Grace

by T. Greenwood

  He felt his whole body starting to shake. It was like somebody was holding him by the shoulders and rattling him. Like a fault line ran down his spine, and it was shifting. The tears came hot and fast, and then he was tearing at his hair. The sting at his scalp echoing the sting of his backside.

  “Stop it,” his dad said.

  But Trevor couldn’t stop it. Didn’t anybody understand this? It didn’t have anything to do with him. He didn’t have any control over it.

  “I said stop,” his father said, this time taking a step toward him.

  Trevor could feel the individual strands of hair coming loose in his hands. His ears buzzed.

  “Jesus, Trevor. I said stop it!” And then his father’s hands were on him, grabbing him, shaking him. “What the fuck is the matter with you? Maybe you do belong with those retards!” he hollered.

  The next thing Trevor knew, his dad’s palms were pushing against his chest. He stumbled backward, landing hard on the cold ground, a sharp pain shooting up through his spine. His father backed up, bleary-eyed and rubbing the top of his head. And then the earth stilled. The aftershocks just quiet tremors now. Trevor felt like he’d just woken up from a dream. He looked up at that torn sky, at the shrapnel stars.

  “Get up,” his father said, offering him his hand.

  Trevor looked at him with disbelief.

  His dad’s eyes were wet. “I said get up.”

  Later, as he tried to get comfortable in his bed, his raw, bruised backside making that nearly impossible, he noticed Gracy was still awake, lying on her side, watching him. Her eyes were sleepy, her hair tangled.

  “Are you okay, Trevor?” she asked. “You look sad.”

  Sometimes Gracy just broke his heart. He felt tears coming to his eyes but squeezed his eyes shut against them.

  “Don’t be sad,” she said and reached across the expanse between their beds.

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  “Cross your heart.”

  “Hope to die,” he said.

  “Let him rot,” Billy said.

  Kurt hadn’t expected sympathy; he’d only called Billy for advice. He wanted to find out what it would take to become Pop’s guardian. It seemed like it was the only way he’d be able to get him into the nursing home. But Billy didn’t seem willing to even offer his legal help.

  “You’re either a saint or an idiot, Kurt,” Billy said.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Conversations with Billy almost always aggravated Kurt’s legs. He was pacing, back and forth, probably wearing a path in the kitchen linoleum.

  “Seriously, Kurt. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody but himself. I don’t know why you bother.”

  “I bother because he’s my father,” Kurt said. “ Our father.”

  “He hasn’t been a father to me in fifteen years, Kurt. I swear you act like you’ve forgotten about that night. Like you weren’t even there, like you didn’t see.”

  But Billy was wrong. Kurt wasn’t really there that night. Not until later. He had been out on a date with Theresa Bouchard at the movies. He could still remember the taste of buttered popcorn on her lips, the way it made their kisses slippery. He’d gotten home after Pop had already found Billy at the yard, dragged him into the truck, and brought him home.

  Kurt could only piece together what happened before he got there by the angry words that rang out into the night as Pop threw all of Billy’s things out into the front yard, and their mother stood in the kitchen doorway like a ghost in her nightgown, crying.

  Billy and Kurt had both been helping Pop out at the yard that summer, just lending a hand where it was needed. Billy was an athlete (varsity in three sports by his sophomore year) and strong. Pop had him moving some of the heavier equipment around, loading and unloading parts. Kurt was in charge of doing the books, the business side of things. Billy came home at night worn ragged and smelling of grease. He spent all his money on fast food and beer. Kurt saved every dime he made for his tuition. He was supposed to go to Johnson State College in the fall. He planned to study American history, maybe eventually the law.

  At the time, Pop’s buddy Lloyd’s son, Doug, was also working at the shop. Lloyd and Pop had been stationed together in Maine for basic training, and after their respective tours in Vietnam, they’d both returned to Two Rivers. Doug was home from college and wanted to make some extra cash, and Lloyd had asked Pop if he could help out around the yard. He was a nice guy. He and Billy hit it off.

  Pop wouldn’t talk about what he saw, but from what Kurt could gather, Pop had gone back to the yard that night to check the safe. He did that sometimes, checked and rechecked, unconvinced he’d secured everything. And when he got to the yard, he was alarmed to find the exterior light on. Though he wasn’t sure he’d locked the safe, he did distinctly remember turning off all the lights. Worried that someone might be out in the yard stealing parts, he grabbed a crowbar from behind the counter and headed out into the darkness.

  When he found Billy and Doug in the backseat of the 1978 Cadillac, he probably wasn’t even sure what he was seeing. He must have figured it was a couple of teenagers. Maybe even just Kurt and Theresa. But instead of just walking away, leaving them be, he threw open the old car door and starting swinging.

  Kurt got home from his date just as Pop was throwing Billy’s stuff out into the yard. Billy was standing at the edge of the lawn, his face bloodied, his shirt unbuttoned.

  “Jesus, Pop,” Kurt had said, rushing past Billy up the steps. “What the hell happened?”

  Billy left that night and hadn’t set foot in the house since. His mom got sick for the first time that summer (suffering the first of four separate bouts with cancer), and Kurt was forced to write a letter to Johnson State telling the admissions office that he would not be attending that fall. Then Pop had his stroke, and he had to take over the yard. Billy became an emancipated minor and moved to DC, where he lived in a rooming house while he finished high school. He went to Georgetown on an athletic scholarship. He studied political science. He became a lawyer. The rest was history, so to speak.

  Still. They’d grown up together inside the same walls, the walls that were threatening to fold in upon themselves like some awful house of cards. What Pop did was unforgivable. Of course it was. But he wasn’t asking Billy to help Pop. He was asking Billy to help him. His brother.

  “You’re going to want to get conservatorship, which means you can also have control over his finances. If you’re hell-bent on doing this.”

  Later that day, Maury showed up with his big truck, backing it into the backyard. Pop was dressed and standing with his walker, directing Maury as he maneuvered the truck’s back end to the trailer. Kurt watched from the window over the sink and then, when he realized what they were about to do, threw open the back door and ran to the truck. Maury rolled the window down and nodded silently.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Kurt said.

  “It’s gettin’ too cold for him to be livin’ out here,” Maury said.

  “He’s moving to Plum’s December first,” Kurt said. Billy had told him that he would simply need to prove that Pop posed a danger to himself, that he was incapable of making competent decisions. He figured his buddy Irene Killjoy at the county would be happy to assist. He’d left her three messages already.

  “He wants to go home, Kurt,” Maury said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Pop? This is ridiculous. You can’t live alone. It’s not safe.”

  “You just want my money,” Pop said, flicking his hands as though to brush Kurt away. “Get rid of me and take my house.” His speech was now so distorted it sounded as though he were speaking with a mouthful of marbles.

  “I don’t want your money,” Kurt said. Though it hit a nerve. That was exactly what he’d wanted. At least in part. If he had conservatorship of Pop, he could rent the house out. Sell it. He’d be able to stop working seventy-five hours a week. He wanted his life back
. His wife back.

  Maury leaned out the window. “Come on, Jude. I got the truck all warmed up for you. There’s some hot coffee in the cup holder too.”

  Maury got out of the truck and went to Pop, taking his arm, guiding him around to the passenger’s side of the car.

  Kurt followed.

  “You’re not taking my father anywhere. You have no rights whatsoever here.”

  “Jude is a grown man. This is what he wants.”

  “He also wants to keep every goddamned piece of trash he finds. Save every goddamned scrap of paper, every frigging envelope. Just ’cause he wants it doesn’t make it okay.” Kurt felt like he might explode. What the hell was Maury doing this for? He knew Jude wouldn’t be safe alone.

  “I know this ain’t what you want,” he said to Kurt after Jude was in the car.

  “It sure as hell isn’t,” Kurt said. “I’d think that you, of anybody, would be on my side. You know he can’t live by himself. You’ve seen how he lives.”

  “What I seen is a seventy-year-old man living in an unheated trailer without proper plumbing. I seen a man who might as well be homeless. What I seen is a son too caught up in his own damned life to realize he’s keeping his sick father like a dog on a run in the backyard.” Maury’s face was red and he was close enough to Kurt’s face for him to smell the chew on his breath. “I wonder what your lady friend at the county would think of this. You’re lucky nobody’s come at you with papers.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kurt asked.

  “Looks to me like a clear case of elder abuse. And it might just take one call to the right person to get you in a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Kurt said. Maury had been like family for years. Like an uncle. He felt anger brewing in his gut, rage like an animal in his chest. He willed his fists to stay at his sides as Maury climbed back into the truck.

  “Kurt, I’m just saying, might be best to let Pop go home now. Let him be.”

  That night Elsbeth was all over him. He had no idea what was going on with her. And while normally he’d be grateful for her affection, for her appetite, tonight he couldn’t stop thinking about Maury’s accusations. Elder abuse. God, his whole world had been revolving around Pop for years. He was seething. But Maury was right. Without the conservatorship, he had no right to keep his father against his will. He also had no legal right to have him put away in a home. Pop still had every right in the world to go back to his house.

  Goddamn him, he thought.

  “Not now, baby,” he said, gently pushing Elsbeth away.

  “Come on,” she said. “The kids are fast asleep. Even Jude is gone.”

  She rolled over, throwing one leg over him then, straddling him, and he felt his body respond despite his mind, which was distracted. Elsewhere. With Pop in that freaking tuna can on wheels. With Pop back at his house. He could die in that house. It was like sending him to his own fucking grave. He closed his eyes and tried to let go. He tried to think only of her thighs, her hips rolling like waves over him, the tickle of her loose hair against his chest. Their sweat, the heat of their bodies despite the angry chill in the air.

  The day before Thanksgiving, Crystal drove to work, parking her car near the Dumpsters at the far end of the building. The heater in the Volvo was powerful at least, especially since the temperature had dropped below freezing. They’d gotten snow, not a lot, but enough to change the way the world looked. It was pretty. A soft, clean layer covering everything. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck before she opened the car door. It was windy outside, but she also knew that inside the Walgreens it would be warm. She locked the Volvo and walked up to the front doors, anxious to get out of the cold.

  Then she heard the crying.

  She looked around, thinking some child must be having a fit over something. That was pretty much a daily occurrence at the Walgreens. Each shift, she watched at least two or three moms wrestle with a child who had thrown itself on the floor in a fit of rage over a lollipop or a box of crayons or some other stupid knickknack. But there weren’t any frustrated parents in the parking lot. No tantrums on the icy asphalt.

  She followed the wailing sound to a beat-up Civic parked next to the handicapped spots. The window was rolled down, despite the freezing air, and she could make out a child screaming in the backseat. And there wasn’t a grown-up in sight. She walked over to the car and quickly realized it was Grace, the other Grace, and anger bloomed hot inside Crystal’s chest.

  “Hey,” Crystal said softly, looking around for the mother. Hoping she was just putting her shopping cart back or something. “Hey, it’s okay,” Crystal said and leaned into the car. The girl’s dark hair was wet with sweat, her face furiously red.

  Crystal reached in and touched her little hand. Her nails were painted hot pink with sparkles. The girl stopped crying for a minute and studied Crystal’s face.

  “Remember me? I helped you when you had a bloody nose,” she said stupidly, as if this would make the girl feel safe. “Is your mommy inside?”

  The little girl nodded. Snot ran down her nose from both nostrils.

  Crystal reached into her purse and pulled out a clean tissue. She started to hand it to the little girl and then realized she should probably just wipe her nose for her. She blotted the snot off her face and then crumpled up the tissue and put it in her pocket.

  “Listen,” Crystal said softly. “I’m going to go inside and find your mommy, okay? I’ll make sure she comes right out.”

  This seemed to make the little girl calm down, though she was hiccupping in the way that little kids do after they’ve been crying for a long time.

  “She’ll be right back, okay? Cross my heart,” she said and made a crossing motion across her chest.

  The little girl nodded, but as Crystal moved to go into the store, she could hear her starting to wail again. Maybe she should bring her in, she thought. But then again that didn’t seem entirely smart either. She went back to the car and opened the girl’s door. “Listen, I’ll wait here with you until she comes, okay?”

  When the woman finally came out about ten minutes later, clutching a bag of marshmallows, Crystal rushed to the electric doors. What the fuck? She left the kid alone to buy marshmallows? What kind of mother did that? Her hands and face were numb with the cold.

  “Hey,” she said, grabbing the woman’s arm. “Your daughter is totally freaking out. You can’t just leave kids alone in cars,” she said.

  The woman looked at her stupidly. God, she was unbelievable.

  “Seriously,” she said, feeling venomous as the woman walked away from her, rushing toward the car. “And you know what? I know what you’re doing. You can’t just steal shit. Not anymore. I swear to God the next time I see you take something, I’m calling the cops. You’re pathetic.”

  The woman shook her head and then went to her car, where the little girl was still crying.

  Elsbeth had been glad to have a few days off. Twig was working the day before Thanksgiving, and Babette closed the salon for Thursday and Friday. For a week now, she’d had back-to-back clients trying to get their hair cut before the holidays. Her feet were killing her. Even her hands were tired.

  The kids both had dentist appointments in the morning. It seemed like every mother in Two Rivers had scheduled their kids to get their teeth cleaned this week; they had to wait nearly an hour past their appointment times. She read three entire old issues of Us Weekly while she waited. Gracy had two cavities, luckily both in baby teeth, but she’d promised the dentist she’d pick up fluoride and make sure she used it every day. She felt scolded. She hated the dentist.

  Normally she would have left Trevor in the car and taken Gracy in the store with her, but Gracy had fallen asleep, clutching the new purple toothbrush the dentist had given her. She peered into the rearview mirror. Trevor was leaning his head against the window. Somber. Sulking. He’d been okay during the first few weeks after he was suspended, but now that he was going to
be going back to school in a matter of days, he was miserable. And she felt for him, she really did. Getting put in the special-ed class was a stupid idea, and probably about the cruelest punishment Mrs. Cross could have come up with. But at least he wouldn’t be around those boys anymore, the ones who were so hell-bent on making his life miserable.

  “Trev, stay here with your sister, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  She grabbed her purse and went inside, grateful for the warm blast of air that greeted her. She picked up a plastic basket and made her way down the first aisle. Her head was pounding as she walked past the makeup and the hair coloring. She wouldn’t take anything today. She needed to stop. She felt the checker’s eyes on her even across the store; she felt guilty, though she hadn’t even done anything. She’d forgotten how to simply shop; she could barely breathe as she pretended to consider the hairbrushes and curling irons and combs. Her entire body was trembling.

  She grabbed the fluoride the dentist recommended and then walked down the aisle of Thanksgiving stuff, letting her fingers skip across the silk flower arrangements, the aluminum roasting pans, the autumn-colored napkins. Normally, she would have pocketed one of the acorn napkin rings; she imagined it smooth and round in her pocket. Instead, she resisted and pretended to study the nutrition contents of a bag of marshmallows. She picked up the marshmallows and moved toward the counter, her entire body trilling in the same way as if she’d actually stolen something.

  “You making sweet potatoes?” the kid asked.

  She looked up at him.

  “With the marshmallows, right? For Thanksgiving?”

  She nodded. She was pretty sure that if she opened her mouth, the words wouldn’t make it past the swelling in her throat.

  “My mom does that too. It’s my favorite. That and pumpkin pie.”

  She stared at his name tag: Howard.

  “That’s all for you, then?”