The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (3 page)

It worked. Grace
bowed her shoulders and huddled a little deeper into the hay bale, wishing she
were the size of the mice she could hear scurrying around her; then she would
disappear into the crack in the wall. When Ben acted like this, he reminded Grace
so much of Mama, whose quiet ways could harden into ice without much warning.

He loomed over
her, and Grace jumped up, ducking by him. She fled toward the door before
turning toward him, a fake smile plastered on her trembling lips. “Mama
probably has supper ready,” she heard herself say in a nearly-normal voice.

Ben took two
steps and blocked her exit. Though short himself, he far towered over her mere
five-foot stature. “Never mind about supper,” he said. “Where were you, Grace?”

She stood in
silence, staring at his chest, her heart pounding harder than the farrier
shoeing a horse.
So stupid, Grace. How could you be so stupid? You knew you
would get caught…

They stayed
still for nearly a full minute – Grace knew, for she was counting her
heartbeats. Then, she felt her brother’s fingers cup her chin ever so gently and
urge her to lift her gaze to his. The frightened pain in his eyes startled her,
and she realized that Ben seemed angry because that was the only way he knew
how to express fear.
Fear of what?

“Where were you,
canary?” Ben’s expression begged even as his voice remained so inflexible. “You
weren’t messing around with some guy, were you?”

Grace jerked her
chin out of Ben’s hand, flushing with embarrassment and insult. She would have
to tell him. “I had to stay after and talk to Mr. Kinner,” she informed him
scornfully, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t pry farther.

But Ben’s
forehead wrinkled. “Mr. Kinner? Ain’t he one of the English teachers?”

She nodded.

“Why’d he make
you stay, Grace? You do swell in school, don’t you?” he questioned.

She nodded again;
she was a straight-A student, nearly. Ben stood staring at her, confused.
Finally, she mumbled, “He’s got a music class after school, too.”

The confusion
lingered for a moment. “Yeah, so…?”

Grace looked
away, toward Bessie. The small cow crunched her evening hay, her powerful jaw
moving slowly in contentment. “So…” She gave Ben a flickering glance. “He’s starting
a choir. A special one.”

“A special one?”
Ben echoed. “And you. You wanna join it, is that it?”

She gave a
small, stiff nod, shivering in the draft.

“He say you
could?”

“Yeah.” She
scuffed her toe into the old hay littering the barn floor.

“Well,” Ben said
after a moment, “that’s great, Grace. Just great. You tell Mama and Papa yet?”

She shook her
head. Ben didn’t realize that she and Papa barely spoke to one another. Even
less than they had before Ben left… if that was possible.

“Well,” he
repeated, “I think it’s a swell idea. You’re the best singer in the family; you
should be in Mr. Kinner’s special choir. Good for you, kid.” His hand fell on
her shoulder, giving a rough squeeze. Grace couldn’t stop the grin. Ben was
proud of her.

“I forgot the
permission slip at school,” Grace remembered out loud as she and Ben made their
way toward the house. Actually, she’d dropped the permission slip when running
from humiliation, but she didn’t tell Ben that.

“You’ll get it
tomorrow, kid,” assured Ben, carrying the hefty pail of Bessie’s milk with one hand.

Grace nodded up
at him, smiling. “I’m glad you’re home, Ben,” she said, peaceful in the
gloaming. Her eyes fell on the brick homestead, dark crimson and
double-storied, the twilight settling its deep shadows over the gables, making
the lights inside shine more brightly.

Ben gave her a
wink. “I’m glad to be home, Grace. Whatdaya think Mama made for supper?”

Grace rolled her
eyes and elbowed him. How like her brothers, always thinking of food!

“W
here’s Papa?”
Ben asked, halfway through his mountain of fresh mashed potatoes. Grace looked
at the chunk of coveted butter puddling in the center of the mound. Ben’s
filled fork shoveled another huge bite toward his mouth with an eagerness that
didn’t give hint of slowing down.

Grace exchanged
a furtive glance with Cliff, her closest-in-age brother sitting across the
table from her. His eyes widened and then slid shut, obviously not wanting to
hear a response to the question.

Grace put her
fork down, feeling her stomach tighten. Couldn’t Ben have waited to ask until
after supper, until after Mama’s apple pie had been eaten with black cups of
coffee and most of the children had wandered off to squander the few hours
remaining before bed?

But, of course,
Ben didn’t bother with ceremony. No one answered him, though. Not Lou and
Nancy, the twins, who sat playing with their meat loaf, afraid to eat for fear
it’d go straight to their hips. Not twelve-year-old Evelyn, silently fingering
her ribbon-bedecked braids. Nor Cliff, who steadily sank deeper into his chair.
And Grace certainly wasn’t about to volunteer any information, not when Mama
stood there, a motionless statue in a graveyard. Her cheeks flushed – from the
hot stove or from Ben’s question?

The silence
broke. “Didn’t nobody hear me?” Ben demanded, swallowing the bite of buttery
spuds. He looked at Grace, frowning. Biting her lip, she turned her eyes
elsewhere – to the stove, to the new telephone, to the clunky washing machine
crouched in the corner – seeking anything but Ben’s gaze.

“Mama?”

From lowered
lids, Grace saw her mother breathe deeply, sucking air into worn-out lungs.
When Ben had asked his question, she’d been up refilling the bowl of corn from
a big pot on the black stove. Now Mama, full of her deep breath, turned and met
Ben’s wondering eyes. “Your Papa is down at Uncle Jack’s house. Won’t be home
‘til breakfast, most likely.” She set the bowl down on the blue-printed
tablecloth with a silent bang and turned back to the stove, busying herself
with cutting up more meatloaf that nobody wanted anymore.

Ben stirred his
mashed potatoes with his fork. “What do you mean, Mama?” He measured his words
carefully, cut them through and hung them in the air like freshly-washed
laundry on the line.

“What I said.” Mama
didn’t turn this time, just stood with her back to them. Looking at her mama’s still
form, Grace felt like her insides might collapse, that the sorrow within had
left such a vacuum that she might just crumple up and disappear one of these
days. Perhaps everyone in their house would, as well.

Except for Papa.
He was safe.

Grace risked a
glance at Ben. His jaw ground, and he blinked hard and fast. Finally, he said
just one word. A name. “Gertrude?” It fell into the atmosphere, a dark
meteorite.

Mama didn’t
reply, didn’t provide any indication that she had heard her eldest son. Just
kept cutting meatloaf.

No matter,
though. Ben pushed his chair back anyway, the scrape against the wood loud in
the awkward quiet. “I’ll be back,” he announced. Grace threw a frightened look
at Lou, who ignored her.

“Ben…” Mama’s
voice crawled over the heads of her half-dozen children.

Halfway to the
door, Ben paused, shoving his cap on his head. His curls stuck out like tongues
of fire beneath the brim. “Yeah, Mama?”

“Won’t do any
good, you know. Never does.” Mama tucked loose strands of hair behind her
flushed ears. Her blue-green eyes wore the dullness of resignation.

Ben stayed
there, silent a moment. Then, jaw set, he pulled on his jacket and left. The
door moaned behind him; Grace figured it was sick and tired of being opened and
closed so often each day.

Mama sighed,
wiped her hands on her apron, and removed it. “Nan and Lou, clean up, will
you?” Mama’s hand went to the back of one of the chairs, and Grace saw the
knuckles whiten as she gripped it, her arm shaking.

“I got homework,
Mama,” protested Lou.

Grace raised her
eyebrows. Lou may have had homework, but she was not known for doing any of it.
Lou usually occupied her evening hours with re-reading dog-eared copies of
Hollywood magazines.

“Just do it, Lou.”
Obviously, Mama wasn’t in the mood to be argued with, which Lou must have
realized. Her sister shut her mouth in a pout but said nothing more.

“Grace will help
you,” Mama offered, slowly making her way out of the kitchen. Her steps headed
toward the living room, where Grace knew Mama would lie down on the couch and
rest. And wait for Papa to come home, hopefully before morning.

Evelyn jumped up
from her place, not even bringing her dirty plate and cup to the sink. Her spaghetti
legs trotted after Mama into the living room as usual.

Grace saw Lou
exchange an eye-rolling glance with Nancy. The twins may not have been
identical in looks – though their sandy-haired, light-eyed beauty certainly had
its similarities – but the two girls were carbon copies in character.

“I’m meeting
Richard for a soda,” Nancy stated, fluffing her finger-waves. “You wanna come?
Ernie’s gonna be there,” she encouraged Lou.

The scowl
dropped from Lou’s face. Grace could see that the delight of an ice-cream soda
– paid for by longsuffering Ernie – had thoroughly brightened her sister’s
evening. “Yeah!” she agreed. “Just let me get my sweater.”

Grace looked at
the piles of dirty dishes lining the table and the hills of pots soaking next
to the sink. “Wait! You have to help me with the dishes first!”

Lou sneered.
“Says who?”

Grace gulped.
“Mama did. You know it.” She sent a pleading look toward Cliff, who sat gnawing
a piece of bread. But Cliff just shrugged again.

Nancy snorted.
“Come on, Lou. I don’t have all night.”

Lou gave Grace a
mocking glance and headed through the wide archway that linked the kitchen with
the foyer. A grand staircase, worn by generations of feet, ascended to the
house’s upper level from there. Grace followed Lou toward the staircase,
feeling helpless to stop her sisters. Halfway up the stair, Lou whirled and
looked down at Grace, waiting at the bottom. “Don’t you dare tattle to Mama on
us, either, Grace!”

Satisfied with
this last gesture, Lou disappeared up the stairs.

M
idnight had come
and gone before Grace heard the kitchen door open and shut. The elderly
doorknob squeaked in weak protest as it locked.

Ben.

Grace propped
herself up on her elbows, listening for his footfalls on the stair. Her bedroom
– well, hers and Lou’s and Nancy’s and Evelyn’s – lay just to the top of the
curving staircase, and Grace had made sure to leave the door open just a crack
before she’d turned out the light.

The heavy scuff
of his boots sounded on the wood. Grace slid her legs from under the covers and
felt the chill of the September night settle over her. But no matter. She
needed to talk to Ben, needed to know the truth… if he’d discovered it.

A glance at Lou
and Nancy’s bed told her that the twins slept soundly, tired out, no doubt,
from their soda-fountain dates. Lou had taken the time before bed to put her
hair up in rags; tonight, she might look like a sheepdog, but in the morning, Grace
knew her older sister would have an enviable head of glossy curls – her
consolation for not being born a true blonde.

And Evelyn. She
curled up like a flower on the other half of Grace’s narrow bed, the petals of
her white nightgown billowed around her. The twelve-year-old’s pink mouth hung
open in the sweet rest of childhood, her face a mask of peace. Fleetingly,
jealousy stabbed at Grace. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so tranquil.
Biting her lip, Grace turned to the door and eased it open.

No light shone
in the hallway except for Ben’s flashlight. He must have heard something,
carefully quiet though Grace had been. The flashlight’s beam turned toward her,
blinding her momentarily with its brilliance. As her eyes adjusted, she saw
Ben’s face relax.

“Grace,” he
whispered. “What are you doing up? It’s past midnight, don’t you know.” He
stood, broad shoulders bowed a little, arms hanging by his sides. His voice
held the weariness of an old dog, too arthritic to chase another squirrel,
wanting only a soft square of bedding upon which to lay his gray muzzle.

Grace stepped
out gingerly into the hallway, chillier than her bedroom. “You went to Uncle
Jack’s,” she stated softly, shivering. Her eyes went to his, open and pleading
with him to tell her, to do no more lying than had already been done, was done
each day, in their home.

He met her gaze
honestly, albeit reluctantly. “Yep. I did,” he said and turned his face away.
The harsh scent of brandy bit at Grace’s senses, bringing with it a breath of
fear.

There was
silence for a moment. Then Grace compelled herself to speak again. “You been
there all this time, Ben?”

He drew in a
breath through his nostrils, tightening the corners of his mouth. “No, Grace. I
went for a drink afterward. Had to cool off, ya know.”

He’d gotten into
a fight with Papa, then. She’d known that he would, and Mama had, too. Ben must
have found what was going on with their father, what Mama and Aunt Mary Evelyn
whispered about on the telephone every morning, Mama’s voice a fluttering,
torn-winged moth.

She laid a hand,
small and quivering, on Ben’s brawny forearm. “Ben,” she whispered, “what is
it? What’s going on?”

He turned his
face back toward her, and she could see the hurt ringed by bitterness in the
crinkles of his eyes. “Oh, little canary-bird,” he murmured, “what
is
going on?” He let out his breath in a booze-tinged puff. “God help us, I wish I
knew.”

Grace started
back. “But… Uncle Jack’s… Papa…” She couldn’t finish the sentences.

Ben’s lips
curled up. “Oh, yeah, I know the facts. You want those?”

She nodded,
desperate.

He studied her a
moment, then said, “You always were ahead of the game, kid. Why not here, too?”
He motioned with his grizzled jaw toward the stairway. “Grab your sweater. I’ll
meet you out at the barn. Can’t risk Mama hearing us.”

Relief flooded
through Grace’s limbs. “I’ll be right there,” she promised, almost happy to
finally have some answers, terrible though they might be.

“Alright.” Ben
handed her the flashlight. “Here, take this. You’ll need it. It’s dark out
tonight.” He turned and disappeared down the stair without another word.

Grace clicked
the flashlight off to save the battery and set it down outside the doorway
while she entered the bedroom to retrieve her thickest sweater. Having done
that, she picked up the flashlight again but didn’t turn it on. Her bare feet
picked their way down the pitch-black stair, guided by many nights’ experience.

Turning on the
flashlight, Grace threaded her way around the dining room table and past the
looming grandfather clock, ticking the minutes of her life away on its impassive
ivory face. When she was just a child, Grace had shuddered to pass the towering
clock in the evening, sure that he – it, rather – would reach forward with
concealed arms and grab her. He – it – would open its long front and pull her
inside, consuming her in the darkness. Now, however, Grace was fifteen, nearly
sixteen. Certainly no child, regardless of what Lou and Nancy said. So, she
raised her chin and passed the clock without a shudder.

Almost.

The dirt path gleamed
clearly beneath the full moon’s gaze as Grace dashed from the back door to the
barn. She caught sight of an owl swooping down in the meadow beyond the
out-buildings; it caught hold of its helpless prey. A shiver ran through her
body, adding more speed to her already-flying bare feet.

When she eased
open the barn door, its hinge squeaked so slightly but sounded awfully loud in
the silent night.

Ben sat on a hay
bale, smoking a cigarette.