State of Grace (23 page)

“The tidy housewife,” Grady says, “mopping up the world.”

The girl lies back and studies the bird gratefully. Interruptions shape our hours. How else can our time here be measured? “It is a very peculiar thing about buzzards,” she says. “People do not care for them. No one tells their children charming stories about the Little Vulture that Could.
No pretty myths have sprung up around them. And yet they are just as good as a unicorn.”

He laughs. “Better than a unicorn any day.” He loves her, he loves her. Where is the danger?

“Despite their great size,” she says, “they never kill and will not touch food that shows any sign of life. That was one of the most pleasant attributes of the unicorn.”

“The buzzard is more wonderful also because he exists.”

“That is always true,” the girl agrees. “The unicorn was so gentle he would not even step on live grass for fear of injuring it.”

“That is not even a consideration of the buzzard, he is so pure.” He kisses the girl softly. The bird floats out of view. There seems a small black dot where he had been.

“Would you like a little something to drink?” the girl asks miserably. She goes into the trailer. The boy ambles down to the dock. There’s a logjam of branches and leaves a little offshore. Tiny fish sprinkle off it like stars at his approach and drop off into deep water. In the trailer the girl fills two glasses with ice from the cooler and spills in a little gin. She fills another glass with raw gin and drinks it. She washes out the glass and goes down to the boy.

“You didn’t care for that truck full of mirrors, did you?” he says.

“It made me dizzy. I was afraid we’d get confused and run off the road.”

“No way,” he says in the light lilt of the country.

“They seemed to be mocking us,” the girl says haltingly. Her throat pulses, hoarse with the gin. “The way they were arranged. That closed tepee. It seemed they had taken us out of the world. There was just ourselves riding. Anywhere you looked, that was all that was left.”

“There’s a carnival in Torrent’s Landing, that’s probably where it was going.”

“On to the fun house,” she says unhappily.

They sit on the dock. A turtle climbs up on the logjam.

The gin is so cold and clear. The girl hangs suspended in it.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to the beach today,” he says. “We’ll go tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Yes, another time.”

He holds her face between his hands. “What is it, blueness? Too much alcohol in the blood surrogate?”

She shakes off their joke from the brave new world. “You never ask me any questions,” she says stubbornly. She knows how stupid this sounds. His body so close to her is unnerving. She rises without moving as though for love. Her throat is a glacier, melting.

“Ah, blueness,” he says wearily. He rubs his chin. The sound is staggering. It seems to resound inside her head. Like axles grinding.

“I want to tell you a little story. It’s just a little story I read.” She sips her drink. “It would seem to have a bearing on our situation.”

“Our situation is fine,” he says.

She tosses her head. “This is how I would like to begin,” she says. “With this little story.” He sighs. She hears it like a sound that hasn’t happened yet, like the first cry her baby will make. “An annal of crime,” she announces. “In the French countryside in 15 say 14, an eleven-year-old girl was married to a boy her own age. The wedding was not consummated for several years, but soon they were old enough to live together in a portion of the fine house that would be theirs upon the death of the boy’s father. The father was a cruel man. Once, he had struck his only son with such force that he broke the boy’s jaw and knocked out four of his rear teeth. No one felt the old man’s passing to be an unfortunate event. The young couple moved into the house they were heir to and began their instruction in the management of the rich estate. The girl was taught her uxorial duties. They were soon parents of a baby boy although they were
hardly more than children themselves. The girl was faithful and mild and obedient. She grew to love her husband although he offered her little reason to. The child had become a handsome but harsh and passionless man, besides being a casual father, quick to anger and slow to please. Yet they had another child, the seasons changed, the harvest came and went and so on.”

“A regular saga,” Grady says politely and without interest.

“It was not that they did not get along. The girl had many fine memories of their life together. She couldn’t imagine being happier or anything being other than it was. Then one spring morning, he came to her and told her that it was necessary for him to go to another town. A three days’ ride away. He was going there to buy the land that was adjacent to their own. The owner lived there and it was necessary that he meet with him. He said he would be gone a week. She kissed him dutifully and saw him off. Of course he was not gone for a week. Years went by. It seemed that he had vanished forever.”

“The scoundrel!” Grady interjects. “Of course we must remember he had been married since he was twelve.”

“She never lost hope that he would return. She raised her children and tried to keep their father living in their minds. She kept the farm flourishing and themselves rich. And of course she was true. Everyone was in 15 say 28.”

The girl finishes her drink. A dragonfly is on the rim of her glass. He stays on it as she raises it to her lips. He remains while she puts it down again.

“Then he came back. Lean from the wars for that was where he had gone. The same fellow certainly. All the old servants rejoiced, all the old friends. The children were delighted and the young wife found life worth living once more. She also found her prayers for his return had been answered double strength for he was a much more loving and kind man than he had ever been before. He was tender,
honorable and exemplary to an extreme. She had never felt such pleasure; she had never known such joy. Then she began to worry. She bore another son and her worries increased. A terrible doubt had taken hold of her. She did not think that this man was, her love, her true husband. He certainly looked like him. He was even missing the four teeth that her husband had lost as a boy. He seemed to recall and even extrapolate on all the incidents of their life together before his long absence. Neither his children nor his servants nor his own sister and mother who still lived on the farm had ever entertained such a bizarre notion that he was anyone other than who he appeared to be. Nevertheless, the young wife’s suspicion became her belief, strong as her awareness of the strong love she felt for the man. She confided in her husband’s sister. The sister was understandably dismayed. She felt that the girl was losing her mind. Quickly, the household became aware of the astonishing nature of her thoughts. She would have nothing more to do with her husband, refusing to share his bed, refusing to even discuss the matter with him. He tried to be understanding although, daily, his wife became more hysterical and committed to the notion that he was an impostor. Eventually, despite the opposition and incredulity of everyone, she managed to bring him to court. There was no witness against him but herself, holding her nursing baby in her arms. The charges were dismissed as preposterous, yet how could this reassure her? Shortly after this, several shabby fellows from the battlefield, on hearing of the strange case, came to her and claimed that they had actual knowledge that indeed this man was a fraud, that her true husband had sold the facts of life together to this lookalike for a considerable amount of money and was still living, a professional adventurer. The wife, relieved but heart-broken, went to court again. This time the man she had so steadfastly accused, the father of her youngest child, was led before the judge in chains. She wept to see him so, for, as I’ve
mentioned, before her doubts, she had never known such happiness or love. It still seemed, however, that the charges would be dismissed once again and forever for the court was losing its patience and there was no additional proof other than the statements of these very unsavory and unpleasant soldiers. But …”

“But …,” Grady repeats distantly.

“Suddenly in the last moments of the trial, the door opened and another soldier, as unappealing as the others, strode into the room. He bore a striking and uncanny resemblance to the prisoner in the dock. The real husband had returned at last and all present sadly recognized him for he had lost none of his cruel and dour bearing. The prisoner admitted to the deception and was duly guilty of imposture, falsehood, substitution of name and person, adultery, rape, plagiary and larceny.”

Grady stirs beside her. “Imagine that,” he says. “1500. Things like that wouldn’t happen today. People aren’t as …” He laughs. “Women aren’t as thoughtful.”

“He was put to death,” the girl says. “She murdered him. The father of her son. And she had loved him, but only in thinking that he was another. Touch, word, act, daily passion and affection meant nothing you see. It wasn’t even a matter of fidelity.”

“What became of her?”

The girl shrugs. “Stories stop,” she says.

“But I must draw a conclusion from this?” he says slowly, puzzled. “There is something that applies? There is you and me and the third who always walks beside us?”

The girl rattles the ice cubes in her empty glass. Unseen, the hounds are baying again in the woods. They are famous hounds. She can feel them. They race across the tightening band that grips her head. They are eternal and usually sleeping, but they have always awakened to seize the souls of the dead if one happens to lament them too loudly or too soon.

“Who is to be accused of imposture in our trinity?” Grady asks playfully.

The hounds are hurting her head. They run and run. She rubs her head with an ice cube. “I don’t know,” she says. “I want to tell you about Daddy.”

THERE ARE NO HOUNDS
in the vicinity of the sorority house. The housemother has a dog but it is a cocker spaniel. It lacks both voice and genitalia. The housemother had the veterinarian remove its bark and compromising organs. It hardly seems a dog. It is more of an experiment that is still going on.

The housemother lives in the sorority house. Her significance is unknown. She seems useless and unpleasant. She is so lame and arthritic that she cannot walk up to the third floor where the girls sleep in their bunk beds. She cannot climb to the second floor where the girls’ desks and record players are, where their bright new clothes hang in the closets. She cannot see well, she lacks any real authority. Nonetheless, everyone hates her. In the dining room where she shows her fine upbringing by eating very tiny quantities of everything, she moves her fork in and out of the food many times before she brings it coyly to her lips. Her stomach is round. She is full of fluids, gases and tumors. Burps and bubblings come from her corner of the room. She likes to say cruel and pointed things to the girls, things that will embarrass them, but it takes hours to think of the words, sometimes days. The proper moment never comes.

Once this woman was married but her husband expired a long time ago. She looks upon those years without much interest. She has never been in love. The girls have boys to love them, sometimes several in a single year. Despite this difference, the housemother is similar to the girls in many ways. She cherishes Kahlil Gibran, just like them. When
bathing, she soaps her breasts carefully, as though they could still be useful to her.

If she were younger or if someone had ever loved her, she would be able to do more harm.

One evening at dinner, she finds herself seated beside a girl she has not seen for quite some time. She has never liked this girl and in the midst of spooning Dream Whip on her pudding, she realizes, quite strongly, that the girl has been up to something rotten in her absence. The housemother has never feared her intuitive powers. On the contrary, she has always welcomed and used them. She takes a bite of pudding and says,

“I know your background and I am sure that those who love you would be very ashamed at your recent behavior.”

That, she is sure, will cover it for the time being.

Sweet Grady gave me a feeler gauge. I’ve had it with me all this night in the pocket of my hip-hugger pants. The pants are tight. It’s left a mark on my leg, like a burn, where it’s been chafing. I take it out and hold it safely. If Grady were here, I would laugh with him, I would say, “The answer is 1-5-3-6-2-4 and what is the question?” And he would know. He would say that it is the firing order of the cylinders. Such a game would delight him. Crazily, he would think that by knowing things he would know himself better. He would be so happy, proud of his hands and his quick bright head.

There’s blood on my hand. I don’t mean to appear overly dramatic but there is blood on the palm of my hand, the one I grasped the fence with on my wedding day. I’ve always favored it. I disconnect the radio and go into the bathroom. A sister has just left it. The toilet is still running. Burnt matches float unflushed. They think that sulphur masks it. They’re always thinking here. For example, they’ve planted lemon trees over the septic tank and grease traps.
Still, one can’t help but sniff. Childlike absorption with the barnyard.

I go to the faucets. My hand drips a little. I drop the gauge to suck on it and of course the worst happens—the gauge falls down the drain and disappears.

On the balcony, Cords and Doreen sit, sometimes hugging. There is a fountain beside them, two feet tall of marble, a lion’s head with a sealed tube for a tongue, the tile basin all fuzzy green from the rains. They’re there each dawning. This is what they were doing the dawning of the day I began the baby, the day the train bore Daddy down, the day that brought the night my Grady held me for the first time. I turned away. I’d seen it before. Cords dropping her hand down Doreen’s spine. Dropping her hand in a rubber glove so tight that you could see the smashed cuticles all bunched behind it. They’re doing it now. All those months gone by. The hand pats Doreen’s bottom. The hand travels up again. I try not to listen to them. They’re saying the same thing. Corinthian Brown is walking down the street outside on his circuit to Glick’s and Cords is calling him Pellicle Pete. This is what I heard once. This is what I hear today.