(2013) Ordinary Grace Read online

  I held the door and my father hauled Gus out. I looked back where Morris Engdahl sat on the hard bench. Now, forty years later, I realize that what I saw was a kid not all that much older than me. Thin and angry and blind and lost and shut up behind iron bars not for the first time or the last. I probably should have felt for him something other than I did which was hatred. I closed the door.

  At the car Gus straightened up suddenly and turned to my father. “Thanks, Captain.”

  “Get in the car.”

  Gus said, “What about my motorcycle?”

  “Where is it?”

  “At Rosie’s.”

  “You can get it tomorrow when you’re sober. Get in the car.”

  Gus swayed a little. He looked up at the moon. His face was bloodless in the pale light. “Why does he do it, Captain?”

  “Who?”

  “God. Why does he take the sweet ones?”

  “He takes us all in the end, Gus.”

  “But a kid?”

  “Is that what the fight was about? Bobby Cole?”

  “Engdahl called him a retard, Captain. Said he was better off dead. I couldn’t let it pass.” Gus shook his head in a bewildered way. “So how come, Captain?”

  “I don’t know, Gus.”

  “Isn’t that your job? Knowing the why of all this crap?” Gus seemed disappointed. Then he said, “Dead. What’s that mean?”

  Jake spoke up. “It means he won’t have to w-w-worry about everybody making f-f-f-fun of him.”

  Gus eyed Jake and blinked. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s the reason. What do you think, Captain?”

  “Maybe.”

  Gus nodded as if that had satisfied him. He bent toward the open car door to get into the backseat but instead stood there making awful retching sounds.

  “Ah, Gus. All over the upholstery,” my father said.

  Gus straightened up and pulled his shirttail from his pants and wiped his mouth. “Sorry, Captain. Didn’t see it coming.”

  “Get in front,” my father said. He turned to me. “Frank, you and Jake are going to have to walk home. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, sir. We’ll be fine. But could we have the tire iron from the trunk? For protection?”

  New Bremen wasn’t at all the kind of town where you’d need a tire iron for protection but I nodded toward Jake, whose face had gone a little white at the prospect of walking home in all that dark, and my father understood. He popped the trunk and handed me the iron. “Don’t dawdle,” he said.

  He climbed into the driver’s side. “You have to puke again, Gus, puke out the window. Understand?”

  “I read you loud and clear, Captain.” He smiled gamely and lifted a hand to us as my father drove away.

  Under the moon we stood on the empty square. The city jail was the only lit building we could see. On the opposite side of the green the courthouse clock bonged four times.

  “It’ll be light in an hour,” I said.

  “I don’t want to walk home,” Jake said. “I’m tired.”

  “Then stay here.”

  I started away. After a moment Jake came too.

  We didn’t go home. Not directly. At Sandstone Street I turned off Main.

  Jake said, “Where are you going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Fine. Go home.”

  “I don’t want to go home alone.”

  “Then come on. You’ll like this, I swear.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  A block off Main on the corner of Walnut was a bar with a sign over the door. Rosie’s. A ’53 Indian Chief with a sidecar was in the lot. Gus’s motorcycle. Only one automobile was still parked there. A black Deuce Coupe with fire painted along its sides. I approached that beauty and spent a moment running my hand admiringly over the slope of the front wheel well where a silver snake of moonlight shot along the black enamel. Then I set myself and swung the tire iron and smashed the left headlight.

  “What are you doing?” Jake cried.

  I walked to the other headlight and once again the sound of shattering glass broke the stillness of the night.

  “Here,” I said and offered the tire iron to my brother. “The rear lights are all yours.”

  “No,” he said.

  “This guy called you a retard. You and Bobby Cole. And he called Ariel a harelip and Dad a pussy. You don’t want to break something on his car?”

  “No.” He looked at me then at the tire iron then at the car. “Well, maybe.”

  I handed that magic wand of revenge to Jake. He walked to the back of Morris Engdahl’s precious set of wheels. He glanced at me once for reassurance then swung. He missed and banged metal and the tire iron bounced out of his hands.

  “Jeez,” I said. “What a spaz.”

  “Let me try again.”

  I picked up the tire iron and handed it to him. This time he did the deed and danced back from the spray of red glass. “Can I do the other one?” he pleaded.

  When he’d finished we stood back and admired our work until we heard the screen door of the house across the street squeak open and a guy shout, “Hey, what’s going on over there?”

  We tore down Sandstone back to Main and down Main toward Tyler. We didn’t stop until we hit the Flats.

  Jake bent over and held his ribs. “I got a stitch in my side,” he gasped.

  I was breathing hard too. I put my arm around my brother. “You were great back there. A regular Mickey Mantle.”

  “Think we’ll get in trouble?”

  “Who cares? Didn’t that feel good?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “It felt real good.”

  The Packard was parked in the church lot across the street from our house. The light over the side door was on and I figured Dad was still inside putting Gus to bed. I set the tire iron on the Packard’s hood and we walked to the door, which opened onto a set of stairs that led to the church basement where Gus had a room next to the boiler.

  Gus wasn’t related to us by blood but in a strange way he was family. He’d fought beside my father in the Second World War, an experience, my father contended, that made them closer than brothers. They stayed in touch and whenever Dad updated us on his old friend it was usually to report another in a long litany of missteps. Then one day just after we’d moved to New Bremen, Gus had shown up at our doorstep, a little drunk and out of work and with everything he owned stuffed in a pack in the sidecar of his motorcycle. My father had taken him in, given him a place to live, found him work, and Gus had been with us ever since. He was a source of great disagreement between my parents but only one of many. Jake and I liked him immensely. Maybe it was because he talked to us as if we weren’t just kids. Or because he didn’t have much and didn’t seem to want more and didn’t appear to be bothered by his questionable circumstances. Or because on occasion he drank to excess and got himself into trouble from which my father would predictably extricate him, which made him seem more like an errant older brother than an adult.

  His room in the church basement wasn’t much. A bed. A chest of drawers. A nightstand and lamp. A mirror. A squat three-shelf case full of books. He’d put a little red rug on the cement floor of his room that added a dash of color. There was a window at ground level but not much light came through. On the other side of the basement was a small bathroom which Dad and Gus had put in themselves. That’s where we found them. While Gus knelt at the toilet stool and puked my father stood behind him and waited patiently. Jake and I lingered under the bare bulb in the middle of the basement. My father didn’t seem to notice us.

  “Still ralfing,” I whispered to Jake.

  “Ralfing?”

  “You know. R-a-l-f,” I said and drew out the word as if I was vomiting.

  “That’s it, Captain.” With some difficulty Gus stood and my father handed him a wet cloth to wipe his face.

  My father flushed the toilet and walked Gus to
his room. He helped Gus out of his soiled shirt and pants. Gus lay down on his bed. He wore only his undershirt and shorts. It was cooler in the basement than outside and my father drew the top sheet over his friend.

  “Thanks, Captain,” Gus murmured as his eyes drifted closed.

  “Go to sleep.”

  Then Gus said something I’d never heard him say before. He said, “Captain, you’re still a son of a bitch. Always will be.”

  “I know, Gus.”

  “They’re all dead because of you, Captain. Always will be.”

  “Just sleep.”

  Gus was snoring almost immediately. My father turned to where we stood in the middle of the basement. “Go on back to bed,” he said. “I’m going to stay and pray for a while.”

  “The car’s full of puke,” I said. “Mom’ll go berserk.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  My father went up to the sanctuary. Jake and I went out the side door. I still wasn’t ready to call it a night. I sat on the front steps of the church and Jake sat there too. He was tired and leaned against me.

  “What did Gus mean?” he said. “Dad killed them all. What did he mean?”

  I was wondering about that too. I said, “I don’t know.”

  The birds had started to chatter in the trees. Above the hills that rimmed the valley of the Minnesota River I could see a thin line of vermilion in the sky that was the approach of dawn. And I saw something else. On the other side of the street a familiar figure separated itself from the cover of the lilac bushes that edged our yard. I watched my older sister sneak across the lawn and slip into our house through the back door. Oh the secrets of the night.

  I sat on the steps of my father’s church thinking how much I loved the dark. The taste of what it offered sweet on the tongue of my imagination. The delicious burn of trespass on my conscience. I was a sinner. I knew that without a doubt. But I was not alone. And the night was the accomplice of us all.

  I said, “Jake?” But he didn’t answer. He was asleep.

  My father would pray for a long time. It was too late for him to go back to bed and too early to fix breakfast. He was a man with a son who stuttered and another probably on his way to becoming a juvenile delinquent and a daughter with a harelip who sneaked in at night from God knew where and a wife who resented his profession. Yet I knew it was not for himself or for any of us that he was praying. More likely it was for the parents of Bobby Cole. And for Gus. And probably for an asshole named Morris Engdahl. Praying on their behalf. Praying I suppose for the awful grace of God.

  2

  She wore a white terry-cloth robe and her feet were bare. On the table in front of her sat a cup of black coffee. Against the cup she’d propped a pamphlet. In her right hand she held a mechanical pencil. A stenographer’s notebook was open on the red Formica tabletop. Beside it lay half a cigarette smoking in a ceramic ashtray on which the four presidents of Mount Rushmore were embossed in gold. Periodically she put her pencil down and took up the cigarette, inhaled thoughtfully, and slowly released a plume of smoke that hung over the kitchen table.

  “Nervous as a loose shutter in a storm,” she said. She mulled the words as she watched the smoke gradually dissolve. Satisfied she took up her pencil and wrote in the notebook.

  This was during the period my mother was enamored of the work of Ayn Rand and had decided she too could be a world-famous author. She’d sent off to a writers’ school in New York City for a test that would confirm she had the right stuff.

  Jake ate his Sugar Pops and watched the diver he’d pulled from the cereal box slowly sink in a glass of water. Moments later it returned to the surface, lifted on an air bubble created by the baking soda he’d put in a tiny compartment on the diver’s back. I ate a piece of toast covered with crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly. I hated the crunchy kind of peanut butter but because it was on sale my mother had dismissed my complaints.

  My mother said, “The cat crept across the floor like . . .” She took up her cigarette and thought deeply.

  “An assassin stalking prey,” I said.

  “Finish your breakfast, Frankie.”

  “Like a robber after some money,” Jake said. His eyes never left the diver in his glass.

  “Thank you, I don’t need your help.”

  She thought a moment longer then wrote on the pad. I leaned over and saw that she’d written . . . like love entering a heart.

  My father came in. He was dressed in his good black suit and white shirt and blue tie. “The service is at noon, Ruth.”

  “I’ll be ready, Nathan.” She didn’t look up from her pamphlet.

  “People will start gathering much earlier, Ruth.”

  “I’ve been to funerals before, Nathan.”

  “You boys, you see that you look sharp.”

  “They know what to do, Nathan.”

  My father stood a moment and stared at the back of my mother’s head then walked to the door and went outside. As soon as he was gone my mother closed her notebook and laid the pamphlet on top. She stubbed out her cigarette and said, “Two minutes, then breakfast is over.”

  An hour later she came downstairs wearing a black dress. She had on a black hat with a black veil and black pumps. She smelled of bath powder. Jake and I were dressed for the service. We had the television on and were watching a rerun of The Restless Gun. My mother was beautiful. Even we her thoughtless sons knew that. Folks were always saying she could have been a movie star. Pretty as Rita Hayworth they said.

  “I’m going to the church. You two be there in half an hour. And, Frankie, you see that you both stay clean.”

  We wore the only suits we had. I’d tied my tie and I’d tied Jake’s. We’d washed our faces and wetted our hair and slicked it back. We looked presentable.

  As soon as she was gone I said, “You stay here.”

  Jake said, “Where are you going?”

  “Never mind. Just stay here.”

  I left through the back door. Behind our house was a small pasture. When we’d first moved in, a couple of horses had grazed there. The horses were gone now but the pasture was still filled with grass where wild daisies and purple clover grew. On the far side stood a house set off by itself, an old yellow structure surrounded by willows. A wood fence separated the backyard from the pasture. I crept through the wild grass. Like an assassin stalking prey. I sidled up to the fence which was a slapped-together affair full of gaps where the warped boards refused to meet. I put my eye to the space created by one of those refusals.

  The house belonged to Avis and Edna Sweeney. Avis worked at the grain elevators at the edge of the Flats. He was a toothpick of a man with a huge Adam’s apple. Edna was a blonde with a bosom like the prow of an aircraft carrier. The Sweeneys had a nice yard with lots of plants and flowers and Edna did the yard work. She did it dressed in tight shorts and a halter top that barely contained her breasts. I don’t remember how I discovered the delight of Edna Sweeney but I was much addicted to the sight of her dressed that way and bent to her labor. I spent a lot of time that summer with my eyeball glued to a gap in the fence.

  That morning Edna Sweeney was not in her yard but she’d done laundry. Among the whites hanging on her line were a couple of bras with enormous cups and some lacy underwear that I was pretty sure didn’t belong to Avis. I didn’t hear Jake coming up behind me. His hand on my shoulder made me jump.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “You said Jesus in the bad way.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Nothing,” I said. I grabbed him and tried to turn him back toward our house. “Let’s go.”

  He shrugged off my hand and plastered his eye to the fence.

  “Damn, Jake.”

  “You said damn. What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re looking at her underwear.”

  “Okay I’m looking at her underwear. You’re looking at her underwe
ar too.”

  He moved his head around a little and tried to position his eye for a better view.

  “Come on.” I took hold of his sleeve and gave a yank. He didn’t budge but the seam along the suit coat shoulder split in a heartbreaking rend. “Oh, Christ.”

  Jake straightened up. “You said—”

  “I know what I said. Lemme see.” I turned him and took a long look at the damage I’d done. If I told the truth, the circumstances of the accident would be hard to explain. So the truth was not an option. But a lie would depend on Jake and that was a problem. Even if I was able to convince him to go along with some goofy story, he’d stutter and stammer so awful that our guilt would quickly be obvious.

  Jake craned his neck so that he could see the tear. “We’re going to get in t-t-trouble.”

  “No we’re not. Come on.”

  I ran across the pasture through the grass and wild daisies and purple clover. Jake was right behind me. We raced through the back door and went upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. I pulled my mother’s sewing basket from the closet shelf and selected a spool of tan thread. I bit off a long section and speared the eye of a needle.

  “Give me your coat,” I said and got to work.

  I was a Boy Scout. Not a good one. I liked the general idea of being trustworthy and loyal and thrifty and brave and clean and reverent but the effort it took to hang in there with all those weighty virtues was usually more than I cared to muster. I learned some pretty good stuff though. Like how to sew onto my uniform the patches that went along with being a scout. I wielded a mean needle. I did a quick baste so that unless you looked closely you wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

  “There,” I said and handed the coat to Jake.

  He looked at it skeptically and put it on and shoved his finger through one of the gaps between the loose stitching. “It’s still b-b-broken.”

  “It’ll be fine as long as you don’t go poking it all the time.” I put Mom’s sewing basket back in the closet and checked the clock on the nightstand. I said, “We better hurry. The service is about to start.”

  • • •

  My sister Ariel had turned eighteen in May and in June had graduated from New Bremen High School and was planning to attend Juilliard in the fall. When Jake and I entered the church she was at the organ playing something beautiful and sad that sounded as if it might have been by Handel. The pews were already pretty full. Mostly people we knew. Members of the congregation. Friends of the family. People from the neighborhood. A lot of folks who came regularly to my father’s church weren’t members. They weren’t even Methodist. They came because it was the only church on the Flats. Jake and I took places in the last pew. My mother was up front where the choir usually sat. She wore a red satin robe over her black dress. She was listening to Ariel play and she was staring at the stained-glass window in the west wall with that same faraway look she’d had at the kitchen table when she was searching for inspiration. Part of it was the music itself but it was also the way Ariel played. To this day there are pieces I cannot hear without imagining my sister’s fingers shaping the music every bit as magnificently as God shaped the wings of butterflies.