Grace (35 page)

Authors: T. Greenwood

BOOK: Grace

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His father hadn’t woken up at all.

His knees quaking, he’d walked back to his room, waiting until he was in his own bed again to cry. He had stayed awake the entire rest of that night. And he’d never tried to get into their bed again.

“You sure?” he said to Gracy now.

“Come in,” she said, patting the mattress. “I have plenty of room.”

Trevor crawled into bed with Gracy, and she hugged him. “I never have bad dreams in my bed,” she said. Her sheets were softer than his. She handed him Hugo, her stuffed hippo, and he held Hugo close up under his chin. Then he waited for sleep to come over him.

Outside it snowed, and inside the radiators clanged a metallic banging like someone was trapped inside trying to get out. When he closed his eyes he imagined the sounds were gunshots, that he was in Iraq or the jungles of Vietnam. Pop had told him about the war, about watching men getting shot around him, going down like marionettes whose strings have been cut. And so, half-asleep, he imagined Vietnam. He dream-trudged through a rice paddy, his feet so heavy he could barely lift them. The stink of murky water, the smell of corpses. Of death. But then he wasn’t in the jungle anymore; the trees had disappeared, leaving him in the dark, cold alley behind the Walgreens. And still, his feet wouldn’t move. He started to cry. He felt cold hands on him. On his shoulders, on his stomach, on his face. He could feel hands around his penis, the reluctant stiffening, the pain that was also good. His stomach turned with the smell of everything rotten and spoiled. Loud cracks, explosions, gunshots? sounded all around him. And his feet, stuck in cold asphalt, like quicksand. Like being trapped under ice. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t move.

He startled awake. He felt his erection go soft, the sheets become wet, and tears fill his eyes. His heart was pounding like a hammer in his chest, so loud he could almost hear it. Disoriented, he thought he was still in the alley, sitting in a puddle of icy water after they left him there and before his mother found him. But then as his eyes began to focus, he realized he was in bed with Gracy, who was curled like a roly-poly bug, her body pressed against him. Her sweet-smelling body, touching his.

He scrambled out of the bed, his entire body rocking with guilt, shame like a migraine. He wanted to tear the soiled sheet off her, but he knew it would wake her. His whole body was shaking now, he couldn’t stop it. What had he done? What had he done to his own sister? What kind of monster was he?

K
urt invited Jude to Thanksgiving dinner, and at first he’d stubbornly refused. He’d holed up himself up in that damn house again, and as far as Elsbeth was concerned, he could just rot there. Ever since Pop had moved back to his own house, Kurt had been trying to come up with a plan, but unless he somehow got conservatorship, there wasn’t much he could do. She knew he was worried about Jude living by himself in the house, but the way Elsbeth figured it, if, no,
when
the house went to shit again, then it really would only strengthen Kurt’s case (though there wouldn’t be much of a case without a lawyer, and they certainly weren’t in any position to hire anybody). She’d pleaded with him to try to just let Pop be. “It’s not your problem. It’s not
our
problem. You’ve done everything you can do. No one can say you didn’t try.” Kurt had done everything he could for him. Now Jude was just being an ass. She wished Kurt could just let it go. Let
him
go. But then the night before Thanksgiving, Jude changed his mind about dinner, and she watched Kurt on the phone nodding and pacing. “Okay, Pop. I’ll pick you up.”

In the kitchen, she ran cold water over the turkey. When she pulled out the plastic bag with the gizzards and liver and heart, she realized the insides were still a little frozen, little bloody crystals inside that cage of bone. She patted the turkey with paper towels and sprinkled salt and pepper inside. She prepared the box of Stove Top, and the smell, of sage and butter, reminded her of other Thanksgivings.

Kurt’s mother, Larissa, was the one who had taught her how to roast a turkey. back when she and Kurt were first married and Elsbeth didn’t know the difference between a ladle and a spatula. Elsbeth’s own mother hadn’t been much of a cook when she was growing up. As a single mother, she hadn’t had anyone, besides Elsbeth, to cook for. Most nights they just had sandwiches or frozen pizza; on special nights they ordered Chinese. When Elsbeth was pregnant with Trevor, Larissa took her under her wing like a protective mother hen and taught her all sorts of things. She showed her how to stud a ham with cloves, how to make a roast in a Crock Pot. Larissa had been like the mother Elsbeth always wished she’d had. Larissa was round and soft and warm. She was patient and gentle, the exact opposite of Elsbeth’s mom.

When Elsbeth found out she was pregnant, she waited a whole month to tell her mother. She already knew what she’d say, knew exactly how she’d react.

“Well, there goes your life,” she’d said, as expected.

Elsbeth knew this was what she’d say because that’s exactly what had happened to her when
she
got pregnant at seventeen. There went her life. Or what she thought her life might be anyway. And the next seventeen years, the years she had spent with her mother in the two-bedroom apartment by the railroad depot, had been like watching somebody begrudgingly do what they’ve been told to do, despite every inch of their body resisting. “I’m not cut out for this motherhood business,” was her favorite tagline. When Elsbeth found out she was pregnant, she also knew that a part of her mother would be relieved. Especially because, unlike her own father, Kurt loved her and wanted to marry her. Now Elsbeth was somebody else’s problem, and her mother could get on with her own life. As if everything had simply been put on hold for all these years. And, true to prophecy, she met Nate, a pharmaceutical sales rep who came into the doctor’s office where she worked as a receptionist, and they fell in love. Two years later he got a new job and they moved to California, where her mother went back to college and got an associate degree. Now she and Nate ran their own event planning business and lived in a big house with a pool and a two-car garage. Elsbeth had only seen her a few times since then.

Thankfully, after Elsbeth’s mother was gone, Larissa had really stepped in, treating her like she was her very own. When Larissa died when Trevor was still just a baby, Elsbeth felt like her own mother had passed away. She felt robbed. Like she’d finally gotten what she needed her whole life and then had it yanked away from her.

She’d always been mystified as to how Larissa wound up with Jude. She didn’t know how she could listen to the garbage that came out of Jude’s mouth sometimes. Larissa was eternally shaking her head, never speaking up, just rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders. Defeated. Or resigned maybe. Kurt was like that with Jude too, never speaking. Never calling him on his racist, sexist, prejudiced bullshit. Kurt had told her only a little bit about why his brother took off when he was still a kid. But knowing Jude, she wasn’t at all surprised. He was such a goddamned bigot, hated nearly everybody.

She didn’t want her family to turn into this. To become a whole bunch of people who couldn’t stand each other stuck under one roof. She didn’t want Trevor to run away from home at seventeen and never come back. She didn’t want Gracy to hate her. For Kurt and her to merely tolerate each other.

She stuffed the dressing into the turkey carcass and tethered the legs together with a piece of twine. She soaked some cheesecloth in melted butter and draped it over the bird like a blanket, her hands remembering all those other Thanksgivings.

Kurt came into the kitchen and stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She could feel his breath on her neck. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate only on the smell of him, that familiar scent of her husband.

“I love you, El,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Elsbeth nodded. She nodded and nodded.

The week before at work, Carly had handed her a postcard addressed to her.

“What’s this?” Elsbeth asked, taking it from her.

Carly had shrugged.

On the front was the word
Florida
spelled out in big letters, each letter with a picture inside: beaches, oranges, palm trees. On the back, in smudgy letters, it said,
Thanks again. It was terrific getting to hear your stories. Someday, hopefully, you’ll read mine. And if you’re ever in Florida, I’d be happy to show you the sights.

She’d laughed out loud then. First because she knew she’d never be in Florida. That had been a silly dream, a silly girl’s fantasy. And secondly, because anything she’d thought about Wilder being interested in her, flirting with her, was just as inane. He was simply a man writing a book. He’d asked her some research questions. She’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t. What an idiot she had been. She was so embarrassed.

She almost tossed the postcard in the trash, but instead she carried it home, put it in the box with all the other stolen things, and tears had come to her eyes. She was making the right decision in staying with Kurt. Her family was the only thing in the world that really belonged to her; how could she have even considered throwing it away?

“I love you too, baby,” she said to Kurt, who was still holding her tight. “Now let me go. I’ve got to peel some potatoes. You’ll be home by five thirty for dinner, right?”

A
t dinner, Pop pushed his turkey around his plate, picked at the burnt marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and drank. Trevor watched his mother’s jaw clench, watched with each of Pop’s sips the way her lungs filled with air.

“Larissa used to make those green beans I like, with the crunchy onions,” Pop said, the effort of speaking laborious, his words like rocks in his mouth. The entire left side of his face drooped now, his left arm hanging like dead weight at his side. “You ever make those?” he asked Trevor’s mom.

“Not this year, Jude,” she said.

“That woman was a fine cook. Didn’t even have to use a recipe for anything.”

Trevor’s dad looked at his mom as if to say
sorry
with his eyes.

Pop lifted a forkful of sweet potatoes to his mouth, struggling to get it in. It was like watching a baby try to feed himself. His dad grimaced.

“Listen, Pop. I checked in with Plum’s, and the room is actually still open for December first,” he said. “That’s just next week. Maybe we could at least go check it out this weekend? You don’t have to commit to anything, but it might be nice to at least go see.”

Pop set his fork down, defeated but defiant. “Don’t you get started with that bullshit again.”

Gracy’s eyes widened.

“Jude,” his mom reprimanded.

“Well, if you stay at the house, maybe we should hire someone to help out,” his dad said. “You know, just with the yard. Someone to help keep the place up.”

His mother stiffened, scowling. “And how exactly do we plan to pay for that?”

Kurt set his fork down and shook his head. “It wouldn’t have to cost a fortune.”

“I don’t ... need help.”

Trevor ate until he felt like his stomach might burst, until he felt sick. But as long as his mouth was full, he wouldn’t have to speak.

“Got trouble at school again, huh?” Pop asked.

Trevor felt a jolt rush through him. He nodded, tasting the bitter combination of green beans and squash on his tongue.

“Your dad says some boys givin’ you a hard time,” he said.

His father must have told Pop about the fight.

“They’re meanies,
super
meanies,” Gracy said, pouring gravy over a small mountain of mashed potatoes.

“Careful, baby,” his mother said, helping her with the heavy boat.

Trevor wanted them to talk about something else, anything else. Even if it meant going back to their stupid argument about money.

“Your dad says you got ’em, though. Got ’em real good.”

“I didn’t say that, Pop,” Trevor’s dad said, his chapped face reddening even more. “We’re not encouraging the fighting. There are other ways to handle this. The school’s stepping in.”

“You startin’ to sound like your brother,” Pop said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his dad asked.

“I raise a
couple
of pansies? Couple of goddamned pussies?” He held up one hand, limp at the wrist, and Trevor felt his entire body flood with heat, and the edges of his vision went black, his ears filling. He couldn’t hear anything but Pop’s laughter. He watched as half of Pop’s mouth opened, the spray of orange sweet potatoes that splattered on the clean white tablecloth. Trevor tried to make this picture flat, just a snapshot. Just a frozen image, something he could tear up and toss away.

“Jude,” his mom said, standing, slamming her hands on the table. “I’m done. Get out of my fucking house.”

Pop stopped laughing and closed his mouth, wiping at the wet dribble of potato with his shirt sleeve. “You,” he said, slurring and pointing at her, “you don’t talk to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to you any damn way I please. You’re an ignorant asshole, and I want you out of my house. Kurt, I need you to take Jude home.”

His dad nodded, standing. “I’m sorry,” he said to his mom. “Come on, Pop.”

“You’ve always been an ungrateful bitch,” he said. “Getting knocked up and ruinin’ any chances Kurt had to make something of himself. Working two jobs while you sit on your boney ass all day.”

“Jude, we have children at this table. I need you to go now.”

“Pop,
let’s go,
” his dad said, gripping the table angrily.

Gracy was starting to cry. Normally, Trevor would have reached for her hand and said, “Come on, Gracy. Let’s go play Chutes and Ladders.” But he was afraid to touch her now, and so instead he stood up and went to his bedroom alone. Inside, with the door shut, he tried not to let Pop’s words splinter and sting him. He tried to ignore the sounds of the chairs scraping, the muffled argument still raging in the kitchen. He pretended that the sound of the door slamming and the truck’s engine roaring to life and his mother’s crying were just TV sounds, special effects. That they weren’t real, that they didn’t belong to anyone he knew.

Not much later, he heard his dad’s truck pull in and the sound of the door opening, his boots banging against the jamb, the hushed whispers between him and his mother. Just insects in the grass. Just wind whistling through the tops of trees.

That night Trevor watched his body moving through the world without feeling anything but a dull ache. He watched his own hands as they pulled on his socks, as they tied the belt around his robe, as they ran across the cowlick on the top of his head. He studied his fingers as they held the toothbrush and made it move up and down and in circles, remembering the motions, the bristles not registering against the numbness of his gums and tongue. He looked at himself in the mirror, and while he recognized his own face, he felt as though he were looking at a stranger.

The house was warm and still smelled like Thanksgiving. Like every other Thanksgiving. Outside it was cold. Trevor touched the glass of the window. It was still snowing. The crystalline white kept coming down, relentless, covering everything in a layer of pristine white. He imagined it blanketing the house, the yard, the cars and people it touched. If it never stopped, maybe they’d all be buried in snow. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to open their doors, and he’d never have to leave the house again.

Four more days. Four more days before he had to go back to school. His suspension ended on Monday. On Monday, he was expected to return to that building, to the classrooms, to Ethan and Mike. To pretend as though nothing had happened. As though he were just a bad kid who’d been punished and forgiven. As if he weren’t changed. Weren’t found out. Weren’t proven to be the freak he was always afraid he was.

As he pissed, he couldn’t look at himself. He felt ashamed even holding himself to aim. He felt acid rising in his throat as he thought about what he’d done to Gracy. He was sickened by himself, his whole body quaking with shame. He knelt at the toilet, the lid still lifted, and vomited until there was nothing left inside him. Retching, his body feeling like it was trying to turn itself inside out. Until he was absolutely hollow, and then he felt his fingers wipe his cheeks with a bit of toilet paper. And watched, around and around, up and down, as they brushed his teeth again.

He tried to picture himself returning to school, dreamed the walk down the halls, the smells of the cafeteria, the sound of the bell, the
hush hush
of the other kids as they whispered behind his back. The feel of Ethan’s hands pushing him into lockers, into desks, into anything that would hurt him. He tried to pretend that any of this was possible. That life could go on as it always had. Monday.
Monday.
For everyone else, it would be just another day. Just another beginning to just another week. But to him, it felt like the end of the world.

He walked out of the bathroom, aware of the sound of his feet on the floor but unable to feel anything. Nothing. It was like his entire body had fallen asleep, not the prickly sensation of raw nerves, just the dead heaviness of sleep. He went back to his room, and Gracy was just coming out.

“Do you want some punkin pie?” she asked. She was clutching her hippo. Trevor couldn’t even look at her, he was so ashamed.

E
verywhere across the country, families were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner. Crystal tried to imagine them. A hundred million different families. Each of them convening over the same meal. Every father’s face peering over a turkey, every mother fussing over smudges on the silver, spots on the wineglasses. Kids arguing, babies crying. All of America sitting at an enormous table. When she was a little girl, thoughts like this were both comforting and terrifying. The notion of a shared experience like this, in whatever form it might take, made her feel small. She was just one of a billion children, digging into her mashed potatoes, hiding a creamed onion in her napkin. Just one, indistinguishable from all of the others.

When she and Ty were still best friends, she used to eat dinner with her own family and then, after she had helped her mother finish washing all of the dishes, she’d walk to his house and join the McPhees for what Ty’s dad called “Secondinner.” Their house on Thanksgiving was like a looking-glass reflection of hers. While she and Angie were expected to sit quietly in their straight-back chairs, hands and napkins in their laps, Ty’s house was loud and chaotic and wonderful. It was never just the McPhees. There were always cousins and aunts and uncles and friends. Music cranked up loud on their old-fashioned stereo. Their regular dining room table was too small for all the guests, so they cobbled together a string of tables, a mishmash of chairs. Her favorite was always the piano stool that spun up and down; no matter how old she was, how tall she was, she could always adjust it to the right height.

Crystal’s mother never let anyone in the kitchen to help her. She seemed to want to make it seem like the entire meal had appeared magically on the dining room table, as though she hadn’t spent the entire night before and day of preparing it. At Ty’s house, Lucia invited everyone into the kitchen, handed everyone a peeler or knife or rolling pin. By the time she was nine, Crystal had helped make apple pies, acorn squash, and buttermilk biscuits. Dinner itself was a loud affair, served on the McPhees’ collection of china dishes, each one hand-picked from flea markets and yard sales and secondhand shops. She loved the one with the yellow roses, and Lucia always made sure that one was in her spot. The food was different every year. Sometimes instead of turkey they had ham or beef stew or, one year, each plate had a trout with its head still on. The tradition was in the company, not in the various courses.

When Crystal was pregnant, she had imagined that first Thanksgiving with the baby. She imagined them passing her back and forth, taking turns holding her as they ate, the entire family clamoring to hold her, to pinch her cheeks and tickle her belly. She would feed her sweet potatoes from a tiny little spoon. She could hardly wait to sit by the fireplace after the meal, sprawled out on the worn Oriental rug with her as Ty’s father and his friends played old Van Morrison songs on their guitars and mandolins, the sound of the stand-up bass like a heart beating through the floorboards.

But here she was, just a year later, and Ty was gone. The entire McPhee family was gone. The house that had once been filled with people and music and good smells was empty. There was no baby. She was just a name etched in skin, a name carved in a windowpane.

Crystal sat at the dinner table, hands in her empty lap, as her mother moved purposefully and silently from the kitchen to the dining room, covering the table with the same food she and a million other mothers had spent the day preparing. Light from the brand-new candles caught in the wineglasses, each rubbed with a soft cloth until they were so clear they were almost invisible.

Her father sat at the head of the table where he had sat every single Thanksgiving of her entire life. The turkey carcass lay before him like an offering.

“Just think, next year you’ll be coming home from college for Thanksgiving. Maybe have a new boyfriend with you?” her mother said cheerfully.

Crystal felt her entire body tense.

“I can’t believe my little girl is so grown up,” she said. “Eighteen years old already.”

“I’m moving out,” Crystal said.

Her mother’s perfectly plucked eyebrows raised, and her eyes went dark beneath them.

“Of course you are,” she said, laughing. “Your dorm assignment came last week.”