The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel

by Val Brelinski

  Jory bent her head down into the tightly knotted buds of her corsage and took a deep breath. The cluster of roses smelled as fresh and sweet as if they had just been picked or were still happily growing in someone’s garden. Jory felt her throat fill with tears. She swallowed and swallowed again. She hated Grace. She hated everyone in this car. The car’s heater, however, hummed steadfastly and her father kept his hands safely at the ten and two positions on the steering wheel. And the people in the front seat, Grace and her father, continued staring straight ahead, oblivious to Jory’s hatred, as the Buick’s headlights illuminated the familiar stretch of road leading back to the house on Ninth Avenue. Back to their old house. Back to their home.

  Part Four

  The House on Ninth Avenue (Again)

  Chapter Nineteen

  Even before she woke up, Jory knew exactly where she was. Somewhere in her sleep, she had heard the familiar sound of the basement furnace coming on, roaring dustily to life in its warm, reassuring way, and her father clearing his throat in the bathroom as he did each morning after he brushed his teeth. She could smell the burned toast and her mother’s baked oatmeal that Frances insisted on having every day of the week. Jory opened her eyes and there was the wallpaper with the blue swans floating serenely down the unknown river and her sock monkey that seemed dirtier and slightly sadder than she remembered. Everything and nothing was the same.

  Jory scrambled out of her bed and stood in her bare feet on the hardwood floor. Her Homecoming dress was in a heap next to the closet, the corsage Laird had given her still pinned firmly to its shoulder portion. One cream-colored suede pump lay on its side under her desk. Jory moved over to her dresser and pulled open a drawer and surveyed its contents. There were her cutoffs from last summer and her sailor top and two stretched-out T-shirts. She shut the drawer and pulled open another one. Her old blue sweater lay on top. She pulled the sweater over her head and then on the floor of the closet she found a pair of gray pants that almost still fit.

  Her father was sitting at the dining room table in his teaching clothes, even though it was Saturday. He was writing something on a yellow legal pad that he had in front of him. Jory’s mother was scraping the burned portions off a slice of toast and not looking at Grace, who was sitting at the table with her hands folded. The red dot that had been on the center of Grace’s forehead had faded somewhat, but Jory could still see the swirled brown drawings on the backs of Grace’s hands.

  “Good morning, Jory,” her father said. “Have a seat.”

  “Where’s Frances?” asked Jory.

  “She’s next door at the Hewetts’,” said her father. “We didn’t think she needed to be here for this.”

  “This?” Jory stood by her chair for a second and then finally sat down.

  Her father cleared his throat. Her mother put her butter knife on her plate, but still didn’t look up. Grace said nothing. Jory felt as if she had entered the stage with the action already in progress.

  “There’s no point in beating around the bush here; this past month has been something of a revelation to me,” her father said. He picked up his pencil and traced a straight line back and forth on the pad of paper. “Over the course of the past three weeks I was forced to consider the terrible possibility that my oldest daughter might be injured or dead.” He cleared his throat again. “And then I discovered that all my worrying was for naught since she was alive and happily living with a strange man in a house full of hippies and unemployed drug users.” Grace made a noise, but her father held up his hand. “I also discovered that my middle daughter was attending dances and parties that I had never sanctioned, with boys whom I had never met.” Their father continued to trace the same line with his pencil, making an ever-deepening groove in the yellow sheet of paper. “And what I realized, among other things, was that I was partly to blame for these events because I had naively or foolishly put my two daughters in a situation where it was possible for things like this to occur.” Their father put his pencil down. “A mistake I’m not going to make again.”

  “Dad,” said Jory.

  “So I stayed up all of last night thinking, and I decided that it would be best if Jory skips these last few months of school.” Her father picked up his pencil and moved it an inch or two to the left on the table. “She can do correspondence work here at home just like Grace did.”

  “Me?” said Jory. “Wait. You want me to quit school?”

  “It wouldn’t be permanently,” said her father. “You can always go back next year, or maybe even later on in the spring sometime.”

  “No,” said Jory, shaking her head. “Nope.”

  Their mother glanced up, her head vibrating slightly the way it did when she was furious but didn’t want to show it. “Let’s be frank, Jory. You haven’t exactly had a stellar year. Between the shoplifting and the cheating and the dancing and who knows what else.” She closed her eyes briefly.

  “This is nuts!” Jory turned from her mother to her father, trying to appeal to whoever might be most amenable. “Everyone goes to school! And I didn’t shoplift anything—how many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t steal anything!”

  “That’s really beside the point, though—isn’t it?—since all the rest of it is true.” Their mother’s head and hair continued to quaver. “I can hardly believe that you are the same girl who used to live in this house.”

  “Okay, okay,” said their father. “All right, now. What we’re trying to do here is to make a plan for the future—one that will ensure you girls’ safety and well-being. And as your parents, we both have a responsibility to do just that. Do you understand?” He nodded, as if for all of them. “Of course you do,” he said. “So we’re all agreed, Jory will stay home just for the remainder of this school year, and then next year she can go back to Arco Christian.”

  “I’m not going back to ACA,” said Jory. “You can’t make me.”

  “Don’t you dare tell us what we can and cannot do, Jory.” Her mother put her napkin on the table. “This isn’t a debate. And it isn’t open to discussion.” Her mother’s face seemed more pointed and narrow than it had been just a month earlier. And she looked vastly more tired, as if the skin around her cheeks and eye sockets had had something vital and life-affirming sucked out from underneath. Jory felt suddenly shamed for her part in her mother’s exhaustion. Her depletion.

  “Also,” their father said, as if he hadn’t even heard this last interchange, “and perhaps somewhat more importantly, I talked to some people on the phone and I found a place that is willing to take Grace in for the next few months and provide her with the type of care that she obviously needs.” Their father flipped over a new page on the pad of paper. “This is going to set us back a bit money-wise, but I think I can sell the house on Deer Flat back to Mrs. Kleinfelter, and if we just tighten our belts a little with the weekly groceries we’ll be fine.” Their father crossed something off the piece of paper with his pencil, an expression of grim accomplishment on his face.

  Jory noticed that Grace was now sitting up very straight in her chair. She stared at their father, apparently incapable of speech.

  “The care that she needs?” said Jory, her voice rising. “You mean you’re sending her to Blackfoot?”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Grace finally spoke, her voice utterly composed. “I am not crazy,” she said. “In fact, I’ve never seen things more clearly. It’s you and your particular way of thinking that are insane.”

  “What?” said their mother, her words spilling out like a sudden dam burst. “Just look at you, Grace. You’re bald! And you have some sort of absurd drawing or painting or something all over you. Not to mention that you’ve been living in sin with a disgusting long-haired man who’s probably twice your age.” Their mother was now twisting her napkin around and around in her fingers. “I still don’t believe any of this.” She shook her head. “I really d
on’t.”

  “All right, now,” said their father. “Let’s try to stay focused on the positive.”

  “But you’re sending her to the insane asylum!” Jory reached out and latched on to her father’s shirtsleeve. She suddenly remembered that it was just last night that she had wanted her sister dead. She dropped her father’s sleeve.

  Their mother frowned. “Good grief, Jory.”

  “It’s an unwed mothers’ home,” her father said. He flipped over a new page on the pad of paper. “The St. Agnes Home for Girls. It’s in Wichita, Kansas, and even though it is a Catholic institution, the woman I spoke to assured me that the Sunday services are quite Christ centered.”

  “Kansas?” Jory squeaked. “But that’s, like, a million miles from here.”

  “It’s only for a while,” their father said. “And then Grace can come home and start her life as a college student. As a young adult woman with her whole life in front of her.” He tried unsuccessfully to smile.

  “I’m not going,” said Grace. She had her hands folded calmly in her lap and was speaking in a voice that she seemed to have borrowed from someone royal or presidential. “Not to an unwed mothers’ home or to the loony bin or to anywhere else you try to send me. I’m nearly eighteen and I can decide for myself where I’m going to live. My life is my own to do with as I please.”

  A sort of hush fell over the table. Jory could see her father mentally regrouping, his forehead tightening. He pursed his lips and then visibly tried to relax his face. “You’re still seventeen, Grace. And a minor.”

  “I turn eighteen in exactly one month.”

  “Well, during that month you are still my charge and I will be deciding where you are going to stay.”

  “I have rights,” said Grace. “About what happens to me.” She lifted her chin and smiled grimly at her father. “And about what happens to my baby.”

  “Where are you getting these ideas?” Their mother shot a look at Grace. “Or do I even need to ask?”

  “Grace,” said their father. “The law dictates that you are my child and my responsibility until you are old enough to take care of yourself. And even if you were eighteen, what would you do for money? How would you support yourself—much less a baby?” Their father gazed at his oldest daughter with infinite sadness.

  Grace’s equanimity seemed to falter for only the briefest second. “I’ve thought of that.”

  “And?” their father asked.

  Grace paused. “I have my resources.”

  Their mother made a brief expulsive sound through her nose.

  “You just can’t count on someone like that, Grace.” Their father rubbed his hand across his forehead. He wore a sad and almost defeated look. “You don’t understand how the world works yet.” He lowered his voice. “How some men can be.”

  Grace looked steadily at her father. “Oh, really?” she said.

  “Don’t be disgusting,” their mother said.

  “And even if you made me go, what makes you think I wouldn’t just run away again?”

  Jory was amazed at Grace’s continued tone of defiance.

  “Well, Grace,” said their father with a certain resignation in his voice, “you’ll be watched and essentially guarded every moment when you’re there.” He shifted in his chair. “That’s partly what I’m paying for.”

  “Why not just send me to jail, then?”

  “If I could, I just might,” said their father.

  “Oren,” said their mother.

  Grace leaned back in her chair. “I’m getting married,” she said. The note of triumph in her voice was unmistakable.

  This idea seemed to take a minute to sink in across the table.

  “You most certainly are not,” said their mother. “Not to that . . . that person.”

  “Grip is not just a person,” said Grace.

  “You’re not marrying him,” said Jory, staring at her sister. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Girls,” said their father. “We will not be talking about that person anymore.”

  “Would everyone quit calling him ‘that person’?” Jory could hear how childishly high her own voice had risen.

  “‘That person,’” said their father deliberately, “is not to be discussed or mentioned in this house ever again.”

  “He’s my best friend,” said Jory.

  “And mine,” said Grace.

  “He’s no one’s friend,” said their father. “Least of all, either of yours. And I am saying this one more time—we will not be speaking of him ever again. Is that understood?”

  Jory and Grace said nothing.

  Their father lowered his voice. “And if I ever find out that he has tried to contact either one of you, I will call the police. Immediately.” Their father leaned forward intently and smacked both of his hands flat down on the tabletop. “I do not want to involve the authorities in our personal family business, but I will if I have to. If you force me to. Do you understand? Is that clear?”

  Jory felt a shock run down her spine. Her father never spoke like this. He never threatened anyone with anything. And he never slapped the table.

  Their mother’s face had now taken on a look of dismayed fury that had finally reached its boiling point. “And, Grace, what on earth makes you think that a grown man . . . an adult male . . . would do a completely absurd thing like that with a seventeen-year-old girl?”

  Grace stared at her mother. “You mean, why would he want to marry me? Is that it? Is that what you mean—a seventeen-year-old girl like me? A girl as ugly and unattractive and unfeminine as me?”

  “As I,” said their mother.

  Grace gasped as if she’d been hit.

  “Esther,” said their father. “That’s enough.”

  Their mother suddenly seemed to deflate, to lose the fiery air that had kept her fury afloat. She rubbed her fingers against her temples. “I think I feel a migraine coming on.”

  “Vengeance is mine,” said Grace.

  Jory stared at her sister.

  “Grace,” said their father, a note of shame in his voice. “Don’t.” Their father pushed his chair back and stood up from the table. “All right. I think we’ve talked about this enough for now. Grace, I’ll be taking you to the airport tomorrow morning. The woman I talked to said it’s still fairly warm in Kansas, so you’ll want to think about that when you’re choosing what to pack.”

  Grace shook her head. “Oh, Dad,” she said. “Is that really what you want to say to me right now?”

  “Don’t talk to your father like that.” Their mother gave Grace a look of saddened reproach. “He’s doing all of this for you—sacrificing everything so that your entire life won’t be ruined. So that everyone won’t know what you’ve done.” She shook her head and couldn’t seem to say anything more.

  “What I’ve done?” Grace stared at her mother. “It’s like you think this is all my fault—that I somehow did this to myself just to humiliate you. Just to make your life miserable.”

  “Didn’t you?” Their mother picked up her napkin and folded it carefully in half. She stood up and placed her napkin down on the table next to her plate. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I think I need to lie down.” She moved past the three of them and walked down the hall to her bedroom.

  Jory and Grace and their father now sat at the table not looking at each other. Finally, their father glanced at his watch and sighed. “I’d better be getting to the credit union before they close for the day. You’re going to need a certain amount of money.” He nodded at Grace. “For clothes and food and necessities and things.”

  “Dad,” said Grace, her voice shaking.

  “Yes,” he said. He fumbled around in his jacket and pants pocket and finally pulled out his keys.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “P
ossibly not,” said their father.

  “You can’t send me away like this,” said Grace. “I won’t go.”

  “Grace,” said their father. “You don’t have any choice.”

  “I do,” said Grace. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

  Their father stood up and jingled his car keys in his palm. He wore a look of sheer determination.

  “Someday,” Grace said, “I may forgive you for what you’re doing. For what you already did and for what you’re doing now, but I don’t think that will happen anytime soon.”

  “Well, Grace,” said their father in his calmest voice, “I guess I’ll just have to look forward to that eventuality.”

  Jory stared out the living room window at the first few flakes of snow that were coming down. The sky was gray and sunless, even though it was only midafternoon. Jory’s head felt strange, as if a small group of bees or ants had taken up residence in her skull and was busily rearranging its contents. She made her way through the kitchen and into the garage and sat carefully down on the piano bench. She looked at the sheets of music sitting on the piano’s lid. “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” was open to its second page. Grace had played this song at their last Christmas piano recital and then the three of them, Grace, Jory, and Frances, had played a six-handed rendition of “Silent Night” that had ended the program and had made everyone clap and then sigh with contentment. The three of them had worn matching red velvet dresses that their mother had found for them in the Sears catalog. Jory put her index finger on middle C and pressed the key so softly that no sound was made. She tried to play the first notes of her part in “Silent Night,” but she couldn’t remember how it started. She couldn’t remember any of it. They had worn white lacy tights and had cameos pinned to the collar portion of their velvet dresses. Frances had cried at the end of the recital, though, because she had to finally relinquish the book of Life Savers that she had brought as a Secret Santa present. Their father had scooped Frances up onto his hip and let her touch the spun-haired angel on the very top of the tree. Then they had driven slowly down Arco’s icy streets singing Christmas carols. That had been a year ago. Not quite a year.