by Бри Деспейн
I stumbled up the stoop. "Daniel? It's me, Grace."
Daniel started up a dimly lit staircase. "Didn't expect to see you again." He made a slight "follow me" motion with his hand.
I crept up the steps behind him. The stairwell reeked like stale coffee made in a dirty bathroom, and the walls had been spray painted over and over again with so many jumbled obscenities it looked like they had been wallpapered by a very disgruntled Jackson Pollock.
Daniel stopped on the third landing and pulled a key out of his pocket. "You just can't resist my good looks, can you?"
"Get over yourself. I just came to tell you something."
Daniel pushed open the door. "Ladies first," he said tersely.
"Whatever," I said, and brushed past him. I realized about one second later that maybe that wasn't such a good idea. Mom didn't let me have boys over when she wasn't home, and going into a guy's apartment alone was definitely not something she would have approved of. I wanted to stay close to the door, but Daniel walked inside and kept going. I followed him into a dingy room populated only by a TV set on a cardboard box and a short brown couch. Faint, thumping music wafted in from a room down the hall, and a lanky guy with a shaved head was draped over the couch. He stared up at the peeling ceiling with rapt, unblinking attention.
"Zed this is Grace, Grace this is Zed." Daniel motioned to the guy. Zed didn't move. Daniel kept walking.
I tilted my head toward the ceiling to see what was so fascinating.
"Grace," Daniel barked.
I jumped and went to him. Before I knew it, I was in what I presumed was his bedroom. It was about the size of my parents' closet, with a mattress, covered by a crumpled gray blanket, pushed into the corner next to a small dresser piled with stacks of Masonite boards. Daniel kicked the door shut behind us. Little tingling pricks ran up my spine.
It looked like someone had been keeping a large dog in this closet/room. The door was marred by several claw like gashes--like the way Daisy would leave scratches on my bedroom door when I left her home alone, only these scratches were much larger and deeper. The door frame was splintered and cracked. Whatever animal had been kept in here had apparently gotten out.
I was about to ask about it when Daniel flopped down on the mattress. He pulled off his shoes and went for the zipper of his jumpsuit. A flash of panic went through my body. I turned my head and lowered my gaze.
'"Don't worry, precious," Daniel said. "I'm not going to violate your virgin eyes."
His wadded-up uniform landed in a heap at my feet. I glanced, ever so slightly, and saw that he was fully clothed in torn jeans and a whitish T-shirt.
"So what could Her Graciousness possibly need to talk to me about"--he stretched out across the mattress and cradled his hands behind his head--"that would bring her all the way down here on a school night?"
"Forget it." I wanted to throw my bulging backpack at his head. Instead, I unzipped it and dumped the con-tents on the floor--protein bars, soup cans, beef jerky, trail mix, a half dozen shirts, and three pairs of pants that
I'd weeded out from the donations that had come into the parish over the weekend. "Eat something. You look like a starved dog."
Daniel reached down and sifted through the pile, and I started to leave.
"Chicken and stars," he said, holding one of the cans. "That was always my favorite. Your mom used to fix it."
"I know. I remembered."
Daniel ripped opened one of the protein bars and wolfed the thing down in two bites. He moved on to a piece of beef jerky. He looked so eager I decided to tell him my good news after all.
"I talked to Mr. Barlow today. He says if you meet him tomorrow morning, he might give you a second chance. But you have to be there before seven twenty a.m.," I said, padding the time a bit. "And you should wear something respectable." I pointed at the pile. "There's a pair of khakis and a button-up shirt. Try not to be jerk, and he'll probably let you back in his class." I hitched my empty backpack onto my shoulder and waited for his response.
"Huh." Daniel grabbed another protein bar and leaned against the wall. "Maybe I'll show."
I don't know what else I expected--maybe he'd jump up and hug me and call me a miracle worker? Or actually say thank you. But I could see the gratitude in his dark, familiar eyes--even if it would kill him to actually say so.
I wrapped my fingers around the straps of my hack-pack. "Um ... I guess I should go."
"Don't want to be late to your Divine family dinner." Daniel chucked a wrapper onto the floor. "Meat loaf tonight?"
"Leftovers. But I've got other plans." "Library," he said, like he was summing me up with one word.
I huffed out of his room and back into the living area. Zed still lay on the couch, but two other guys slouched in the room, smoking something that didn't smell like cigarettes. They stopped talking when they saw me. I suddenly felt like a marshmallow in my white puffer coat. One of the guys looked at me and then at Daniel, who came out of the bedroom behind me. "Well, 'ello there," he said, and took a drag. "Didn't know you liked 'em wholesome."
The other guy said something vile that I will not repeat, and then he made an even more disgusting gesture.
Daniel told him to go do something to himself and then took my arm and led me to the door. "Get out of here," he said. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."
I didn't peg Daniel as the type who would walk a girl to the car, but he followed me down the stairwell and, as I glanced over my shoulder while I unlocked the van, I saw him watching from the shadows of the door less entryway.
LATER THAT EVENING
April Thomas had the attention span of an ADHD five-year-old when it came to computers and English books--reality television, on the other hand, could keep her occupied all day. Her latest favorite show was on Monday night, so I wasn't too surprised that she wasn't at the library when I got there. Which was totally understandable, considering I was almost an hour and a half late. I got stuck in rush-hour traffic from the city, and it was pitch-dark when I pulled up to the library. I wasn't much in the mood for tackling Emily Dickinson on my own, so I decided to go back home for dinner.
I whipped into the driveway and slammed on the brakes when a dark shadow lunged out in front of the car. My heart pounded against my rib cage as I peered out the window. Jude shielded his eyes from the headlights. His hair was disheveled, and his mouth was fixed in a thin, tight fine.
"Jude, are you okay?" I asked as I got out of the car. "I almost hit you."
Jude grabbed my arm. "Where have you been?"
"At the library with April. I told Mom--"
"Don't lie to me," he said through clenched teeth.
"April came here looking for you. Good thing I answered the door. Mom and Dad can't deal with this right now. Where were you?" His eyes were sharp, like he wanted to tear me to the bone--and his fingernails, digging into my elbow, felt like they could finish the job.
"Let go," I said, and tried to pull out of grasp.
"Tell me!" he shouted, wrenching my arm even harder. I'd rarely ever heard him shout before, even when we were kids. "You were with him, weren't you?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust, like he could smell Daniel on me.
I shook my head.
"Don't lie!"
"Stop it!" I shouted back. "You're scaring me."
There was a catch in my voice, and when Jude heard it, his eyes softened and he let go of my elbow.
"What on earth is going on?" I asked.
Jude put his hands on my shoulders. "I'm sorry." His face twisted like he was trying to hold back a rush of emotion, "I'm so sorry. I've been looking for you everywhere.
This is just so horrible. I ... I needed to talk to you, and when I couldn't find you--"
"What?" Flashes of horrible things happening to Baby James or Charity shot through my mind. "What happened?"
"I found her," he said. "I found her and she was all blue and cold ... and those gashes ... I didn't know what to do. Dad came, the sheriff, the paramedics
. But it was too late. They said she'd been gone for hours, more than a whole day."
"Who?!" Grandma, Aunt Carol, who?
"Maryanne Duke," he said. "I was delivering Thanksgiving packages for Dad to all the widows. Maryanne was my last delivery. And there she was, sprawled on her porch." Jude's face splotched with red. "One of the paramedics said she must have fainted with weakness while leaving her house.
"Dad called Maryanne's daughter in Milwaukee. She's mad. She said it was Dad's fault. Said that he should have taken better care of Maryanne, that he should have made her go to the doctor." Jude wiped at his nose. "People expect him to work miracles. But how can you work miracles in a world where an old woman lay on her porch for over twenty-four hours and nobody stopped?" Lines furrowed around his eyes. "She was frozen, Grace. Frozen."
"What?" Maryanne lived in Oak Park. It wasn't nearly as bad as where Daniel was staying, but it was definitely a less desirable area. My head felt like I'd been standing over an open bottle of oil solvent too long. How many people could have passed her by? "She has a lot of potted plants on her porch, and with the railing ... that's probably why nobody found her." At least that's what I wanted to believe.
"But that's not the worst of it," Jude said. "Something had found her. Some animal or something ... some scavenger. She had all these gashes on her legs. And her throat, it was open all the way to her esophagus. I thought that's what had killed her, but the paramedics said she'd been dead and cold for a long time before it happened. There was no blood."
"What?" I gasped. My dog, Daisy, jagged through my mind. Her little throat ripped open. I pushed the thought down with my rising stomach. I couldn't let myself picture
Maryanne the same way.
"Angela Duke said it was Dad's fault, but it wasn't." Jude bowed his head. "It was mine."
"How could any of this possibly be your fault?"
"I told her that if she'd gone to the doctor, then she would be able to sing in the program. I made her feel guilty." Tears welled in his eyes. "When I found her, she was wearing her green Sunday dress and that hat with the peacock feather she always wears when she sings." Jude burrowed his forehead into my shoulder. "She was trying to make it to the church. She was trying to sing her solo." His body lurched against mine, and he began to sob.
The world spun even faster. I couldn't believe I'd been singing while an old woman I'd known all my life was dying in the cold--alone. My legs gave out. I sank to the ground. Jude came with me. I sat in the middle of the driveway and held my brother's head to my shoulder. He sobbed and sobbed. I rubbed my hand up and down his back and thought of the only other time we had held each other like that. Only I was the one who'd needed comforting then.
FOUR AND A HALF YEARS AGO
It was a hot May night. I'd opened my window before bed and was awakened by echoing voices around two in the morning. Even now, when I can't sleep, I still hear those voices--like phantom whispers on the night wind.
My bedroom was on north end of the house--the side facing Daniel's home. His window must have been open, too. The shouting got louder, I heard a crash and the sounds of ripping canvas. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay put. I couldn't stand to be in my own skin until I did something. So I went to the one person I knew I could rely on most.
"Jude, are you awake?" I peeked into his room.
"Yes." He sat on the edge of his bed.
Jude's room was the one next to mine at the time-- before my parents turned it into a nursery for James. Those horrible voices wafted in through his open window. They weren't as loud as they had been in my room, but they were just as chilling. My parents' bedroom was on the far south side of the house. If their window wasn't open, they probably wouldn't hear a thing.
"We have to do something," I whispered. "I think Daniel's father hits him."
"He does worse," Jude said quietly. "Daniel told me." I sat next to Jude on the bed. "Then we have to help him."
"Daniel made me blood-brother swear I wouldn't tell Mom and Dad."
"But that's a secret, and secrets are wrong. We have to tell."
"But J can't," Jude said. "I promised."
A vicious roar erupted in the background, followed by the loud cracking of splintering wood. I heard a muffled plea cut off by a horrible smacking sound--like the noise the mallet made when my mom pounded out meat on the kitchen counter.
Six hard smacks and a thundering crash, and then it fell silent. So silent I wanted to scream just to break it. Then there was this tiny sound--a whimpering, doglike cry.
I clutched at Jude's arm and leaned my head on his shoulder. He brushed his hand through my tangled hair.
"Then I'll tell," I said. "So you don't have to." Jude held me until I had enough courage to wake my parents.
Daniel's father split before the police arrived. But my father persuaded the judge to let Daniel stay with us while his mother figured things out. Daniel was with us for weeks, then months, and then a little over a year. But even though his fractured skull healed miraculously fast, he never seemed the same to me. Sometimes he was happier than I'd ever seen him, and then other times I would catch this pointed look in his eyes when he was with Jude--like he knew my brother had broken his trust.
DINNER
I sat at the table and ate dinner by myself for the first time in ages. Jude said he wasn't hungry and went down to the basement, Charity was in her room, James had already gone to bed, and Mom and Dad were in the study with the double doors pulled closed. As I picked at my plate of reheated macaroni casserole and beef
Stroganoff, I suddenly felt smug toward Daniel, like I was glad he was wrong about my perfect family dinners. Then I knew thinking that was wrong. I shouldn't want bad things to happen to my family, just to prove something to Daniel. Why should he make me feel guilty or stupid for having a family that wanted to eat together and talk about our lives?
But tonight, it was too quiet to eat. I scraped my leftovers down the disposal and went to bed. I lay there for a while until those phantom voices found their way into my head. But then I realized the loud tones came from my own home. My parents were shouting at each other down in the study. They weren't violent shouts, but angry and annoyed. Mom and Dad occasionally disagreed and argued, but I had never heard them fight before. Dad's voice was low enough that I could hear his despair, but I couldn't understand his words. Mom's voice got louder, angrier, sarcastic.
"Maybe you're right," she yelled. "Maybe it is your fault. Maybe you brought this on all of us. And while we're at it, why don't we add global warming to the list? Maybe that's your fault, too."
I got up and closed my door all the way, slipped back under the covers, and pulled a pillow over my head.
Chapter Seven
Obligations
TUESDAY MORNING
Dad usually went jogging early in the morning, but I didn't hear him go out while I was getting ready for school. The light was on in his study as I passed the closed doors on my way to the kitchen. I almost knocked but decided against it.
"You're up early," Mom said as she shoveled a stack of chocolate chip pancakes onto my plate. She'd already made two dozen of them even though none of us--except
Dad--usually made our way down to breakfast for another thirty minutes. "I hope you slept well."
Yeah, with a pillow over my head.
"I have a meeting with Mr. Barlow this morning."
"Mm-hmm," Mom said. She was busy wiping down the already glistening counter. Her loafers reflected in the sheen on the linoleum floor. Mom had a tendency to get a little OCD when she was stressed. The harder things were for the family, the more she tried to make things sparkle. Like everything was perfectly perfect.
I poked my finger into one of the melting chocolate chips that formed a symmetrical smiling face in my pancake. Mom normally only made her "celebration pancakes" for special occasions. I wondered if she was trying to soften the blow for a discussion about Maryanne--prep us for one of Dad's sermons about how death is a natural
part of life and all. That is, until I saw the look of guilt in her eyes when she placed a glass of orange juice in front of me. The pancakes were a peace offering for her fight with Dad last night.
"Fresh squeezed." Mom wrung her apron in her hands. "Or would you rather have cranberry? Or maybe white grape?"
"This is fine," I mumbled, and took a sip.
She frowned.
"It's great," I said. "I love fresh squeezed."
I knew right then that Dad wasn't coming out of his study this morning. We weren't going to talk about what happened to Maryanne. And Mom certainly wasn't going to talk about their fight, either.
Last night Daniel had made me feel guilty for having a family that sat around the dinner table and discussed our lives. But now I realized that we never actually talked about anything that was a problem in our home. It's why the rest of my family never mentioned Daniel's name or discussed what happened the night he disappeared--no matter how many times I'd asked.
Talking would be admitting that there was something wrong.
Mom smiled. It looked as syrupy and fake as the imitation maple drizzled on my breakfast. She flitted back to the stove and turned over a couple of pancakes. Her face fell into a frown again, and she dumped the barely over-browned batch into the trash. She still wore the same blouse and slacks from yesterday under her apron. Her fingers were red and chapped from hours of cleaning. This was perfection overdrive, big-time.
I wanted to ask Mom why she would hide her fight with Dad by making ten pounds of pancakes, but Charity came stumbling into the room.
"What smells so good?" she yawned.
"Pancakes!" Mom shooed Charity into a seat with her spatula and presented her with a heaping plate. "There's maple syrup, boysenberry, whipped cream, and raspberry jam."
"Awesome." Charity dug into a container of whipped cream with her fork, "You're the best, Mom." Charity gulped down her pancakes and went for seconds. She didn't seem to notice Mom practically scrubbing a hole into the skillet.
Charity grabbed the raspberry jam and then froze.
Her eyes suddenly seemed glossy, like she was about to cry. The jar slipped out of her fingers and rolled across the table. I caught it just as it went over the edge. I looked at the label: FROM THE KITCHEN OF MARYANNE DUKE.