My whole body starts shaking and I’m filled with a dread so terrifying I can hardly bear it. I feel like I’m going to explode. It’s as if the girl’s hand is over mine and she’s making sure I don’t let go of that blanket. Usually when I have a vision it’s like a movie. This is different. I can’t see her because I’m inside her, looking out through her eyes.
Someone’s behind us.
Don’t you dare make a sound, you hear? The devil will grab you and pull you all the way to hell if you make a sound.
I can feel his sweat dripping on my/her neck and smell his minty breath. He pushes us forward, then shoves us facedown on the quilt. I hear cloth tearing, a belt buckle, a zipper. His big hand covers our mouth. And then searing pain.
God! No, please no! Oh God, it burns! Mama! Mama, please make him stoooooop!
Behind us he grunts, one hand on our neck and one on our wrist. Each thrust pushes our face against the fabric. We scream into his dirty palm as he groans. A train roars by before everything goes quiet except for the sound of his last words over and over in our ears.
You tell it was me and the devil will grab whoever you tell, too.
I open my eyes slowly, surprised to find that I’m still standing. The quilt drops from my hands and I want to run, but I’m frozen in place. I fall to my knees and vomit. As I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt, I hear footsteps.
“Are you okay?”
I raise my head to find the Jesus guy standing over me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I let out a scream.
“Whoa,” he says. “You having a bad trip or something?”
I stagger to my feet, backing up. “I’ve gotta go,” I say.
I take off running.
“Your shoes!” he yells from behind me.
Daddy will be angry about me losing them, but not even Jesus could stop me from running as fast as I can all the way home.
* * *
“What’s the matter, Grace, you sick?”
Daddy raises his fuzzy eyebrows at me and I try to smile, but I can’t. He’s made liver and onions specially for me because I got all my Bible verses memorized for the third week in a row. I’m one of the few kids I know who likes liver and onions. Tonight he might as well be serving mud patties. I have no appetite. He gets up from his chair at the head of the table and stands next to me. His hand on my forehead feels so good. I live for the moments he comes on soft.
“You’re clammy but no fever,” he says, and goes back to his chair.
No, I want to tell him, keep your hand there and don’t let go. Don’t ever let go. But instead I say, “I don’t feel so good. May I be excused?”
Daddy nods and tells Chastity to take care of the dishes for me tonight.
“But, Daddy!” she protests. He gives her The Look. She passes it on to me, but it doesn’t even faze me compared to how awful I already feel. I have met the devil and I know his name.
27
Sheriff Conner’s office sits above the post office, but he has a separate telephone in his house for police business. Usually he just rides around town in his cruiser real slow, most likely because he can cover the whole town including the rural areas in about three hours. He stops to talk to people, adults mostly, but sometimes kids, too. In the evenings he double-checks the doors of the grocery, the hardware, the café, and the Dairy Queen. He counts the paddleboats and canoes near the dock in front of the rental place to make sure none are missing. Then he walks through the cemetery and ejects teenagers making out in their cars.
When he’s not patrolling he’s either at home or having a cup of coffee at the Cherry Hill Café. Mostly he’s home, ever since his son, Scott, was reported missing in Vietnam. His wife took the news real hard. Mrs. Conner doesn’t much come out of the house anymore. Daddy doesn’t call on her because she’s Catholic. He read about it in the Oceana Chronicle but everybody knows everybody else’s business in Cherry Hill long before it’s published in the paper. Daddy says she’s probably rubbed her fingertips raw on that rosary, wasting her prayers on Mary instead of going straight to God. I feel sorry for the Conners. Just like Daddy, the sheriff lost a son and then lost what used to be a loving wife.
Sheriff Conner is in his yard trimming the edge of the lawn the first time I ride by on my bike. I’m too nervous to stop. What if I’m wrong? But I’m not. I know in my heart what I have to do. I ride by a second time. This time I wave and he waves back. Well, this is just stupid. I can’t keep riding my bike around the block past his house. Next time. Next time I’ll stop. I’ll go right on up and tell him everything.
I take a wider tour around Cherry Hill to collect my thoughts. I have to wait for the train to pass before I can cross Fourth Street. When the last car chugs past me, I spy the sheriff in the distance, sitting on the top step of his stoop. It’s now or never. I walk my bike over the bumpy tracks before jumping back on. The front wheel turns up his driveway as though someone else is steering.
“Hello, Grace,” he says, wiping the sweat off his tan forehead with a red bandanna.
“Hi,” I say.
He swallows the last of his water and sets the empty glass by his feet. “Something I can do for you?”
I start to panic and think about making up an excuse for being here, maybe offer to help with some yard work, but nothing comes out of my mouth except “Um . . .”
“What is it, Grace?” He leans forward, all concerned-like. He should be. I’m about to dump the biggest news he’s ever had dropped in his official lap, next to a drowning or a car wreck the past several years. I set my bike down in the grass since it doesn’t have a kickstand.
“I need to t-t-ell you something.”
He pats the cement next to him and scooches over to make room and I sit down.
“It’s a shame what happened to Rosalie,” I blurt out.
He puts his big hand on my shoulder. “You know I can’t talk about that. Is that why you came here?”
“No, sir. I mean yes, sir. I came to tell you that Lyle didn’t hurt Rosalie.”
Sheriff Conner’s rugged face softens. “Now, Grace, I realize Lyle is a friend of yours.” He pauses, then starts up again. “You can’t help him and you shouldn’t let his business trouble you. You’re much too young to worry about things like this. I promise you he will get a fair trial.”
“But, Sheriff, I know Lyle didn’t do it!”
He lets out a deep sigh. “How could you possibly know such a thing, Grace?”
“I just do.”
He grabs the empty water glass and stands up. I think he’s had it with me. He reaches for the handle on their front door.
“I know who hurt Rosalie,” I say.
He sits back down. “Did Rosalie tell you something?”
“No, sir. She won’t talk to anyone. And I know why. Because our church janitor, Harold Weaver, told her she’d go to hell if she did. He told her that whoever she told would go to hell, too.”
I swallow hard and wait for the sheriff to dismiss me.
“Harold Weaver?” he asks out loud, but not to me.
Sheriff Conner wipes a chunk of mud off the toe of his shoe with the red bandanna, then wads it up and shoves it inside the empty glass, like he’s stalling before he tells me that liars go to hell, too. “Grace,” he finally says. “Do you realize how serious it is to make an accusation like that?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Then why on God’s earth would you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true.” I know better than to tell him how I know, so I say, “There’s a blue quilt with stars on it down by the railroad tracks just past the feed mill, where it happened.”
When his glass hits the sidewalk and shatters I jump, but I don’t stop.
“You locate his wife and I think you’ll find she recognizes that quilt.”
He grabs both my shoulders, narrowing his graying eyebrows. “How do you know about that quilt? And what makes you think it belongs to Harold Weaver?”
“You w
on’t believe me if I tell you.”
He lets go of me and starts picking up the biggest pieces of glass. “You know this is a small town, Grace,” he says. “There aren’t many secrets in Cherry Hill.” He opens his bandanna and lays the biggest chunks of glass on it. “Are you telling me this is one of your premonitions?”
“No, sir. A premonition is knowing something before it happens. This is just knowing.”
“Hello, young lady.”
Sheriff Conner and I both look up, startled by Mrs. Conner’s voice.
“Why don’t you come inside and have a glass of lemonade and some cookies?” she says.
Sheriff Conner’s eyebrows go from furrowed to a question mark. He seems puzzled at his wife’s invitation but nods at me like it’s okay, so I stand up. Before I turn around he puts his finger to his lips to let me know I shouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Conner about our conversation. I wouldn’t anyway, but I dip my chin so he knows I got the message.
“I’ll be in after I clean up this mess,” he says.
I’ve never been inside the Conners’ house before. It’s a ranch style, newer than most houses in Cherry Hill, and real modern. Gold shag carpeting, wall to wall, and a bumpy ceiling with little sparkles in it. Mrs. Conner leads me to the living room. She motions toward the velveteen sofa. “Have a seat, Grace. I’ll be right back.”
She returns with an authentic Coca-Cola glass full of ice-cold lemonade and a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. When she sees me looking toward the photographs on the fireplace mantel she sets the plate on the coffee table.
“That’s Brian,” she says, pointing to the picture on the right. “And next to him is our other son, Bobby.”
Both brothers have shaved heads and look like they could be twins.
“They’re at the police academy. Bobby will graduate this year.”
“I’ll bet you’re real proud of your boys, ma’am,” I say.
Mrs. Conner takes down a two-sided frame with a picture of a long-haired hippie on the left side and a soldier in full uniform on the right. “And this here is Scotty. He’s missing in Vietnam.” She fondles the edges of the frame. Dark circles ring her blue eyes like half-moons. “Ah, but you probably know that from the newspapers.”
“Yes, I heard that. I’m real sorry, Mrs. Conner.”
She hands me the double frame. I know what she’s going to say next.
“I realize it’s probably just rumored nonsense, but they say you can tell things and I heard you just now talking to my—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll do it. But I can’t promise anything. And you can’t tell my daddy because he doesn’t like it.”
“Of course not, Grace.”
I hold the pictures against my chest and close my eyes. I feel light and fluffy, as though my feet are floating and my head is full of cotton. A terrible case of the giggles comes over me. The part of me standing in the Conners’ living room holding the photos worries that Mrs. Conner will think I am being disrespectful. But the part of me sitting in a smoky room in Vietnam doesn’t care.
“Just one more toke for the road,” I say, but it’s not me saying it. I double over, laughing. It tickles. Everything tickles.
“Barbara!”
Sheriff Conner marches across the room. I almost drop the photo frame, but Mrs. Conner catches it. He snatches it away from her and places it back on the mantel. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Sam. I know it was stupid. I was desperate. Thought it couldn’t hurt to ask her.”
“Grace can’t help us, Barbara. She’s just a young girl with a wild imagination.”
I open my eyes. I’ve recovered from the giggles, but I really want one of those cookies. I slide closer to the coffee table. “Excuse me,” I say, reaching for a cookie.
Sheriff Conner clears his throat. “Grace, you better go on home now.”
His voice is like Daddy’s when he means business. At this point I figure I don’t have anything to lose, but they certainly do, so I spill a few beans.
“I know about Scotty,” I say.
That shuts ’em up right away. They step closer together and reach to touch each other’s hands.
“He’s alive. He was captured a couple years ago but recently escaped and found his way to a town. He plans to get ahold of his platoon after he has a little fun first. He’s got real bad memories and smoking the grass helps.”
They’re both staring at me. I can’t tell if it’s because they believe me or because they don’t know how to tell me they think I’m crazy.
“Can I have another one of those cookies, please?” I ask as politely as I can. Suddenly I’m starving.
The Conners look at each other, then back at me. Mrs. Conner hands me the plate and watches as I eat the last two cookies.
“Could I have one more, please?”
Mrs. Conner practically runs to the kitchen to fetch more cookies. The sheriff puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. In fact, I feel really good.” I can’t stop grinning. “Really, really good.”
Sheriff Conner shifts his balance from one foot to the other, fondling his leather holster. He looks down at the floor, then back at me. “Grace, did you really see Scotty?”
“Yes, sir, I sure did. He’s in a smoky place, a bar or something, and he’s okay. I think you’ll be hearing from him real soon. Oh, and I didn’t want to tell Mrs. Conner this part because she might be worried, but he got shot in the foot. Not by them, by himself. Shot himself accidentally when he was, you know, high. Before he was captured.”
Sheriff Conner breaks into a big grin. “Wounded, huh?”
“Yup, guess they’ll have to send him home.”
“Guess so.”
Another pause.
“Good Lord, Grace, you wouldn’t be funnin’ with me, would you? I mean, it would kill Mrs. Conner to get her hopes up like that.”
“I don’t lie, Sheriff. I didn’t lie about what happened to Rosalie, either.”
He looks at me with the sad face of a dog that wants what you’re eating. Mrs. Conner returns with the plate piled high. I nestle a cookie between my teeth and shove one in each of my two pockets.
“Thank you, Mrs. Conner,” I say through my teeth. “These are the best cookies I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you, Grace,” she says, and already I can see the lump coming up her throat.
28
Daddy’s busy working on notes in his church office for this afternoon’s baptism ceremony at Camp Blessing. I hate interrupting him. The church office is off-limits, but I need to tell him about the quilt and what happened. I’m afraid he won’t believe me. Harold Weaver has been the custodian ever since Daddy brought him to the Lord in a jail cell. But if Daddy finds out what I told Sheriff Conner before I tell him myself I’m likely to be in more trouble than I’ve ever been in before.
“Daddy?” I walk up to his desk and finger the back of the metal chair in front of it. “Can I talk to you?”
He doesn’t even look up when he answers. “Grace. I’ve already told you that you’re not ready for baptism. I’ll let you know when I think you are.”
“But, Daddy, that’s not what—”
“No buts. Now go help Joy with household chores. I need to get ready for today’s service.”
He turns his back to me and grabs a book from the shelf behind him. He opens it on his desk to a place marked with a torn church bulletin and runs his finger over yellow highlighted words. I stand there for an extra minute before finally giving up. Maybe I’ll tell him after the baptism service. He’s sure to be in a good mood then.
* * *
Something about the day when all these people gather at the water makes me feel warm inside. Like I’m part of a bigger family, what Daddy calls the Family of God. I picture folks all over the country standing at their own bodies of water, holding hands and singing “Shall We Gather at the River” just like we do at Cherry La
ke. It’s the best day of the year. Even if it’s Chastity getting baptized instead of me today.
When we arrive at Camp Blessing the beach is already full of people waiting around for the service to start. Daddy let me bring Lola, maybe as a consolation prize for not getting my turn today. She begged to come when I told her Edna Warber was getting baptized. I made her promise to be on her best behavior. We run down to the beach and stand close to the front so she has a good view of the action. The people getting baptized are lined up to the right of the dock, near the water’s edge. Daddy’s got half a dozen volunteers to dunk today, including Edna.
I was surprised Edna had never had her baptism. I suspect it has something to do with a fear of sinking. I suspect Daddy might also be having the same reservations, but the screen door on the camp lodge slams closed and here he comes down the hill. He likes to walk down separately after everybody else. This is a day he looks forward to more than any other. I can see it in the way he looks over his flock as he approaches, his hands held out as if he’s holding an invisible staff. In my imagination I half expect them to start bleating, but they all just say, “Praise Jesus!”
With his head bowed and his Bible pressed to his chest he makes his way to the sandy beach. When he gets within earshot we hear him praying to himself as he walks. He joins Mr. Franks and Burt Lohman, who stand beside him with their backs to the lake. Daddy sets his Bible on a post and slowly raises his head to meet the eyes of his congregation. He looks from face to face, nodding just enough to acknowledge each person. One of the important parts of the baptism is that those of us not being baptized have a role as witnesses. It’s a ritual that pleases both Daddy and his congregants, every individual knowing they’ve been seen. And Daddy knowing that they hunger for his nod.
He takes the hand of each of the men standing on either side of him. The men extend their arms to the side and grab the hands of the first two people to their right and left. Everyone else does the same until we’re all holding two people’s hands. I’m holding Esther Swanson’s hand on one side and Lola’s on the other. Daddy starts singing “Shall We Gather at the River” in a voice that’s better suited for “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” It used to be Mama’s job to start the singing and it was a lot better. I want to stay angry about not getting my baptism today, but as the song carries through the crowd I’m filled with gratitude. Listening to the voices fill the beach with the familiar song feels a little like waking up in your bed after you’ve been away for a time and suddenly realizing you’re home again.
This I Know Page 23