Grace

by T. Greenwood

  During lunch, he waited for Mr. Franklin to leave the classroom, pretending to work on a charcoal drawing he’d started of a bowl of grapes and figs. But as soon as the doors closed behind him, Trevor quickly disappeared into the darkroom. His fingers grazed the trays. He lowered and raised the enlarger, flicked the red safe light on and off. He ran his fingers across the packs of paper, the coiled film spools, the piles of clips. He went to the locker where the chemicals and paper were kept. Mrs. D. had shown him where she kept the key, hanging from a cup hook on the opposite wall. Inside the locker there were three shelves of chemicals: Developer, Stop Bath, Fixer, all labeled in Sharpie, in Mrs. D.’s careful handwriting. Seeing this trace of her made him miss her more. He knew he should go see her again, but her apartment had made him feel sad, and without pictures, he wasn’t sure what they could talk about.

  Suddenly filled with a sense of purpose, Trevor studied the contents of one jug, acetic acid, then lifted it from the shelf and carried it back to the art room. His heart beating hard in his chest, he unzipped his backpack and put the jug inside. He returned to his desk, carefully setting his pack down, and continued drawing, shading, and erasing until the sides of his hands were black. When the bell rang, he heaved the backpack onto his shoulder and quickly left the art room, passing Mr. Franklin on his way back in.

  “You get some work done?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Trevor said, afraid Mr. Franklin might hear the sloshing of the stop bath in his pack. Mr. Franklin smiled. “You know, Trevor, I really like a student who puts in the extra effort. Any time you’d like to stay after class, you’re more than welcome. And I’ll take a peek at your work, see if I can come up with some pointers.” Trevor thought of those lopsided grapes with the shading all wrong. The figs that looked like shriveled-up ears instead of fruit. And he thought about all those photos, the ones just waiting to be developed. All those moments just waiting to be exposed. Trevor rushed past him into the hallway, which was thick with students now, moving in swarms like buzzing insects. He kept his head down and made his way through the throngs to his class.

  Later, after sixth period, he walked quickly down the main hall, past Mr. Douglas, who was engaged in a battle with a mop bucket, and it struck him that while Mr. Douglas acted like he was some sort of armed guard in the morning, by the afternoon he was more concerned with emptying wastebaskets and mopping the floors. He didn’t care what left the school, he only cared what came in. If Trevor was careful, he could get everything he needed. Well, almost everything. When it came to the bigger stuff, he’d need to come up with a plan. But for now, he could at least get started.

  Kurt knew that it wouldn’t be as simple as telling his father he was moving into the retirement home. He would have to have been stupid to think that it would be that easy. He knew Pop. He thought long and hard about how he might present the news, how he might temper it, slant it so that it sounded appealing to him. He’d have to paint a picture that was based in truth but highlighted in the right places. Like a lawyer. He almost wished Billy were here to give him some advice on how to make his case.

  He stood at the kitchen sink, bleary-eyed from another day and night of back-to-back shifts, his eyes barely registering the motions his hands conducted. The pouring of coffee, of milk. The wipe-down of a spill. The closing of cabinet doors. His body was operating solely out of habit, taking over while his brain got the rest it so desperately needed. He knew that he was just a few more sleepless nights away from lunacy. He’d heard that you could actually lose your mind with insomnia. Start seeing things that weren’t there.

  Through the window, he studied the disaster that Pop had made of the backyard in just the couple of months that he’d been living there. He tried to imagine how others might see it. What the neighbors, if they had any, might have thought. Pop was like an animal, like a rat. Collecting, gathering, protecting, and keeping. His possessions were meaningless, ridiculous, to everyone but him. Kurt had tried again and again to find the empathy a good son should have, but that well had dried up a long time ago. Now Pop’s stuff just made him angry. He knew that sending him off to the home was ultimately for his own safety, what any good son would do, but he also knew there would be a certain satisfaction in throwing everything away. In clearing Pop’s mess out of his life. Of confining him to the small room at the home where it was someone else demanding order, cleanliness. He was tired of being the bad guy, the one always making demands.

  He knew Pop would resist. That he would argue and fight. He would accuse and try to make Kurt feel as though he hadn’t done enough. He might lock himself in the trailer and never come out. Like an angry kid throwing a tantrum.

  But then Kurt thought about Elsbeth. About the reward. Two nights before, she came to him. Took him by surprise. She offered herself to him in a way that he’d forgotten she could. She’d undressed him and then herself, revealing some lingerie he’d never seen before. He was too turned on to even worry how much it had cost her. They were like teenagers again, awkward and shy and stumbling and hungry. She’d clung to him after, her whole body still quaking. She’d slept curled around him, the pulse points of her body aligning with his. Music of blood. The smell of their bodies hovering in the air.

  But he also knew Elsbeth. He knew that she had shown him this, given him this night, as a tentative promise. It was conditional. He knew that if he screwed up, she could take things away as readily as she had given them to him. She was testing him, teasing him. She’d whispered in his ear again, “Promise.”

  He had promised. Promised so many things. But this time, he knew that if he was unable to deliver, she might just finally disappear. That she might slip out from the covers, slip through his fingers, slip out the door.

  He threw back the cup of coffee, which burned his throat, and set it down in the sink. He buttoned his flannel and readied himself for a fight. Pop needed to start packing. This was it.

  The heat had finally broken, like a resistant eggshell, spilling a cold chill. The air felt numb, liquid. Kurt went to the trailer and knocked on the door. It struck him, as his knuckles rapped against the flimsy metal, that there was no way Pop could survive in the trailer when the weather truly turned. It was no more than a metal can on wheels. It would have been like living inside a tuna can. He had no choice. He would be safe at Plum’s. Taken care of. Warm.

  He could hear Pop shuffling about inside, and for a moment, he panicked that maybe Pop was trapped under a pile of something. Buried under the rubble he’d created. But then the door flew open and Pop stood there, hair slicked back. Clothes tidy and clean. Face shaven and fists clenched.

  “I know whatcha come for,” he said.

  “Oh good,” Kurt said, startled. He hadn’t been prepared for this. “I meant to tell you sooner, but I was worried you might not want to go.”

  Pop stared out at the empty field beyond the yard, his eyes glassy.

  “Listen, they’ve got a room. It’s a good-sized room. The food is supposed to be excellent. There’s a shuttle that will take you into town whenever you’d like to go shopping, to the barbershop. And of course I’ll be by all the time. You can bring your own bed if you want to, but they have a linen service. Someone will do your laundry. It’ll be like living at a hotel.”

  Pop shook his head.

  “They’ve got bingo and poker tournaments. Movies on the weekends. They’ve got cable in every room.”

  “I ain’t going,” he said.

  Kurt smiled, ready for this. “I know it’s a big change, but, Pop, you need to be somewhere where there are nurses. Where you’re safe. You can’t live here through the winter. You’d freeze to death. Plum’s is a good place. It’s clean and your Medicare will pay for it.”

  “I said I ain’t going anywhere,” he said. “Unless it’s back to my own goddamned house.”

  Fall came quickly and without warning. The heat broke and suddenly it was frigid. Winter’s fingers were prying; Crystal could feel them as she lay in her bed, touch
ing her. Warning her. She thought of Ty in California. Daydreamed the palm trees and sunshine and the beach. As she shivered under the covers, she conjured dream seagulls, crashing waves, and bellowing foghorns.

  She’d never been to California. Never been anywhere farther south than Boston, never farther west than Burlington. She thought about leaving. About running away. About packing up all those towels and sheets and bulletin boards her mother had insisted upon and leaving. She wondered if the Volvo would be able to take her long distances or if it would fail her, leave her stranded.

  But whenever she considered fleeing, she also thought about Grace. The thought of being far from her was excruciating. It was ridiculous, she knew. She wasn’t a part of her life. She was no one to her. But still, she felt bound to her as though they were tethered together.

  It had been six months. A half of a year. The baby she’d given to the Stones wouldn’t be the same baby anymore. She went to the parenting websites and studied the milestone charts. She looked at the photos of babies at one month, three months, a year. She tried to picture Grace, her tiny hands now grasping. Her small body maybe even starting to crawl. She tried to hear her cooing, imitating sounds. She tried to smell her, the scent of powder and milk. The sites said that by now a baby would recognize faces. Know who her mother was. Might be anxious about being separated from her. She wouldn’t recognize Crystal at all. She wouldn’t know her. Wouldn’t love her.

  Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake not accepting Mrs. Stone’s offer for an open adoption. She tried to imagine what her life would be like if she had agreed to this arrangement. If she’d just gone off to UVM like she was expected to, living so close to her. Would there be weekend visits? Would she sit in their beautiful living room full of books and thrift-store furniture and poetry, watching as Grace crawled across the floor? Would she be allowed to hold her, to smell the heady scent coming from the top of her head? To feel the tiny flutter of her heart against her chest? Who would she be to Grace? Who was she without her?

  She worked. She worked and worked and worked. Forty, fifty hours a week. She spent nothing, saved every penny. She stood in line at the ATM with her paychecks, watched as the balance grew. It was all she knew how to do.

  The woman, the one with the child named Grace, kept coming into the Walgreens and Crystal said nothing, even as her rage grew. Crystal watched her as she pocketed Life Savers, tea lights, greeting cards. She studied her as she pilfered packs of gum and aspirin, magazines and ballpoint pens. It both angered her and fascinated her. She watched this other Grace, oblivious, dancing in the aisles.

  One morning the woman came in and went straight to the film counter, where Crystal was going through prints that had not been picked up, making calls to remind people to come in and get them.

  “Brr.” The woman shivered. “It’s like January out there and not even Halloween yet.”

  Crystal nodded. The little girl was bundled up in a ratty pink jacket with a furry hood framing her face. Her cheeks were flushed red, her nose runny.

  “Do you guys offer a discount when you have a lot of rolls? Like a coupon or something?” the woman asked.

  “We have specials sometimes. Let me check this week’s flier.” Crystal reached for a flier from a stack behind the counter and thumbed through it quickly to see if there were any specials. “How many rolls do you have?”

  “A lot. They’re my son’s. He’s got like thirty rolls, though, so I only brought about half of them. See?” She opened up her purse and Crystal peered in, wondering how many stolen things lay beneath the mountains of film, stunned by her willingness to reveal the contents of her purse.

  “I could maybe talk to my manager and see if we can get you a discount. If you leave the film here, I can just call you and let you know.”

  “That would be awesome. He’s really into this photography thing, but it costs so much to get the film developed. His birthday’s coming up, and I thought it would be nice to do this for him.”

  “That’s cool,” Crystal said. Grace, the little girl, was twirling down the aisle where the walk-in coolers were, leaving tiny muddy footprints on the linoleum.

  “Hey, would it be okay if I gave her a lollipop?” Crystal asked.

  “Sure,” the woman said.

  Crystal came from behind the counter and grabbed a couple of Tootsie Pops from the display. “Grace?” she said, the word too sweet on her tongue, and the little girl turned around. She smiled at Crystal, and she felt her heart bottom out. She bent down to her and said, “Your mom says it’s okay for you to have a treat. Do you like cherry or chocolate?”

  “Chocolate,” she said and reached for the lollipop. Her tiny fingers closed around the stick and Crystal felt light-headed.

  “You okay?” the woman asked.

  Crystal stood back up, steadying herself. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think I just forgot to eat breakfast.”

  After they were gone, she followed the pattern of those tiny footprints with her own feet until the place where they ended at the door where her mother had scooped her up.

  Trevor’s days were spent dodging and scheming; his life was like an elaborate game of hide-and-seek where he was always It. He pictured Ethan and Mike, counting, giving him just enough time to hide before seeking. Stalking. After two months back at school, they were still just as relentless and intent.

  On the Friday morning before Halloween, he woke up panicked. He’d dreamed about being in the locker room again, the stink of his own excrement waking him. But as he opened his eyes, afraid that he’d soiled the sheets, that his bowels had once again betrayed him, he realized it was only the smell coming from the backyard. From Pop’s garbage, which he stacked in disgusting piles against the side of the house.

  “Do you like my costume?” Gracy asked. She was up already, twirling in an elaborate pink dress. She was wearing a sparkly tiara and plastic high heels.

  “Who are you?” Trevor asked.

  “I’m Aurora, dummy,” she said. “Sleeping Beauty. What are you gonna be for Halloween?”

  “I’m too old for that,” he said, but then he thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. If he wore a mask, something to disguise himself, he wouldn’t have to hide. He could walk through the halls like any other kid. He could be invisible.

  “Hey, where’s that Jason mask?” he asked. “Is it in your dress-up box?”

  “I don’t like that one. It’s scary!” she said.

  But then Trevor was up and digging through the cardboard dress-up box in the closet. He found the hockey mask under a pile of Hawaiian leis and a fluffy black feather boa.

  “Don’t put it on, Trevor. I hate that!” Gracy was starting to tear up, but fighting it.

  “I won’t. It’s just for school.”

  “Are you going to be in the parade?” she asked.

  Trevor shook his head. “Nah.”

  She shrugged and jumped off her bed, snagging the edge of her skirt on the bedpost; he could hear the fabric ripping, knew that this would send her over the edge. “It’s okay, we can fix it,” he said. His mother had given him a sewing kit a long time ago, in case he ever needed to sew a button on. He’d shoved it in his sock drawer and forgotten about it. It was one of those things his mother did sometimes, offering him weird little trinkets he didn’t really need. He went to his sock drawer and pulled it open. He barely had room for his socks anymore since the rolls of film had been piling up.

  The film. Where was his film? There must have been thirty rolls of film, and now there were only a dozen or so.

  “Gracy? Did you take my film?” he bellowed. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her tattered skirt splayed before her like a patient.

  “What’s film?”

  And then it hit him. His mother. She hated his camera. She had been threatening to take it away from him. But he hadn’t even done anything. Why would she do this? He thought about all those lost pictures. He felt that awful metallic taste in his throat. Acerbic and stinging.<
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  “Mom?” he hollered, stomping down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “She’s not here,” his father said. “She went into work early so she can come to your parade at school.”

  “Did she take my film?” he asked, feeling his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “What are you talking about?” his father asked. He looked tired, purple half moons under each heavy eye.

  “Nothing,” Trevor said, eyes stinging.

  His father drove them to school. Despite the frigid air, Trevor asked to ride in the back of the truck. The leaves had already turned to fire and then ash. The branches were bare now, gray arms reaching toward the sky. It looked like they were asking for something, pleading with the heavens. He could taste snow in the back of his throat, the cold, sharp taste of winter.

  He hopped out of the back of the truck as soon as his father pulled up in the drop-off lane, and reached into his backpack for the Jason mask. Scanning the crowd of costumed students funneling into the building, he put the mask on.

  “Take it off, Trevor!” Gracy cried. “I don’t like it.”

  Ignoring her, he grabbed her hand. “It’s just a mask, Gracy. It’s just me.”

  As they made their way to the school, he felt, for the first time in a long time, as though he belonged. Monsters, vampires, princesses. No one looked like themselves. Everyone was someone else, and he thought how cool it would be if Halloween were every day. If every day he could put on a costume and transform himself into somebody different. If he could hide in other people’s clothes, inside other people’s skin.