by Robert Ward
I couldn’t see Dr. Brooks’s face, but from the length of the pause I knew he was furious. Finally, he spoke:
“Grace, Gibson is a politician, not a true minister. He is only using his ministerial position to start trouble, alienate white and black, and establish his own power base. The man is a demagogue, and I really can’t believe you’re seriously considering supporting him. Grace, you’ll be sacrificing your own ambition on the altars of his, and it won’t be worth the candle.”
“I see,” my grandmother said. “Well, if that’s the way—”
But Dr. Brooks interrupted:
“Don’t cut me off. Remember things once said are often impossible to unsay. I ask you, beg you, actually, to think about your upcoming election to a position of real power in the church. You have a chance now to achieve what your parents dreamed for you. To throw that away because you’ve been fooled by a charming con artist … that’s crazy. There’s no other way to say it. It’s madness. Please consider what I’m saying.”
“Well, what are you saying?” my grandmother said. “That if I help the Negro cause I don’t get your endorsement?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth, Grace,” Dr. Brooks said. “I am as much for their people’s freedom as any man. But look at the way they’re doing things. Look at the display they made in our church three weeks ago. Think of the damage done there, the alienation of white and black, people who got along so well before.”
“Yes. Before the Negroes demanded their rights,” Grace said.
“But they didn’t confer with us, with me. They simply marched in and caused mayhem in God’s house. That’s anarchy, and there is no way the church can justify anarchy.”
Now my grandmother was up out of her seat.
“No,” my grandmother said. “We like order, good, old, established order … no matter who gets hurt.”
“That’s sophistry, Grace,” Dr. Brooks said. “And you know it. I’ve prayed for those people, that they may see the light and do things in a civilized way. I’ll pray for you, too, Grace.”
“Thanks so much,” my grandmother said, and there was thick mockery in her voice.
“Don’t speak to me with that tone, Grace. I am your advocate and your friend. You should know that.”
I felt like gagging when he said that. Don’t fall for it, I thought to myself. Don’t believe a word he says.
But suddenly the spirit was gone from Grace’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” my grandmother said. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Wesley. I haven’t lost sight of the fact that you’ve been my chief benefactor.”
“And I still am, Grace,” Dr. Brooks said. “We’ll just chalk up today’s unpleasantness to the strain of politics. Here’s to you finally getting a post you’ve so long deserved.”
“Thank you, Wesley,” my grandmother said. Her voice was small. I could barely hear her.
“And so we understand one another?” Dr. Brooks said as he rose and walked toward the edge of the steps.
“Perfectly,” Grace said.
“Good. See you in church, Grace.”
My grandmother said nothing, and I shrunk about a foot deeper into the old chair. I knew that I should quickly run upstairs or at least go out into the kitchen so that when she came inside off the porch, she wouldn’t know I had listened in. But suddenly I didn’t care if she heard me or not.
She walked in and was nearly halfway to the dining room before she saw me.
“Ohhh” she said, putting her hand to her breast. “You scared me, honey.”
“Really?” I said. “I used to think nothing in the world scared you.” She shut her eyes for a long time, then looked at me sadly. “You know it’s impolite to listen in on other people’s conversations, Bobby.”
“Yeah,” I said in a surly way. “I know. I apologize. Okay?”
“Honey, sometimes the world is complex. More complex than we’d like it to be.”
“Come on,” I said. “People only say that to justify doing the wrong thing. Even I know that. Reverend Brooks is a racist, and if you go along with him …”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. The idea of my grandmother being a racist was too unbearable for me.
She sighed and sat down on the piano stool. She looked tired, haggard.
“Do you have any idea why he’s saying the things he is?” she said.
“ ‘Cause he doesn’t like Negroes. Or maybe he just hates change.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not the reason. It’s true that the Reverend Brooks isn’t comfortable around Negroes. Few white people are … but that’s not why he’s moving so slowly. It’s a matter of the membership of the church. Twenty-five people have walked out already, and many of them are people who give money to the church. Ironically, they give money to the programs for the poor that we fund, breakfasts for hungry ghetto kids, mostly black ghetto kids … clothing for those same kids. And the Negro scholarship fund …”
“Oh,” I said, “I get it. The good Methodists like to give money to help the poor old darkies as long as they don’t sit in their lily-white church.”
“That’s very harsh,” my grandmother said.
“Is it? Is it as harsh as telling someone where they can sit or to stay in some garbage-filled neighborhoods? Is it as harsh as not giving them a decent education or bringing them here as … slaves in chains?”
I was up now, filled with anger and not a little self-righteousness. And surely, too, I was harsher with her in order to mask my own miserable cowardice.
Grace shook her head.
“No,” she said. “And I wish we could make up for all those things with one stroke of the magic wand, but it won’t happen that way. That’s the sad truth.”
“Well, maybe not,” I said, heading for the door. “But if the Reverend Brooks has his way, it won’t happen around here at all. Hey, but what do you care? You’ll be living it up in jolly old London. Right?”
“Bobby!” she said.
I had never seen her truly, deeply mad before. The fury and hurt in her face made me breathless with shame.
But I had said it, and I meant it, and there was no use saying anything else.
Now I saw it clearly: my grandmother had sold out the civil rights movement to grab power for herself.
Before she could say another word, I stormed out of the house.
I stayed out late that night, walking up and down Greenmount Avenue, staring into the little stores in the shopping area, the Oxford Men’s Shop, Thom McAn shoes, the Little Tavern, Sweeney’s Bar. I felt a mixture of shame and fury. I knew I should never have spoken to Grace in that way, but I was dumbfounded at how I’d misjudged her.
She must have known about this for weeks, even before the Negroes staged their protest at the church. Of course, that was why she hadn’t said anything at the meeting in Dr. Brooks’s office. She didn’t want to lose any votes.
I went to the Waverly Rec and half-hoped that the Watkins brothers would be there. Maybe I could get into a fight with them and they could beat me senseless, which was what I deserved for being so damned dumb.
But they weren’t around, only a couple of little kids, and I played a halfhearted couple of games of Horse with them. Then they locked up the place, and I had no place to go.
I told myself that I’d have to go home, no matter how bad it was. I certainly couldn’t go on living at Grace’s … not after the way I’d spoken to her.
Finally, sometime around eleven o’clock, I headed back to my grandmother’s for what I thought would be my last night living with her.
I sneaked up the steps, half expecting my grandmother to be waiting for me in Aunt Ida’s bedroom, but she was sleeping soundly.
As I crawled into bed, my head churned with pictures of Negroes at our church, Edward L. Moon and friends beating on them, and no one to help them.
Finally, though, the pictures stopped coming, and I fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
It was st
ill pitch-dark when I awoke, freezing. The old heater downstairs wasn’t working that well, and I scrambled across the room to my aunt’s old rocker and threw on my crewneck sweater.
I was almost back in bed when I heard a high-pitched wail.
I held my breath, waited …
There it was again. Someone in terrible pain.
I went to the window, looked out at the moonlit backyard. The old holly tree was lit in a surreal way, and through its branches I could see the garage rooftops.
It was unbelievable. In the middle of the night, in the cold night air, Scrounge squatting in her lap, Grace sat in the lotus position on the garage rooftop. And she was moaning, rocking back and forth, like someone experiencing a terrible grief.
I pushed up the window, started to yell down to her. Then I thought better of it. I might startle her. She was very close to the edge of the roof.
Suddenly, I could make out a few words.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry … Win … very … God forgive …”
Then she let out a piercing cry, as if someone had stuck a knife into her ribs.
I threw on my jeans, slipped into my loafers, then tore down the steps toward the backyard.
I ran to the gate and looked up on the roof, and my heart stopped.
Grace was standing up now and walking along the edge of the roof.
There was a ten-foot drop, onto cement. If she fell, she could break her arm, a leg, even her neck.
Her eyes were wide open, but she seemed to be in a trance addressing someone I couldn’t see.
“Wingate …” she said. “You don’t know … Wingate … God …”
Her feet were one inch from the edge. She walked along, her long robes trailing behind her … her gray hair blowing in the mid-night wind.
I was afraid to call out. Afraid she’d fall. Quickly, I ran around behind the garages.
In the dark I found the old concrete block and pulled myself up. I couldn’t believe Grace had come out here in the middle of the night …
I made it to the top and started across the roof. Grace was right on the edge.
“Gracie,” I said as softly as I could. “Come this way. Come here.” But she was walking down the roof’s edge now, her face ashen with fear and sorrow.
“Wingate … I’m here. I’m coming.”
There was no time left for any more coaxing. I ran toward her, reached out …
And missed.
My grandmother screamed as she fell backwards off the garage roof.
Horrified, I looked down at the alley as two lights came on in the houses on either side of hers.
Mrs. Richardson looked out the window.
“My God, what happened out there?”
“Call the hospital. Grace fell off the roof,” I said.
“I’ll be right there,” she said.
I looked down. My grandmother didn’t move. She lay crumpled on the concrete.
By the time I got to her, she was moaning and moving slightly.
“Gracie,” I said. “Dont move.”
I knelt beside her, afraid to move her at all.
“Where does it hurt?” I said.
“My side,” she said.
She started to get up.
“I don’t think you should do that,” I said.
“I’m so cold.”
Mrs. Richardson’s light went on, and she headed toward us. In her hands were a blanket and some masking tape.
“I saw her fall. Good Lord. Anything broken?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, help her up, Bobby, before she freezes.”
I reached down and got hold of one arm, and Mrs. Richardson took the other. Grace slowly got to her feet, and together we half-dragged her into her house.
Grace lay on the couch as Mrs. Richardson and I looked at her badly bruised side.
“It’s not that bad,” she said. “Just a bruise, I think. Your arm must have protected your head. Aren’t instincts wonderful?”
“How can you tell?” I said. “Shouldn’t she be X-rayed?”
“If you want to waste the money and take an unnecessary trip to the hospital,” she said. “If her ribs are broken, which I don’t think they are, there’s nothing you can do anyway. Rib injuries heal in their own sweet time.”
I must have given Mrs. Richardson a slightly doubtful look, because she laughed at me.
“You’re wondering how this old bag knows,” she said.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” I said.
“Well, sweetie, it so happens I served in the Red Cross in World War II, in Europe. Now, Grace, what on earth were you doing out there meditating at this hour?”
“I don’t know,” Grace said, giving me a look to keep my mouth shut. “The spirit just got ahold of me.”
“Spirit and a fifty-five-mile-an-hour wind,” Mrs. Richardson said. “Now you drink some hot chocolate and take some aspirin, and we’re going to take a look at you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay, Emma,” Grace said. “Thanks for coming over.”
“God, yes,” I said. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”
Mrs. Richardson smiled and shook her head.
“That’s what neighbors are for, honey,” she said. “Now let’s help your grandmother up to her bed and all of us get some sleep.”
After I tucked Grace in, I went to my own bed, and for the first time in a long while I offered up a little prayer.
“Thanks, God, for saving my grandmother. And whatever’s torturing her, please let me help her. I love her a lot, Lord, and couldn’t bear it if …”
I couldn’t go on.
Up until then I had thought that whatever was bothering Grace was mysterious. But because I felt that she was basically indestructible, I wasn’t deeply concerned.
Now I knew that her demons were dangerous. She could have easily been injured tonight … or worse.
What would happen the next time?
And there was something else, too. Tossing and turning in my bed, I wondered for the very first time if my beloved grandmother Grace wasn’t losing her mind. After all, she’d been hospitalized before. What if this was the final straw?
In the morning I called our family physician, Dr. Lloyd Saylor. Without going into the whys and wherefores I told him that Grace had suffered a fall and that we needed to see him. A round little man with endless energy and a wonderful Buddha-like disposition, Dr. Saylor offered at once to come around and make a house call. At first he said he couldn’t make it until the end of the day, but when I mentioned that Grace was in quite a bit of discomfort and that the bruise on her side was huge and ugly, he said he’d be around at twelve. I realized that he was giving up his lunch and offered to bring her to his office in a cab, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“I’ve taken care of you, your father, and your grandmother,” he said with a laugh. “Besides, I need to lose a little weight anyway.”
I told him I’d see him at twelve o’clock and went up to tell Grace.
“He’s making a house call?” she said. “That’s too much. I’m not dying. Ohhhhh.”
She grimaced and I took her hand.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Good old Dr. Saylor,” she said. “You know a lot of doctors nowadays won’t make house calls.” I sighed.
“They say they don’t have time.” She laughed. “Maybe if they ate some more fish sticks, they’d save enough time to come see their patients again.”
I laughed. It was like her to joke to make me stop worrying about her. I held her hand tightly.
“You need an aspirin?”
“Lord, no. I’ve had three. That’s my limit. Besides, it only hurts on one side.”
I nodded and felt like a creep.
“You know what’s strange,” Grace said. “I remember going up on the roof. But I must have been dreaming, because it seemed like there was someone there, helping me up.”
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“I’m … not sure,” she said.
“But you have an idea.”
“No … I mean. Well, that’s crazy.”
There was something fragile in her eyes. I felt she was on the cusp of telling me something terribly important. “Who or what is Wingate?” I said. Her eyes opened wide in fear. “Where did you hear that?”
“You were yelling that on the roof. ‘Win———gate … I’m coming.’ “
She turned away from me, onto her bad side. I saw her shudder in pain.
“That’s nothing,” she said. “Nonsense from a dream.”
“Some people believe in dreams. Even Jesus.”
She turned back and looked at me angrily.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Now let me sleep. Please.”
She turned back away from me and shut her eyes. I let go of her hand and left the room.
Wingate. As soon as she was well enough, I was going to press her on that name. There was something there. I was certain of it.
Dr. Saylor said that when she was better, Grace should schedule an X-ray down at nearby Union Memorial Hospital, but he doubted that her ribs were broken. He applied a little tape, gave her some pain pills, and told her she was very, very lucky.
As he was leaving he turned back to her and said, “Grace Ward, I never tell you what to do, but maybe you ought to start meditating on lower ground.”
Then he walked out of the room.
“Good Lord, he knows, too,” she said. “Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than spread gossip about me?”
But I could tell she was kind of happy about it. Though she pretended to be totally modest, the truth was that Grace enjoyed being thought a little outrageous.
I brought her some lemonade and told her I was going to call Cap and tell him what had happened. But she forbade me to do it.
“He’ll just rush home here and go crazy hanging around. That will drive me crazy, and I’ll feel even lousier than I already do.”
“Well, you’ve got to just lie around until you feel better.”
“So they tell me,” she said. “But I’ll bet you I’m out of this bed in two days.”
“No,” I said. “You really need bed rest.”
“Bed rest is highly overrated,” she said. “Get up, get going, and forget about your wounds. That’s what makes a person heal.”