Finding Grace: A Novel (46 page)

"I don't think so mister," said Raymond.
"Pilot's an old country dog. He's hardly set foot in a house, and
never been in a cage. He'd go plum crazy if you tried to cage him,
and Gracie wouldn't want that. If she wants to see her dog, she'll
have to come see him when she gets better."

If I have my way, she might
never set eyes on this place again
, he
thought. But of course, he did not voice his thought. Instead, he
looked up at the front door of the house as it opened, and a lady
came slowly out. She was a thin, worn looking woman with mousy
brown hair that was swept up in a loose knot. She was wiping her
hands on a towel as she came out, and she put it over her shoulder
as she saw them.

"Come for supper, Brother Clay?" she asked.
"And who's this gentleman with you? Is he hungry too?"

Wordlessly, Henry and Mr. Clay walked
towards her. This was Grace's mother, Henry realized without
hearing her name. He just knew it, and looking at her, he had a sad
notion that this might have one day been the woman he loved. Tired
eyes, worn hands, a battered figure…the scars of living a life of
servitude. Grace had once said that her mother was married at
fourteen, and Jack was her oldest boy at age twenty-seven. So that
meant Mrs. Langdon must have been about forty-two. She looked much,
much older but he didn't dare say so, and he politely introduced
himself.

"I'm Henry Shaw. And I'm here to talk to you
about your daughter."

Mrs. Langdon's eyes widened. She seemed to
look to the preacher for understanding. He took her lightly by the
arm and ushered her into the house, with Henry following. As they
came in, a small boy came rushing from the kitchen towards his
mother.

"Mama, I'm hungry, when are we gonna
eat?"

"Not now, Robert Langdon!" she scolded
harshly. "Go on outside and play until I call you back in."

Pouting his lip, the boy did as he was told,
as Henry realized he'd met yet another member of the family, albeit
briefly. But he didn't linger on the thought, as there were more
important matters at hand.

At the kitchen table the three of them sat,
while the four older boys stood listening near the doorway. Henry
looked at them for a moment before turning to their mother.

"Mrs. Langdon, I am a neighbor of your son,
Jack.”

At the mention of that name, her eyes
widened and lit up.

“
My son? You know my son?
How is he? Does he ever ask about us?”

Henry shook his head. “Mrs. Langdon, I’m not
here to talk about him. I’m here to talk about your daughter.”

“
Oh,” she said.

It seemed to Henry that she seemed
disappointed. It bothered him, but he ignored the feeling and went
on.

"Mrs. Langdon, your daughter was working for
me recently, and was quite happy in what she was doing, until she
ran into an old friend. Do you know who that friend was?"

She nodded, still looking calm and
unconcerned. "Charlie?" she answered. Then she nodded. “We were
hoping he might get her to come home with him."

"Well he
has
come home," Henry
said, and at the mention of Charlie, his voice took on an angry
tone. "He's come home in a pine box. He killed himself, Mrs.
Langdon. He killed himself in his jail cell, after nearly killing
your daughter."

At last, her calm broke. Her hand came up to
cover her heart. "She's dead? My daughter is dead?" She rose up
slightly in her chair, horror in every limb.

Sitting close, the preacher reached out to
put his hand on hers. "No," he said. "She is not dead, thank the
almighty. But she is confined to a sick bed for some time, and she
has asked for you and your husband to come to her. Mr. Shaw is here
to take you there."

Mrs. Langdon's frame wilted in relief, and
she let out a shaking breath. And then, the worry that had just
been there was wiped away, and the calm returned. "Thank the maker
for that," she said. "I’m just glad her brother was there. I’m sure
he took care of her. He always thought of her like a pet of his.
And God rest poor Charlie."

Poor
Charlie
? Henry thought furiously.
I've just told you your daughter nearly dies, and
Charlie is who you talk about?
He wanted to
curse the woman. Grace should have been the one, the ONLY one, she
was thinking of. He wanted to shout it to her, but somehow, he
maintained his polite manner and tone of voice.

"I have bought two tickets for the both of
you, and I would like you to come with me first thing in the
morning. The sooner you get to her, the better."

There was a long silence,
and Henry quickly realized that she was thinking about it.
Thinking about it
? His
brain cried out, though it didn't extend to his voice.
What in the hell is there to think about,
woman?
He almost shouted it at her, but
kept the impulse down by the strongest force of his will. Still, he
had an edge to his voice when he asked, "Will you come?"

"I don't know," she said. "John is still so
angry about Gracie leaving like she did. I don't think he'll go to
see her, even if she's sick."

Henry rose to his feet, furious almost
beyond words.

"Would he see her if she was dead?"

He could not keep that question from his
lips, enraged as he was with her response. He paced the room,
choosing to ignore the wounded look on her face, and the
reproachful glance of the preacher, who seemed to sense that some
divine intervention was needed. He reached out his hand to her, and
he spoke kindly but firmly.

"Rachel, she is your daughter," he said. "It
is only right and Christian that you forgive any wrong she has
done. Remember, to err is human, to forgive divine."

"I know the words well enough, Brother
Clay," she said calmly. "But if John don’t change his mind, I can’t
change it for him. He’s my husband, and I have to honor and obey
him."

Henry gritted his teeth, doing his best to
restrain himself. He wanted to reach out and strangle her. She
obviously couldn't think for herself. Maybe her autonomy had been
drained out of her by her husband, the way a dog is broken by its
master and forced to submit. He wondered how in the hell this woman
and Grace could be of the same flesh and blood, as different in
character as they were.

The door to the kitchen opened, and looking
over, Henry realized he was looking, for the first time, upon John
Langdon. He was not a man of great height or stature. And yet, his
presence filled the entire room. There was something in his
movement, something in his deep set brown eyes that was dark and
forbidding. There was nothing of friendly feeling about him, though
when he spoke, his voice was calm and cool.

"Brother Clay, how are you," he said. Then
he looked at Henry, eyeing him up and down. "Who is this?"

"John, this is Mr. Shaw," said Mrs. Langdon
in her meek way. "He's Jack's neighbor in Chicago."

John's face drew into a grim, dark scowl,
and he turned and removed his hat and jacket. "Is that a fact? And
what in tarnation is that to me?"

"John, Gracie's been hurt," the preacher
said. "Charlie shot her. And then he committed suicide."

For a moment, John was silent, his face
almost grave.

"Is that a fact? Well, God rest his soul.
And I'll say a prayer for Gracie."

He started to walk away…but Rachel came to
stand before him.

"John," she said, and though her voice was
small, there was at last a hint of determination. "Gracie wants to
see us. I don't ask much of anybody. Will you at least think on
it?"

Henry watched as they looked at one another,
and for a moment, he swore he saw a flash of real feeling in Mr.
Langdon's face. But John said nothing. He just turned and walked
away, past them into the hall, where he went into another room and
closed the door. Rachel turned to Henry and Mr. Clay, looking
nervously from one to another.

"You'll stay for supper, won't you?" she
asked.

Henry glanced at the
preacher, who looked back at him as if to say,
It's your decision
. Henry turned to
look at Mrs. Langdon, and nodded his head. Then he looked again at
Mr. Clay.

"I think I'll go out and stretch my legs a
bit, and get some fresh air."

"I think that is a fine idea," said the
preacher. "I'll stay here and see what I can manage."

With a slight nod, Henry turned and walked
away, passing the brothers as he went. And one by one they filed
out after him. Raymond was the only one to say anything.

"You ain't gonna get lost out there on your
own, are you mister?"

Henry smiled. “I think I'll manage to find
my way, thank you.” Looking at the four young men, he noticed that
they still clutched their rifles. Being a former military man, he
couldn't help but comment on their weapons.

"Those are fine looking guns you have there.
Maybe when I get back, if there's time, we can all show each other
what kind of marksmen we are."

They all just looked at him blankly, but he
said nothing more, setting out on his walk. It was his thought that
he might be related to these men someday, and if a few hours were
all he would have to know them, he might as well relate to them on
some level. Socially, mentally, and in so many other ways, they
were worlds apart. But if they could relate, even over something as
small as knowledge of weapons, then so be it.

The long walk took him across open green
fields, by pastures of cows and horses. And as he went, he thought
of course, of Grace.

It was so hard to believe that someone such
as her could be born of two people like John and Rachel Langdon. In
only two small respects could he see a similarity, and that was in
the stubbornness of John Langdon, and the temper. But though she
was stubborn, Grace did not fly into fits of temper for no good
reason. He had often sensed that she did not like confrontations,
but when backed into a corner with no choice, she came out
swinging. As for Mrs. Langdon, the only similarity between the two
women was just that…they were both women. It gored him to think
that, if Grace had remained in this place and given in to marrying
Charlie, she might have eventually become just as beaten down in
spirit as her mother. He sent a little prayer of thanks, then, for
Jack and Alice who had fostered her strong spirit, and he prayed
that as she was lying there in her bed back home, she was doing
well and thinking of him.

Soon, my love, I will come
back to you,
he thought.
With or without your family, I will come back to
you.

Chapter 23

“Promises”

Upon returning from his walk, Henry found
the four brothers in a field near the house, target shooting. He
came up to them and watched for a while. Then Thomas looked at
him.

"Are you any kind of shot, mister?"

"I'm been known to fire a round or two," he
replied.

Thomas handed him the rifle. And he
proceeded to show them just what had made him a crack shot in the
infantry.

They were impressed with his abilities. So
much so that they started competing with each other, trying to see
who could outshine who. And while they shot, they talked to him,
telling him about Charlie and all the things they would have done
to him if he hadn't taken his own life.

Charlie was a bullied kid, they said. He'd
lost his mother and been abandoned by his father. But that didn't
excuse anything he'd done. On that, they were all in agreement. And
while Henry had certainly wanted revenge for Grace, he had nothing
on her brothers. Some of their ideas for justice were so violent
and gory, he had to shake his head in amazement. They were a
protective bunch, he had to give them that.

They got on so well, they were reluctant to
go into the house when their mother called them in for supper. But
they did as they were told, chatting with him all the way back to
the house.

John Langdon was noticeably absent from the
table, and Henry was privately glad of the fact. He knew it would
give him a bit of time to work his charms on the rest of the
family, and as it seemed Grace's brothers had already accepted him,
he now turned his attention to their mother. As the plates and
bowls of food were being passed around the table, he eyed it all
with interest, and looked to Mrs. Langdon.

"Are you of Irish decent?”

Of course, he already knew the answer. He
smiled as he remembered a certain person swearing at him in Gaelic.
But he wanted to make an impression, and certain that she would
take interest in having a fellow Irish native at her table, he used
it as his angle. He watched her as she took her seat slowly,
looking at him with curiosity.

"Most folks around here are of Scotch-Irish
blood. Most are from poor folk who came over from the old country.
How'd you guess it?"

He smiled a little, thinking quickly. "The
food. I remember my grandmother used to cook heavy foods this way.
Cabbage, for one. And potatoes. Always potatoes, usually boiled
like you have them here. I suppose working men needed hearty meals
in the old country, much like they do know. My grandfather spent
many a day behind a plow-horse.”

Surprise was written all over her face.
"Your grandfather was a farmer?"

He nodded. “Until he was nineteen. Then he
left with his new bride to come to America. His father and mother
had survived the potato famine, and he swore he wouldn't let his
children live a life of poverty. So he and my grandmother packed up
what little they had and migrated to New York. After a few years
they left there and went west to Chicago. The railroad was a source
of steady work, especially with the huge meat industry there.”