This I Know

by Eldonna Edwards

  “Here. You feed Demeter and I’ll feed Persephone.”

  Lola stands outside the wooden stall and holds her hand toward a white horse with splotches of black over her hindquarters. A spot near the horse’s eye looks like a tear, giving her a sad-faced expression that is at the same time beautiful. Lola presses her cheek against Persephone’s nose and strokes her neck as the horse gobbles up the apple.

  “I love you, sweetie,” she says, and I swear the horse nods.

  I’m still clutching my apple when she looks up. “Your turn.”

  I look at my feet.

  “Grace, your hand is shaking. Are you scared?”

  She tugs at my wrist but I pull back. Lola looks into my face and tilts her frizzy head toward one shoulder. “You’re so pretty, do you know that?”

  It’s not what I was expecting. And no, I didn’t know that. Lately I feel like a chipped plate at a table set for company.

  “She won’t hurt you.” Lola smiles, her full lips pulling back over perfect white teeth. “Trust me,” she says.

  I let Lola take my arm and she leads me to the shiny black horse in the stall to the right of Persephone. My hand is still trembling, but Lola’s touch gives me confidence.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Lola says.

  Demeter looks me straight in the eye as I approach with my outstretched hand.

  “Touch her first. With your other hand. Talk to her.”

  I hesitate.

  “Go on,” Lola says. “You can do it.”

  My heart beats in my throat. I’ve never been so close to an animal this big other than the Blue Rapids Zoo, where there was a steel fence between the animals and me.

  “Hi there,” I say, and reach out to touch the horse. Her neck feels like warm velvet. I lift my other hand to her mouth and she whinnies softly, then pushes forward so my head is against her throat. I slide my free hand over her mane as she kisses the apple from my palm with her slobbery lips. Her eyes widen and her mouth foams with delight. When she finishes chewing I raise both my arms and hug her neck. I love the earthy smell of her, the firmness of her muscles, the silkiness of her coat. A wave of emotion overtakes me and tears swell over my eyes as I stroke her.

  “I know,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.”

  I feel Lola’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “She was hurt.”

  “Yeah—pretty bad. We rescued her from the Humane Society. She was terribly abused. Wait. How did you know that?”

  I look straight into Lola’s face and tell the complete truth. “She told me.”

  I wait for her to laugh, but she doesn’t. Instead, she purses her lips and nods. “Right on,” she says.

  Lola leads me to an art studio on the other side of the barn. I pause in front of two easels that stand side by side near the doorway.

  “I did the one on the left,” she says, pointing to a charcoal drawing of a ballet dancer.

  “Wow. You’re really good.”

  “It’s just a sketch.”

  “I can’t even draw a straight line,” I say.

  She takes me on a tour of the various art objects, mostly her mama’s. The barn is filled with life-size exotic animals painted in exquisite detail, right down to the black-tipped toenails of a skunk. I can’t take my eyes off a huge giraffe. Its head is in the rafters.

  “How does she do it?”

  “She makes them out of papier-mâché,” Lola says. “She constructs the frame from chicken wire, then builds layers of skin with newspaper and paste until they’re ready to paint.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Lola laughs. “Neither had Sonny and Cher.”

  “What?”

  “Sonny bought one for Cher. They came to an art show where Catherine was exhibiting. They were wearing dark glasses and hats, but Catherine recognized them. She didn’t say anything, just acted all natural like they were no different than any other customer. I wish I’d been there.”

  Lola calls her parents by their first names. I try to picture myself saying, “What would you like for supper, Henry?” It just couldn’t happen.

  “And they bought one of your mom’s sculptures?”

  “Yeah, a fruit bat. But then while Cher was looking at other stuff, Sonny asked Catherine to make a zebra for his wife. He paid her five thousand dollars cash on the spot and gave us the address to ship it to. He sent another five thousand when he got it.”

  “Your mama got ten thousand dollars for making a zebra? You must be rich!”

  “No way. It takes her almost a year to finish the big ones. And not many people are looking for a full-sized giraffe to put in their living room, so it’s a specialty. But it did pay for this house and forty acres.”

  “You’re lucky,” I say. “You make things.”

  “So are you,” she says, turning toward the house. “You know things.”

  We walk through the back door of Lola’s house and into a mudroom strewn with piles of laundry in front of an old washing machine. Clothes dry on a length of twine running from one side of the room to the other. Several barn coats hang from hooks on the plaster walls. Lola kicks off her cowboy boots and wanders into the kitchen. A huge, striped cat sits on the countertop, eating kibble out of a homemade ceramic bowl. Lola scoops him up in her arms and motions for me to follow her.

  The house looks like it’s been a work in progress from the time the first nail was sunk. It has one big room separated by wooden beams because her parents knocked out most of the inside walls. A woodstove squats in the corner with chairs gathered around as if patiently waiting for the latest gossip. The dining room table stands only knee-high after somebody sawed off the legs. It’s set with mismatched plates and surrounded by colorful sitting pillows. A window seat heaped with handmade afghans looks out over the horse pasture.

  Lola’s house feels like an art museum. An old beat-up couch with a patchwork quilt slung over the back slouches in the corner of the living area. Shelves line every wall, filled with books, papier-mâché puppets, clay pots, sculptures, handmade beads, and various other art projects. Every patch of wall is covered in watercolor paintings and pencil sketches. Some of the figures are naked. The rest of the space is absorbed by a black grand piano.

  The Beatles’ “Come Together” bursts out of two speakers hanging near the ceiling, and it sounds like the band is right in the room with us. Lola starts dancing across the room, her long braid whipping around like a spinning maypole. A woman with wild hair just like Lola’s, except for a few gray streaks running through it, dances out of a side bedroom and playfully joins Lola. I’m sure this is her mama, but I can hardly believe it. She’s so beautiful and she’s like a hippie or something.

  Lola’s mama sees me staring and grabs my hand, pulling me into their dance. I feel awkward and self-conscious.

  “You must be Grace. I’m Catherine,” she says.

  Daddy preaches that dancing is a sin, but after a few whirls around the living room with Lola and her mama I can’t help myself. The beat is wonderful and before I know it I’m stomping around the room with my eyes closed, forgetting that Jesus is watching. When the third song ends the three of us dance into Mrs. Purdy’s bedroom. Lola pulls down the shade on the only window, which has a picture of blue mountains painted on it. She flips on a long light in a tube and suddenly barely-there designs jump to life, glowing from every wall. We flop onto the fur-covered bed and stare at the ceiling, which is painted with stars, planets, and a moon.

  When the mattress sloshes beneath us my eyes pop wide open. Lola responds by lifting up her butt and letting it fall, sending me rolling into Mrs. Purdy, who giggles hysterically.

  “A water bed!” I say.

  Lola and her mama look at each other, then jump off the bed and start pushing on the mattress from either side, creating waves.

  “Close your eyes, Grace,” Mrs. Purdy whispers.

  I force my lids shut and let my body roll with the water. Joni Mit
chell purrs in the next room. The flannel sheet is warm beneath me. It feels like taking a bath without getting wet, except you don’t have to worry about slipping under the surface if you fall asleep. I could just about drown in this place, this magical world of sleeping on water and glowing pictures and papier-mâché animals the size of life.

  * * *

  For dinner we eat Chinese egg rolls and Oriental noodles served with chopsticks instead of silverware. Nobody laughs when my food keeps falling off the sticks. I finally give up and ask for a fork. Lola’s six-year-old sister, Brandy, fetches one from the kitchen. She and her twin brother, Buddy, talk like grown-ups because Lola’s parents have never used baby talk with their kids.

  Lola’s daddy has curly, brown hair and a bushy mustache. He waves his hands when I call him Mr. Purdy. “No, no, Grace. Call me John,” he says.

  Mrs. Purdy also insists I call her by her first name. I tell them it’s disrespectful and that my parents wouldn’t like it one bit.

  “We call you by your first name. Is that disrespectful, Grace? Would you prefer we call you Miss Carter?”

  Lola grins at me, waiting for my answer.

  I giggle. “No,” I say.

  “Well, it’s settled then.” He picks up his chopsticks and delicately plucks a single noodle off his plate. Then he does what I sometimes do with spaghetti. He slurps until the end hits him in the nose. It’s as if the kids are the adults and the grown-ups forgot to stop being kids in this house.

  After dinner we make peanut butter fudge, then sit around the woodstove with our stockinged feet in each other’s laps. Catherine moves to the piano and plays “Scarborough Fair.” I like the way she plays it even more than Simon & Garfunkel’s version. I tell her that the way she plays the song gives it little side melodies.

  “Well, that would be the artist in me, I guess. Always having to add my own grace notes to make the song my own.”

  “Grace notes?”

  She chuckles and calls me over to the piano. “See these, Grace?” She points to a piece of music on the stand. “Those are extra notes the composer added to embellish the piece. Make it fancier. Not everyone pays attention to them. For me the music would be flat without those notes. Of course, I also add some of my own.”

  As I lean over Lola’s mama I wonder if this is what Isaac has been trying to explain to me all these years. He says the Knowing is simply a deep awareness. Does everyone smell the hint of lavender in Catherine’s hair? They would if they were paying attention. They’d hear the extra notes and they’d see hidden pictures on the walls and they’d feel their mother’s heartbeat long after they were born into this world.

  Lola yawns. “I’m pooped. Ready for bed, Grace?”

  I follow her upstairs to a room with a quilt-covered mattress on the floor surrounded by walls covered in graffiti. I decide right then and there I’m going to be a mom who makes finger and toe paintings with her children while listening to records on a real stereo. We’ll visit national parks and go fishing on Sundays. We’ll draw on the walls. I’ll marry someone like John and we’ll rock ourselves to sleep on a water bed with a leopard bedspread.

  * * *

  I wake from a dream about riding a paper giraffe to find my head in Lola’s armpit. The sunlight trickling in through the window creates a star pattern on the curtain. Even the light in this house is artistic. One of the dogs, a floppy-eared mongrel named Chewie, is asleep on my leg. Downstairs John loads logs into the stove while Catherine hums in the kitchen. I feel a little guilty for thinking it, but boy do I ever wish I could trade places with Lola.

  Her family is like something out of the movies, full of adventures and creativity. While I’m memorizing Bible verses they’re learning lines to perform plays for each other. When I’m getting ready to go to church, they’re getting ready to go to an art museum or a movie. Even their chores are more fun. I’d much rather take care of animals than iron choir robes or sort church bulletins. Somehow I can’t picture Lola coloring pictures of disciples. She can probably draw better than the people who make the Sunday school papers.

  When Lola stretches and moans I can see her breath. “I gotta go feed the horses.” She pulls a sweater over her head and climbs into faded blue jeans, stuffing her bare feet into mismatched socks. “You can sleep a little longer if you want.”

  I wait until the house starts to warm before getting up. After a late breakfast of whole grain waffles and fresh-squeezed orange juice, Lola’s daddy offers to give me a ride back to town. I don’t want to go yet but I don’t want to be rude, either. They probably can’t afford gas for two trips.

  Lola opens the front door of the truck and gives me a hug. “See you on Monday!”

  I feel like crying. “See you then,” I say, in my most cheerful voice.

  As Mr. Purdy backs out of the driveway, Catherine walks toward her studio wearing a fringed leather jacket and a red bandanna on her head. In the distance, Demeter and Persephone chase each other along the fence, whinnying. By the time we pull away I’ve already decided Lola and I will be friends forever.

  * * *

  When I get home Joy takes one whiff of me and says, “Pee-yew! You stink!”

  I hold a few strands of hair under my nose and breathe in wood smoke to remind myself it wasn’t a dream.

  “I do not.”

  “You do too. I’m telling Daddy not to let you stay at that hippie house again.”

  “You don’t know anything! They’re not hippies, they’re artists.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re stinking artists. Go take a bath.”

  I walk away wishing Maxwell’s Silver Hammer would go bang-bang on her head.

  8

  Daddy has invited one of the deacons and his wife over for dinner tonight. Mr. Franks teaches Sunday school, and Mrs. Franks leads the children’s choir. We’re sitting at the table eating pork chops when all of a sudden I hear milk spilling, but when I look around the table everybody’s glass is still upright. Mama stands up real calm-like and says, “Well, my water broke.”

  Next thing everybody’s running around getting Mama’s hospital bag and talking excitedly about the Big Event. I crawl under the table and run my hand over the wet spot on the rug. When I lift my fingers to my nose they smell like puppy breath.

  “Grace, get out from under there!” Daddy yells.

  I don’t move because I know he’s focused on Mama. As I watch her swollen feet walk out the front door I feel like crying, but I’m not sure why.

  * * *

  First thing in the morning Daddy calls the four of us girls downstairs to the kitchen. I’m pretty sure we’re all wondering what name he’s gone and picked this time, but none of us is brave enough to bring it up. He stands across the table in a wrinkled shirt looking like he was run over by a tractor. I’ve never seen him look so tired. I’m more used to his huge presence, that voice booming down from the pulpit like thunder. Even when we’re home I see him as the next one down under God. Today is the first time he looks just like anyone’s daddy.

  I already know what he’s going to say. Mama isn’t coming home with any baby.

  “Your mama’s okay,” he starts. “She’ll be out of the hospital in a few days. But your little sister isn’t strong enough. There’s a tiny hole in her heart and they have to wait to see if it will close.”

  Chastity grabs a box of Rice Krispies from the middle of the table and fills her bowl, seemingly unfazed by the weight of Daddy’s news. A tear runs down Hope’s pale face. She clasps her hands together and starts praying quietly. Joy runs back upstairs. I walk up to Daddy and put my arms as far around his waist as they’ll reach, which is only about halfway. He smells like sweat mixed with Old Spice.

  Daddy pats my head and says, “Okay, Grace. Go get ready for school now.”

  His words fall soft on me, like for a minute he’s forgotten which one I am. I go to my closet to get dressed, but it feels so good in there I just sit down in my usual spot. He’s here, too. I can feel him.
r />   “Isaac?”

  Yes?

  “Why is the baby sick?”

  It’s part of her purpose.

  I chew on his answer while I fidget with the lacy hem of one of Chastity’s dresses hanging from the rod.

  “I don’t get it. Her purpose is to be sick?”

  Partly, yes.

  “What good is that? Living in that wonderful place all those months and then being born sick. She must be so disappointed.”

  No, Grace. She’s content.

  “Content? But Mama and Daddy will be so sad!”

  I know. But they’re learning a lot from this experience. Have you ever thought about how many parents of sick children your mama and daddy have consoled?

  “No.”

  Now they can empathize with those people.

  “Empathize?”

  It means to be able to know how something feels. How someone else feels.

  “Well I think that’s pretty stupid. I feel sorry for Hope getting run over, but I don’t want to be hit by an ice-cream truck just so I can empathize with her.”

  It’s much more complicated than that. Mama doesn’t know it, but she is prepared for this experience. And so are you.

  “Mama still hasn’t gotten over losing you! And now she has a sick baby, not to mention another girl.”

  I’m sorry this is so hard for you.

  “Not as hard as it is for Mama. I think she’d be up to trading in that feeling for other mamas in exchange for having a healthy baby. A healthy boy baby.”

  Isaac sighs in my head.

  “Is that why you died? So Mama could empathize with mothers of dead babies?”

  I died because there was a change of plans.

  “Whose plans? Yours?”

  My plans are part of a much bigger plan. Just as yours are.

  “I plan to help people so they don’t have to suffer like Mama. I want to be a nurse.”

  I think that’s great, Grace. It fits. There’s a smile in his voice.

  “Fits where?”

  Into the big picture. The bigger plan.

  “I bet you’re going to tell me that I don’t get to know what that plan is.”