Grace (13 page)

WEDNESDAY, NOV.
21

I don't remember everything about that time. Like most memories, the good times fade while the hard times remain sharply chiseled on the tablets of our hearts. One of those times was the day before Thanksgiving when Grace got sick.

I had just gotten home from school and went back to the clubhouse to find the light off. The heater was on high, bathing the room in bright orange light. The clubhouse felt like a sauna.

“Grace?”

She moaned softly.

I crawled to her side. “Are you okay?”

“I don't feel well.” Her speech was slurred.

“Are you sick to your stomach again?”

She shook her head. “This is something different.”

I leaned over and felt her forehead with my cheek like my mother always did when I was sick. “You're really hot.”

“My chest hurts. I think I have pneumonia.”

The word scared me. In California one of our neighbors died of pneumonia. “You're going to have to see a doctor.”

“I can't.”

“But pneumonia's
serious
. You could die.”

“He'll just give me pills. Do you have any pills?”

“What kind of pills?”

“Penicillin. Penicillin cures everything.”

“Maybe my dad has some. He has all sorts of pills. I'll go see.”

I ran back to the house and went to my parents' bathroom. Rooting through their medicine chest I found an amber bottle with penicillin. I pulled off the cap. There were only two pills inside. I was pretty sure she'd need a lot more than that. I took the pills and a damp washcloth out to her.

“We only have two pills. But I think I know where I can get more.” I filled the tin cup with water and helped Grace sit up. She took both pills, then lay back down. I draped the wet washcloth across her forehead. She closed her eyes and fell back asleep. I sat by her for the next hour, then went back to the house.

I found Joel laying out baseball cards into fantasy baseball teams.

“Grace is really sick,” I said. “We need to get her some penicillin.”

“Where do we get that?”

“Mrs. Poulsen.”

“That mean old lady down the street?”

“Yeah. Old people always have pills. When we were cleaning her garage I used her bathroom. There were pill bottles all over the place. She must have like a million things wrong with her.”

“That old bat won't give us any pills.”

“I know. We'll have to take them.”

Joel's face showed sudden excitement. “You mean we're going to break in?”

“No, she'll let us in.”

“Why would she do that?”

“We'll go shovel her walk, then I'll ask to use her bathroom. When I get inside, I'll take them.”

“I don't want to shovel her walk.”

“It won't take long, and then we won't be stealing the pills because she'll owe us.”

“She
already
owes us.”

“I know, but
she
doesn't think so.”

“Well, I'm not going to shovel her walk.”

“Joel, we have to get those pills. It's a matter of life and death.”

He shook his head and sighed, like he always did whenever I coerced him into something, which was a fairly regular occurrence. “All right.”

We put on our boots and coats and carried our shovels down the street to Mrs. Poulsen's house. Even though it was only a few minutes past five the sun had already begun to set. As we shoveled we made as much noise as possible so Mrs. Poulsen would come outside. Still, it was at least ten minutes before she walked out on her front porch.

“That is so sweet of you boys. Would you like some hot cocoa?”

This would be easier than I thought. “We sure would,” I said. I set down my shovel and started for the door. The storm door slammed before I reached it.

A few minutes later she came out with a couple mugs. “Cocoa break.”

Joel and I put our shovels down and took a mug.

“Could we please go inside?” I asked. “It's pretty cold.”

“Let's just stay on the porch. I don't want you tramping snow inside.”

Joel took a drink of the cocoa and grimaced. I took a sip. It tasted like someone had dipped a brown crayon in hot water, then served it in an unwashed coffee cup. There was a ring of lipstick on my mug.

Mrs. Poulsen stood on the porch with her familiar look of magnanimity. “I'm surprised your folks let you out after dark. Did you hear about that girl who was kidnapped?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It was in the
Eagle.
The article said she went to Granite. Don't you boys go to Granite?”

“I do. But I don't think she was kidnapped. She probably just ran away from home.”

She shook her head. “That's even worse. Worrying her folks and everyone else like that.”

“Maybe she had a reason,” I said.

The old lady turned on me, displaying a ferocity I wouldn't have guessed she possessed. “What reason could that awful girl possibly have to hurt her poor folks like that? Kids today don't care about anyone but themselves.”

My temper flared. “She's not awful. You are.”

Her mouth opened so wide that I thought her dentures might fall out.

Just then Joel handed me his mug. “I've got to use the bathroom,” he said and without waiting for permission ran into the house. Mrs. Poulsen was too stunned to stop him. About five minutes later he came back out. Me and the lady were still glaring at each other.

“Let's go, Joel.”

“Yes, you bad boys go on home.”

“You're a mean old lady,” Joel said. “And you're cheap.” We stepped off the porch and he turned back again. “And your hot chocolate stinks!”

When we were back home I turned to Joel. “That was bad.”

“I told you she was mean.”

“Any luck with the pills?”

Joel nodded. “Got them.”

“Let me see.”

He pulled the bottle from his coat.

I read the label. “This is Librium.”

“What's that?”

“I think it makes you happy.”

“Happy pills?”

“Yeah. We needed penicillin.”

Joel put the pills back in his pocket. “I'm keeping them anyway. Mom could use some of these.”

THURSDAY, NOV.
22

The next day was Thanksgiving, and fate played us a winning hand. We put on our Sunday go-to-meeting clothes and went to Uncle Norm's for dinner. Before we left I went in and checked on Grace. She looked about the same, though she thought the pills I gave her were helping. I kissed her on the forehead and told her I'd bring her back some leftovers, which we both agreed were even better than the actual dinner.

 

Thanksgiving dinner was to Aunt Geniel what the Sistine Chapel was to Michelangelo. We've all seen magazine pictures of Thanksgiving feasts with large, perfectly browned turkeys and shiny, butter-basted rolls. Then we learn the photographer's tricks, like using shoe polish to burnish a raw turkey, making it look perfectly roasted, or adding marbles to soup to make it appear chunkier.

Aunt Geniel made things that were both picture-perfect
and
edible. That year we enjoyed an amazing feast. There was spiced roast turkey, giblet brown gravy, mashed potatoes, candied yams, green beans, honey-glazed baby carrots, Parker House rolls, herbed apple stuffing, cranberry and orange relish, rice pudding, and pumpkin pie.

While everyone was eating dessert, I went in the bathroom and looked inside Aunt Geniel's medicine cabinet; there were two full bottles of penicillin.

The labels on the bottles said to take one pill four times a day for ten days. I did the math: four times ten was forty pills, minus the two I'd already given her. I needed thirty-eight pills.

I poured the entire contents of one of the bottles into my hand. There were twenty-four pills. I counted the pills from the other bottle. There were only nine. I was five pills short. But Grace wasn't very big, so maybe they'd be enough. I poured them all into one of the bottles and shoved it into my trouser pocket. I returned the other bottle to the cabinet then decided that I better take the empty bottle as well. I put it in my other pocket then returned to the table. I hated stealing something from Aunt Geniel's house, but I was certain that she would give the pills to me if she knew what they were for.

We didn't leave until around eight, when my mother announced it was getting close to Joel's bedtime. Aunt Geniel loaded us down with enough leftovers that I knew Grace's share wouldn't be missed.

 

That night I brought Grace the pills and two large plates of food. She made a turkey roll sandwich with cranberry sauce. As good as the food was, she didn't have much of an appetite. She ate a little, then we both lay back together on the mattress. Holding her was my favorite thing in the whole world.

“Do you know what I'm most grateful for this Thanksgiving?” she asked.

I had no idea. “What?”

“You.”

I smiled. “I'm grateful for you too.”

We just lay in happy silence. After a few minutes, she rolled over to look at me. “So I've been thinking. Do you believe there's a hell?”

“Sure. Doesn't everybody?”

“Well, what if this
is
hell, but we just don't know it?”

“That's crazy. Hell is like lakes of fire, and there are devils with horns and pitchforks. There's none of those around here.”

“But what if hell's not really like that?” Grace asked.

“Everyone says it's that way,” I said.

“I don't think Jesus ever talked about fire and brimstone.”

“Then why do they teach us that at church?”

“To scare us.”

“Why would they want to scare us?”

“I don't know. I just don't think God wants us to do good things because we're scared. I think he wants us to do good things because we're good.”

I thought about it. “You're talking gibberish,” I said.

She sighed. “Yeah. Maybe I'm just sick.”

SATURDAY, NOV.
24

By Saturday evening Grace was feeling a lot better, and her appetite had returned. After my parents went to bed, I raided the refrigerator and brought out a plate of cold tuna casserole. I was amazed at how quickly she devoured the food. When she was done I asked, “Do you want more?”

She looked embarrassed but nodded. I went back inside and filled another plate which she downed nearly as fast. Afterward we held hands and went for a short walk up and down my street. When we got back she said, “Do you have any rubber bands?”

“A million of them.” I wasn't exaggerating by much. My father had spent years making a rubber band ball that was now nearly as big as a softball.

“Would you get me a couple?”

“Sure. Now?”

“Please.”

I ran inside the house and returned with a dozen or so elastic bands. She looped one through the buttonhole of her pants and secured the other end around the button. She sighed. “These were getting too tight.”

“Maybe you shouldn't eat so much,” I offered.

She looked stricken. “Maybe
you
shouldn't be so rude.”

I frowned. “Sorry.”

She sighed. “I'm sorry too. I'm just upset.”

“About what?”

She looked at me and squinted. “Nothing. Just a girl thing.”

I nodded without understanding. She might as well be a space alien for all I knew about “girl things.”

MONDAY, DEC.
17

It was the only Monday night of the month that I'd had off. Jackie needed some extra cash for Christmas and asked if she could work for me, and I was only too happy to oblige. That night our family sat around the television set. My dad was in his La-Z-Boy watching the news and my mother was knitting. Joel and I were locked in an intense game of checkers, oblivious to the television until the newsman said, “The hunt goes on for a missing Salt Lake girl. Madeline Grace Webb, a student at Granite Junior High, has been missing for more than sixty days. Police suspect foul play and are currently investigating several leads, but are asking for your help. There's a five-hundred-dollar reward for any information leading to her whereabouts. You may contact the Salt Lake police directly or call this station for further information. In other news…”

I looked back at Joel. He was scared. Five hundred dollars was a fortune. Everyone would be looking for her.

“That's the girl from your school,” my father said.

“Yeah,” I replied, stiff with panic.

“Oh, my. They still haven't found her?” my mother said, her needles crossing and clicking rhythmically. “What is this world coming to?”

“Don't worry, they'll find her,” my dad said. “Or at least the man who took her. They found Dillinger, didn't they? And when they do…”

Joel looked at me.

“What do you think they'll do to him?” I asked.

“Who knows? The electric chair's too good for people who steal children. I'd just hate to be him.”

I felt light-headed. “May I have an Ovaltine?” I asked.

“Sure,” my mom said.

I walked to the kitchen, then slipped out the back door, running to the clubhouse. I quickly crawled inside. “Grace!”

Grace was curled up in the corner reading. “Hi,” she said happily, setting her book in her lap. She saw the distress on my face. “What's wrong?”

“You were just on the television.”

“Honest?”

“Well, not you. But they were talking about you. And they showed a picture of you.”

Grace didn't share my excitement. “So.”

“The man on the news said that you've been kidnapped and the police are looking all over for you. They put out a five-hundred-dollar reward.”

“Well, you know I wasn't kidnapped.”

“This is really serious. You were on
television.
”

She lifted her book and started reading again.

“Didn't you hear me?
Television!
”

“I heard you. I just don't care.”

“You don't care? People think you were kidnapped. Or maybe dead. This is
really
serious.”

“It's always been
really
serious.”

“You think this is fun,” I said. “It's time you did the right thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Not worrying everyone.”

Grace wore a dark, angry expression. “You still don't know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Why I ran away.”

I didn't know I'd missed something. “You said it was for kicks.”

“And you believed me?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Grace's eyes narrowed. “You are
so
gullible. You live in this world where you think that deep down inside everyone means well and monsters are make-believe. It's not true. People aren't all good. And there really are monsters.”

I was confused. “Monsters? You mean like Dracula…”

“No!” She threw her book against the wall. “You're so stupid.”

Her words stung. “No I'm not.”

“Don't you know why I've been throwing up and why I'm getting fatter? It's not because I'm sick or eating too much. It's because I'm expecting!”

“Expecting what?”

“I'm pregnant!”

The word stunned me. In those days “pregnant” wasn't a word that even adults used casually. “How can you be…?” I choked on the word. “…you're not even married.”

She groaned. “That's what I'm talking about. You're so naive. Don't you even know where babies come from?”

“I know…” I suddenly made the connection. “Who?”

She didn't speak for a few moments; then she started to cry. She said, “My stepfather made me.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Your stepfather?”

She was crying so hard I could barely understand her. “If I'm sent back home, something really bad will happen.”

I felt sick for drawing this out of her. I felt sick for my youth and for my stupidity. And I was aching from all the mean things she had said to me. Half of me wanted to hold her, the other half wanted to run. She continued to sob.

“He's a very bad man. He told me that if I ever told anyone what he did to me he would hurt me and my mother. He said no one would believe me anyway. And you know what? They won't. They always believe the adults.”

I tried to absorb everything she had told me. Finally I said, “I believe you.”

“I know you do. But you believe everything everyone tells you. You're just a boy.”

This was the most hurtful of all the things she said. I looked away from her. “I guess I am. Well, I better go.”

“Eric?”

I couldn't answer her; the lump in my throat was too big. I crawled out of the clubhouse without looking back. I heard her calling after me as I walked back to my stupid house finally sure of exactly who I was. I could pretend all I wanted but in the end I was still just a stupid, gullible, naive boy.