The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel

by Val Brelinski

  Grace shoved herself farther back from the table and stood halfway up from her chair. She stayed crouched this way, neither standing nor sitting, just breathing rapidly in and out, like an animal that has been hit by a car.

  “Think about it, Grace—even now you need me to take care of you. I’m the one who pays your bills and feeds and clothes you. You live here because I bought this house for you. You don’t have a job, you don’t have any money—you’re totally dependent on me and my goodwill.”

  Their father stood up and started toward Grace, but she stepped deliberately back from him. “Your goodwill,” she said, and smiled bitterly. “And then what? After I’ve given my baby away? We’ll all just pretend to the whole world that nothing’s changed, and then I’m supposed to go off to college as if none of this has even happened?” Grace’s mouth formed a new horrible shape. “How could you even say this to me?” she said. “You need to repent right now, Dad. Right now, before it’s too late.”

  “Grace,” said their father. He tried to take her elbow, but she wrenched it roughly out of his grasp. “You’re just upset,” he said. “Just take some time to think about things. I think you’ll come to feel differently about it if you give it some time.”

  “This is my baby.” Grace took a step farther back. “God gave this baby to me because I am the person who is supposed to be its mother. I was chosen by God. It is His will. You of all people should know that.” Grace put her hand back behind her against the wall. “God has begun a holy work in me that cannot be destroyed. “My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior. For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name.”

  Their father held both of his arms out toward her.

  “Don’t touch me,” Grace said. “I don’t want you ever to touch me again.”

  Their father let out a long sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his shoes. “I just don’t think that you’ve thought this through. I don’t think you’ve considered what keeping this baby would really entail. About what other people would say.”

  “What would other people say, Dad?”

  Their father looked suddenly very tired. He seemed to shrink into himself, to become slightly stooped and small. “I think you know.”

  Jory sat transfixed in her chair.

  “I’m not sure I do,” said Grace.

  Their father’s voice was very low. “About what color the baby would be.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Grace. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying.”

  “Grace,” said their father. “The Guanajuato police found the man and he’s confessed. They’re not going to keep him in jail, though, because he has—well, he has some kind of . . . mental impairment.”

  Grace swayed slightly on her feet. “You’re lying,” she said.

  “It’s all right, Grace—everything’s all right now.” Their father tried to take Grace in his arms. With a sharp cry, Grace gave him a shove and he went stumbling backward into the edge of the stove. Jory could hear the noise her father’s back made as it hit the heavy iron corner of the old Wedgewood. He staggered to one side and grimaced horribly. “Oh,” he said in a bewildered voice, and his hand went to his back even as he tried to move once again toward Grace.

  But Grace was gone. The kitchen’s back door was open, and she was gone.

  Part Three

  Hilda’s House

  Chapter Fifteen

  Her father stood on Mrs. Kleinfelter’s front porch at midnight and gave sleepy and somewhat flustered Mrs. Kleinfelter the barest of information. Grace had gotten a little upset, he said, but she had probably just wandered down the road somewhere. In fact, she was most likely at that little grocery store at the top of the hill—you know, the one with the broken gas pump. Yes, he said, running his hand through his hair and looking back behind him toward the darkened road, they would certainly all have a laugh about this tomorrow, wouldn’t they, and could Jory stay with her just until then? Mrs. Kleinfelter said nothing, just opened the door wider and took Jory in and turned on the radiator in the back bedroom. She gave Jory an extra quilt and then went back into her own bedroom and shut the door.

  Jory was now lying in the bed in the spare bedroom. Her father was out somewhere searching for Grace. Jory had begged and pleaded to go out with him, but he had been beyond listening to her. He was going to drive the back roads until he found her, he had said. Why don’t we call the police? Jory had asked. Please, can’t we just call the police? Her father said to think of what would happen—did she want her sister in the local newspaper, did she want the police to ask her sister questions and to listen closely to her answers? Think, he’d said. We’re not calling the police.

  Jory lay in the bed and listened to the night sounds. A car grew close and then went quickly past. A clock ticked softly somewhere in the house. Jory turned over on her side. Earlier that night, Jory had gone outside with a flashlight and searched through the grape arbor and the tool shed. She had peered down in the basement of Henry’s house and behind the boxes of old clothes and the jars of jewel-like peaches and plums. She had even sneaked into Mrs. Kleinfelter’s garage. There was nowhere else to hide. Henry’s house was clear out in the middle of the country and the nearest farmhouse was a couple of miles away. Jory’s father had already been there. No one had seen Grace.

  She was supposed to go to school tomorrow. She was supposed to hand in her paper on the inexorability of fate and the expectedness of the unexpected, but which she had been too busy recovering from an LSD trip to complete. Maybe Mrs. Kleinfelter wouldn’t remember that Jory was supposed to go to school, or maybe she would call the school and tell them that Jory couldn’t come, that there had been a family emergency and that Jory was vitally needed at home. Jory wondered if her father had gone home yet and told her mother that Grace was missing. She tried to imagine her mother lying awake in the dark of her parents’ bedroom, worrying. Jory flexed her toes against the bottom of the sheet. There had been no angel—only a Mexican man who was insane or maybe mentally retarded. This revelation should not have been all that surprising, and yet somehow it still was.

  Jory couldn’t bear to eat any breakfast, even though Mrs. Kleinfelter poured her a big bowl of Malt-O-Meal with the added enticement of maple syrup to put on it. Jory climbed into Hilda’s old truck wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before, her stomach empty and her hair uncombed. As they drove, Jory found herself carefully scanning each field and roadway as if she might see Grace suddenly walking along. She couldn’t make herself stop this obsessive looking, so she just gave in and examined every house and farm and empty lot they passed.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Kleinfelter stared straight ahead.

  “Yes,” said Jory. “I guess.” She watched as a long-legged dog rushed out of a driveway and loped alongside the car, barking furiously. It gave up after half a block and Jory turned around and watched it standing in the middle of the street still barking. “What if she got hit by a car?” Jory turned back around.

  Mrs. Kleinfelter flipped on the car’s heater and a gust of faintly warm air blew toward Jory’s feet. “Your father’s a very determined man,” Mrs. Kleinfelter said, as if this explained something.

  Jory took up her vigil behind the window again. She noticed that today most of the houses had smoke coming from their chimneys. “He won’t even call the police,” she said.

  Mrs. Kleinfelter made a small sound in the back of her throat.

  “She won’t ever come back,” said Jory. “Even if he does find her.”

  Mrs. Kleinfelter made a left-hand turn and pulled into the school’s parking lot. “I’ll be back at three thirty,” she said. “Just hang on until then.”

  Jory stared at the sandwich that Mrs. Kleinfelter had packed for her. She put it back in the little brown bag and folded the top closed. Her stomac
h still felt strange. More than strange. She gazed around her. It was only noon, but the sky right behind the gym had now turned a dark yellowish gray and the treetops were all starting to bend back and forth. Thunder rumbled from somewhere nearby and Jory felt a fat drop of rain hit her scalp.

  “Do you know anyone who has a car?”

  Rhea crammed the last of her sandwich into her mouth. “Why—you wanna ditch?”

  “I need to go somewhere.” Jory patted the hood of the white Ford Falcon they were sitting on. “Whose car is this?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhea said. “Somebody who’d give us a ride if we both gave him hickeys, probably.” Rhea stood up and surveyed the school’s parking lot. “Why don’t you ask your boyfriend over there?”

  Jory saw Laird standing in a group with a wildly laughing Jude and Jude’s less happy, but equally stunning brother, Nick. “It must be wonderful to be her.”

  “Who—Jude? Get real,” said Rhea. “She’s just as messed up as everybody else.” Rhea kicked her foot against Jory’s. “C’mon, I dare you to go over there and ask him.”

  “No way,” said Jory.

  “Seriously,” said Rhea, taking Jory by the arm. “Don’t be such a pussy.” Rhea tightened her grip on Jory’s arm and began dragging her across the parking lot.

  “Oh, poop. Oh, poop,” Jory kept saying under her breath as they approached the group.

  “Hey,” Rhea said loudly when they came to a stop next to Jude and her brother. “Jory here wants to ask her Homecoming date a favor.” Rhea gave Jory a push.

  Jory could feel her entire face and neck burning and turning red. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said in a small voice. “I was just going to see if someone would give me a ride somewhere.”

  “What kind of ride do you need?” Nick Mullinix turned and winked at Laird, who was looking down at the pavement of the parking lot and scuffing his boot against an invisible divot in the pavement. “Seriously, where you wanna go?” Nick now made a show of digging his car keys out of his pocket and twirling them around on his finger. “You coming too?” He gave Rhea a look.

  “Um, okay,” said Rhea.

  “Do you know where the Bali Hai Trailer Court is?” Jory tried to steady her voice.

  “The Bali Hai?” Jude asked.

  Laird looked up from the pavement and squinted at Jory. “My brother’s got his truck, but I’d have to go find him.”

  “Forget it, man,” said Jude’s brother. “I got it covered.” He turned to Jory and Rhea. “I doubt we’re gonna make it back in time for fifth, you know. If that’s, like, a problem.”

  Jory glanced at Laird and he was already looking at her. “I’ll take notes for you in science,” he said. “If you don’t get back, I mean.”

  “Thanks,” said Jory, trying not to embarrass him further.

  Jude squinted her eyes at Jory. Suddenly she reached into the front pocket of her Levis and pulled out a quarter. “Here,” she said, handing the coin to Jory. “Bring me back a chocolate Push Up,” she said in a strangely quiet voice. “And tell him that I said hi.”

  Jory stared at Jude.

  Nick nodded his head at Jory and Rhea. “Let’s book, my beauties,” he said, and began heading toward his car. Rhea pulled Jory along behind her. Jory glanced back and saw Jude putting her hand into Laird’s shirt pocket and pretending to pull something out. Laird was grabbing at Jude’s hand and she was laughing and hiding her hands behind her back.

  Jory sat motionless in the backseat of Nick’s car, replaying Jude’s comment over and over in her head.

  “You’re a senior, right?” Rhea was saying to Nick. “So who was that I saw you with at Dave Roddy’s party?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Some chick from Arco Christian.”

  Jory leaned forward. “That’s my old school.”

  “Seriously? I thought it was a reform school.” Nick glanced back at Jory. “Jude said that place is seriously fucked up, man. It’s supposed to be like a prison. A prison for nuns.”

  She looked out the side window and rubbed some condensation off with her coat sleeve. The sky was even more gray, purple almost. The trees were swaying, first in one direction and then the other, their branches leaning low. Several drops of rain hit the window, but were quickly whisked away by the wind. Jory tried once again to imagine where Grace might be. But Grace didn’t really know anyone besides their family. There wasn’t anywhere for her to go.

  “Turn left here,” said Rhea, “and then it’s two more streets, I think.” The car bumped over a pothole and Rhea hit her head on the car roof. “Ow! Jesus’s racehorses!” she said. She rubbed the top of her head. “That hurt.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” said Nick. He bent Rhea’s head down and kissed the top of it.

  Rhea looked pleased, even as she massaged her head.

  “So what’s at the trailer court?” Nick glanced back at Jory with his eyebrows raised.

  “Just somebody I know,” she said.

  “Whatever you say,” said Nick. “Anyway, that looks like it up there, right?” He turned into a long rutted driveway. “Bring some back for me, okay?” He grinned at Jory. “Ass, grass, or cash.”

  Jory stared at Nick. “What?”

  Nick laughed and shook his head. “You Arco girls. You’re hilarious.” He stopped the car and Jory leaned forward past Rhea and opened the car door and squeezed out. The rain was starting to come down for real now. She put her hand over her eyes and tried to figure out where to go. There were metal trailers and painted blue ones and some that had little porchlike things hanging over the front doors. One trailer had an empty wading pool next to it that was now slowly filling with water. What number had Grip said? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? Jory walked down one row of trailers after another, the blowing rain plastering her hair down against the sides of her head. At the end of the last row was a trailer with colored Christmas lights strung around it. Space 23. G. Welker, it said on the mailbox. Jory stepped up the two wooden stairs and knocked on the trailer’s screen door. The rain came down harder. She opened the screen door and knocked on the wooden one inside it. Through the glass window in the door she could see a shirtless Grip as he ambled toward the door yawning and scratching his head. He opened the door and saw Jory. “Whoa,” he said, taking a half step backward. “This is a surprise.” He opened the door wider and she went in.

  Jory turned the drink coaster around and around in her hand. She was sitting at a yellow Formica table that folded out from one of the trailer’s walls. Grip was sitting next to her in a pair of brown work pants and no shirt. She tried desperately not to look at his bare chest. Or at the snake tattoo that curled around his upper arm.

  “Would she go to that pastor of yours? What’s his name?”

  “Pastor Ron?” Jory shook her head. “No. Besides, if she did, he’d just call my dad.”

  Grip yawned once more. He seemed surprisingly unperturbed about Grace’s disappearance. “I could drive around and ask some people,” he said. “But that’s probably what your dad has already done.”

  Jory put the coaster down on the table. “But he might have missed some places.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” said Grip. “All right.” He stood up. “How’d you get out here?”

  “A boy from school,” said Jory.

  Grip gave her a look. “A boy, hm?”

  “It’s not like that,” said Jory. “Can I come with you? Please?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” Grip picked a flannel shirt off the back of a metal-legged chair. He put his arms through the sleeves, buttoned the shirt, and opened a tiny closet next to the trailer’s kitchen.

  As Jory stood up from the table, she tried to peer as unobtrusively as possible at the rest of the trailer’s contents. This was where Grip lived. Where he slept and ate. On a calendar hanging next to the door a girl with white teeth smiled in
vitingly and held up a bottle of 7Up. Several dirty plates and glasses were piled in the kitchen’s small metal sink. Across from where she was standing was an uncomfortable-looking brown couch and a pole lamp with three cone-shaped lights that jutted out at various heights and angles. The door to his bedroom—what must surely be his bedroom—was closed.

  Grip zipped up an old wool jacket. He grabbed his keys off a hook next to the door. “Well, come on,” he said. “We’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”

  “And the something something is thick and deep,” said Jory.

  “Some poet you are.” Grip bumped Jory’s elbow with his own.

  Jory smiled, but her lips felt thin and stretched, her face muscles atrophied. Seeing the inside of Grip’s trailer had jostled something loose inside her, revealing just how nebulous her notions about him actually were. What had she thought—that the moment he left her house, he disappeared? He had a whole other life, or lives maybe, in places and with objects and people that she hadn’t even considered. She dug her hand in the pocket of her corduroys and felt Jude’s quarter still hidden there, smooth and small and warm.

  Grip knocked politely on the driver’s side window of the Malibu where it was steamed up. With a startled motion Nick pulled his head away from Rhea’s. He rolled down the window and rain swept in on his jacket, leaving small darkened spots.

  “Sorry,” said Grip, “to interrupt. Just wanted to tell you that Jory’s coming with me, so you don’t need to take her back to school.”

  “Oh, yeah—sure. Okay.” Nick stared at Jory as if he had never seen her before.

  “Hey, hi, Jory,” said Rhea. Her hair was messy and she was rearranging the neckline of her shirt. She had an odd expression on her face, as if she were both angry and sad.

  “Well, see you later,” Nick said, and rolled the window back up.

  Grip and Jory loped toward the ice cream truck in the rain. “Yeah,” said Jory. “Those are my friends from school.”