Grace (15 page)

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Authors: T. Greenwood

BOOK: Grace
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“I own this house,” he said.
Kurt put his arm around Pop’s stiff shoulder, feeling his heart beating hard in his own chest. Thinking about what his mother would think if she could see this now. Feeling shame like something white-hot in his chest.
“It’s my goddamned
home,
” Pop said.
Later that night after Elsbeth and the kids had fallen asleep, Kurt took the phone outside and walked out to the backyard. He sat down on the rusty edge of the slide and looked up at the sky. It had rained all afternoon. A persistent and furious rain. But now, at midnight, it had softened, not apologetic, but at least willing to give a small reprieve.
He dialed Billy’s number, and because Kurt knew he wouldn’t answer, he practiced what he would say to the machine. But then, just as his lips were forming the words that might convince Billy it was time to set aside old grievances, the words that might soften Billy’s own decade-long storm, his brother answered.
His voice was soft but tinged at the edges with bitterness. “Kurt.”
“Hi, Billy,” he said, and the words disappeared. “Listen. Please just listen.”
T
revor was alone in the art room during lunch on Friday. Mrs. D. had a staff meeting but said that he was welcome to hang out there until the next period started. He sat down at one of the worktables and opened a bag of chips he’d gotten from the vending machine. He’d also snagged an apple from the fruit bowl on his way out the door that morning. He was anxious for her to come back. He wanted her to see the photos he’d taken. The good ones anyway.
Taking pictures with the camera Mrs. D. gave him was different than taking pictures at the salvage yard. He didn’t think about what he was seeing when he snapped the shots of the starters and alternators and clutches. He didn’t have to, because as soon as he clicked the button, he could see the picture in the display. But when he was taking pictures with Mrs. D.’s camera, he had to really think about things. About centering,
composition,
she called it. He had to consider the light. She’d told him that in photography, the light is just as important as what you’re taking a picture of. Something ordinary could be beautiful if the light is right. And the other way around. And even then, he had nothing to show for it, just a canister of film, pictures captive inside. He couldn’t wait to learn how to develop them himself. He’d spent every dime he’d made working at the yard so far getting these rolls processed at the Walgreens, and it had taken a whole
week
for them to come back and his mom had forgotten to give them to him for almost a week after she picked them up.
“I have no idea why you don’t just get yourself a digital camera instead,” she had said, handing him the fat envelope, still sealed shut. “Even my phone’s got a camera on it. Then you can just print ’em out yourself.” Never mind that they didn’t have a printer, or even a computer for that matter. He didn’t know what she was thinking sometimes.
He’d grabbed the envelope from her hands and ran to his room. Gracy was in the backyard blowing bubbles; he could see her from their window, the greasy bubbles drifting into the pasture beyond their yard. He sat down on his bed and tore the envelope open. It felt like opening up a Christmas present.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. For one thing, half of them were overexposed, the faces bright white moons. Eclipsed. The other half were out of focus. The ones of his dad and Pop weren’t anything like what he’d seen in the viewfinder, what he’d imagined, and the ones of the trash before they hauled it away to the dump just looked like pictures of trash. There was one, of a trout skeleton with its head still attached, that was okay, but he was disappointed. His hands were shaking as he went through the rest of the stack.
He’d taken some silly pictures of Gracy out in the backyard goofing around on the rusty swing set, the one that had been in the backyard since he was her age. There were a half dozen bad ones, but finally, one decent one, one that came close to what he’d seen in his mind. In this picture, she was leaning away, her hair dipping in a mud puddle. The light skipped across the water in this one. Like something alive. You could also see the reflection of the crazy after-rain clouds in the murky water. It was disturbing and beautiful at the same time. After that were six more washed-out, ghostly-looking pictures, and then one he snapped the night after they came home from Story Land. In this one, Gracy was fast asleep, her legs and arms thrown out, her face full of peace. The light from the night-light lit up her white nightie, the white caps of her knees, and one side of her sleeping face. When he looked at the picture, his chest ached. Who would have known that looking at a photo could make your heart swell up like that? He yanked out all the bad pictures from the stack and tossed them into the trash can. Then he took the best ones and stuffed them back into the envelope.
He clutched the Walgreens envelope now, too afraid to take the photos out again. Maybe he’d only imagined they were any good. He wanted to show Mrs. D., but he didn’t want her to be disappointed. Didn’t want her to realize that maybe she’d been wasting her time with him. Didn’t want her to ask for her camera back.
Mrs. D. came back into the art room, breathing heavily as she tossed her bag onto her desk. She coughed, and it sounded like something awful, like their neighbor’s dog who barked half the night. She’d been coughing all week, but she said she hadn’t missed a day of teaching in forty years and wasn’t about to now. When she finally stopped, she smiled sadly and shook her head. “What have you got there?” she asked.
He handed the envelope to her, and she carefully pulled the half dozen pictures out with her papery hands and studied them. When she came to the first picture in the stack again, the one of Gracy on the swing, she looked at Trevor and smiled. “They’re perfect, Trevor. They’re marvelous.”
“A lot of ’em didn’t come out. I need to know more about the shutter stuff you talked about. F-stops. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“Trevor,” she said and squeezed his hand. “You are an artist. The rest is just mechanics, technology. You can learn that. But the talent, the vision, is already there.”
An
artist
. It felt like he’d swallowed a hot-air balloon, like something deep in his heart was about to take flight. But then he looked out the open door to the hallway where kids were all scattering to their classes, a steady blurry stream. At Mrs. Cross standing in the middle of them, her arms folded across her chest, nodding at them as they made their way to study hall or science or social studies. She caught his eye and he sank down into the seat, the heat lighting the fire beneath the balloon gone cold.
“Let me show you something, Trevor,” Mrs. D. said and shuffled over to the bookcases by her desk. She pulled out a book and brought it back to his table. Her body shuddered as she attempted to stifle a cough.
The Photographs of Lewis Carroll,
it said. That was the guy who wrote
Alice in Wonderland,
Trevor thought. Gracy had the Golden Book version, the golden spine cracked and worn. She opened up the book and pressed it open gently with her palm. The first picture was of a little girl who actually looked a lot like Gracy. Black hair, a torn dress, the same look in her eye ... something wild, like the feral cats that came looking for scraps of food at the junkyard.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“
That
is Alice Liddell.” She smiled. Her voice was trembling, like dry leaves in the wind. “The
real
Alice. She was Carroll’s muse.”
“What’s a muse?” Trevor asked.
“The one he who wrote his stories for. The one he wrote
about
.”
Trevor traced the picture of the girl who looked so much like Gracy.
“Every artist needs a muse,” she said and touched his hand. “And I think you may have found yours.”
He lifted up the book and flipped through the pages. Almost all of the pictures were of kids. Old-fashioned pictures. Serious faces and funny clothes.
“You can have this if you like,” she said.
“Really?” he asked.
The bell rang and the room started to fill with students.
“When do we get to use the darkroom?” he asked.
“Monday,” she said, moving away from him, returning to her desk. “I promise.”
The other students threw their backpacks down and started taking their seats. He had math, but he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to deal with Mrs. Edam and geometry and worrying that Ethan Sweeney would do something to get him in trouble. He wanted to hear more about Lewis Carroll. About muses. But Mrs. D. said, “Trevor, you missed the last bell. You better hurry along. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
O
n Friday night, after he closed up the shop, Kurt dropped Pop’s groceries off at his house and told Pop that he and Elsbeth had plans that night so that he wouldn’t have to stay. He’d been by the house every night that week, but still had made no significant progress. Pop refused to throw anything away, and Kurt didn’t know what to do anymore. Billy had, as expected, refused to come. “It’s not your problem,” Billy had said. “It’s Pop’s problem. He’s a grown man.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything except help me with some of this legal stuff. You wouldn’t even have to see him.”
“Jesus, Kurt,” he’d said. “It’s like you don’t remember. Why is it so goddamn difficult for you to understand this?”
“I’m not defending Pop,” Kurt said quietly.
“Really? Because it kind of feels like you are.”
Kurt’s temples were throbbing.
“Do you remember that hunting trip?” Billy asked.
“Which one?” Kurt asked, knowing exactly which one. His head pulsed with pain.
Pop had taken Kurt on overnight hunting trips every fall as soon as he was old enough to lift a rifle to his shoulder, but Billy had always stayed home. Maury had a hunting shack in the woods up in the Northeast Kingdom not far from Lake Gormlaith that he let Pop use whenever he wanted to. They took sleeping bags and slept on cots. They ate out of cans: pork and beans and beef stew. They ate venison jerky and drank homemade root beer that they kept cold in a makeshift refrigerator made out of a rusted barrel through which the river ran icy cold this time of year. When Billy was about ten, he had pleaded with Pop to take him along as well. Billy had never expressed any interest in these trips, always preferring to stay behind with their mother. When they came back, most years with a deer splayed and tethered in the back of the truck, he would hide between their mother’s legs. But that particular year, Kurt remembered Billy suddenly wanting to be a part of this. Wanting to come along.
Most of these trips blurred together in Kurt’s memory: the smell of the fire in the camp wood stove, the chill of autumn air in striking contrast to the warm fire of the trees surrounding them. He remembered the hushed sounds of their footsteps, the startling crack of the gunshots, and the quiet sound of a deer’s body falling. He remembered the steam rising out of the bellies as his father field dressed the deer, the piquant stink of it. He recollected the hard cots, and the deep sleep that followed. He could remember the way his cheeks flushed with the warmth of the fire and the smell of his damp wool socks as they dried in the heat. Of course, there were particular moments that stood out: the year he got his first buck, Pop’s face beaming with pride, the swig of Jim Beam he’d offered him that night to celebrate. He also recalled the years they had come home empty-handed, his father driving silently, defeated the whole way back. And the year that Billy came along, the only year that Billy came along. Of course he remembered.
They had been out in the woods for two days without even catching a glimpse of a deer. Billy was getting restless. He was only ten. It was hard to be patient when you had only experienced the boredom of tracking and none of the thrill of sighting a deer. Billy was at least a hundred feet behind Kurt and Pop as they quietly made their way through the woods. And then suddenly Pop stopped, cocked his gun, and
crack!
“Did you get one? Did you kill one, Pop?” Kurt asked. Behind them, Billy’s face was pale. His eyes were wide and terrified. Kurt suddenly knew that Billy probably shouldn’t have come.
Pop whooped and started to trudge through the wet leaves toward the fallen animal. Finally, realizing that his boys were not behind him, he hollered, “You kids gonna come help me with this or what?”
Billy shook his head, his eyes brimming with tears now. “I can’t,” he said quietly to Kurt.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Just come on.” He’d felt irritated with Billy then. His reluctance suddenly evoked not sympathy but annoyance.
When they got to the spot where the deer had fallen, his father looked up at them, grinning. “Billy Boy, how’d you like to help your pop dress this beauty?”
The deer was a buck, a whitetail. It lay on its back, its legs stiff. It was cold out, and their breath made clouds in the air. Billy walked obediently to where the dead animal lay. Pop dropped down to his knees and pulled his knife out of his pocket, showing Billy the blade. “First things first. You got to know how to properly use your knife. If you bust the bladder, it’ll contaminate the meat. This an art,” he said. “You’ve got to remember that.”

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