Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  Sylvia could feel herself flush. She, too, had left Grace with a stranger. If she hadn’t gone to Saginaw without her, none of this horror would have happened. “Please, tell me anything you can remember that may give us a−” she paused, trying to remember the Spanish word for clue. “Pista,” she said. “Any clue you can think of. When was it you last saw Grace?” She heaped some rice onto her fork.

  “The day before she disappeared, she came over to talk. Poor little thing was alone. Lucho surfing, and . . . well . . . this girl . . . you see what Elodie is like,” she said, waving her hand dismissively at her—“what can you expect from teenagers? I told them I didn’t have the time to look after Adela, myself. I warned them something could happen.” She glowered at Elodie while simultaneously pouring her some juice.

  Sylvia knew that in Angela’s culture a woman should feel responsible for a child. Any child, whether it was hers or not. Poor Elodie was obviously in the doghouse. Her fault, more than Lucho’s, that Grace had not been sufficiently supervised. Yet, how could the poor things know that Grace would sneak out on them like that?

  “You don’t think there was an accident in the water?” Sylvia asked, wincing, not only at her pidgin Spanish but the appalling possibility of what she was saying. She couldn’t remember the word for “drowned.”

  “No. She never went swimming alone. Never did I see her swimming without Lucho. She knows better than that.”

  “Is it possible a man was around? Somebody giving her sweet things?” She thought of the little boy she’d given the pen and candy to earlier.

  “It’s very safe around here. Did you know that Nicaragua has maybe the lowest crime rate in the whole of Latin America? We are no longer a dangerous country,” Angela barked, “that’s why tourists are returning. The war ended in 1990, you know. The possibility is there, of course, but I don’t think she got taken by a man. Or anybody, for that matter.”

  “What do you and Grace usually talk about?” Sylvia asked, twirling the recording pen in her fingers and swallowing a mouthful of food.

  “Adela doesn’t speak much.”

  “Grace.”

  “Pretty name. Like I said, she didn’t say much, just sat at the table and drank some juice while I was cooking.”

  “And did you say something?”

  “Just asked her if her mother was coming back soon. Rocío, I mean. Not her mother, as I understand now, but a crazy woman—just knew something was strange about her. I told your daughter she shouldn’t be alone, that it would be better for her to be at school with other children, not all alone.”

  A light flickered in Sylvia’s head. She knew how much Grace adored school. “And what did she say?”

  “Nothing. That’s when she got up and left. Didn’t see her again.”

  Sylvia squinted her eyes, trying to imagine the scenario. “But she had dinner with the others and went to bed that night. Elodie has a photo of her. So you didn’t talk about other children, or about schools or some—”

  “Wait a minute! Yes, yes we did. She asked me where the schools were. I remember now. Oh Lord. Oh no, what did I do?”

  “And what did you tell her exactly?”

  “Well, there’s a little place here but it often doesn’t function in the rainy season. It only has a straw roof, gets flooded all the time. I think I said the nearest big school was in Chinandega or El Viejo.”

  “Angela, you’re so kind, thank you so much!”

  “I haven’t been kind, I’ve been a fool! I put the wrong idea into that little girl’s head. Yes, I bet you, she got it into her head to take herself off to school. Oh Lord, oh Lord!”

  Sylvia finished her juice and got up. “Can I leave my backpack here? I’m going to Chinandega.” She took out her cell phone.

  “I’m afraid there’s no network here. You need to get further out toward the road.”

  “Sorry? Say that more slowly, I didn’t understand.”

  Angela spoke more slowly. “No cell phone network. You need to get closer toward the road.”

  “Ah, okay. Anyway, I’ll return later. Thanks so much.”

  “Where are you going?” Elodie asked in a panic, her mouth full.

  “To Chinandega. Quick, get your bag and come with me—we’ll need your camera with those photos of Grace.”

  Elodie ran back to grab her things while Sylvia waited. Sylvia fixed her stare on the huge moon, perfectly round and stippled. It was rising slowly from the horizon. Sylvia thought of Grace, always keen to pick out the Man in the Moon in any form, shape, or size; a profile, the man doing a dance, a blotchy face, but how Tommy, with his personality, saw the moon in a different way. She remembered him once telling her that the same side of the moon always faces the Earth. Something she’d never considered before. And that a billion years ago, the moon was much closer to the Earth, and a day was only eighteen hours, not twenty-four. The tides were stronger, too, on account of the moon being closer, then. The moon tonight was huge and low. The Man’s face was a laughing demon. Why, she wondered, did the Earth get a capital letter and the moon not?

  Elodie ran toward her, her bag strapped over her shoulder. They walked in silence, the tall palms swaying in the gentlest breeze. No rain, thank God. Elodie had a small flashlight and shone it ahead. Sylvia could hear creatures rustling through leaves and undergrowth. Birds, snakes, scorpions, crocodiles, panthers . . . every type of animal sprang up in her imagination. The shock of Tommy’s iPhone buzzing in her dress pocket nearly sent it flying to the ground as she fumbled in a panic, fishing it out. “Hello?” She could hear movement on the other line and voices mumbling in Spanish. “Ho-la-a?” she yelled into her cell.

  “Sylvia? Are you there?”

  “Melinda?”

  “Finally. I’ve been calling for ages. Kept getting your voicemail. Listen, I’m still here at the police station. This Lucho guy has basically had the shit walloped out of him.”

  “Oh no, that’s what Elodie feared. Did you get to speak to him?”

  “Elodie? His girlfriend? You’re with her?”

  “Yes. I found her on the beach. I’ve been to the cabin and seen Angela, the caretaker of the cabin.”

  “Good work! Look, Lucho is not in great shape.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Okay, let me remember every point. Firstly, he has no idea where Grace could have gone. Let’s see . . . He came by boat with Ruth and Grace from El Salvador. He never saw Ruth’s passport. Ruth told him Grace was her daughter and she had business in Rio and she’d be back in a couple of weeks. Left him money and paid for the cabin in advance. But then she called from Rio and said she was delayed.”

  “When?”

  “Like three, four days ago. Post nose job, but before she hooked up with Tommy.”

  “Please don’t use that phrase, ‘hooked-up,’ ” Sylvia snapped.

  “Sorry. No. Hang on! The first time she called him was about a week ago. Said she’d be delayed. Then called again to confirm. Confirm about being delayed.”

  “So that must have been when he moved Elodie into the cabin.”

  “Yes. Listen, Lucho is beside himself and it’s not an act. If it is, he deserves an Oscar. He’s frantic about Grace and has no idea what could have happened. He feels responsible—”

  “Listen, I’m on my way. I think I know where Grace—”

  “Sylvia, listen. He thought of something that could be important and I can’t believe what he said. Listen carefully to what I am about to say. Recording pen, Angelina’s cabin next door. I can’t talk,” and she lowered her voice to a whisper, “they are watching me. Talk to Angela.”

  “Yeah, as I said, I already have. I’ve just been with her—she gave us dinner. I know, I was stunned. I have the pen in my possession. I hope it works, who knows what information there could be? Grace was often playing with it—she must have taken it from Tommy’s desk. Anyway, we’re on our way to Chinandega. Seems like Grace could have been looking for a school. Elodie has photos of her,
thank God. We can get those blown up tomorrow and put on every street corner, offering a reward. Just out of interest, Melinda, why didn’t Lucho give up the pen as evidence to the police?”

  “What do you think? He’s a regular guy from Columbia, no frills, no money. What has happened to him is probably no surprise as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of trust with the law. Or with anybody.”

  “But didn’t he hear the whole saga of what happened from the FBI, that Grace had been kidnapped?”

  “It didn’t appear so. Just knew he was in a shitload of trouble.”

  “What’s he like?” Sylvia asked, striding through the leafy, muddy grove, following Elodie’s flashlight, heading . . . she wasn’t even sure where.

  “Drop dead gorgeous, even with his black eye. But I swear that’s not clouding my judgment. You know what I said about eyes? His are like classic puppy dog eyes.”

  Sylvia couldn’t help but smile at Melinda’s last sentence. Classic puppy dog eyes.

  “Listen, I have to go, the jefe is back. I’ll call in a bit. Bye.”

  Sylvia looked at her watch. Ten past seven.

  “I have a number for a driver,” Elodie announced. “We’ll call and he can pick us up at the end of the road. Ten minute walk. And then?” she asked, “where are we going?”

  Sylvia almost tripped over a log in the dark but caught her balance. “To find the school. I doubt anyone will be there at this time of night but we could find a lead.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Grace

  The girls were lying side by side in a shaky bed, in a shack connected to the church. Extra Tall had dressed them in clean, white nightgowns. María was trembling with excitement. She’d been talking about the hot shower non-stop, and kept running her fingers through her clean, soft hair.

  “I smell so yummy!” she squealed. “I’m so clean! I’ve never been in hot water like that. I wish I could be clean like this every single day. Look! Feel these sheets.” She breathed in the white cotton and giggled. “And look at this pretty blanket. Shush, the priest is coming,” she whispered to Grace who hadn’t said a word.

  Grace wondered what time it was. It was already dark. They’d had a big dinner of beans and rice, with mangoes for dessert, and even some chocolates. María told her she’d never had chocolate before. Grace could hear the wheezing of the priest long before she saw him come into the room. There was something Goblinish about him. She could smell that he’d sprayed himself with perfume. This time he was wearing a robe, a sort of white sheet, loose and flowing. But he still didn’t look like the Pope. He was smiling. His teeth were yellow like a rat. Like Samuel Whiskers in the Beatrix Potter tale.

  “Hello girls,” the priest whispered. “I’ve come to read you your bedtime story. Sorry I’m late, I had some business to take care of.” He took a stool from the corner of the room and moved close to the bed. He sat down and rearranged his dress. Grace thought his lungs might burst with Wheeze.

  “What business?” María asked.

  “Aren’t you curious? If you must know, I promised a rosary, a rosario, to an old lady.”

  “Rosario is a girl’s name.”

  “Yes, María, and it’s also a way of saying the Lord’s Prayer and your Hail Marys. Bead by bead. Important for you¸ because you’re named after our gracious Lady herself. Shall we start the session off with a little prayer then? A little Hail Mary?” Padre Marco started to mumble quietly and María joined in. Grace hummed and moved her lips so she looked Catholic but covered her mouth with Hideous so they couldn’t tell she didn’t know the words.

  “Dios te salve, María. Llena eres de gracia . . .” The Padre continued to mutter the prayer and ended with Amen. “Now, doesn’t that make you feel better? Purged of sin? Huh?”

  “You said you’d tell us a story,” María shouted excitedly.

  “Shush, not so loud. This is our secret bedtime moment, huh? I will tell you a story.”

  “That’s not true! You don’t have a book with you.”

  “You’re right, María. You’re a very observant little girl. I don’t have a book with me. I thought we could play a game, instead.”

  “I love games,” María whispered.

  “Me too,” he wheezed. “Especially secret games. But you must promise not to tell anybody. Not Miss Helga, not your parents, not a soul.”

  “I promise.”

  “And you, Adela? Do you promise too?”

  She nodded her head and hugged Hideous.

  “Because if you tell, we can never play again. And if you don’t tell, I can give you chocolate—”

  “Yummy!”

  “Quietly now, María. Nice and quiet like a baby mouse. Don’t say a word.”

  Grace wondered why the game was so secret. She had never played a secret game before. She wriggled nervously under the sheet.

  “And I can also give you some coins. But only if you keep everything hush-hush. Do you know the story of Pinocchio?”

  Grace nodded.

  “And María, do you know the story?”

  “Maybe,” she said, playing with her hair.

  “It was written by an Italian—”

  “You’re Italian!”

  He smoothed his hand over his balding head. “Yes, María, I am. I thought we could play, and you two girls can pretend that I am Pinocchio.”

  Grace knitted her brow. “How?’

  “Well, I’ll show you. Now once upon a time, an old man called Geppetto decided to make a puppet from the branch of a tree. ‘I shall call you Pinocchio,’ he said to the puppet, ‘You shall be a little boy.’ First, he made a mouth and the puppet started to speak.” The priest started to move his mouth like a fish. “Touch my mouth, girls. Go on, touch it.”

  Grace touched the priest’s lips lightly with her finger. His lips were wet like squidgy, leaky, over-ripe plums, and she quickly took her finger away. He made fishy movements again. “Go on, María.” María put her fingers in the priest’s rubbery mouth and he sucked them and licked them like they were a tasty lollipop. “Uum, he said, Pinocchio likes that. He’ll give María some chocolate for doing that.”

  She giggled, “Pinocchio’s silly!”

  The priest’s eyes were alight with fire. “Then Pinocchio started to dance and he earned money at a puppet show.” The priest put his hand in his robe pocket and pulled out some córdoba coins and a dollar bill. “Adela just gets coins because she only touched Pinocchio’s mouth. But María gets a whole dollar because she really played the game.” He divided the money and gave it to the children, licking his lips at the same time. “But then,” he went on, “Pinocchio forgot to go to school. He’d been given a school uniform and had lots of money spent on him, but he didn’t turn up. Then what do you think happened?”

  “He told a lie,” Grace offered.

  “That’s right. He lied and said he did go to school. And then what happened?”

  “His nose grew long.” Grace looked at Padre Marco’s nose. It was already very, very long. And big. How could it get any bigger?

  “Now we are going to pretend,” he said, standing up and lifting up his robe above his legs, “that Pinocchio’s nose is right here.” His chubby fingers pointed between his naked legs—no underpants, just bare. There were two, round, hairy things hanging like rotten, wizened, kiwi fruits with his Willy in between, which he fondled and played with. “Now imagine this is Pinocchio’s nose.”

  “That’s not a nose!”

  “We’re playing a game, María! Do you want money and chocolate or not?” His voice had turned Dragonish. Grace didn’t want to play anymore, if he was going to be mean.

  María touched his Willy and it sprang up like a creature with a heart and lungs and a brain all of its own.

  “Aah, aah,” the father cried out as if it hurt, “you see how Pinocchio’s nose grows when he tells a lie? How come a lie can feel so good?” he groaned. “Would you like Pinocchio to lie again? Come on little Adela, make Pinocchio lie.”<
br />
  “No.”

  “María?”

  María took the live animal in her hand and laughed. Then she slapped it so it waved left and then right. “It’s gone all hard,” she tittered.

  “Hold Pinocchio’s nose, María. Hard. I said, HOLD IT!”

  She obeyed.

  “Squeeze it, move your hand up and down, he ordered, gripping María’s hand, putting it under his own. Grace noticed lilac-blue veins popping out of the “nose” like rivers. “See how he lies?” he puffed. “See how bad he is? He’s a bad, bad, wicked boy!”

  María wriggled her little hand away.

  “In fact, he’s so bad I need to take this bad boy in hand myself,” he panted, grabbing the thing in his right fist and rubbing and pulling it up and down like it was a cow’s udder until he was going faster and faster and faster like a runaway train. His hips were making dancy circles in the air, his robe was swinging from side to side, wagging like a dog’s tail. Finally, he grunted, “Aah!” White water came out of the wee-wee hole and Grace smelled a raw potato, bleachy smell. Clorox and potatoes. The priest started to cry. He had tears in his eyes. Grace felt badly for him because he must have been in terrible pain. “Bad, bad Pinocchio,” he whimpered, and then he quickly wiped the thing—which had suddenly turned all tiny and Flopsy Bunny—he wiped it with his robe. Then he let the dress drop to the floor, covering his fat thighs once more.

  “I’m sorry girls, that Pinocchio was such a liar tonight. Such a big, bad liar! But you Angels have been so good. So good, that tomorrow I’m going to buy you candy.”

  “And our uniforms?” Grace asked in a very small voice.

  “Oh yes. Absolutely. Nice, neat, clean uniforms for two, clean little girls. Now remember what I said, this is our secret.” He started to move toward the curtain to leave.

  “Will we play Pinocchio tomorrow night and earn more money?” María asked.

  “Perhaps. Although I’d like to keep Pinocchio under control. But then again, it’s true, he does need some eyes, doesn’t he, girls? Maybe you could paint some eyes on either side of his big bad nose. That would be fun. That would make the nose get really enormous. Ooh yes, that would be great fun.” He crept out of the shack, tiptoeing like he wanted to be a ballet dancer but making a lot of noise as he went. Then he peeped his head back in. Grace saw how shiny and round and red it was, even redder than the snaky Willy with just one eye and a Life of its Own. “Night, night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said softly.