The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel (38 page)

Grip spent the whole ride back tightly gripping the steering wheel as the rain continued to pour down. Jory said nothing as she watched the lone wiper slap back and forth, back and forth, carving out its little half-moon of clarity on the windshield. At one point Jory turned on the radio and Grip reached over and switched it off again. They continued on their careful, silent way down Chicken Dinner Road and Deer Flat. Grip finally stopped the truck a little ways away from Mrs. Kleinfelter’s driveway and let the engine idle.

Jory picked her books up off the floor. Her throat tightened. “That guy back there, that guy at Hope House, he said he knows you.”

Grip leaned back in his seat. “Oh, yeah?”

Jory held her books to her chest.

The rain continued to slide down the windshield.

Grip cleared his throat. “I think I better be going now.”

Jory tried to keep the note of longing out of her voice. “You don’t want to come in until it stops raining?”

“Nope,” said Grip, looking out his side window. “I’ve gotta get a real tire put on.” He ran his hand over his jaw. “Besides, I think we’ve seen enough of each other for one day, don’t you?”

Jory felt her stomach turn over. “You’re mad at me. Because we kissed?”

“That should never have happened,” said Grip. “I should never have let that happen. We just need to forget that, all right?”

“All right,” said Jory. “I guess.” She swallowed. “What was wrong with it, though?” She asked this last in a very small voice.

“You know perfectly well,” said Grip, an angry edge creeping into his voice. “You’re way too young. Way too young,” he said again.

“I’m not that young,” said Jory.

“Yes, you are, and you should only do things . . . things like that with boys your own age.”

“I liked it, though.” Jory had never felt so embarrassed. Or so compelled to say something.

“It doesn’t matter.” Grip tightened both hands on the truck’s steering wheel. “It does not matter what it feels like. It’s not okay, and we’re never doing anything like that ever again. All right? Got it?”

Jory nodded. She could feel herself starting to cry. She grabbed the door handle and opened the door.

“Jory.” Grip reached out and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she could see that his eyes were filled with a strange, sad look she’d never seen before. He held her arm more tightly. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Jory glanced wildly around the inside of the truck as if she had never seen it before. “He said you were hiding out here. That you needed to hide out.”

Grip’s face wore a look of surprise that slipped slowly and incrementally into one of resignation. “Jimmy always did have a big mouth.”

Jory stared miserably at Grip. A long moment went by. “Jude Mullinix says to tell you hi.”

Grip closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. His head rested on the metal wall of the ice cream freezer behind him. “That’s enough, Jory,” he said. “None of this is any of your business anyway, is it?” With a sudden motion, he leaned clear across her and opened the truck door. “You need to go,” he said. “Right now.”

Jory gave Grip a final miserable look and then she stepped down from the truck and ran toward Mrs. Kleinfelter’s house, her chest filled with a tightness that hurt worse than anything, anything at all.

Inside, her father was sitting on Mrs. Kleinfelter’s couch. Mrs. Kleinfelter was leaning forward in her chair trying not to look alarmed.

“Dad,” Jory said, “I didn’t see your car.”

“Jory, where have you been?” said her father. “Mrs. Kleinfelter tried to pick you up from school, but you weren’t there. She finally had to call me at work.”

Jory’s brain sorted frantically through the list of places she could have possibly been. “We had a field trip for earth science—” She waited desperately for more inspiration. “But then it ended up getting canceled after we were already on the bus and practically there, because of all the rain and stuff, so then we got back to the school late and I just had one of my friends bring me home.” Jory paused in her recitation. “But, you know, the whole thing took longer than it was supposed to and, well”—she shrugged—“here I am.”

“Well, there you go,” Mrs. Kleinfelter said, eagerly waving the problem away. “I figured it was something like that.” She eased herself up from her chair. “So, I was just trying to convince your father to eat some dinner with me. It’s only toasted cheese sandwiches, but I might be able to locate some tomato soup somewhere.”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking Jory off your hands for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?” Jory’s father didn’t wait for an answer; instead, he took Jory by her elbow and began piloting her toward the back door.

“Well, all right, then, if you’re sure. But, Jory, I’ll save you something to eat for later, just in case. And—oh, say, Dr. Quanbeck?”

“Oren,”
he said with a strained smile.

“Um, yes,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter. “I’m just wondering if it might not be helpful to talk to the police or the sheriff or someone about this. Isn’t it their job to find missing people? I mean, don’t they get paid by the county to do just this type of thing?”

Her father was still wearing his earlier smile. “Well, I guess I’ve just been hoping to avoid involving any outsiders in what seems like a private family matter. But I definitely appreciate your concern and, of course, your taking care of Jory in the way that you have. I’m very grateful for that, Hilda.” He held out his hand and Mrs. Kleinfelter slowly took it. “My wife and I both appreciate everything you’re doing.”

Jory glanced back at Mrs. Kleinfelter as her father continued to steer her through the kitchen and down the two steps to the back door, which shut behind them with a finality that was distressing.

Outside, it had finally stopped raining, but the dusky air was still damp and heavy with the odor of something her father called geosmin, but which always reminded Jory of the smell of an Indian head nickel collection she kept in a leather coin purse. Her father got behind the wheel of the old green Buick and Jory slipped in beside him. He didn’t put the key in the ignition.

“Jory. That was unacceptable.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jory said. And she was. She shrank down a little in the seat.

Her father placed his hand on her shoulder and left it there. “I mean it. I need you to help me here. I can’t have another lost daughter. I won’t be able to stand it.”

“I know.”

“I need you to think very hard and help me come up with a list of people that your sister might have contacted—might have called—or perhaps gone to see.” Her father pulled a note card out of his shirt pocket. “What about someone at church? Who were her good friends?”

Jory glanced up at her father to see if he was serious. “She didn’t have any friends.”

A sharp look passed over her father’s face. “That’s not true, Jory. Grace had friends. She
has
friends.”

Jory shook her head. “Not really. Not like normal people.” Jory felt a sudden pang about revealing this fact to her father. And about the fact that he hadn’t known this in the first place.

Her father tried to brush this comment off. He uncapped a ballpoint pen. “Who would she have turned to? We need to think here. What about girls from school? Someone in her class at Arco Christian?”

Jory felt like crying.

“And what about that man who was with you girls at Mrs. Kleinfelter’s house that one night? The one with the red hair. The strange one.”

“Grip?”

“Is that his real name?” Her father was writing again. “
G-r-i-p?
What’s his last name?”

“Welker,” Jory said, before she could stop herself.

“Where does he live?”

Jory thought for a second. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

“That’s all right,” her father said. “Ed will find out.”

“Ed?”

“Ed Hewett. You know, from next door. I hired him to try to find Grace. Well, I didn’t really hire him, per se; I just spoke to him in confidence, and he decided to do this for free out of the goodness of his heart.” Her father’s voice softened. “That’s not ordinarily a phrase I would have associated with him in the past, but he’s a father too, and he’s familiar with these kinds of things . . . these types of problems.” Her father drew several crooked stars on the note card.

“I thought you didn’t want anyone to know about Grace.”

“Well, he thinks he can do a certain amount of checking on these people without them even being aware. He can watch and ask questions and see if anything suspicious is going on.” Her father put the card back in his pocket, then patted her hand and gave her a brief smile. “Everything’s going to be fine. We’re all going to be all right.”

“I know,” she said. It was clear that no one thought this at all. Which was why they all kept saying it. And why she kept agreeing with them. As if repetition alone could keep whatever it was they were all worried about at bay.

A
day went by. Two days. And then a week. A week in which Jory went to school and slept and ate at Mrs. Kleinfelter’s house. A week in which no one heard from Grace and in which Jory did not see Grip. It was as if certain important things had now been erased, or had never existed in the first place. Jory felt as if she had a missing tooth, as if there were a raw and seeping gap somewhere that ached and bled whenever she ran her tongue against the spot. Which she did over and over, as if it were some kind of test. As if her tooth might be back if she checked just once more, just once more, one last time. Everyone else seemed fine: Mrs. Kleinfelter, the people at school—no one but Jory seemed to realize that there was a horrible hole in the world.

“What’s your dress like?” Rhea took a bite of yogurt and then licked the spoon clean. “Is it short or long, sexy or sophisticated, Twiggy or Cher?”

“I don’t know,” said Jory. She wadded up her lunch sack. She couldn’t eat. Her stomach seemed to have shut down completely. She tried to take a sip of milk. It was warm and tasted faintly like metal.

“How can you not know? It’s this Friday.” Rhea pinched Jory’s upper arm. “Mine is dark burgundy red with black lace all around the hem, and it has a slit up to here so I can dance.” Rhea wiggled her eyebrows. “Randy’s bringing a flask.”

“Okay,” said Jory. She put her milk carton on the ground. “I’m going inside,” she said, and stood up.

“What’s wrong with you?” said Rhea. “Lunch isn’t even over yet. Hey—where’re you going? I wanted to talk to you.”

Jory said nothing; she just walked toward the main building and down the stairs to the girls’ bathroom. She threw her lunch sack in the garbage can and opened the door to the very last stall. She sat on the closed toilet
lid with her head in her hands until the bell for class had rung, and then the tardy bell too. After it had gotten completely quiet, she came out and climbed up onto the bathroom radiator and stared out the window. She could see the girls lined up outside on the baseball field waiting to play softball. She was missing PE. She watched as Rhea hit the ball to some girl she’d never seen before. “Catch it, you retard,” Rhea was yelling. “It’s right in front of you.”

Jory jumped down off the radiator and stood up. She walked out of the bathroom and back up the stairs and out the front door of the school. The parking lot was filled with cars; the sun shone blindingly off their hoods and bumpers. Jory walked between the rows of cars until she came to the sea green ’67 Malibu. She opened the driver’s door and sat down. The seat was sun warmed and inviting. Jory opened up the jockey box and fished around under the eight-track tapes until she found the key that she had seen Nick leave there the time before. With a small lurch in her stomach, she put the key in the ignition and tried turning it to the right. The car’s engine roared to life with a sound that Jory was sure would bring the entire school’s administration running. She flinched and lowered her head, but, amazingly, no one seemed to notice or care that she was now driving someone else’s car. She had never driven a car before, but she had gotten pretty good at changing gears in the ice cream truck, and this car was an automatic. She studied the gearshift. P, R, N, and D. Carefully, she moved the gearshift into R and stepped slightly on the gas. The car rolled backward as easy as can be, but then it just kept going. Jory put her foot on a pedal and the car jerked suddenly and slammed to a halt. Now she was halfway out in the middle of the parking lot. She looked down at the gearshift again and moved the lever into D. She stepped gingerly on the gas pedal and pulled slowly out of the parking lot. It was as if someone else were doing this. She coasted down the hill and past the Day ’N’ Nite grocery store. She tried stepping on the brake again and was still shocked when the car jerked to a squealing halt. She would have to do that even more gently. Jory’s head felt clear and empty as a pane of new glass as she steered the car down the country roads. She stayed at one speed and slowed down way in advance of any stop signs. At the gas station, she made a careful turn and pulled in far behind the pumps. She got out of
the car and headed toward the man inside, and it was only then that she realized that her legs were shaking. The bell of the station’s door dinged when she opened it and the man in the blue coveralls glanced up from his clipboard. “Yeah? What can I do for you?” the man said. Jory tried to smile, to still the uncontrollable shaking of her knees. “Can you tell me how to get to the Bali Hai Trailer Court?”

Her back and sides were now quite slippery with sweat. She made two wrong turns and had to backtrack a few miles before she found it. The fake plastic palm trees at the trailer court’s entrance waved familiarly at Jory, and at this, her deadened heart gave a sudden small leap. She parked the car and got out and began walking down the rows of trailers. It all looked just the same, although the empty wading pool was now completely filled with greenish water. Jory walked to the farthest row and saw number 23, its string of colored lights still hanging, but no longer lit. Grip’s old black Schwinn was no longer leaning against the side of the trailer, either. She opened the trailer’s screen door and took a breath and knocked at the solid wooden one inside it. After a moment, she knocked again, her heart thudding. Jory cupped her hand over her eyes and peered in through the door’s window. It was dim inside, but she could see that the Formica table was now folded back up into the wall and there were no coats in the open closet next to the kitchen. She put both hands around her eyes. The cactus sat in its spot above the kitchen sink and there were three clean plates standing in the dish drainer. The calendar girl still smiled out from the wall and held out her bottle of 7Up. Jory stepped down from the door. She backed up and glanced around her. The ice cream truck was parked over next to the left side of the trailer park’s lone picnic table. She ran over to the truck, pushed open the door, and leaped up inside it. The green plastic beads were still hanging around the rearview mirror. She crawled into the back of the truck and knelt and lifted up the lid on the ice cream freezer. A waft of stale, warm air rose up to greet her. Inside the freezer was carton after carton of melting ice cream.

She let the freezer lid slam shut. She sat on the floor of the truck and leaned her head against the side of the freezer. Maybe he was just riding his bike somewhere and had forgotten to plug in the freezer. Maybe he
was out getting groceries. Or a newspaper. Maybe he was riding by her house this very minute. Jory scrambled up off the floor and scooted between the truck’s seats and jumped down onto the ground. She walked across the gravel toward the other side of Grip’s trailer. She brushed through a thick patch of weeds and cheatgrass. The back side of the trailer seemed very similar to the front, except that there were two small windows instead of one, and two concrete blocks that served as steps to the back door. Jory stepped up onto the top cement block and turned the door’s handle carefully back and forth. This yellow plastic door had no window cut in it and it was locked. Jory stepped down off the cement blocks. She stood back and gazed at the two windows. She gave a sudden impotent leap—a completely stupid and pointless maneuver since they were both too high up for her to see into. She bent down and hoisted the uppermost of the cement blocks and hauled it over to a spot directly beneath one of the windows. Picking up the bottom cinder block, she shuddered. A revelation of worms, now bare and uncovered, writhed whitely in the sun’s glare. She quickly carried the second cinder block over to the first and, with a grating sound, set it on top of the first. Stepping gingerly up onto them, she leaned against the trailer window, her hands cupped around her eyes. Inside was Grip’s bedroom. She stared intently at his bed, which was covered with a nondescript blue bedspread. A goosenecked lamp sat on the linoleum floor of the trailer, along with some shoes, old tan work boots that Jory had seen Grip wear before, and something that looked like Mrs. Kleinfelter’s old brown dress—the one that had been let out at the waist—crumpled up beneath the bottom of the bed. She stared at the dresslike thing—the smallish portion of it that was poking out from underneath the bed—and at its brown paisley pattern. Jory stared and stared, as if the dress might shift and move or change into something else. As if it contained a message within it that Jory could decipher if she stared just a little longer.

Off in the distance, she could hear a crow cawing mightily, and then another one, farther away, cawing back.

All the way to school, Jory could feel her heart in her chest, its steady, painful throbbing. Her heart beat on and on as she piloted the car back to
Schism. Fifth period had just begun when she pulled into the parking lot. She found her seat in earth science and got out her notebook and began taking notes. “The earth is a relative newcomer,” Mr. DeNovia was saying. “While the universe is at least thirteen billion years old, the earth has been around for only 4.55 billion years of that. This birth date was determined by C. C. Patterson using uranium-lead isotope dating on several meteorites including the Canyon Diablo meteorite.”

“We always called ’em shooting stars,” said Laird, leaning toward her and whispering.

Jory knew what she was supposed to say, but she couldn’t do it. She stared down at her notebook instead.

“Hey,” he said, still whispering.

Jory was appalled to see a teardrop splat onto her writing. The blue ink bled outward and obscured what had been written there. The earth was now a bleary, unknown age, although the universe’s age remained clear. Her small world had been wiped out while the rest of the cosmos went on unchanged—a tiny lesser planet washed away in a small, second flood, and barely even noticed in its passing.