Authors: T. Greenwood
Grace (29 page)
Being at school was like walking through a minefield or getting lost in some awful fun house. He never knew when Mike or Ethan might just pop up, never knew when the next ambush might be. He tried a different route from class to class each day, hoping to throw them off course. But while he could elude them one day, on other days they seemed to anticipate his every move. Their taunts followed him; their words like snakes, hissing and curling around him, when he least expected it. He still sought solace in the art room, though without Mrs. D. there, it wasn’t at all the same safe haven it had been.
The new art teacher, Mr. Franklin, had told them they would be doing a short unit on photography and then promptly showed them a bin of cheap digital cameras and two ancient computers, only one of which had Photoshop on it. Trevor’s heart had sunk.
“What about the darkroom?” he’d asked quietly. He almost never spoke in class, in any class, and his voice seemed to startle everyone, including himself.
“Those chemicals are terrible,” he said. “Completely toxic. The district’s concerned with liability issues. Besides, it’s an antiquated art form.” Mr. Franklin probably would have thought that Mrs. D. was an antiquated art form herself. He couldn’t have been older than Trevor’s mom.
Trevor thought about all the rolls of film in his drawer. He could barely remember the images he’d captured anymore. Gracy, his
muse,
had grown so much since he started taking pictures. He bet that she’d look like a different girl in the pictures he’d taken over the summer. He loved that the camera helped him to freeze time, to hold onto something that won’t last no matter how hard you try to make it. But until he developed the photos, they were just dreams captured in their canisters. Worthless.
muse,
had grown so much since he started taking pictures. He bet that she’d look like a different girl in the pictures he’d taken over the summer. He loved that the camera helped him to freeze time, to hold onto something that won’t last no matter how hard you try to make it. But until he developed the photos, they were just dreams captured in their canisters. Worthless.
During the first week of school, he’d somehow mustered up the courage to ask Mr. Franklin if he could spend his lunch periods in the art room. Mr. Franklin had looked at him suspiciously but said, “Ah, why not? But I’m on lunch duty, so I’ll be in the cafeteria. You can hang out here as long as you don’t mess with anything.” He’d raised his eyebrow at Trevor, as if gauging whether or not Trevor was trustworthy.
Mr. Franklin was unimpressed by Trevor’s art. He fawned over Angie’s sketches and paintings (which were beautiful but strange—mostly wide-eyed girls with giant bellies). But he pretty much ignored everyone else. Mr. Franklin was young and handsome; all the girls in the class giggled and whispered whenever he turned his back. Trevor studied him. He was tall and athletic-looking. He wore soft, worn jeans and sweater vests over crisp white cotton shirts. He always had the shadow of a beard, and his hair curled over the top of his shirt collar. His voice was deep. His hands large. Trevor wondered what he was like as a kid. If kids had ever picked on him. He doubted it. Trevor missed Mrs. D. and her ratty sweaters and musty breath. She was like a cozy chair, a favorite blanket. He felt disconnected without her there, a balloon that’s been cut loose in a building, hovering above everything. Untethered and precarious but still captured. One move in the wrong direction and he might just pop.
During lunch, he waited for Mr. Franklin to leave the classroom, pretending to work on a charcoal drawing he’d started of a bowl of grapes and figs. But as soon as the doors closed behind him, Trevor quickly disappeared into the darkroom. His fingers grazed the trays. He lowered and raised the enlarger, flicked the red safe light on and off. He ran his fingers across the packs of paper, the coiled film spools, the piles of clips. He went to the locker where the chemicals and paper were kept. Mrs. D. had shown him where she kept the key, hanging from a cup hook on the opposite wall. Inside the locker there were three shelves of chemicals:
Developer, Stop Bath, Fixer,
all labeled in Sharpie, in Mrs. D.’s careful handwriting. Seeing this trace of her made him miss her more. He knew he should go see her again, but her apartment had made him feel sad, and without pictures, he wasn’t sure what they could talk about.
Developer, Stop Bath, Fixer,
all labeled in Sharpie, in Mrs. D.’s careful handwriting. Seeing this trace of her made him miss her more. He knew he should go see her again, but her apartment had made him feel sad, and without pictures, he wasn’t sure what they could talk about.
Suddenly filled with a sense of purpose, Trevor studied the contents of one jug,
acetic acid,
then lifted it from the shelf and carried it back to the art room. His heart beating hard in his chest, he unzipped his backpack and put the jug inside. He returned to his desk, carefully setting his pack down, and continued drawing, shading, and erasing until the sides of his hands were black. When the bell rang, he heaved the backpack onto his shoulder and quickly left the art room, passing Mr. Franklin on his way back in.
acetic acid,
then lifted it from the shelf and carried it back to the art room. His heart beating hard in his chest, he unzipped his backpack and put the jug inside. He returned to his desk, carefully setting his pack down, and continued drawing, shading, and erasing until the sides of his hands were black. When the bell rang, he heaved the backpack onto his shoulder and quickly left the art room, passing Mr. Franklin on his way back in.
“You get some work done?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Trevor said, afraid Mr. Franklin might hear the sloshing of the stop bath in his pack. Mr. Franklin smiled. “You know, Trevor, I really like a student who puts in the extra effort. Any time you’d like to stay after class, you’re more than welcome. And I’ll take a peek at your work, see if I can come up with some pointers.” Trevor thought of those lopsided grapes with the shading all wrong. The figs that looked like shriveled-up ears instead of fruit. And he thought about all those photos, the ones just waiting to be developed. All those moments just waiting to be exposed. Trevor rushed past him into the hallway, which was thick with students now, moving in swarms like buzzing insects. He kept his head down and made his way through the throngs to his class.
Later, after sixth period, he walked quickly down the main hall, past Mr. Douglas, who was engaged in a battle with a mop bucket, and it struck him that while Mr. Douglas acted like he was some sort of armed guard in the morning, by the afternoon he was more concerned with emptying wastebaskets and mopping the floors. He didn’t care what
left
the school, he only cared what came in. If Trevor was careful, he could get everything he needed. Well, almost everything. When it came to the bigger stuff, he’d need to come up with a plan. But for now, he could at least get started.
left
the school, he only cared what came in. If Trevor was careful, he could get everything he needed. Well, almost everything. When it came to the bigger stuff, he’d need to come up with a plan. But for now, he could at least get started.
K
urt knew that it wouldn’t be as simple as telling his father he was moving into the retirement home. He would have to have been stupid to think that it would be that easy. He knew Pop. He thought long and hard about how he might present the news, how he might temper it, slant it so that it sounded appealing to him. He’d have to paint a picture that was based in truth but highlighted in the right places. Like a lawyer. He almost wished Billy were here to give him some advice on how to make his case.
urt knew that it wouldn’t be as simple as telling his father he was moving into the retirement home. He would have to have been stupid to think that it would be that easy. He knew Pop. He thought long and hard about how he might present the news, how he might temper it, slant it so that it sounded appealing to him. He’d have to paint a picture that was based in truth but highlighted in the right places. Like a lawyer. He almost wished Billy were here to give him some advice on how to make his case.
He stood at the kitchen sink, bleary-eyed from another day and night of back-to-back shifts, his eyes barely registering the motions his hands conducted. The pouring of coffee, of milk. The wipe-down of a spill. The closing of cabinet doors. His body was operating solely out of habit, taking over while his brain got the rest it so desperately needed. He knew that he was just a few more sleepless nights away from lunacy. He’d heard that you could actually lose your mind with insomnia. Start seeing things that weren’t there.
Through the window, he studied the disaster that Pop had made of the backyard in just the couple of months that he’d been living there. He tried to imagine how others might see it. What the neighbors, if they had any, might have thought. Pop was like an animal, like a rat. Collecting, gathering, protecting, and keeping. His possessions were meaningless, ridiculous, to everyone but him. Kurt had tried again and again to find the empathy a good son should have, but that well had dried up a long time ago. Now Pop’s stuff just made him angry. He knew that sending him off to the home was ultimately for his own safety, what any good son would do, but he also knew there would be a certain satisfaction in throwing everything away. In clearing Pop’s mess out of his life. Of confining him to the small room at the home where it was someone else demanding order, cleanliness. He was tired of being the bad guy, the one always making demands.
He knew Pop would resist. That he would argue and fight. He would accuse and try to make Kurt feel as though he hadn’t done enough. He might lock himself in the trailer and never come out. Like an angry kid throwing a tantrum.
But then Kurt thought about Elsbeth. About the reward. Two nights before, she came to him. Took him by surprise. She offered herself to him in a way that he’d forgotten she could. She’d undressed him and then herself, revealing some lingerie he’d never seen before. He was too turned on to even worry how much it had cost her. They were like teenagers again, awkward and shy and stumbling and hungry. She’d clung to him after, her whole body still quaking. She’d slept curled around him, the pulse points of her body aligning with his. Music of blood. The smell of their bodies hovering in the air.
But he also knew Elsbeth. He knew that she had shown him this, given him this night, as a tentative promise. It was conditional. He knew that if he screwed up, she could take things away as readily as she had given them to him. She was testing him, teasing him. She’d whispered in his ear again, “Promise.”
He had promised. Promised so many things. But this time, he knew that if he was unable to deliver, she might just finally disappear. That she might slip out from the covers, slip through his fingers, slip out the door.
He threw back the cup of coffee, which burned his throat, and set it down in the sink. He buttoned his flannel and readied himself for a fight. Pop needed to start packing. This was it.
The heat had finally broken, like a resistant eggshell, spilling a cold chill. The air felt numb, liquid. Kurt went to the trailer and knocked on the door. It struck him, as his knuckles rapped against the flimsy metal, that there was no way Pop could survive in the trailer when the weather truly turned. It was no more than a metal can on wheels. It would have been like living inside a tuna can. He had no choice. He would be safe at Plum’s. Taken care of. Warm.
He could hear Pop shuffling about inside, and for a moment, he panicked that maybe Pop was trapped under a pile of something. Buried under the rubble he’d created. But then the door flew open and Pop stood there, hair slicked back. Clothes tidy and clean. Face shaven and fists clenched.
“I know whatcha come for,” he said.
“Oh good,” Kurt said, startled. He hadn’t been prepared for this. “I meant to tell you sooner, but I was worried you might not want to go.”
Pop stared out at the empty field beyond the yard, his eyes glassy.
“Listen, they’ve got a room. It’s a good-sized room. The food is supposed to be excellent. There’s a shuttle that will take you into town whenever you’d like to go shopping, to the barbershop. And of course I’ll be by all the time. You can bring your own bed if you want to, but they have a linen service. Someone will do your laundry. It’ll be like living at a hotel.”
Pop shook his head.
“They’ve got bingo and poker tournaments. Movies on the weekends. They’ve got cable in every room.”
“I ain’t going,” he said.
Kurt smiled, ready for this. “I know it’s a big change, but, Pop, you need to be somewhere where there are nurses. Where you’re safe. You can’t live here through the winter. You’d freeze to death. Plum’s is a good place. It’s clean and your Medicare will pay for it.”
“I said I ain’t going anywhere,” he said. “Unless it’s back to my own goddamned house.”
F
all came quickly and without warning. The heat broke and suddenly it was frigid. Winter’s fingers were prying; Crystal could feel them as she lay in her bed, touching her. Warning her. She thought of Ty in California. Daydreamed the palm trees and sunshine and the beach. As she shivered under the covers, she conjured dream seagulls, crashing waves, and bellowing foghorns.
all came quickly and without warning. The heat broke and suddenly it was frigid. Winter’s fingers were prying; Crystal could feel them as she lay in her bed, touching her. Warning her. She thought of Ty in California. Daydreamed the palm trees and sunshine and the beach. As she shivered under the covers, she conjured dream seagulls, crashing waves, and bellowing foghorns.
She’d never been to California. Never been anywhere farther south than Boston, never farther west than Burlington. She thought about leaving. About running away. About packing up all those towels and sheets and bulletin boards her mother had insisted upon and leaving. She wondered if the Volvo would be able to take her long distances or if it would fail her, leave her stranded.
But whenever she considered fleeing, she also thought about Grace. The thought of being far from her was excruciating. It was ridiculous, she knew. She wasn’t a part of her life. She was no one to her. But still, she felt bound to her as though they were tethered together.
It had been six months. A half of a year. The baby she’d given to the Stones wouldn’t be the same baby anymore. She went to the parenting websites and studied the milestone charts. She looked at the photos of babies at one month, three months, a year. She tried to picture Grace, her tiny hands now grasping. Her small body maybe even starting to crawl. She tried to hear her cooing, imitating sounds. She tried to smell her, the scent of powder and milk. The sites said that by now a baby would recognize faces. Know who her mother was. Might be anxious about being separated from her. She wouldn’t recognize Crystal at all. She wouldn’t know her. Wouldn’t love her.
Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake not accepting Mrs. Stone’s offer for an open adoption. She tried to imagine what her life would be like if she had agreed to this arrangement. If she’d just gone off to UVM like she was expected to, living so close to her. Would there be weekend visits? Would she sit in their beautiful living room full of books and thrift-store furniture and poetry, watching as Grace crawled across the floor? Would she be allowed to hold her, to smell the heady scent coming from the top of her head? To feel the tiny flutter of her heart against her chest? Who would she be to Grace? Who was she without her?
She worked. She worked and worked and worked. Forty, fifty hours a week. She spent nothing, saved every penny. She stood in line at the ATM with her paychecks, watched as the balance grew. It was all she knew how to do.
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