The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel (43 page)

Jory and Grace and their father now sat at the table not looking at each other. Finally, their father glanced at his watch and sighed. “I’d better be getting to the credit union before they close for the day. You’re going to need a certain amount of money.” He nodded at Grace. “For clothes and food and necessities and things.”

“Dad,” said Grace, her voice shaking.

“Yes,” he said. He fumbled around in his jacket and pants pocket and finally pulled out his keys.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Possibly not,” said their father.

“You can’t send me away like this,” said Grace. “I won’t go.”

“Grace,” said their father. “You don’t have any choice.”

“I do,” said Grace. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

Their father stood up and jingled his car keys in his palm. He wore a look of sheer determination.

“Someday,” Grace said, “I may forgive you for what you’re doing. For what you already did and for what you’re doing now, but I don’t think that will happen anytime soon.”

“Well, Grace,” said their father in his calmest voice, “I guess I’ll just have to look forward to that eventuality.”

Jory stared out the living room window at the first few flakes of snow that were coming down. The sky was gray and sunless, even though it was only midafternoon. Jory’s head felt strange, as if a small group of bees or ants had taken up residence in her skull and was busily rearranging its contents. She made her way through the kitchen and into the garage and sat carefully down on the piano bench. She looked at the sheets of music sitting on the piano’s lid. “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” was open to its second page. Grace had played this song at their last Christmas piano recital and then the three of them, Grace, Jory, and Frances, had played a six-handed rendition of “Silent Night” that had ended the program and had made everyone clap and then sigh with contentment. The three of them had worn matching red velvet dresses that their mother had found for them in the Sears catalog. Jory put her index finger on middle C and pressed the key so softly that no sound was made. She tried to play the
first notes of her part in “Silent Night,” but she couldn’t remember how it started. She couldn’t remember any of it. They had worn white lacy tights and had cameos pinned to the collar portion of their velvet dresses. Frances had cried at the end of the recital, though, because she had to finally relinquish the book of Life Savers that she had brought as a Secret Santa present. Their father had scooped Frances up onto his hip and let her touch the spun-haired angel on the very top of the tree. Then they had driven slowly down Arco’s icy streets singing Christmas carols. That had been a year ago. Not quite a year.

Grace came down the garage steps and sat down on the piano bench next to Jory. “Scoot over,” she said. Jory was so surprised that she moved to the right without even thinking. “Six-eighths time,” Grace said. “You start first and then I come in.” She played the first few chords of Jory’s part. “Remember?” She played the first four chords again. Grace seemed intent on what she was doing, but also happy. Something else about Grace looked different. Besides the faded outlines of the strange swirly tattoo things on her hands and arms. Jory peered at her sister. Two tiny silver stars hung from Grace’s earlobes. “You got your ears pierced,” Jory said. She stared at Grace in amazement. Grace’s hand went up to one of her earlobes. She turned and looked at Jory, her face now slightly pink. “Annelise did it for me,” Grace said.

“What? That red-haired girl from Hope House? The one with the teardrop tattoos? Did she do the weird stuff on your hands?”

“It’s
mehndi
.” Grace held out her hands and turned them palms up. “It’s on my feet too.”

“You thought she was a terrible sinner,” said Jory. “On Halloween, you told her she needed to be saved.”

Grace put her hands back in her lap. “Did I?”

“Yes,” said Jory, “you most definitely did.”

“Well,” said Grace. Her smile was slightly lopsided. “I guess I’ve had some time to rethink things since then.”

“I guess,” said Jory.

Grace’s smile grew even more wobbly. “You know, it’s become more apparent to me lately that I haven’t always been very understanding of other people’s points of view. As understanding as Jesus might have been.”

“He was
mine
,” said Jory. “You didn’t even like him. You thought he was way too old and too sinful. Isn’t that what you said? Too ‘scruffy’ and ‘dirty’?” She stood up from the piano bench. “He smokes, you know, and he drinks beer too. He has a tattoo on his shoulder and he’s going to get another one.” Jory took a deep breath. “He was in
jail
.” This last bit she said with a certain amount of triumph.

“Just juvenile detention,” said Grace. “And it was a long time ago.”

The buzzing in Jory’s head made her feel as if everything—the floor, the piano bench, her sister—were all stretching out long and then narrow like taffy being pulled on one of those machines at the state fair. “He’s
friends
with a girl from my school. An incredibly beautiful, absolutely gorgeous freshman girl with long black hair who smokes and who’s going to be a model or an actress. He’s probably in love with her.” She stared defiantly down at Grace. “He sells drugs,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure any of these last pieces of information were entirely true.

“Jory,” said Grace. She reached out and touched Jory’s sweater.

Jory pulled her arm away. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said. “It’s me that feels sorry for you. You’re the one getting shipped off to Kansas.”

The front door of the house opened and closed with a bang, and Frances ran through the kitchen, paused for a moment, and then came sprinting out into the garage. Frances stopped still at the sight of Grace and Jory next to the piano, and stood unsmiling in her brown jumper with the gray felt mouse on the pocket. Her hair was in two slightly messy braids and she leaned shyly against the garage doorway.

Grace turned toward Frances. “Hey, Franny, do you want to play your old recital piece with Jory and me?” She patted the spot on the piano bench next to her.

Frances shook her head wordlessly. She made a funny scowling face and looked down at the garage floor. Just as suddenly, she looked back up at her eldest sister. “Where’s all your hair, Grace?”

For a second, Grace said nothing. “Oh,” she said, blushing slightly and running her hand up over her scalp. “My friend shaved it all off for me.” She smiled at Frances. “Do you want to feel?”

Frances took a step or two nearer to Grace, and then Grace took her
small hand and placed it on top of her bent head. “It’s prickly,” said Frances, quickly withdrawing her hand. “Like porcupine whiskers.”

“Quills,” said Jory.

“It does feel sort of strange, doesn’t it?” said Grace. “But it’s a sign of my willingness to sacrifice my own selfish desires. To rid myself of my own ego.”

“Oh,
Grace
,” said Jory.

“But why are your hands all brown and dirty?”

Grace smiled at Frances. “It was part of a ceremony. See?” She held her palms out for Frances to examine. “The women get their hands and feet painted in preparation for an important bodily change, like marriage, or even burial.”

Jory stared at Grace. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re really getting married? Did he actually ask you?”

Grace stood up from the piano bench without acknowledging this comment and knelt down next to Frances. She touched the felt mouse on Frances’s pocket. “How’s school?” she asked.

“I like Miss Boosinger,” said Frances. “She lets me grade the papers sometimes. After the other kids are gone.”

“That’s good,” said Grace. “You shouldn’t tell the other kids how they did, though.”

“I don’t,” said Frances. “It’s a secret between me and Miss Boosinger. I only grade the quizzes. And only sometimes.” Frances put her hand on Grace’s knee. “I was going to be a big sister,” she said.

Grace leaned closer to Frances. She ran her hands down both of Frances’s small braids. “Yes,” she said. “You are.”

“She was going to sleep in my old crib,” said Frances. “And use my green blanket, but now she’s going to live with some people who can’t have their own baby and get to have this one instead.”

Grace’s mouth fell. She stood up and stared out the garage window.

“And we get to have pot roast for dinner,” said Frances. “And baked potatoes and cooked carrots. I hate cooked carrots—they’re like rubber fingers,” she added.

Jory moved over and sat down in one of the old-school desks. Instead of looking at Grace, she picked up an empty carton of milk that was lying
on the desktop.
“La leche,”
the carton said, its black-and-white printed label still safely adhered. Jory set the carton upright on the desk. It wobbled and tipped back over on its side.

“I get to be a horn of plenty in the Thanksgiving play.” Frances held out the bottom of her jumper. “I wanted to be an Indian, but Miss Boosinger said my hair’s not dark enough.”

“That’s absurd,” said Grace in a dazed voice. “You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you. Not even authority figures.”

Jory gave Grace a scornful look. “Did you read that in the Tao?”

Grace glanced at Jory. “No,” she said. “I’ve always thought that.”

“Right,” said Jory. “Like you’ve always had pierced ears.”

Grace made a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Please don’t be like this, Jory. Not now.” She glanced at Frances, who was taking all of this in without saying anything. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I wouldn’t ever, if I could help it.”

Jory pulled herself out from behind the desk and stood up. “I was the one who told Dad where to find you,” she said.

Grace now wore a look of disbelief.

“I did, and I’m glad, too.”

“I don’t believe you—you’re just upset right now,” said Grace, her voice shaking again. “But if you did tell him, I forgive you.”

“Don’t try to sound holy,” said Jory. “Not anymore.”

Grace didn’t respond to this. She was peering at the school desk where Jory had been sitting.
“Oh,”
she said.

Jory turned to see what Grace was looking at. The school desk now had a spot of brownish liquid pooled in the middle of the wooden seat. “What is that?” said Jory. Her hand went automatically to the back of her pants. It came away wet.

“Oh,
Jory
,” said Grace again. She gave her sister a look of knowing concern.

Jory had a moment’s confusion and then she stood upright and motionless, holding her wet hand out slightly in front of her.

Jory turned and walked up the garage steps and past her mother, who was now in the kitchen stirring a small flatish pan of something on the stove. She walked through the dining room and down the hallway and
into the bathroom, where she closed the door and locked it. She could hear Grace following after her and then trying to turn the handle on the bathroom door. Grace knocked softly. “Go away,” said Jory. Grace said nothing, but Jory could hear her just outside the door breathing quietly. “I mean it,” said Jory. “Leave me alone.” After a minute or two, she heard Grace sigh deeply and then walk back toward the kitchen.

Jory stood next to the sink and ran hot water over her hands. She glanced up at the mirror and saw herself staring blankly back, her hair slightly messy and her face as pale and uninteresting as usual. She was no different than before, no more mature or grown up or womanly. She felt a dull heaviness beginning to lodge itself in her gut as if she had the beginnings of a mild stomachache. She sat down on the edge of the tub. She didn’t even know what day it was. Wasn’t she supposed to keep track so she would know to expect this again a month from now? And where was the blood? She stood up and unbuttoned her pants and pulled down her underwear. It was just a brownish, gooey stain. It looked more like a small spot of spilled gravy than something powerful and mysterious.

She made a face and sat back down on the tub’s edge. She didn’t want to do this—this thing was doing whatever it was doing all on its own. It was stronger than she was, or was separate from her and didn’t give a crap what she thought about anything. She felt oddly betrayed. The buzzing in her head hummed on unrelentingly. She pulled a long length of toilet paper off the roll. She folded the paper up into a thick square and lined her underwear with it and then she stood on top of the closed toilet seat lid and pushed open the bathroom window.

The ground was shockingly hard when she jumped down, and outside it was getting colder. She began to walk, hugging her arms to her chest as she marched across the backyard and into the silent street. The air was quiet and thickly still, the way it got right before it was going to snow. It was a soft sort of cold that made Jory feel strangely calm. She had no idea where she was going. Maybe this was how Grace had felt the night she ran away from the diamond-windowed house, and maybe Jory was now simply repeating everything that Grace had done. Maybe she was still merely imitating Grace in some weird, juvenile way. Jory walked faster. The clouds were now so thick and heavy that they had caused the
streetlights to come on even though it was only late afternoon, and in the conical glow cast by the one on her corner she could see tiny particles of something in the air, fine particulates of frost or snow or ice just beginning to form and swirl lazily down. Jory blew on her hands and rubbed them together and kept walking.