Finding Grace: A Novel (3 page)

A sad, almost sickened look came to Rachel’s
face, but still she spoke.

“
Katie had broken the
kerosene lamp. It caught her skirts on fire and burned so fast, she
didn’t stand a chance. By the time Walter got to her, she was too
far gone to save.”

Grace sat with her hand covering her mouth,
horrified. Now she wished she had never asked about it, as the
image branded a scar on her imagination.

“
Thank the good Lord Charlie
was out playing, and didn’t see it,” said Rachel. “After they
buried Katie, Walter went about out of his mind grieving. That’s
why he sent Charlie off to be with his kin. He just plum couldn’t
stand to raise the boy on his own.”

As Grace took her hand away from her mouth,
she gave an involuntary shudder.

“
Poor Mr. Hillard,” she
said. “No wonder he is the way he is. And poor Charlie. I always
knew he lost his mother, but I never imagined it was like
that.”

Rachel stood up suddenly, as if the topic
was too upsetting to continue with. “It was a long time ago. But if
you see Charlie, don’t you go asking him about it. I don’t imagine
anything but the grave will ever set it right, for either of
them.”

Grace shook her head, her reply meek. “No,
of course not.”

What else was there to say? She felt a
sudden need to busy herself, so she started pouring tea into the
glasses. For the first time in a long time, she wished she didn’t
possess such a curious nature.

As she filled a glass, she heard the dogs
barking from out in the front yard. Someone was coming up the
drive. She felt her heart beat fast with excitement.

Charlie
, she said to herself. Full of anticipation, trying to
suppress a hopeful smile, she rushed to the front window…only to
find disappointment. It wasn’t Charlie at all, but just another
neighbor stopping by. She let out a sad sigh, calling out to her
mother.

“
It’s Mr. Wilson come to
call.”

“
Come to call, and come to
talk I reckon,” replied Rachel.

Grace snorted in disgust. “He come to fill
his belly full, that’s what it is.” She didn’t bother trying to
hide her sarcasm…which Rachel immediately chastised.

“
Don’t be ugly. It’s our
Christian duty to be neighborly.”

Grace huffed.
Neighborly,
she
thought
. That old fool is
just looking for a handout wherever he can get it.

She watched as he came near
the porch, his bald little head reflecting the sun.
Troll
, she thought. And
then she saw his attention was caught by something. A moment later
she heard her father’s voice calling.

“
Hey Jim, where you been?
Come on in the house and sit a spell.”

A noisy camaraderie soon erupted. There was
male laughter and bellowing, followed by heavy treading on the
floor and the scraping of chairs as the men clamored for a place
around the table. Mr. Wilson sat himself down in a chair and,
without pause, snatched up the glass of tea before him. Tilting his
head back, he downed the contents of his glass in several loud and
slurping swallows. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,
and letting out a loud breath of air, he looked up at Grace. With a
smile, showing off what few teeth he had left, he pushed the glass
at her in a silent demand for more. Silently she obliged…but the
moment he turned away, her lip curled in disgust.

Nasty old coot,
she thought.
Lord forgive
me for saying it, but I hope he chokes.

He said to everyone, “I reckon I just heard
something mighty interesting.”

Here he goes
again
, Grace thought,
Tellin’ tales and rattling on and on.
She was still shaken by what she’d heard of Charlie’s mother,
and now this old fool was going to dominate the whole conversation
at the table. It made her want to scream and curse.

They paused to say the blessing. And then it
began. He didn’t even take a moment for the Amen to sink in before
he started talking.

“
It seems old Walter Hillard
kicked the bucket last night.”

She gasped aloud at the news. But her little
noise passed without notice…the conversation carrying on as if she
were not present. Seeking comfort, she looked to her mother. But
Rachel seemed more concerned with seeing that plates were full,
although she did manage a few words.

"God rest his poor soul.”

While she gave that small comment, Mr.
Wilson continued with his own talk.

"Charlie is still up there at the house,
from what I hear. His aunt and uncle came and had the body down to
the undertaker. He'll be buried tomorrow morning, over at the
Baptist Church."

As he spoke, he went on heaping food on his
plate. Grace watched him in disgust as he stuffed food in his
mouth, looking very much like a fat-cheeked squirrel. The way he
was acting, he could have been talking about the weather instead of
the death of a neighbor. She wanted to walk over and slap him
across his ignorant head. With a last hope of respect for the dead,
she looked to her father…who, with an unmoved expression, held out
his glass to be refilled.

"I heard tell that old Robert Brown is a
real fire and brimstone preacher. He shakes the rafters when he’s
up at the pulpit. I wonder if he’ll give the eulogy."

Mr. Wilson pursed his lips. “I hope not. All
them fire and brimstone types get up there and spew the gospel for
two or three hours. Land sakes…the man in the casket is dead. Throw
dirt on him and get it over with.”

Grace’s mouth opened slightly. Disgust was
written in every line of her face. And the revulsion only deepened
as her father, giving a careless shrug, gave a last comment on the
subject.

“
We’ll be there to pay
respects.” He took a deep drink of his tea. And as he put it down,
his face broke into a smile.

"You should have been down in the holler
with us, Jim. I caught me a trout like you wouldn't believe."

They started rattling on about
fish...talking loud, laughing and telling tales. And that was the
end of their mourning over the Hillards.

She was suddenly ashamed of every adult at
that table, especially her mother. Women were supposed to be
comforting and healing, but Rachel seemed indifferent. Grace had
the urge to jump up and curse every one of their wretched souls.
She wanted to run out the door and ride all the way over to the
Hillard place to tell Charlie how much she cared…how she wouldn't
forget him as everyone else had.

But now was not the time. If she went
running off like a mad fool, embarrassing her folks in front of
company, there would surely be hell to pay. Not that she cared a
bit for their opinions at that moment. It was the consequences that
she dreaded - having to come home and be berated, maybe even
switched, and then having to hear about it every day until the end
of time. No, she would have to slip away quietly, after everyone
was stuffed full with their supper and too sated to care what she
did.

Chapter 3

“
Broken
”

After the meal was cleared away and the
dishes were washed, she slipped quietly out the front door, moving
towards the barn. Her mother was a good way off across the yard,
tending her rose garden. From the back of the house, there was a
hum of male voices and laughter, the sound of metal clanging
against metal, and the occasional thud of something heavy hitting
the ground. They were all wrapped up in a game of horseshoes, so
even if the house had caught fire, chances were they wouldn't have
noticed. Safe from fear of discovery, she got on her roan mare and
rode off toward the house in the hills.

She had only been to the house once, and
that had been by accident, when she and her brothers had been out
hunting and came across it. They had thought it was haunted, and
until recently, she had agreed with them. Who blamed them for
thinking it, when the place sat so far back in the woods, and was
kept in such a neglected state? She knew differently now, but the
place still had a spookiness about it.

As she dismounted and tied her horse to a
tree, she stood rooted to one spot, looking at the little house and
wondering if she should just turn around and go home. The place
reminded her of Ferndean Manor...the hidden home of Mr. Rochester
in his reclusive state. Standing there, she half expected to see a
man emerge from within, dark and brooding, to stand broken and
silent in the yard. But there was no one. How could she be sure
Charlie was even here? There was only one way to know. Taking a
deep breath, she walked up to the front door, and after a moment of
hesitation, she lifted her hand and knocked.

No one answered. She waited, and tried
again, but still nothing. If this had been the door of another
house, she might have given up and left. But there was something
about this place that held her in its grip. She had been nervous
before, but now that she was here, curiosity worked its way through
her. She looked around for a moment. Slowly she took to walking
along the little front porch, looking in one window and then
another. As she looked through one of the glass panes, she suddenly
noticed a movement from within. Wiping the window and cupping her
hands around her eyes to block the sunlight, she looked again.

There was Charlie, sitting in a chair at a
little table. Quickly she went to the door to knock again, calling
out.

"Charlie, it's Grace.”

She waited. When still he did not answer or
open the door, she took hold of the handle and, slowly, opened it
herself. The table sat just inside the room, and sitting silently
at it was Charlie. He didn't even turn to look at her when she came
in, nor even as she slowly approached him. When she came close to
the table, she noticed the jug of whiskey sitting in front of him.
Seeing it, she felt a quake of fear run over her nerves. Still, she
spoke to him with what courage she could find.

"Charlie?" she said, hoping he would at
least look at her. Then again, maybe it was better if he didn't.
But maybe he would at least talk to her. Her eyes moved from him to
the jug, and then to the half-empty mason jar he held in his hand.
She did not have to ask what the clear liquid in that jar was. It
suddenly bothered her that he would be drinking, even under these
circumstances, and she sighed heavily.

"What are you doing, Charlie?"

His speech was loud, bold…a little slurred
from the drink. "What does it look like I’m doing? I'm working up
the courage for the funeral tomorrow. I saw one parent buried when
I was nine. Now that I'm ten years older, I get to see the other
one buried. That's logic, ain't it?"

His brash tone and cold words stung. But the
sting was brief, for she was sure it was the drink that was talking
more than he was. Someone had to do something for him, and she felt
compelled to be the one. She reached out to take the glass from his
hand. But he jerked it away from her reach.

"Don't touch that!" He held the glass close
to himself, and taking the jug from the table, he placed it safely
and securely at his feet. "My father drank himself into the grave.
And you know what they say about fathers and sons."

He was scaring her now, the way he was
talking. But with her fear, there suddenly came a burst of
frustration and anger at him. Men were supposed to be pillars of
strength, but when it came right down to it, they were just little
boys who had to be told what to do. Or they had to find their
courage in a bottle, of all places. It frustrated her to no end. It
also bolstered her nerves, and in a swift move, she snatched the
jar away from him, dodging his attempts to snatch it back. Going to
the front door, opening it, she pitched the glass out in the front
yard.

Behind her at the table, Charlie rose
unsteadily to his feet.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Barging
in here and trying to tell me what to do. I'm a grown man. I don't
need no little girl like you telling me how to behave." He started
to stumble toward her. "I'm going to throw you out of this house
right now."

She took a step back from his approach,
suddenly afraid of what he might do.

What had she gotten herself into? She
prepared herself to run. But just as he neared her, he suddenly
stumbled in his footing. He fell to the ground with a flailing of
limbs, landing face down on the floor, and instinctively she jumped
out of the way. He lay unmoving where he fell, and for several long
moments she just stood there, looking down at him.

It cut her heart to the quick to see him
there, in a state of helplessness and stupor. Suddenly she didn't
care how angry he got, or even if he cursed and shouted at her. She
wasn't going to leave him like this. She went to him and knelt on
the floor beside him. She tried to help him up, but he pushed her
hands away, as she had thought he would. But there was no anger in
him now. She saw only shame and embarrassment, and it showed in his
voice when he spoke to her.

“
I can get up by myself,” he
said, his voice low. He managed to rise, but didn’t get to his
feet. He sat on the floor, hanging his head and muttering to her.
“He didn’t even know who I was. He forgot about me, just like he
did before.” He looked at her for the first time, and his eyes were
hollow and sunk.

It broke her heart to look at him, but she
managed to hold back her tears. He didn’t need her sorrow, when he
was so deeply buried in his own. Her attention was all she could
give.

“
In almost ten years,” he
said bitterly, “No letters. No visits. Nothing.” His voice shook,
with pain and anger all at once. “But I got through everything just
fine without him. Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert took me in and raised
me. Do you know how hard they worked to bring me up right? When I
got into trouble at school, Uncle Robert would take me home and put
the fear of God in me…to teach me to do right. My father never did
that. But I never needed him anyway. I finished school without his
help. I served my two years in the military just like every good
man. I ran a whole company of men on my own. I didn’t need him for
any of that, did I?”