Grace

by T. Greenwood

  “This way,” Crystal said, pointing to the women’s room.

  Grace led the way and disappeared into a stall.

  “I’ll be right out here,” she said. Grace didn’t answer.

  She could hear her pulling down her tights and watched her feet lift from the ground as she got on the toilet. But then there was nothing. Grace hopped back down and, without flushing the toilet, came out of the stall.

  “Did you go?” Crystal asked, knowing full well she had not.

  “I don’t have to go anymore.”

  Crystal sighed. “Are you sure?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Maybe you should try again, because we can’t stop for a long, long time.”

  Grace shook her head again. “I don’t have to go.”

  “Seriously, maybe if you just try one more time.”

  Grace put her hands on her hips and pushed her chin out. “No!”

  “Okay, okay,” Crystal said, glancing quickly to the door, terrified that someone might walk in and Gracy might say just the wrong thing.

  “Where are we going?” Grace whined as they walked back out into the storm.

  “To a friend’s house,” Crystal said, trying to conjure an image of California, of Lucia in the kitchen. Orange trees, eucalyptus, salt in the air.

  “I’m tired,” Grace said.

  Crystal smiled and carefully lowered her into the car this time, managing to avoid smashing her head. “You can go to sleep if you like,” she said. “It’s a long drive. Here, I brought a cozy blanket. Why don’t you snuggle this?”

  Grace took the afghan that Crystal’s grandmother had made her when she was about Gracy’s age. It was purple and yellow, raggedy but soft. Crystal tucked it in around her and Grace smiled sadly. “My mom probably misses me,” she said.

  A sharp gust of wind blew across the parking lot then, and it cut through her clothes like a blade. She closed Gracy’s door and then got in the driver’s seat. She was shaking with the cold, shaking with fear, and suddenly she felt like she might vomit. She shook her head, as if the simple action might clear away her doubts, but instead, it just added to the nausea. She put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and clunked. She tried again, a tremendous sense of panic starting to grip her. Fucking car. What if the car died here? At some fucking rest stop in southern Vermont? She’d have to wait for somebody to come by with jumper cables, and then what if it wasn’t the battery? And how on earth was she going to explain Gracy?

  Hands shaking almost uncontrollably, she turned the key again, pressed the gas pedal hard but not too hard, and when the engine roared to life, tears sprang to her eyes. She looked in the rearview mirror to see if any of her panic had registered with Gracy, but the little girl had already fallen asleep. Her head leaning against the cold glass, her breath making a hot, wet circle in the frost.

  She pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the ramp, the car skidding a little on the ice. She steered into the skid, correcting the way her father had taught her, and then they were back on the road. Heading back into the dizzying snow. Her phone buzzed again, but this time she ignored it completely, not seeing the text from her father reading 9-1-1.

  They stopped Kurt, of course, from entering the burning school. Getting past the yellow tape proved to be easy, but getting past the police was a whole other story. While the other parents watched on, he ducked under the tape and made his way down the slippery hill to the school’s back entrance. Within seconds someone was steering him back, explaining that the area was unsafe. That no civilians were being allowed inside the area, let alone the crumbling portion of the building.

  “My son and daughter are in there,” he said. “And I need somebody to tell me when they plan to get them out.”

  “Sir, we are actively engaged in an SAR. These are professionals. You need to trust us to do our job.”

  “SAR?”

  “Search and rescue, sir.”

  “You mean you still haven’t found all of the kids yet?”

  “We’re looking for all unaccounted-for students. But the building is precarious, and it’s a slow process. The fire’s under control, but the structural damage is significant. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, thought about things catching on fire, walls crumbling. Everything falling apart. “Who did this?” he asked. “Is he still inside?”

  “Sir, we don’t have all the answers. I’m sure Principal Cross will be making a statement shortly to explain the situation. I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Kurt said, breathing heavily, letting the cold air feel his lungs.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We’ll do our best to bring your children out safe and sound.”

  Kurt scrambled up the embankment, feeling as though he were letting down the expectant mob waiting for him.

  “What did he say? Who did it?” they roared. Their voices and the wind were sharp, piercing. He shook his head and took off down to the road to go find Elsbeth.

  It had been nearly an hour since the explosion. The smoke was still thick, but dissipating. The entire world smelled burned, though. Most of the ambulances were gone now, and only two fire trucks remained. There were still police cars there though. State police. The local cops too.

  Elsbeth stood in front of the municipal building in a dwindling group of parents. They were the unlucky ones, the ones whose children had not yet been found. The ones who might never see their children again. It was below freezing outside, snowing, and the wind was howling. Elsbeth couldn’t tell the difference anymore between fear and cold. Dread was like ice water in her bones.

  There were people from the TV stations in Burlington there now, setting up their lights and cameras and sound equipment. Someone had brought a beaten-up podium outside, and the secretary had come out and said there would be a press conference at noon.

  Elsbeth checked her watch again. Kurt had been gone for fifteen minutes. One parent, one who had happily been reunited with her own children, had returned with an urn of hot coffee. She and her two daughters were handing out hot Styrofoam cups to the people in the crowd.

  “You’re Gracy’s mom, right?” the woman asked, cheerfully handing Elsbeth a steaming cup of coffee.

  Elsbeth nodded grimly. She held the coffee to her lips, and it burned her tongue.

  “You must be so relieved you picked her up early today,” the woman said.

  “What?” Elsbeth asked.

  “Noelle said Gracy got pulled out of class this morning.”

  “What are you talking about?” Elsbeth asked.

  The little girl with fat red cheeks and a turned-up nose, Noelle, nodded next to her. “She was supposed to be the Weather Reporter, but she went home, so I got to do the report. This is the first time we used the snow magnet.”

  “Gracy didn’t come home,” Elsbeth said, shaking her head, her damaged tongue like something foreign in her mouth. “Gracy and Trevor are in the school.”

  Noelle cocked her head and looked confused. “You can ask my teacher. I did a really good job on the weather report. She said so.”

  Elsbeth felt a new kind of panic growing in her chest, swelling. She looked around frantically for Kurt. Where the hell was he? Finally, she saw him walking briskly up the road, his hands shoved into his pockets. His brow furled into one low, angry scowl. She ran to him then and tried to explain the conversation, but then the front doors opened and the school secretary came out again with a new sheet of paper, a new list of names. Following behind her was a policeman.

  He stood up to the podium. The cameramen positioned themselves around him, and the lights illuminated his face as though he were about to give a performance rather than explain a tragedy.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Sergeant Carl from the state police. As you all know, there was an explosion at the school at approximately ten thirty-five this morning, followed by several smaller explosions. The first explosion, which started in the gi
rls’ bathroom on the main floor of the building, ignited a fire, which quickly spread to the art room and cafeteria. Due to the suspicious nature of the explosion, the school has been put on lockdown and the uninjured children have been escorted to buses and transported to the high school. The children injured in the blast have been taken to area hospitals. A search-and-rescue mission is in progress. There are currently five children unaccounted for in the building. As for the cause of the explosions, the fire marshal is still conducting his investigation, but it does appear that this was a criminal act and that these explosions were the intentional result of several homemade bombs, which were likely planted in the school during the holiday break last week. We are currently reviewing surveillance footage.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” a small, rat-faced reporter asked.

  “We have a person of interest who will be brought in for questioning. But there are no official suspects and no arrests have been made.” He gestured toward another reporter. “Yes?”

  “How many children were injured? And are there any fatalities?”

  “There are no confirmed fatalities at this point, though there are twelve children currently hospitalized. Several are undergoing surgery at this time. We should have more details soon.”

  “Is the person of interest associated with the school? Was it a student?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not able to give any answers at this time. Thank you very much.”

  The secretary then stuck the new list to the doorway, and the remaining parents rushed to the door. All of them broke down in tears: some in relief and the others because their children were still missing.

  Kurt hit his hand against the brick wall and then headed up the steps to the building’s entrance, catching the door before it could lock behind the secretary.

  “Stop,” Elsbeth said. “They’re saying Gracy wasn’t in school today. That someone picked her up.”

  Kurt’s eyes were wild. He looked insane. For the first time in all the years she’d known Kurt, she was terrified of him. “I’ll be right back,” he said and pushed his way through the municipal building’s doors. Elsbeth ran up the steps and followed behind him, lowering her head and praying as she did. Praying for Trevor, and praying for Grace.

  Trevor listened to the wind howling outside the caboose, to its mournful lament. He wondered how long it would take before they found him out here. And what would happen when they did.

  He lay on his back on the mattress, which was hard, almost frozen beneath him. His hand was throbbing now; the bleeding had stopped, but the cut was deep. The metal had been rusty, and he knew that was how you got tetanus. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a tetanus shot. He studied his hand, the ragged cut; it made his head feel light and fuzzy. He thought about trying to start a fire in that little potbelly stove, but he knew the smoke would only call attention to his hiding place. He could always go home, of course, and he thought that maybe that would be the best thing to do. But at the same time, the longer he was here, the longer he was safe. But he wasn’t stupid; he knew he couldn’t stay out here forever. He’d die if he stayed here through the night. For now, it was warm enough to snow, but by the time the sun went down, the temperature would plummet as well. He would freeze to death.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the music of the wind through the trees. He thought about what the bare branches, bowing with the weight of all this new snow, might look like through his viewfinder. He thought about the man who photographed the snow. He thought about all the things he wanted to take pictures of still: rain, grass, fireflies, the moon. He wanted to capture all of those things, all the beautiful things. Hold on to them tightly. Grace. He thought about his sister, and the way her face lit up when she saw him. He wanted to seize that love before it disappeared, because he knew it would one day fade, just as his own mother’s love had once he was old enough to know he needed it. Suddenly his body was quaking, and he was sobbing. His stomach muscles tensed with the effort. His entire body ached, and the tears froze as soon as they left his eyes.

  He wasn’t sure when he finally fell asleep. It was less like falling asleep than letting go: allowing his body to relax, to accept the cold, to embrace it. He willed each muscle to soften, tried to think of the cold not as a feeling but as a sound. Just something to listen to. It sounded like that wind song, that frozen lullaby outside. And soon, he was in the warm rapturous sleep he hadn’t had since he was a little boy. Before he was in school even. Before Gracy came along. And even as he dreamed, he listened to the forest’s music, he could hear violins, the whisper of the pine trees’ lyrics.

  At first he thought it was only a signal, a shift in the song: the loud percussive barking. But as he willed his eyes back open, he knew it was not music at all, but animals. Dogs. And they were coming for him.

  Kurt rode with the police officers in the patrol car, and Elsbeth followed behind in Kurt’s truck. She never drove his truck; it felt strange to be this high up above the road. She was grateful for the four-wheel drive though, for the sheer size of the vehicle. She followed the police car, its blue and red lights spinning kaleidoscope colors on the snow, grasping the wheel tightly.

  The sun was already starting its slow descent behind the western hills. It would be dark in an hour or so. The days were so short at this time of year, just slivers of days. The slipping away of the daylight filled her with dread.

  The officer said they had footage of a boy who fit Trevor’s description entering the school during the holiday weekend. A tall boy in Trevor’s clothes. A hulking boy with snow-white hair and a Halloween hockey mask. They had numerous witnesses who recalled the Jason mask from Halloween.

  The officer had assured her that as soon as they found Trevor they would find Gracy as well. That he clearly had pulled her out of school so that she wouldn’t be hurt in the explosion. The name on the sign-out sheet was “Chris Johnson.” No one she had ever heard of. The secretary insisted that she’d gotten a phone call from Elsbeth saying that Chris Johnson would be by to pick Gracy up. But after the police kept suggesting that maybe it was a male caller, she faltered. “Well, maybe. I don’t remember. This day has been so insane. Maybe I’m not remembering things right. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  Elsbeth tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that Trevor loved Gracy. That he would never put her in harm’s way. If he was, indeed, the one who had done this, then he would have made sure she wasn’t there. He would have done anything to keep her from getting hurt. But accepting this version of events also meant accepting that Trevor had done this. That something in him had finally snapped, that he’d set out to hurt, even kill, people. Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped at them futilely. Mrs. Cross had been telling them how dangerous he was for over a year now, and they hadn’t believed her. They couldn’t stand to believe her. And if that were the case, it was as much Elsbeth’s fault, Kurt’s fault, as it was Trevor’s. Mrs. Cross had sat there as the police questioned them, smug in her pale yellow suit with her pale yellow hair and her white, white teeth. Happy almost that something had finally happened that proved she was right. She was a winner now. Now that a dozen kids were in the hospital. Elsbeth felt sick.

  Elsbeth searched for the windshield wipers to clear away the snow, which was still falling hard from the sky. She wondered, if Trevor had taken her, where he would have taken her. She hoped they were both just at the house. That they were somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. They were her babies, and the thought of losing either one of them was suddenly almost more than she could stand.

  There was so much snow, and the visibility was so poor, she might have missed the house completely if not for their mailbox. The red flag was up, though she knew it hadn’t been when they left the house. And instinctively, she slowed the truck, rolled down the window, reached across the seat, and opened the mailbox.

  Inside was a bundle of envelopes from Walgreens, Trevor’s pictures.

  She didn’t think she had asked to have
them mailed to her, but here they were. How strange. It had been so long since she dropped them off, maybe someone had decided to deliver them. But she hadn’t even paid for them yet.

  At the top of the driveway, the police were already out of the car, opening up the back to get the dogs out. Blood rushed in her ears, rendering her almost deaf for a moment. She hesitated at the foot of the drive, quickly opening the pictures and sifting through them as though for clues.

  There were some horrible shots of Pop’s house. God, she was mortified that anyone had seen these, even if it was just some Walgreens photo person. She stopped rifling through them when she got to the pictures of Gracy.

  Gracy standing in the river, her bathing suit half falling off, the light in her hair. Light, like fireflies, skipping across the water. A look of pure innocence on her face. Nothing but peace. Gracy. Her sweet, beautiful Grace. And suddenly she knew that this was all the evidence in the world that she needed to know that Gracy was safe. This was how Grace looked through Trevor’s eyes. He loved her.

  After today, he would be vilified. The entire town would probably hold him up as an example of what bad parenting can do. But these pictures were proof enough to her that despite what he might or might not have done at the school, he was just a sad, gentle boy. Her boy. And now, more than anything, she just wanted to find him and tell him she loved him, even if it was already too late.

  Trevor startled at the sound of the dogs. He thought for a moment that he was in the middle of some terrible dream. Or, maybe, he had simply frozen to death, and this was what hell felt like. Not fire and brimstone, but the numbing ache of snow. Dogs ready to tear him limb from limb.

  He could hear footsteps crunching in the snow down at the river’s edge, and he scrambled to his feet, peering out the window, which overlooked the river. He could see all of the equipment he’d discarded, stuck in the slush and snow, the river ignoring the detritus, bending around it as its icy current rushed downstream. He could hear the panting of dogs, see the steam rising from their bellies and their wet noses.