Saying Grace (33 page)

Finally, Mike appeared wearing a new blue suit. His dark hair was combed and slicked carefully, and his blue eyes were solemn.

He was accompanied by a friend, an extraordinarily handsome Episcopal minister. Mike and the minister stood side by side looking nervous as Lisa Stevens began playing the Mendelsohn “Wedding March.” The bride’s attendants were Mike’s three daughters. They wore calico dresses and carried little nosegays of lily of the valley; they walked solemnly in single file ranked in order of height, first Terry, who was nineteen, then Mary, fourteen, and last Trinity, who was eleven. All three looked as if they were trying not to grin. Behind them, Bonnie walked alone, slim, shy, and dignified. Her hair was piled on top of her head, with lilies of the valley woven into it. She wore a long slender dress made of white buckskin, and she carried an ornamental cabbage.

The service was matter of fact and quite brief. Mike and Bonnie faced each other and recited their vows from memory. Rue found it very emotional. What a lot of hope there was in the world, and kindness. She was surprised to see how much heartfelt love they Saying Grace / 243

both seemed to feel for each other at this moment, and hoped that for them, it would last forever.

After the minister pronounced them man and wife, Mike and Bonnie kissed each other very sweetly, and it seemed the whole audience held its breath. Then Mike’s daughters broke ranks, beaming, and made a circle around the pair, hugging and kissing each one in turn.

Henry and Rue were sitting with Emily. Rue was grateful for the buffer. She and Henry continued to cohabit, rather than connect, and were relieved for all distractions that broke the silence between them. Nothing like this had ever happened to them in twenty-four years of marriage, and Rue couldn’t picture what would happen next to change it. She knew something would. Georgia would come home. Or Henry would start to miss Rue. Or something would make them laugh. Something would happen. She felt so fragile at the moment that it seemed best to do nothing to push it. She found when she thought about it, she couldn’t really quite get her mind around what
had
happened between them. They had fought about Georgia.

More than once. But it wasn’t as if Rue had taken a position she could undo, as if she could give in to Henry and make things come out the way he wanted. So she got lost, trying to think her way back, trying to find the moment, the reason, that the distance between them had become an institution. Of all the painful and complex di-lemmas she faced, this was the most painful and the most puzzling.

The wedding lunch was very festive; the whole school family needed a celebration, and this one provided a happy hiatus in the midst of the very stormy weather that had lately prevailed. There was a wide range of dishes, from vegetarian lasagna to barbecued pork, Blair Kunzelman’s specialty at the grill. Catherine Trainer was happily recalling her wedding to Norman, and looking very pretty; she sat with Evelyn Douglas and Lisa Stevens, and there were roars of laughter from their table that made Rue look over with envy.

Both Henry and Emily were very quiet, Rue thought. She talked mostly to Cynda Goldring, who was concerned at the news that Rue was still getting phone calls from the silent breather.

“Henry never gets them. He gets hang-ups once in a while, but 244 / Beth Gutcheon

whoever it is is after me. When I answer, he stays on the line, breathing.”

Cynda shivered. “Frightening.”

Rue nodded. She
did
find it frightening, though she preferred not to admit it.

“Have you called the police? Can they trace the calls?”

“Henry did. This is not a high-tech crime-fighting force. They said they could call in Santa Barbara if the calls got threatening.”

“Great.”

“I stand there listening to this breathing, trying to figure it out…does he want to say something he can’t say? Does he want me to say something? Does he think I can read his mind?”

“Have you tried asking who it is?”

“The police say, Never say anything. If you say
anything
it makes it fun for him, and he’ll keep it up.”

“Do you think it’s Kenny?”

“Not really. After all, I
didn’t
kick him out. I’d think of Glenn Malko, or even Terry, except the calls started before Glenn was expelled.”

“What about Jerry Lozzato?”

“That a-hole, pardon my French. It could be. I just hope he doesn’t pop out from behind a bush one day and shoot me. On the whole I prefer to think it’s one of the Miss Plums.”

“God, that’s it,” said Cynda. “It’s Carla Plum, running the school from beyond the grave.”

“I think it is. I feel that they’re like my parents, hating rock music, sloppy grammar, and unable to program their VCR—I think they’re counting on me to hold back the tide.”

They were warming to this theory and would have enjoyed going on with it, except that lunch was nearly over and had been accompanied by a good deal of wine and beer. Just at that moment, Pat Moredock was hurrying to join the group to whom Bonnie would toss the bridal cabbage, when she tripped over an exposed root and fell heavily, breaking her arm.

Henry examined Pat and announced he would drive her to the hospital. Emily asked if she should go too—would Pat want a woman with her?

“Henry’s a very comforting person, even if he is a man,” said Saying Grace / 245

Rue. “She’ll be all right. Anyway, you should go try to catch the bouquet.”

“Am I allowed? I’m still married.”

“Of course you’re allowed.”

Emily went to join Lisa Stevens, Rosemary Fitch, Catherine Trainer, Bethany Loeb, Kendra Flower, Mike’s calicoed daughters, and Malone. Bonnie, giggling helplessly, stood with her back to the group and then heaved the cabbage over her shoulder. Kendra made a heroic leap for it, but missed, and it was Emily, blushing, who caught it. Everyone applauded. “You’re next,” everyone said to her.

Emily looked confused and pretty, with her cheeks flaming. Henry’s car was disappearing down the lane.

Next the groom hoisted the buckskin dress, to the accompaniment of much hooting and whistling, and slid an electric blue garter over Bonnie’s slim knee and down her leg, where it got tangled up in her white sandal. Mike was blushing furiously. At last he freed it and winged it over the knot of male guests jostling each other in the sun.

Blair Kunzelman knocked Lloyd Merton aside and caught it, which caused a roar of laughter and cries of “foul,” and a lot of teasing of his wife, Alma. “Meet my first wife,” he kept shouting, with the garter around his arm, and the arm around the long-suffering Alma.

Then the bride and groom climbed into a gleaming Model T Ford decked with flowers, lent to the pair by the TerWilliamses. As Carl TerWilliams turned the crank in front of the car and the engine roared to life, Blair tied a string of tin cans to the back bumper. Then they were off with a roar and a clatter amid much laughter.

Lynn Ketchum took over the Kurzweil and began to play a mean

“Black Top Boogie.” The guests, left behind, danced on the grass.

Mike’s daughters danced with each other in a ring, Lloyd Merton danced with Emily, the handsome minister danced very beautifully with Catherine Trainer, and Blair Kunzelman danced with four or five women at once. Finally, sun and the effects of unaccustomed wine wore them out, and Lisa took over the keyboard to play some of her favorite Barry Manilow tunes. Everyone else began to pack away the remains of the cake and the bottles and dishes. Henry drove up, without Pat.

“I took her home,” he said. “She seemed in need of a nap.”

246 / Beth Gutcheon

“I don’t wonder,” said Rue. “How bad is it?”

“A hairline fracture. It will heal fine if she doesn’t reinjure it. She’s in one of those Velcro casts.”

“Does she have much pain?” asked Emily.

“Not at the moment, if you take my meaning,” said Henry. “But they gave her some Percodan for later.”

“What if she takes that stuff and drinks too?”

Malone and David Dahl had seen the preparations for going and arrived to try to hurry their mother along.

“She could make herself pretty sick.”

“But could she wake up dead?”

“Who, Mom?” asked Malone.

“A friend of ours,” said Emily.

“Mrs. Moredock?”

Rue looked at Henry.

Later, when they were alone at home, she said, “I’m going to have to organize an intervention. If the kids have all figured it out.”

Henry said he guessed so. Then he said, “I’m going to take my car to Liu’s and have the oil changed.”

“Do you want to do that now? You can drop it off on the way to church in the morning.”

“He said this afternoon would be better.”

“Do you want me to follow you?”

“No, I’ll just wait. I’ve got a good book.”

“Oh. Well. Okay.”

“I’ll be back in an hour or so. Do you want anything at Tagliarini’s?”

“Could you get some two-percent milk?”

“Sure.”

Rue settled down to pay her bills, but she had trouble concentrat-ing. She missed having Henry to think out loud with, and now she missed Mike as well. Normally, he would have been the first she would have talked with, but he and Bonnie were on their way to some secret romantic spot, there to do she couldn’t imagine what.

Deepen an already loving friendship, she guessed. Finally she gave up and went to call Emily. She wanted to know what more Malone Saying Grace / 247

had said and exactly how much the kids had figured out about Mrs.

Moredock’s drinking.

To her surprise, the phone was answered by Patty Kramer, a buxom blond eighth grader who was babysitting.

“I think she was going to the Price Club,” said Patty. “She said she’d only be an hour or so.”

“Oh,” said Rue. “Well, it’s nice of you to help out on short notice, Patty.”

“It wasn’t short notice. She told me she’d be calling, she just didn’t know exactly what time.”

“Oh. Then it’s nice of you to be so flexible.”

“No problem. I’m saving for a CD player.”

“Have you heard of the Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

“Not rilly.”

“What
do
you listen to?”

“The Association,” said Patty.

Henry was home an hour later. He apologized for forgetting the milk.

I
t was on the Thursday morning a week after the wedding that Rue arrived to the news that she would have to teach fifth grade.

Catherine Trainer’s car had broken down halfway to school, and she was waiting for a tow truck. Mike couldn’t take the class; he was already teaching junior kindergarten for Helen Yeats, who had had a dental emergency.

“Did Catherine say if she left a lesson plan?”

Mike gave her a look. “Dream on, honey,” he said.

Things were at a dull roar when she reached Mrs. Trainer’s classroom. Her entry was greeted with pleasure and curiosity. Where was Mrs. Trainer? Was Mrs. Shaw going to teach them all day? Was Mrs. Trainer sick? Could they have a Free? Rue searched the drawers for a lesson book. She didn’t find one, but she did find a stack of stories written by the children, ungraded, and dated December 16.

She quieted the class, then wrote on the board, “A Conscience Is Worth a Thousand Witnesses.” “This is a maxim,” she said. “Who can tell me what a maxim is? Carly?”

“A wise saying.”

“Good. Who can tell me what this one means?”

There was a silence. It lengthened.

“All right, who can tell me what a witness is?”

Hands shot up. “Someone who saw you do something? Like if there’s a murder, but somebody saw who did it?”

“Good. Now who can tell me what a conscience is.”

No hands were raised.

“What about Jiminy Cricket singing, ‘Let your conscience be your guide’?” Silence. “Nobody’s heard of Jiminy Cricket?” No one had.

Good grief, thought Rue, I never thought I’d be wishing for the return of the Mickey Mouse Club.

“Your conscience,” said Rue, “is the voice inside you that tells Saying Grace / 249

you when something is right or wrong.” They all nodded their heads.

Oh yeah, conscience. Oh yeah.

“Now, who can tell me what this maxim means?”

Again, there was silence. “Kim,” said Rue to Kim Fat Snyder, “if you’re alone in a room, and you’re tempted to do something, how do you know if it’s a right or wrong thing to do?”

“If you might get caught,” said Kim Fat.

“Say you know you won’t get caught. How do you know if it’s right or wrong?”

This seemed a hard question. She looked around the room, and the faces looked back. She began to wonder if they were putting her on.

“Okay, I’m alone in this room. Got it? You’re not here.” The class nodded.

Rue looked around, making sure she was alone in the room. Then she sidled toward the back of the room, where a desk was empty, its owner absent. She silently opened the desk top. She studied the mess of notebooks, workbooks, pencils, erasers, barrettes, and hair elastics. She shifted some loose papers, and came up with a calculator.

She held it up. She examined it silently. She looked around furt-ively, to be sure she was unobserved. Then she slipped the calculator into her skirt pocket, closed the desk softly, and returned to the front of the room.

“Now,” she said. “What’s wrong with what I just did? Harry?”

“You took something that isn’t worth anything.”

Rue expected the class to laugh, but the children seemed to think this a serious answer. Rue was beginning to feel incredulous.

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“You risked getting caught and punished for something that wasn’t worth it.”

“I told you I’m not going to get caught. What’s wrong with what I did?”

Some of the children looked at each other. Rue wasn’t sure what to do next.

“Whose desk is this?” she asked, hoping to awaken in them sympathy for their absent friend.

“Bharatee’s,” they answered, and Rue saw part of her problem.

250 / Beth Gutcheon

Bharatee was a rather fat, very bright Pakistani girl whose distress they would welcome.

“Okay, let’s say this calculator once belonged to Michael Jackson.