Grace

by T. Greenwood

  Twig raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “You aren’t gonna call him, are you?” Twig asked, pulling the foil from her hair. The air smelled of chemicals; between the hair dye and the booze, she felt kind of woozy.

  “Why not?” she said. Twig was contrary sometimes just for the sake of being contrary, especially if she was drinking.

  “Because you’re married?” Twig said.

  “I’m not going to sleep with him!” Elsbeth said, and though she meant it, she felt a little twinge of disappointment at saying this.

  “Whatever,” Twig said. “But you break Kurt’s heart, I’ll have to kill you. That man is a catch, Elsbeth. He’s a good father, he works hard, and he loves you.”

  Each statement felt like an attack, like what Twig was really saying was that Elsbeth should just be grateful for what she had. Like she was accusing her of something when she hadn’t even done anything yet. Yet. Jesus, she’d had too much wine. She’d just get herself home and get rid of that damn business card. Twig was right.

  But on Monday morning, after the bus from the retirement center came and she’d gotten all of her ladies situated under the dryers, she thought about him again. The thoughts were like slivers, little prickly things under her skin. She might forget about him for a while, until she felt the prick. That itchy reminder.

  Twig had left her a little sticky note on the mirror in front of her chair. Be smart, it said. She’d plucked it off and tossed it in the trash. And then, just as she was headed out the door to go grab a Mountain Dew from the Cumberland Farms, shaking her head like she could just shake the thoughts loose, she bumped into him. Literally.

  “Hi,” he said. He had a newspaper tucked under one arm. He had a pair of glasses on; she hadn’t remembered him wearing glasses before. They made him look distinguished. Kind of like a black Clark Kent.

  “Hi,” she said, feeling herself blush.

  His eyes behind the glasses were an even brighter blue than she remembered. It was hard to look at him. He hadn’t stopped smiling at her. Funny how she suddenly felt completely see-through, like he somehow knew that she’d been thinking about him all weekend. The way he was looking at her was like somebody who knew her secrets. But that wasn’t possible, right? For Christ’s sake, if he could really see through her, he’d have known she wasn’t Babette.

  “You on a break?” he asked.

  She nodded, worried that if she opened her mouth she wouldn’t have any control over the words that came out.

  “How about that cup of coffee, then?”

  Of course Twig was right. Twig was always right. But still Elsbeth walked down Depot Street with this strange man as if they were lifelong friends. As if this were completely normal. She was aware of her posture, standing taller than she normally did, throwing her shoulders back. Her mother had always tried to get her to stand up straight, but she was self-conscious about being tall. She felt different with her hair colored too. She held her head differently, was aware of the tips of her hair on her shoulders. Twig had suggested going lighter, maybe even a sandy blond, but Elsbeth had opted for auburn highlights. Something red. In the sun, she felt ablaze. When they walked past the jewelry shop and she caught her reflection in the glass, she barely recognized herself. She was Babette. A redheaded Babette (as opposed to the real Babette, whose hair was the color of lemon pudding). And when they went through the doors to the new little coffee shop near the railroad tracks, the one Kurt wouldn’t be caught dead at, the one where a cup of coffee cost the same as a sandwich anywhere else, she could have been another woman. She could have been anyone but herself.

  On Monday when school was canceled, Trevor was both relieved and disappointed. Today was the day they were supposed to finally go into the darkroom; he’d been looking forward to it all weekend. Mrs. D. had shown him where the chemicals were, the dusty packages of paper. He’d helped her clean the plastic developing trays and dust the enlarger. He had been taking pictures like crazy, spending every dime he made at the yard on film. He had four more used rolls. Now, with school canceled, he’d have to wait another day before he could develop them. But one less day of school was still, at least, one less day of school. And summer vacation was just two weeks away. When he thought of summer, it was like a shimmering rock under murky water.

  Both his mom and his dad had to work on Mondays, so they spent the whole morning arguing about what to do with him and Gracy.

  “Trevor can watch her until you get home,” his father said as he finished up his breakfast, sopping up his eggs with a heel of toast. “It’s just four hours. He’s nearly thirteen years old, El. They’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know. What if something happens? What if there’s an emergency?”

  “Then he can call 9-1-1.”

  “Why don’t I just stay home?” she said.

  “That’s not necessary,” his father had said in that voice that sounded like bricks. Like he was making a wall with his words.

  His mother slammed the frying pan she’d been making eggs in into the sink, the brick wall cracking.

  “El, it’s just we really can’t afford to have you missing work,” his father said.

  “I realize that. Don’t you think I know that?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “I can do it,” Trevor said, just wanting them to stop. “We’ll have fun, right, Gracy?” It wasn’t as though they hadn’t left Gracy with him before. Sometimes when his mother needed to run to the store or the gas station, he’d watch her. Once she’d been gone for almost two hours. Seriously. How hard was it to play Chutes and Ladders and Candy Land all day? He wouldn’t even have to make her lunch; she’d be home by lunchtime.

  Finally, his mother threw up her hands and said, “Fine.” She didn’t say another word to anyone until she left, and even then she only kissed Gracy good-bye and said to him, “I’ll be back at one. Do not turn on the stove. Don’t even use the microwave. You know my cell number, and here’s the number at Babette’s.” Then she looked for a moment like she might have changed her mind, like she might set down her purse and stay. But she only took a deep breath and said, “God, just be good.”

  “I’ll be home late tonight,” his father said. “I’m stopping by Pop’s.”

  “Fine, then,” she said. “I’ll keep a plate warm.” She took off in a huff, but her car wouldn’t start, and so his dad had to pull his truck up to hers, their hoods popped open and their batteries connected by the jumper cables. Something about watching them like this made Trevor feel sad. Connected, stuck together, but still totally separate. His mother sat in the car scowling, and when the engine finally came back to life, his dad quickly disconnected them and slammed the hood down, and his mom took off, gravel flying up behind her car as she peeled out of the driveway.

  Gracy was finishing a bowl of Froot Loops at the table. There were Barbies lined up all along the table’s edge, like some weird Barbie picnic. “Do you want my rainbow milk?” she asked Trevor, motioning to her bowl.

  “Sure,” Trevor said and took the bowl of colored milk from her, tipping it up and drinking it in three small gulps.

  “So what do you wanna do today, Gracy?”

  By ten o’clock they had played five games of Chutes and Ladders, watched two episodes of SpongeBob, one Dora the Explorer, and about five minutes of Barney, which just about drove Trevor crazy. Gracy had already dug into her dress-up box and dressed up as Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, and finally settled into last year’s Candy Corn Witch costume, complete with striped tights. She’d convinced Trevor to be a wizard, tying a black cape around his neck.

  “I’m bored,” she said. “Let’s go someplace.”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to go anywhere, Gracy,” he said.

  “Than let’s play outside,” she said. “Mommy won’t care if we play outside.”

  Trevor looked around the house anxiously, as if his mother had installed security cameras to ensure he didn’t do anything he wasn’t supposed to do. They had those at school now, a
nd he felt like he was always being watched. He knew it was ridiculous, but he also knew she had, if reluctantly, trusted him. He didn’t want to mess up.

  “I guess we could go outside,” he said. “Why not?”

  Outside, Gracy played on the swing set. He pushed her, and she swung so high the chains kinked and made a loud snap. When she grew tired of the swing, they raced each other back and forth across the field behind the house until their legs were shaking with exhaustion.

  “Let’s go on a nature walk,” she said. “We could go swimming.”

  “I don’t know,” Trevor said. “What if Mom comes home early?”

  “We can leave her a note.”

  Trevor shrugged again. “I guess as long as we get back before Mom.”

  Inside Gracy changed into her bathing suit, and Trevor got his camera. He’d just take her down to the river to splash around. They’d be back in plenty of time. He’d been wanting to take some pictures in the woods. Find some pretty things to take pictures of for a change.

  Trevor made Gracy hold his hand as they walked into the woods at the edge of the field. “You have to stay with me,” he said. “No wandering off.”

  “Okay,” she said. She had put her witch costume back on over her bathing suit. The hat flopped to one side and the rubber nose was still strapped to her face, the elastic pressing into her chubby cheeks. He snapped a couple of pictures, but she was giggling too hard to hold still.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They made their way through the woods to the river’s edge and Gracy peeled off her costume, leaving it lying on a rock. It made him think of that scene in The Wizard of Oz after Dorothy throws the water on the Wicked Witch and she melts. He snapped a few photos of the empty costume and then followed Gracy to the river.

  “You can wade, but don’t go in,” Trevor said. “The current looks really strong today.”

  “Brrr,” she said as she stepped into the water. “It’s cold!”

  Goose bumps sprang up all over her arms and legs. He clicked a couple more pictures, thinking he maybe should have brought another roll. The sun on the water made constellations of light. A billion twinkling stars on the surface of the water.

  “I don’t want to go swimming anymore,” she said. “I want a towel.”

  Shoot. He’d forgotten to grab a towel. “Here,” he said, pulling off his sweatshirt and helping her put it over her shoulders. It hung nearly to the ground. He yanked the hood over her head and pulled the strings so that just her little face was showing. She stuck her tongue out and he clicked another picture of her.

  “Let’s keep walking,” Trevor said. It was so beautiful in the woods, cool with warm spots where the trees opened up, allowing the sun to shine down through the foliage. He sat on a warm, flat stone by the water and advanced his film.

  “Gracy, go stand over there by that tree.”

  “Why?” she asked. She had found a roly-poly bug and was examining it at the tip of her finger. Her fingernails were short, dirty.

  “Please?” he asked. He thought about that photo of the real Alice in the book Mrs. D. gave him. He thought about what Mrs. D. had said about having a muse. “But take off that sweatshirt,” he said. “It looks silly.”

  “It’s too cold,” she said.

  “Please? Just long enough to take a picture.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head; her hair stood up with static. “Like this?” she asked and leaned against the tree. Pouty. His mom was right about her growing out of all of her summer clothes; the yellow bathing suit with the ripped-up skirt around the middle was way too small. Trevor didn’t notice until he clicked the first couple of pictures that one of her nipples was showing.

  “Wait,” he said, feeling embarrassed for her even though she was just a little girl. He walked over to her and pulled her strap up so that she was covered again.

  “Okay,” he said. “Say cheese.”

  She only let him take a couple more pictures before she said she wanted to go home and have a snack. It was eleven; their mom would be back in two hours.

  “Can we have popcorn?” Gracy asked, skipping ahead of him.

  “We’re not supposed to use the microwave,” he said.

  “Mommy lets me push the buttons sometimes,” Gracy said hopefully.

  “Not today, Squeak,” he said.

  They walked along the river’s edge back toward their house, and when they got to the train trestle that traversed the water below, something caught his eye. There was the hint of something red through the green of the trees. He’d never noticed it before.

  “Come with me,” he said to Gracy. He grabbed her hand and they ran to the trestle. He thought about helping her climb up and then realized that probably wasn’t safe. But he really needed to see what it was. It would only take a second. He looked back at Gracy. She’d plucked some dandelions and was braiding their sticky stems together. Her hands would be stained with the stems’ brown circles later.

  “Stay right here,” he said. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in two seconds.”

  It was an easy climb, probably only about ten feet up or so. The metal was hot from the sun, burning the palms of his hands. He could still see Gracy from up there; he waved and motioned for her to stay put at the water’s edge. He watched the river between the railroad ties as he made his way across to the other side, where he jumped down and entered a tangle of maple and birch and pine, as thick and dense as a stone. He could feel the branches scraping his arms, but he didn’t care, because that red thing he’d seen was a caboose. A real caboose just sitting there in the woods! And it looked like he was the first person to find it. No graffiti, no beer cans. Not a single scrap of evidence that anyone but he knew that it was here. Not even the trees seemed to notice it; they were growing right up through the rusted floor. He climbed up onto the platform and went through the door.

  Inside, the leaves pressed against the windows, making everything green. The floors were littered with leaves and twigs. It was cool and dark in here, a cave. Spiderwebs stuck to his face and chest as he moved through the room. There was a potbelly stove, some rotten mattresses, and a wooden chair missing a leg. There was also a platform, which he climbed. From up there, perched like a hawk, he could look out over the tops of some of the smaller trees. He could hear the river.

  He quickly snapped a picture of the broken glass scattered on the floor below him, the spiderwebs that caught the sunlight in their careful designs. He tried to capture that color green, the inside of a chrysalis. It felt like he was taking photos of his own heart, which was still beating like a captured bird in his chest. Mine, he thought. This place is mine.

  He wanted to stay longer, but he knew he couldn’t leave Gracy. And it was too dangerous for her to climb up too. So he reluctantly left the caboose and made his way back to the river’s edge where he had told her to wait. But when he shimmied down the trestle, she was gone.

  “Gracy?” he asked, looking around. He was sure he had left her here. He remembered this toppled tree, its upturned roots like a giant’s hair. Her witch costume was still lying empty on the rocks, the striped tights like quiet snakes basking in the sun.

  “Gracy!” he hollered again, and then he felt the dull, hollow thud of panic setting in. He raced back and forth across the scattered pine needles, winding through the labyrinth of trees. His heart was beating like a drum in his ears and head. He was dizzy, feeling the ground tilting awkwardly underneath him, as if the world might just spill him off its edges. He walked slowly, terrified, to the water, and his heart stopped like a cork in his throat.

  Gracy was standing ankle-deep in the water about ten yards away. The sun was bright behind her, making her a silhouette. A shadow. She had made a crown of dandelions that circled her head like a halo. The sun dappled the water with light, and the leaves made heart-shaped patterns across her bare legs. He caught his breath. Where only moments ago there had been terror, now there was nothing but rel
ief. Where there had been blistering panic was now a lovely, hushed reprieve. She was here. She was okay. Disaster had been avoided, and in its place was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.

  She held her arms out and spun on tippy-toes in the rushing water. The tattered skirt of the bathing suit swirled around her legs. He slowly, quietly raised the camera, peering through the viewfinder at her. He was afraid to release the shutter, afraid to disturb her, but he desperately needed to capture this feeling. This beautiful sensation. All of the fragility of the world was in this moment, though he didn’t know how to articulate that except by pressing his finger. Click.

  That night there was another robocall from Mrs. Cross saying that after a thorough search of the grounds by security, the administration had determined that it would be safe for the students to return to school. There was no bomb; it was just a threat. But in the morning, Mr. Douglas was standing at the entrance to the school with his DayGlo orange security vest, checking out every student before they entered the building, even the kindergartners. He let Gracy through and then looked Trevor up and down suspiciously before asking to see his backpack.

  “Why?” Trevor asked.

  “S.O.P.,” Mr. Douglas said. Trevor had no idea what he was talking about. He reluctantly relinquished his backpack, and Mr. Douglas unzipped it, reached inside, and rifled through Trevor’s stuff, pulling out a freezer bag. “What’s this?” he asked gruffly.

  “Film,” Trevor said.

  “What for?” he said, unzipping the Ziploc and shaking the film out into his hand. Trevor felt his stomach knotting up.

  “It’s for art class. Please be careful,” he said.

  Mr. Douglas looked like he might crush the rolls in his hands. But then he smirked and tossed the loose rolls back into the backpack, shoving it at Trevor. “Get on in there now,” he said, as if Trevor had been dawdling instead of him holding him up.

  Trevor went inside and went to his homeroom. Art class was second period on Tuesdays, and he was excited to finally get into the darkroom. He knew there were some good pictures on those rolls of film. He couldn’t wait for Mrs. D. to see. He sat down at his desk and pulled out his social studies textbook. He stayed in homeroom for social studies. Angie McDonald sat next to him. She came in, her hair a mess, two different-colored socks and a wild plaid scarf tied around her neck. She didn’t seem to care what anybody thought; he liked her for that.