “Can I talk to her?” I asked. “There are some things I want—”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Grace said. “She has no time for someone who didn’t take her in and then couldn’t be bothered with going to her funeral.”

  “There were circumstances beyond my control,” I stammered. “I can explain.”

  “She doesn’t want to hear it,” Grace said. “You let her down just like you let me down. You weren’t there for her and you weren’t there for me.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Just . . . shut up. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “Are you kidding?” Grace said sarcastically. “I’m in your head. I know everything that’s going on.” She was silent for several seconds. “Natalie hates you, yo
u know.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, it is. All you have left is that fag friend of yours.”

  “Tommy wants to be my friend.”

  I turned back to the computer and pulled up the e-mail. I pointed to the last line. “See? And, you know what?” I clicked on the reply button. “I want to be his, too.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Grace incredulously as the message box opened. “You don’t know—”

  “Shut up,” I said aloud.

  “Birdie, listen to me.” Grace’s voice dropped to a pained whisper. “Tommy can’t be trusted.” She paused. “He’s the one who murdered me.”

  “Funny how it just comes up now when you’re feeling threatened.”

  “You never needed to know before. And I wasn’t ready to tell you. But you need to listen to me now. It was Tommy. He pretended to be my friend, he lured me to the Nest, and then he killed me.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re jealous!” My voice echoed through the open room. “You’ve always been jealous, Grace. Jealous of the fact that I had parents who loved me. That I was Natalie’s best friend. That you died and I didn’t. You’re jealous and you’ve been punishing and controlling me ever since.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Grace said quickly. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is protect you from suffering the same fate as me. Think about it, Birdie. Who has kept you safe? Who was there when you did LSD? Who takes care of you every night now when you’re drunk? Me! You really have no one but me.”

  “And that’s the way you like it, isn’t it?” I hissed. “You’ve alienated me from friends and family. You’ve made me scared of my own shadow. Of germs. Of life. I’ve given up everything to you out of guilt. I’ve so insulated myself that I have nothing.”