This I Know

by Eldonna Edwards

  “Daddy grounded me from the phone after he caught me in the closet again.”

  “So go use the pay phone at Ralph’s.”

  “Can I borrow a dime?”

  Joy reaches into her pocket and throws a coin on the table. “I want it back with interest.”

  “Can I have fifty cents for skate rental?”

  She sighs. “Here’s a dollar. Now go on and stop bothering me. I’m trying to count.”

  Joy goes back to tallying a column of numbers on a notepad, ignoring me in the way grown-ups ignore little kids when they’re concentrating on important stuff. She licks her thumb just like a pro, then picks up another stack of checks from the piles in front of her. I beat it out of there before she tells me to bring back the change.

  * * *

  Lola answers on the first ring.

  “Hey. I was hoping maybe we could go do something today.”

  “Hi, Grace. I thought you were grounded from the phone.”

  “I am. I’m at a pay phone.”

  “You want me to ask Catherine to come pick you up?”

  “Actually, do you think she’d take us to the Roller-Rama? Joy gave me a dollar.”

  “That sounds like fun. Hang on.”

  Lola puts her hand over the mouthpiece, but I can still hear her muffled voice.

  “We can pick you up in half an hour. Catherine says she’ll put in some time at the food co-op while we skate.”

  “What’s a food cop?”

  “Co-op. It’s like a grocery store, but the customers own it and take turns working so they can get better food for less money.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where should we pick you up?”

  “I’ll be on the bus bench in front of Ralph’s service garage.”

  “Okay, see you soon!”

  * * *

  On the way to the Roller-Rama Catherine asks me about baptism. Apparently Lola has shared about Daddy not letting me get baptized this summer.

  “It’s a ceremony,” I say. “We get baptized to prove our love for Jesus in front of witnesses. The water washes away our sins and we’re purified.”

  “So before baptism you’re impure? Forgive me, Grace, but I’m not a religious person. I’m not judging you, I’m just curious.”

  It’s weird talking to people who aren’t Christians. Almost everyone I know goes to church, even if it isn’t our church.

  “Well, once you’re born again God forgives you for your sins. The baptism is more of a ritual.”

  “Born again?”

  Lola leans forward and rests her chin on the back of the front seat. “Catherine, stop grilling her!”

  “It’s okay, Lola,” I say. And then to Catherine, “That’s what we call it when you get saved. Your first birth is your regular family and then you’re reborn into the family of God.”

  “I think I get it. Becoming a Christian is the application and baptism is the initiation, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And why won’t your father let you get baptized?”

  Lola slaps the back of the seat. “Catherine!”

  “Sorry. None of my business.”

  I’m glad we’ve arrived so I don’t have to answer her. Catherine hands Lola a five-dollar bill. For people who live in a dilapidated house with broken furniture they sure seem to have a lot of extra money. Lola even has her own skates. They’re painted two different colors, red and blue, with yellow puff balls on the toes.

  I close the car door and wave to Catherine as she drives away. I hope she doesn’t get in an accident. I hate thinking about my best friend’s mama suffering in hellfire just because she wasn’t raised in a godly family. I say a silent prayer as we head toward the building.

  “Sorry, Grace. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I like your mom.”

  I wait in line at the rental counter for plain white skates that are scuffed and stinky from all the feet that wore them before me. When the pimple-faced kid hands me my change I join Lola on a bench near the rink’s edge.

  “Was that your allowance?” I ask as we lace up our skates.

  “We don’t get an allowance. My parents give us money if we need it. They call it discretionary expenses.”

  “Do they ever say no?”

  “Of course. I asked for a trampoline last year, but John said no. He claimed he could build one from scratch, but he never got past digging a humongous hole before deciding to turn it into turtle pond.”

  “You have a turtle pond?”

  “No, just a hole. That’s the thing. My parents have lots of great ideas, but most of them never get finished.”

  The organ music combined with all those wheels rolling across the wood floor makes it almost impossible to carry on a conversation without yelling.

  “Let’s skate!” Lola says.

  “I’m not very good!” I yell back.

  She just smiles and peels off the bench. It takes me a minute to steady myself before taking the first awkward strides. We skate around the rink, me slowly, Lola skating backward so I can keep up with her. I fall at least once every few times around. I am such a klutz while Lola is like a speed demon, parting her legs to skate over tiny kids and whizzing by older teens and adults.

  When I fall for the umpteenth time we decide to take a break. Lola buys us each a blue moon ice-cream cone from the food counter. We sit at the balcony tables licking our cones and laughing at the people doing the hokey pokey below us. Next up is the Couple’s Skate. The organ music is replaced by “Stand by Me” on the loudspeakers. The regular lights dim and a disco ball lights up, throwing colorful shapes across the wooden floor. Two by two, teenagers begin pairing up and moving toward the floor.

  Lola grabs my hand.

  “Wait, no,” I say. “This is just for girlfriends and boyfriends.”

  Lola laughs. “No, it’s for couples. We’re two people, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think that’s what they mean.”

  Lola pulls me by the hand, prying me off my seat. “Screw them. It’s the last skate and I want to get my money’s worth.”

  I have two choices. I can go with her or fall flat on my face trying to get away and probably end up tripping a bunch of people. Either way I’m going to be embarrassed. And I’m right. As soon as we start around the rink, the not-couples sitting in the balcony start laughing and pointing. I hear “Get off the floor!” and “It’s for couples, not queers!” And “Look at those dumb girls!” I try pulling away from Lola, but she’s got one arm hooked around my waist to keep me from falling.

  “Don’t pay any attention to them,” she says.

  My face flushes hot. I can’t wait until the song is done and we can get out of here.

  On our third time around the corner on the balcony side I hear two distinct words. Look up! The warning comes from inside me, not from the crowd. I instinctively jerk my head toward the ledge where a little boy is climbing on the wrong side of the railing, using it as a monkey bar. I let go of Lola and fly toward the side of the rink with my arms in the air. A moment later a woman screams from the balcony. And then he’s falling, just missing my arms. I slam into the wall and spill face-first onto the wood floor, arms still outstretched. The boy bounces off my legs and onto the floor with an ugly thud.

  A crowd gathers in a circle around us. The little kid is sprawled next to me, a small trickle of blood snaking out from behind his head. A lady not on skates races across the wood floor toward us and kneels by the boy. The lights go up and the music stops with a skreeeeek across the vinyl record.

  “Jimmy! Oh my God, Jimmy!”

  He doesn’t answer at first, but then his eyes come open. He looks up at all the faces hovering over him and starts screaming his head off. The lady scoops him up and runs toward the front door. The others skate behind her, leaving Lola crouched next to me on the floor.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, rolling onto my back. “I t
hink so.”

  “You knew he was going to fall, didn’t you?”

  I don’t answer her. I don’t have to.

  * * *

  Lola and I lean against the metal outside wall of the Roller-Rama, waiting for Catherine to pick us up. The sun has warmed the igloo-shaped building and it feels good on my back. I can still feel the vibration of wheels under my feet even though I’m back in my tennis shoes, an invisible rumble beneath me. As people leave they glance back at me nervously, then shake their heads, mumbling between themselves. I bury my head in my hands.

  Lola grabs my arm. “Why are you crying?”

  “I missed him.”

  “It’s a minor concussion, they said. He’s going to be okay. It would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t padded his fall.”

  “But if I wasn’t so clumsy he wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

  “Grace.”

  When I ignore her she pulls my hands apart and stares me in the eye. “Grace!” she says again.

  “What?”

  “You can’t save everybody. You aren’t superwoman.”

  “I know.” I wipe my wet face with the hem of my blouse. “But sometimes I wish I didn’t have this stupid . . . thing.”

  “Clairvoyance. I looked it up.”

  “Whatever it’s called, I hate it.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I just want to be like everybody else.”

  A woman walks past us, dragging two girls behind her. She glares at me and makes a wide circle around us. Lola gives the lady the middle finger before turning back to me. “No you don’t,” she says.

  * * *

  By Monday morning the last dirty splotches of snow have melted after a heavy rain. Even though Lyle spends less and less time in the loft these days I always check the barn after supper, hoping to find him. Every night I put plastic Baggies in my pockets and sneak from the dinner table things that aren’t too gooey or runny. Nobody ever sees me do it, I’m that careful.

  After washing tonight’s dishes I sneak up to the loft with meat loaf and a couple slices of bread in my pocket. My heart goes soft inside when I see Lyle curled up in the straw on the floor behind the last pew. His eyes are closed, but he isn’t sleeping.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He opens his wrinkled eyelids. “I guess I am.”

  He raises himself and moves to sit cross-legged in front of the legless front pew, pretty limber for a man his age. I scrape his food on a paper plate and sit on the bench facing him.

  “Where did you used to live, Lyle?”

  He pulls a fork out of his pants pocket. “In the U.P., just south of Sault Ste. Marie. Most beautiful place on God’s earth.”

  “So why’d you move here?”

  He finishes gumming a mouthful of meat loaf before answering. “To look for work, same as everybody else. Not many jobs up there.”

  “Did you find one?”

  “Yep, but it didn’t last long. A little problem with the bottle made me late for work one too many times.”

  “The bottle?”

  He smiles his toothless smile. “My mistress,” he says, patting his breast pocket. “Miss Ginny.”

  I must look confused because he says, “Gin. I like gin from time to time.”

  “Oh,” I say. “So how do you get by?”

  “Nice people like yourself, Grace,” he answers. “And a small government check.”

  “Where do you stay when you’re not here?”

  “Under the stars. Sometimes in the orchards. There used to be an old school bus down by the tracks, but the village had it hauled away.”

  My stomach tightens. My voice trembles when I try to answer. “Oh . . .” is all that comes out. I glance toward the stairs. Lyle looks at me with a long, sad face.

  “It’s not like they said, Grace. I was takin’ a leak, that’s all. Those kids happened on me relieving myself and claimed I was exposin’ my private parts to them.” He wipes his stubbly chin with his sleeve.

  My gut says he’s telling the truth, but I don’t tell him so.

  Lyle sets the plate on the floor next to him. He licks the fork clean and puts it back in his pocket. “I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me,” he says.

  “I believe you,” I finally croak out.

  He walks slowly to the back end of the loft and stretches out in the straw, pulling a blanket over himself. “You have yourself pleasant dreams, Gracie.”

  I want to convince him I really do believe his story, but the words stick in my throat until it’s too late. Lyle is already taking deep-sleep breaths so I leave quietly, promising myself I’ll make it right with him tomorrow.

  15

  Daddy’s sitting at the kitchen table wearing navy-blue slacks and a white undershirt. From the side I can see where he says God sprayed freckles on his shoulders. He hasn’t shaved yet and the patch of dark whiskers around his mouth makes him look like Fred Flintstone.

  “Your toast just popped up.” He points with a paring knife to the four-slice toaster without looking up from the mound of potatoes in front of him. Mama is supposed to bring a dish to the mother-daughter banquet tonight, but Daddy is the one who got stuck making it. None of us know how to make scalloped cheese potatoes and since Aunt Pearl left he’s had to step in on some of the mothering duties.

  I slather peanut butter and grape jelly on my toast, licking the extra off my fingers before joining Daddy at the table. I love watching the potato skins roll off in ringlets. Daddy gouges out an eye with the pointy end of the knife and drops the lopsided potato into a pan of water, which sloshes over the side of Mama’s blue-and-white speckled kettle. She has a whole set of matching pans that look like they were left out under a bird’s perch.

  “Put in a few more slices for your sisters,” Daddy says.

  I drop two more pieces of bread into the slots and push the lever down until it catches. Daddy grabs another potato and starts over again. When my toast is gone I get a second peeler from the drawer and start in on the rest of the pile. Daddy nods at me and it feels like a little extra sunshine sneaked into the room. When the last potato is stripped of its skin he rolls the peels up in the soggy newspaper and heads for the backyard. I run upstairs to pick out a dress for tonight.

  Mama always sits with Hope at the mother-daughter banquet because she’s the oldest, so the rest of us have to eat with one of the church ladies who has chosen us to be her companion for the evening. Joy tried to talk Daddy into letting her take Marilyn as her “daughter” to the banquet, but he said no. When she threw a fit he agreed to let her take Chastity instead of having to go with church ladies.

  Last year I had to go with Edna, the fat lady. This year Mrs. McBurney has picked me to be her little darling. Mr. McBurney digs wells for a living, but Daddy refused to let him redo our well when the old one went dry because he uses a stick shaped like a Y to find water in the ground. Daddy says the devil points the way. Mr. McBurney never comes to church with his wife. I felt bad when Daddy hired someone else. Mr. McBurney only works in the months when the ground isn’t frozen, so they don’t have much money. Also because their life is kind of sad. Their only daughter was killed in a car accident a few years back when her drunk husband ran them into a tree. The McBurneys wanted to adopt their two grandsons, but the kids’ daddy wouldn’t let them go. Everybody knows he only wants the boys to work his farm so he can sit around and drink beer. Mrs. McBurney drives out to the farm to feed them whenever their daddy’s on a binge, which is practically every day.

  It’s not that I don’t like Mrs. McBurney. She’s actually a really sweet old lady and I feel sorry that her daughter died. The problem is how she smells. She has bad breath and wreaks of Old Man McBurney’s stinky cigars. Plus I don’t think she bathes too regularly. On Halloween Mrs. McBurney gives out apples so most of the kids skip their rickety old house. “That’s the crispest, juiciest apple you’ll get tonight,” she’ll say, as if everybody else is handing out apples, too.

 
I always smiled and let her make a big to-do over my costume, which was usually a ballerina or a princess since Daddy won’t let us dress up in any pagan costumes like monsters or witches. Now that I’m twelve I’m too old for trick-or-treating. I hope some other kid takes my place and shows up at her house next fall.

  It’s still hours before the banquet, but Hope is already dressed. She gets to quote verses during the program and she’s practicing in front of the dining room mirror. Her white-blond hair is in two thin braids tied with red ribbons that match her red dress. She even has a red Bible to coordinate her outfit. Hope probably has a dozen Bibles. People give them to her all the time. I have a hard time keeping track of just one.

  I’ve decided on a white blouse and a yellow skirt for tonight’s banquet. I brush my hair into a ponytail and pull on a cardigan sweater with pearl buttons. Hope is sitting on her bed when I pass by her room, her mouth moving but no words coming out. She’s holding her Bible in her lap as her feet kick at the bed rail.

  “What’s the matter, Hope?”

  She startles when I speak, her feet freezing in mid-kick. “Do you think Mama will make it to the banquet tonight?”

  Mama’s usually late for everything these days, or worse, just doesn’t show.

  “Of course she will,” I say, but I’m a little worried for Hope. She’s been looking forward to this night for months. I think of all us girls, Hope has suffered the most on account of Mama’s illness. Mama tended to hover over Hope like an umbrella, trying to protect her from harm. I imagine it’s because of the car accident when Hope was little. Ever since Mama got sick, I’ve done my best to be nice to Hope, but we don’t have much in common. Even though she’s three years older than me, she seems younger in the way she gets overexcited about stuff or angry and frustrated when things don’t go her way. I just hope Mama doesn’t do anything tonight to upset her.

  I go searching for Mama and find her standing in front of her dresser mirror wearing a pink crepe suit and matching heels. I didn’t really think she’d be able to pull it off. She looks beautiful, even though her outfit is getting too big for her with all the weight she’s lost. She seems more awake than usual, so that’s a good sign.