The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel

by Val Brelinski

  Grace came down the garage steps and sat down on the piano bench next to Jory. “Scoot over,” she said. Jory was so surprised that she moved to the right without even thinking. “Six-eighths time,” Grace said. “You start first and then I come in.” She played the first few chords of Jory’s part. “Remember?” She played the first four chords again. Grace seemed intent on what she was doing, but also happy. Something else about Grace looked different. Besides the faded outlines of the strange swirly tattoo things on her hands and arms. Jory peered at her sister. Two tiny silver stars hung from Grace’s earlobes. “You got your ears pierced,” Jory said. She stared at Grace in amazement. Grace’s hand went up to one of her earlobes. She turned and looked at Jory, her face now slightly pink. “Annelise did it for me,” Grace said.

  “What? That red-haired girl from Hope House? The one with the teardrop tattoos? Did she do the weird stuff on your hands?”

  “It’s mehndi.” Grace held out her hands and turned them palms up. “It’s on my feet too.”

  “You thought she was a terrible sinner,” said Jory. “On Halloween, you told her she needed to be saved.”

  Grace put her hands back in her lap. “Did I?”

  “Yes,” said Jory, “you most definitely did.”

  “Well,” said Grace. Her smile was slightly lopsided. “I guess I’ve had some time to rethink things since then.”

  “I guess,” said Jory.

  Grace’s smile grew even more wobbly. “You know, it’s become more apparent to me lately that I haven’t always been very understanding of other people’s points of view. As understanding as Jesus might have been.”

  “He was mine,” said Jory. “You didn’t even like him. You thought he was way too old and too sinful. Isn’t that what you said? Too ‘scruffy’ and ‘dirty’?” She stood up from the piano bench. “He smokes, you know, and he drinks beer too. He has a tattoo on his shoulder and he’s going to get another one.” Jory took a deep breath. “He was in jail.” This last bit she said with a certain amount of triumph.

  “Just juvenile detention,” said Grace. “And it was a long time ago.”

  The buzzing in Jory’s head made her feel as if everything—the floor, the piano bench, her sister—were all stretching out long and then narrow like taffy being pulled on one of those machines at the state fair. “He’s friends with a girl from my school. An incredibly beautiful, absolutely gorgeous freshman girl with long black hair who smokes and who’s going to be a model or an actress. He’s probably in love with her.” She stared defiantly down at Grace. “He sells drugs,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure any of these last pieces of information were entirely true.

  “Jory,” said Grace. She reached out and touched Jory’s sweater.

  Jory pulled her arm away. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said. “It’s me that feels sorry for you. You’re the one getting shipped off to Kansas.”

  The front door of the house opened and closed with a bang, and Frances ran through the kitchen, paused for a moment, and then came sprinting out into the garage. Frances stopped still at the sight of Grace and Jory next to the piano, and stood unsmiling in her brown jumper with the gray felt mouse on the pocket. Her hair was in two slightly messy braids and she leaned shyly against the garage doorway.

  Grace turned toward Frances. “Hey, Franny, do you want to play your old recital piece with Jory and me?” She patted the spot on the piano bench next to her.

  Frances shook her head wordlessly. She made a funny scowling face and looked down at the garage floor. Just as suddenly, she looked back up at her eldest sister. “Where’s all your hair, Grace?”

  For a second, Grace said nothing. “Oh,” she said, blushing slightly and running her hand up over her scalp. “My friend shaved it all off for me.” She smiled at Frances. “Do you want to feel?”

  Frances took a step or two nearer to Grace, and then Grace took her small hand and placed it on top of her bent head. “It’s prickly,” said Frances, quickly withdrawing her hand. “Like porcupine whiskers.”

  “Quills,” said Jory.

  “It does feel sort of strange, doesn’t it?” said Grace. “But it’s a sign of my willingness to sacrifice my own selfish desires. To rid myself of my own ego.”

  “Oh, Grace,” said Jory.

  “But why are your hands all brown and dirty?”

  Grace smiled at Frances. “It was part of a ceremony. See?” She held her palms out for Frances to examine. “The women get their hands and feet painted in preparation for an important bodily change, like marriage, or even burial.”

  Jory stared at Grace. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re really getting married? Did he actually ask you?”

  Grace stood up from the piano bench without acknowledging this comment and knelt down next to Frances. She touched the felt mouse on Frances’s pocket. “How’s school?” she asked.

  “I like Miss Boosinger,” said Frances. “She lets me grade the papers sometimes. After the other kids are gone.”

  “That’s good,” said Grace. “You shouldn’t tell the other kids how they did, though.”

  “I don’t,” said Frances. “It’s a secret between me and Miss Boosinger. I only grade the quizzes. And only sometimes.” Frances put her hand on Grace’s knee. “I was going to be a big sister,” she said.

  Grace leaned closer to Frances. She ran her hands down both of Frances’s small braids. “Yes,” she said. “You are.”

  “She was going to sleep in my old crib,” said Frances. “And use my green blanket, but now she’s going to live with some people who can’t have their own baby and get to have this one instead.”

  Grace’s mouth fell. She stood up and stared out the garage window.

  “And we get to have pot roast for dinner,” said Frances. “And baked potatoes and cooked carrots. I hate cooked carrots—they’re like rubber fingers,” she added.

  Jory moved over and sat down in one of the old-school desks. Instead of looking at Grace, she picked up an empty carton of milk that was lying on the desktop. “La leche,” the carton said, its black-and-white printed label still safely adhered. Jory set the carton upright on the desk. It wobbled and tipped back over on its side.

  “I get to be a horn of plenty in the Thanksgiving play.” Frances held out the bottom of her jumper. “I wanted to be an Indian, but Miss Boosinger said my hair’s not dark enough.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Grace in a dazed voice. “You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you. Not even authority figures.”

  Jory gave Grace a scornful look. “Did you read that in the Tao?”

  Grace glanced at Jory. “No,” she said. “I’ve always thought that.”

  “Right,” said Jory. “Like you’ve always had pierced ears.”

  Grace made a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Please don’t be like this, Jory. Not now.” She glanced at Frances, who was taking all of this in without saying anything. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I wouldn’t ever, if I could help it.”

  Jory pulled herself out from behind the desk and stood up. “I was the one who told Dad where to find you,” she said.

  Grace now wore a look of disbelief.

  “I did, and I’m glad, too.”

  “I don’t believe you—you’re just upset right now,” said Grace, her voice shaking again. “But if you did tell him, I forgive you.”

  “Don’t try to sound holy,” said Jory. “Not anymore.”

  Grace didn’t respond to this. She was peering at the school desk where Jory had been sitting. “Oh,” she said.

  Jory turned to see what Grace was looking at. The school desk now had a spot of brownish liquid pooled in the middle of the wooden seat. “What is that?” said Jory. Her hand went automatically to the back of her pants. It came away wet.

  “Oh, Jory,” said Grace again. She gave her
sister a look of knowing concern.

  Jory had a moment’s confusion and then she stood upright and motionless, holding her wet hand out slightly in front of her.

  Jory turned and walked up the garage steps and past her mother, who was now in the kitchen stirring a small flatish pan of something on the stove. She walked through the dining room and down the hallway and into the bathroom, where she closed the door and locked it. She could hear Grace following after her and then trying to turn the handle on the bathroom door. Grace knocked softly. “Go away,” said Jory. Grace said nothing, but Jory could hear her just outside the door breathing quietly. “I mean it,” said Jory. “Leave me alone.” After a minute or two, she heard Grace sigh deeply and then walk back toward the kitchen.

  Jory stood next to the sink and ran hot water over her hands. She glanced up at the mirror and saw herself staring blankly back, her hair slightly messy and her face as pale and uninteresting as usual. She was no different than before, no more mature or grown up or womanly. She felt a dull heaviness beginning to lodge itself in her gut as if she had the beginnings of a mild stomachache. She sat down on the edge of the tub. She didn’t even know what day it was. Wasn’t she supposed to keep track so she would know to expect this again a month from now? And where was the blood? She stood up and unbuttoned her pants and pulled down her underwear. It was just a brownish, gooey stain. It looked more like a small spot of spilled gravy than something powerful and mysterious.

  She made a face and sat back down on the tub’s edge. She didn’t want to do this—this thing was doing whatever it was doing all on its own. It was stronger than she was, or was separate from her and didn’t give a crap what she thought about anything. She felt oddly betrayed. The buzzing in her head hummed on unrelentingly. She pulled a long length of toilet paper off the roll. She folded the paper up into a thick square and lined her underwear with it and then she stood on top of the closed toilet seat lid and pushed open the bathroom window.

  The ground was shockingly hard when she jumped down, and outside it was getting colder. She began to walk, hugging her arms to her chest as she marched across the backyard and into the silent street. The air was quiet and thickly still, the way it got right before it was going to snow. It was a soft sort of cold that made Jory feel strangely calm. She had no idea where she was going. Maybe this was how Grace had felt the night she ran away from the diamond-windowed house, and maybe Jory was now simply repeating everything that Grace had done. Maybe she was still merely imitating Grace in some weird, juvenile way. Jory walked faster. The clouds were now so thick and heavy that they had caused the streetlights to come on even though it was only late afternoon, and in the conical glow cast by the one on her corner she could see tiny particles of something in the air, fine particulates of frost or snow or ice just beginning to form and swirl lazily down. Jory blew on her hands and rubbed them together and kept walking.

  There was a pay phone next to the Texaco gas station on the corner, but Jory didn’t have any money. She stood across the street from the gas station and stomped her feet. There were no cars at the pump, but she could see that the station was lit up and there was someone inside. Jory walked across the street and with a pounding heart opened the glass door. A tiny bell dinged and the man behind the counter looked up from the notebook he had been writing in. “Hey there,” he said. It was warm and bright inside the station and it smelled marvelously of gasoline and new tires. Jory felt suddenly euphoric as if she had reached a place she had been searching for all her life. This sensation was just as quickly replaced with another, equally strong one. “I need to make a phone call,” she said, blushing furiously. The man in the blue overalls gestured toward the pay phone with his pen. “Except that I don’t have any change.” Jory could feel how hot her face was becoming. “I didn’t bring any with me,” she said, “and I really need to contact someone.”

  “Contact,” the man said, as if he had never heard the word before. He scratched at his cheek, and Jory noticed that he had a tattoo between his fingers much like Grip’s. The man’s fingertips were all stained a greasy gray-black. He was probably only in his twenties, but his blond hair was thin enough that the light from overhead shone through it and revealed his rounded pink scalp.

  “Well, I guess you can use this. But it can’t be long distance.” He picked a red rotary dial phone off the counter and moved it closer to Jory. “Gotta dial nine to get out first.” He also pulled a dog-eared phone book up onto the counter and pushed it toward Jory. “Phone book,” he said.

  She began thumbing through the tissue-thin pages. Arco didn’t have that many residents. The yellow pages section was thicker than the white. Jory turned another page and then ran her finger down the list of names until she came to the one she wanted.

  “Yeah?” Grip said, his voice sounding as if he had been asleep and wished he still were.

  Jory’s heart lurched. “It’s me,” she said.

  There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Jory?” Grip sounded suddenly much more awake. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

  “Can you come get me?” Jory could feel her eyes starting to fill. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. The gas station man peered up from his notebook at her. She turned slightly sideways. “I’m at the Texaco station on Sixteenth Avenue.”

  Grip said nothing for a second. Then she heard him sigh. “Your dad is going to kill me,” he said. “He’ll probably call the cops.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Jory. “I don’t think.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Grip said. “He most definitely will.”

  Jory listened to him breathing into the phone. “Okay, then,” she said finally. “Never mind.”

  Grip sighed again. She could hear him doing something, pulling coins or keys out of his pocket. “Stay inside till I get there,” he said, and hung up.

  Jory put the receiver in the cradle and pushed the phone back toward the gas station man. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Supposed to get real snow tonight,” the man said. “First one of the season.” He turned a page in his notebook and leaned his elbows on the counter. “Need some snow tires?”

  “I guess not,” said Jory.

  “You never know,” said the man. “Here,” he said, and handed Jory a nickel. He pointed over to the two candy machines that stood next to the wall. “The Boston Baked Beans are good.”

  Jory took the nickel and walked over and inserted it into the candy machine’s slot. She twisted the silver handle. A handful of brownish red pellets filled her hand. She spilled them into her mouth and began to chew.

  Outside, the snow was coming down in earnest. The flakes were fat and slow and drifted through the air like duck feathers, swirling sideways as much as down. The gas pumps each wore a small rounded hat of snow.

  “And it isn’t even Thanksgiving,” said the gas station man. He shook his head happily.

  Grip had the ice cream truck’s heater going and the windshield wipers on. He didn’t come inside the gas station, so Jory ran out to the truck and hoisted herself up into the leather passenger seat. “Hi,” she said breathlessly, glancing at him and then away. The last time she had seen Grip he had been shirtless and struggling with her father. He was now wearing a heavy wool jacket buttoned up to his chin. It was orange and brown plaid with a fur collar. Jory had never seen it before.

  Grip pulled the truck out of the parking lot. They drove down Sixteenth Avenue, the wipers making a protesting sound against the mostly dry windshield. Jory slid her hands beneath her thighs. She watched the snowflakes hitting the windshield and melting instantly against the glass. After they had gone a block or two, Grip turned. “How ’bout I take you home,” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m not going back.”

  “I think you’d better,” he said, and glanced in the rearview mirror.

  “Why?” Jory noticed that he had red and go
ld whiskers sprouting all over his face and his hair sprung in unwashed spirals from beneath a faded blue watch cap. He looked tired and not particularly glad to see her. “Are you still worried that my dad will call the police on you?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  Jory could feel her throat constricting, as if she had tried to swallow something a little too large. “So you would help Grace run away, but not me?”

  “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

  Jory said nothing. They drove on in silence past Arco’s downtown area, past Rol’s Car Bath and Tic Tac Towing and Super Thrift Drug. Jory watched a man wearing only a windbreaker slip on the icy sidewalk and catch himself by grabbing on to a lightpost. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “She’s really horribly annoying, you know. When she was little, she wouldn’t let my mom and dad undress her for bed, so they just had to let her sleep in her clothes every night. And if she didn’t get her way, she would cry until she passed out. They thought about sending her to a psychiatrist when she was ten. I heard them talking about it.”