Saving Grace: Tough Love

by Nancy Holder

  Clay looked at her apprehensively. “"You’'re not disappointed, are you, Aunt Grace?”"

  “"’'Course not, man,”" she said, taking his choice to the DVD player. “"I think the popcorn’'s nearly done. How about you grab it?”" He scooted into the kitchen, and she put the disk in.

  Dressed in raggedy sweats and a too-small Frontier City T-shirt that had really had its day, Clay opened the microwave door. “"Oh, good, this is the kind with extra butter.”" Grinning, he plucked up the steaming popcorn bag with his thumb and forefinger.

  “"There is no other kind,”" Grace declared as she headed back to the couch. “"Grab the Cokes, too.”" She reached for the bag of sour candy on the coffee table and ripped it open. Dove in and stuffed her mouth full of eye-watering, sour goodness. Sugar, fat, and caffeine. How bad could one movie be? “"We’'ll need the salt.”"

  Clay brought over the goodies as Gus raised his head from his doggy bed, then hefted himself up and joined the party. He crawled onto the sofa and fwumped down beside Clay, eyeing him eagerly, and everyone got comfy.

  “"I hope Forrest shows up on Sunday,”" Clay said as Grace grabbed a handful of popcorn. Grace felt a warmth in the center of her doting aunt’'s heart. Mooking around, watching movies and doing nothing special, that was when Clay opened up and told her what was on his mind. She treasured these moments as much as any Sooner touchdown. It was like cracking the case that was Clay’'s unfolding life, clue by miraculous clue.

  “"That’'s that kid who’'s so pale,”" Grace recalled. “"Forrest Catlett. His mom won’'t let him ride in the parish van.”"

  “"Yeah, she always drives him.”" Clay wrinkled his nose. “"It really embarrasses him. He hardly ever gets to come anymore. She told Father Alan that he’'s got some kind of condition.”"

  Grace washed down her candy-and-popcorn mashup with three very hefty swallows of Coke. She burped. It was satisfying. Gus passed some gas. She assumed that was satisfying for him, too. As she and Clay made a show of waving away the smell, she took another handful of popcorn.

  “"Do you think he’'s got some kind of condition?”" she asked.

  Clay thoughtfully munched. “"I don’'t know. I’'ve been praying for him just in case.”"

  She smiled at him. So sweet. His cheeks were still little-kid round, but he needed new black pants for school because he’'d grown two inches since Thanksgiving. A mixture of little boy and young man …... where was the baby she’'d rocked to sleep?

  “"That’'s nice of you, Clay,”" Grace said sincerely. “"Praying for your friend.”"

  “"Yeah. My dad’'s been praying for Forrest’'s parents to lighten up. He thinks they’'re turning him into a hypochondriac.”"

  “"That’'s a big word,”" she said.

  Clay took a good, healthy handful of gooey buttery goodness. Two kernels fluttered to the floor and Gus slid off the couch like a wet sandbag, Hoovering them up. Who needed to get the vacuum cleaner fixed?

  She grabbed the remote. Let there be AstronautFarmer. She settled in and glanced over at Clay, who looked pensive.

  “"She says Forrest is allergic to everything,”" he continued as the previews began. “"He has to bring special food. My dad says it’'s probably a bunch of hooey.”"

  Grace cocked her head. “"What do you think?”"

  “"Well, they’'re so protective of him,”" he mused.

  “"Maybe because he’'s got some kind of condition.”"

  “"Or maybe they’'re just worried that he might get hurt,”" Clay said. “"He had an older brother who died.”"

  Grace was startled. That was new information; Clay had never mentioned any Catlett siblings before, deceased or otherwise.

  “"So maybe they’'re afraid he’'ll die, too,”" he explained.

  “"That makes sense, in a sad kind of way,”" she said. Maybe she herself was a little neurotic about Clay.

  “"But it’'s hard to get hurt at rocket club.”" He frowned at the screen. “"These previews are really lame. Do you think the movie’'s going to be lame?”"

  “"If it is, we’'ll watch something else.”" She could hope. She plucked up a piece of popcorn and aimed it at his nose. Bull’'s-eye. “"And we have liftoff,”" she said.

  “"It’'s in the air.”" He threw a piece of popcorn back at her.

  “"Oh, my God, meteor shower!”" She picked up a handful and showered him with it. Laughing shrilly, he leaped to his feet, reaching for the bag as Grace seized it, hurtled herself up and over the couch, and rolled to a crouch with the popcorn bag against her chest like a football. Clay rounded the end of the sofa and headed for her as she feinted left, right, working out an escape route while Clay wobbled with laugher, which slowed him down. Gus stretched up and flopped his head on the top of the sofa, watching with one eye closed, which was as enthusiastic as he was going to get.

  Clay was almost on her when Grace turned her head toward the TV and shouted, “"Oh, my God!”" As she expected, Clay looked, and she lifted the bag over his head and showered him with popcorn.

  “"Falling stars!”" she yelled.

  “"Aunt Grace! Aunt Grace!”" Clay blustered, laughing. He slid to the floor, covered with popcorn; Grace did a war dance around him, whooping like a victorious brave. Gus got back down off the couch and approached, chomping his way to the two shrieking humans.

  “"I’'m covered in butter!”" Clay protested.

  “"I’'ve got a shower,”" she reminded him. “"And a washing machine.”" She dove over the couch, grabbed the salt, and dumped some over his head.

  “"No, no!”" He laughed, flailing at her, obviously not really wanting to stop her. She added one more shake, then one for good luck over her shoulder.

  “"Just be glad we weren’'t eating something you don’'t like,”" she told him. “"Like your grandma’'s split-pea soup.”"

  He grimaced. “"Yuck.”"

  “"My point exactly.”"

  He wiped his face with the edge of his T-shirt, eyes twinkling, some nice high color in those apple cheeks. “"This is the kind of stuff Forrest never gets to do.”"

  “"We should invite him over,”" Grace suggested. “"Show him how to walk on the wild side. With limits, of course. We’'ll only cover him in stuff he’'s not allergic to.”"

  “"Wow, could we? That’'d be great.”" Clay plucked a piece of popcorn out of her hair. “"He’'d have a blast.”"

  She smiled, wondering if Forrest’'s mom and dad could ever be persuaded to say yes. Doug might be able to give her some pointers on how to behave like a normal fuddy-duddy parent.

  “"You go take a shower,”" Grace said. “"I’'ll clean up the mess.”"

  “"Okay, Aunt Grace.”" Clay scooped up some popcorn to fling at her, but she was too quick and ducked out of trajectory range. His weapons of mass carbos plummeted to earth. Laughing, he turned around and headed for her bathroom.

  “"You’'ve got some sweats and a T-shirt in the clean laundry,”" she called after him. A bigger T-shirt, at that. “"Basket’'s on the dryer.”"

  “"Thanks,”" he called back.

  She smiled fondly after him, then down at Gus, who was still clearing the debris field. She was tempted to let him devour all the popcorn, but she didn’'t want him to have a bellyache. So she nudged him back with one bare foot while she dropped a roll of paper towels on the floor. Then she started gathering up gobs of popcorn with the use of her nimble feet.

  “"Evenin’', Grace,”" Earl said, appearing next to the TV. He was examining her stack of videos.

  “"Did you put Clay up to Astronaut Farmer?”" she asked him as Gus abandoned the popcorn and trotted over to Earl. Gus loved her angel more than junk food. Amazing.

  Earl patted Gus as he examined the back of a George Romero classic. Brain-eating zombies, shotguns. What was not to love?

  “"Nope. You sure do like zombies,”" he said.

  “"Used to be one.”" She crossed her eyes. “"Catholic schoolgirl. No one more brainless than that.”"
<
br />   “"Rhetta was a Catholic schoolgirl,”" Earl said. “"And you think she’'s smarter than you.”"

  “"Because she is. But I can drink more and swear better.”"

  “"Proud accomplishments.”" He set down the videos. “"It’'s nice to see you two having a good time. You and Clay. Life’'s so short. Gotta seize the moment.”"

  She went cold. Something in his tone set off her alarm bells. “"Those tougher times you mentioned …... that’'s the Sons of Oklahoma, right?”"

  He moved his shoulders. “"Maybe. Or maybe it’'s about a certain daughter of God. The tough times she’'s having.”"

  If he was talking about Grace herself, she didn’'t currently give a shit about that. “"It doesn’'t have anything to do with Clay?”"

  “"You know I can’'t tell you that,”" he said, gazing steadily at her.

  “"Can’'t or won’'t?”" she pushed, but she knew he wouldn’'t say either way. Still, as he stood facing her with her DVDs in his hand, the coldness turned to ice, as if she were standing in a cave in the Himalayas. If anything ever happened to her boy …...

  “"Why are you here?”" she asked. She clutched the roll of paper towels like a weapon. “"What’'s going on, Earl?”"

  “"I’'m not here for any special reason. I just heard the laughter,”" he replied. “"I knew Clay was over, and I thought I’'d pop by. I like Clay.”"

  She took a protective step toward the hall. “"Clay,”" she yelled, but she heard the shower going. He wouldn’'t be able to hear her. She swallowed. “"Nothing’'s going to happen to him. I want you to tell me that.”"

  He only looked at her. “"How you’'re feeling? That’'s how God feels when you’'re being reckless, taking chances. You. That’'s how He feels about you.”"

  “"What is this?”" she asked, edgy, defensive. “"Is this some kind of test, or lesson?”" She put the towels on the breakfast bar and stomped down the hall. She rapped on the door with the back of her hand, fingers doubled into a fist. “"Clay?”" she called loudly. “"You okay?”"

  The water went off.

  “"Aunt Grace?”" Clay called. “"Did you say something?”"

  “"Yeah, um.”" She closed her eyes. “"Just …... there’'s a clean towel on the rack. The blue one.”"

  “"Thanks.”" A beat. “"Are you okay, Aunt Grace?”"

  “"Yeah.”" She sagged a little, relief making her go weak in the knees. The water went back on, and she strode back into the living room. “"This is not okay, man,”" she began.

  But Earl was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “"If we’'re so smart, why aren’'t we solvent?”" Rhetta asked Ronnie as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Now that he’'d told her all of it—--that their savings were gone, and the farm was probably going to have to go, too—--Rhetta couldn’'t keep the cutting remarks from coming. She knew he felt terrible. He looked awful—--he’'d lost weight and dark rings circled his eyes. She wanted to feel sorry for him. But the farm hadn’'t been his to lose—--it had been in her family for over a hundred years. A hundred years.

  “"How many times can I say I’'m sorry?”" he demanded, his voice rising. “"I’'m sorry, I’'m sorry, I’'m sorry.”"

  He reached for her hand across the table and she forced herself not to bat it away. Anger welled inside her; she pursed her lips shut. She got up and poured herself another glass of wine from the nearly empty bottle beside the microwave. It was three in the morning and the kids were asleep. She and Ronnie seemed to be doing this weird thing where they waited for Todd and Mae to go to bed, and then they sniped at each other until either one of them had had enough or the sun started to come up. Rhetta hated it. Nevertheless, once the kids were down for the night, she met him in the kitchen, and they quarreled. Maybe wine was the wrong thing to drink at times like this.

  Maybe tequila would be better.

  Carrying her wine with her, she grabbed her jean jacket on the hook by the door. Slipped into her cowboy boots without any socks. Ronnie didn’'t say anything.

  She went outside. The wind had died down, which was nice, she supposed. Heading for the barn, she breathed in the cold, fresh air spiced with mud and cow manure. If they did have to sell, they were going to move into an apartment complex. She didn’'t think she could bear it. After the intensity of a day in the Crime Lab, wallowing in disgusting Dumpsters or collecting blood and fecal matter in trashed motel rooms, she needed the clean solitude of the country. Safe harbor. Retreat. A place where she could pretend the whole world was as nurturing as her farm.

  Fresh hay. The strong scent greeted her as she pushed open the door. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked over at Holy Cow, the animal Grace had liberated from Alvin Green, the richest cattleman in Oklahoma. Holy Cow was white with black markings that looked like the face of Jesus Christ on the Shroud of Turin. If they had to sell the farm, she’'d have to find a place for HC. Grace couldn’'t keep him in her suburban neighborhood.

  “"I’'m so sorry,”" she said to the cow as tears welled. Then she heard the soft lowing of their new calf. Mama and baby had been separated to reduce the possibility of infection, but they were next door to each other in two pens near the back of the barn. Rhetta drank down her wine as she lifted the latch and went inside. Speckles had finished her most recent feeding of colostrum and was resting.

  “"Poor little thing, poor thing,”" Rhetta said as the little calf gazed up at her with sleepy, limpid brown eyes. Mae had named it Speckles. Speckles’'s mama was Buttercup.

  The calf blatted, sounding almost like a sheep, and Rhetta began to cry. She laid her head against Speckles’'s neck as the tears flowed freely and sorrow poured out of her. How could they leave here, ever? How could they?

  She cried for a long time, half expecting Ronnie to come in to check on her. She was glad he didn’'t, but also disappointed. A chasm was building between them and she was too angry and sad to do anything about it except retreat a little farther every day, so that she wouldn’'t fall in.

  Speckles nudged her tentatively, lowing, and she wiped her eyes and gave the animal a gentle pat.

  “"We have to have faith,”" Rhetta told them.

  Right you are, Earl thought as he watched from the barn door. Holy Cow gazed at him; Earl winked in return. He’'d be sad if they lost the farm, too. Not up to him what happened, but he liked to think he had his wings around this family. The Rodriguezes were part of Grace’'s family, through love if not blood.

  He kept vigil until Rhetta fell asleep. Then he pulled a saddle blanket from the tack shed and draped it over her, cautioning Mama Buttercup to hold her peace. In her sleep, Rhetta smiled faintly, and Earl knew she was having a little conversation with her Father.

  Who was Earl’'s Father, too.

  Saturday was supposed to be her day off, but after Doug picked up Clay, Grace drove over to the OK All Day minimart and walked up and down the street. Forensics was all done; the yellow police caution tape and the little evidence flags were gone. Based on the tape, Ham had tried to get a warrant to inspect the Sons of Oklahoma compound for a white truck at the same time that Grace and Clay had fallen asleep watching Astronaut Farmer.

  Ham called Grace in the morning to vent: The judge had turned down Ham’'s request. Grace was indignant, and Captain Perry agreed that they should have gotten the warrant. But a cop was a cop and a judge was a judge, and for now they had to wait it out.

  Grace was not okay with that. She didn’'t want to end the weekend empty-handed. All those forensics shows on TV might get things wrong now and then, but they were right about one thing—--the first twenty-four hours of a case were the most crucial. You had a much better chance of closing it if you found something to go on in that critical day.

  So she was out fishing. She had her fingers crossed for good, solid leads that took her straight to Malcolm’'s killer, although she’'d settle for more evidence that would snag them a warrant. Grace had a mental list of what they had so far: Rhetta had tak
en those sweet tire track impressions, but she hadn’'t picked up any on the actual street Malcolm had died on. That didn’'t mean there weren’'t any, just that she hadn’'t lifted them. Rhetta also hadn’'t weighed in yet on the rooftop situation.

  As far as the department knew, they had obtained all the pertinent surveillance tapes from the minimart cameras; and while they proved that the white truck was in the vicinity, they didn’'t prove that it had actually run Malcolm over. That was the judge’'s rationalization for turning them down. Grace thought that was bullshit; she’'d gotten warrants on less than that.

  They could have had two vehicles out here, she thought. One to run him over, one to watch. Maybe Sons had to make their bones just like other gangs. As far as she was concerned, that was all they were—--a thug club.

  Slowly she inched down the same side of the street as the minimart. Back up on the other side. She studied the small houses as she passed them, secured behind chain-link or wrought-iron fences—--the walls flecked with chipped paint, security bars and aluminum foil in the windows, rickety porches and brown crabgrass in the pavement cracks. A few of them sported bright American flags planted in weedy yards and stickers on mailboxes that read WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. Grace had never seen a sticker that said WE SUPPORT OUR COPS.

  She ambled around the corner, onto the street where Malcolm had died, pulling her soft green jean jacket around herself as a blast of wind flapped at the hem. She was cold; maybe she’'d invite Ham over tonight and get warmed up.

  On any other occasion, the thought would have made her smile. But she was drawing closer to the place where they had found Malcolm’'s body. She stopped, staring, digging her hands in her pockets. The sound of Malcolm’'s laughter echoed in her heart.