State of Grace (9 page)

“You're kidding, right?” Mary Jane said to my mother. “You know that wasn't all grief. I mean, I'm sure a lot of it was, but you know she was sedated—and not from a doctor's prescription.”

My mother stared at her. “She wouldn't do that on the day of
her daughter's funeral, would she?”

“When you're in that deep—” Mary Jane said and shrugged. “Nate said that it was a full twenty-four hours before they were able to tell her about Grace. She and that boyfriend of hers were in Winston doing god knows what.”

My mother shook her head and made a clicking noise with her tongue. She looked around at the people clustered in small groups. I followed her gaze to where my father and uncle stood talking to a knot of men.

“Where are they in the investigation?” my mother asked. “Do they have any idea who did this?”

Mary Jane seemed to consider, as she often did, how much she should share. She glanced down at Natalie, who was pretending not to listen, and then leaned in and spoke in a low voice to my mother.

“They have some leads,” she said. “But nothing substantial. There was no semen from the rape. There are some hairs. Probably the best evidence they've got right now is the knife. Nate said they have a couple of partial fingerprints.”

“Any suspects?” my mother asked quietly.

Natalie's mom looked carefully from side to side before answering. Her voice was low. “Don Wan. And Reggie. But you didn't hear that from me.”

“Seriously?” My mother frowned.

“I told you about the drawings, right?” My mother nodded. “Well, there were apparently several of Grace. Suggestive, if you know what I mean.”

My mother opened her mouth to speak when, as if by some unspoken signal, everyone began to move toward the grave. It was time for the burial. We silently joined the rest of the town.

A man in black directed the pallbearers to remove the child-sized casket from the back of the hearse and carry it to the grave. Once the casket was in place, a second man got out of the car directly behind the hearse, briskly opened one of the back doors, and then hurried around the back of the car to open the other one. Reggie and Grace's mother emerged. From an identical car directly behind theirs, Grace's father and Sally got out. The foursome
walked together, but clearly apart, to the folding chairs arranged around one side of the grave. Once they were seated, the rest of us clustered around.

Natalie's father stood under a shade tree, apart from the crowd, his eyes hidden by dark aviator sunglasses. Even though his stance was casual, it was clear that he was studying the people present. Two other detectives were on either side, a respectful distance away, with video cameras. They had been present at the funeral as well. I'd asked Natalie about it when we first sat down, and she said that they videotape funerals in situations like this because often, the killer likes to attend the funeral.

“Why?” I had asked.

“Because they get a thrill from seeing everybody sad,” she said. “They like seeing what they've done. So Daddy is having them film it so they can look at it later and see who was here and how they were acting.”

I felt the same detachment during the graveside service as I had during the funeral itself. And, because I couldn't seem to feel anything, I watched the emotions of the townspeople as they clustered around the grave. Next to me, Natalie cried in large gulping sobs. I reached out to touch her arm, wanting to share in her grief—wanting to cry, too. But for some reason, I couldn't. I didn't feel anything.

As my eyes drifted aimlessly from face to face, I saw movement near the edge of the cemetery, along the line of trees that separated the cemetery from the school property. I turned my head and was able to make out the shape of someone standing next to one of the large oak trees, his hand resting on the trunk as he watched the graveside service. Hoping to get a better view, I shifted my weight to my other foot and leaned slightly to the side. It wasn't a man, I realized suddenly, but a boy. His eyes were partially hidden behind dark hair that needed to be cut. I studied him, wondering if this was the boy Grace had seen hiking around in the woods. He wasn't someone I recognized and he seemed to fit her description. Quickly, I glanced over to Natalie's dad to see if he had noticed the boy as well. He appeared to be in deep conversation with one of the
deputies. I wondered what they were talking about. Was it the murder? Did they have new information about Grace's killer? I tried to read their expressions but could tell nothing. When I looked back at the line of oak trees, the boy was no longer there.

When Reverend Ackerman delivered the final prayer and then moved to offer his condolences to Grace's parents, everyone seemed to take a collective step backward, unsure what to do now that the scripted part of the funeral was over. Usually in Edenbridge, something like this would be followed by a luncheon provided by the church ladies at the home of the deceased's family or in the church basement. In this case, however, Grace's father grabbed Sally's arm and escorted her away as quickly as possible. Reggie and Grace's mother, too, left immediately. Unsure how to handle this break in protocol, the townspeople stood around in small groups, looking uneasily at each other. I had followed my father and two of his friends from high school to stand in the shade of one of the cemetery's towering oak trees. I looked across the gravestones to where my mother, Natalie, and her mother stood.

“Is it okay if I go over and talk to Natalie?”

My father looked down at me and then glanced around to where my mother stood, now deep in conversation with Mary Jane. “Sure.” He cocked his head to the side. “You doing okay?” I nodded and he squeezed my shoulder. “Okay, well, just stay with your mom.”

As I walked toward my mother, I looked over to where my grandfather and my uncle stood talking to several of the local farmers. They were all dressed in their threadbare best. My grandfather sat sideways in the driver's seat of his faded Ford pickup, his booted feet resting on the running board. He was talking animatedly about something and gestured with his finger toward Mr. Holmes, who stood with his wife and one of his sons in the shade of an elm near the gravesite. The odor of pigs that wafted in on the southern breeze and my grandfather's gesticulations created little doubt as to the subject of his conversation.

“Stinkin' . . . shit . . . ask where
he
was . . .” my grandfather said loud enough for snatches of his conversation to be overheard.

I glanced at my father, who looked nervously around to where Mr. Holmes stood. Their eyes met and my father quickly looked away in embarrassment. His discomfort made my heart hurt and I wondered briefly how often he was embarrassed by his father. I glanced again at Mr. Holmes. He smiled at me and I gave him a small wave. Quickly, I walked over to where Natalie stood with our mothers, their heads bent together in quiet discussion.

“It's hot,” Natalie said when I reached her side. “I'm ready to go home.”

“Me, too.” I gestured to our mothers. “What are they talking about?”

“Grace,” she said. “And you.”

“Me?” My heart began to thump heavily in my chest. “What about me?”

“Your nightmares,” she said without looking at me. She paused. “Is it true?”

I shrugged.

“It would give me nightmares, too, you know,” Natalie said. “If I had found her.”

The numbness I had felt over the past week disappeared, only to be replaced by anger. “But you didn't, did you?” I spoke the words through gritted teeth.
“I did!
Thanks to your stupid plan,
I
found her. If we had just done what we were supposed to, none of us would have been there!”

Natalie stared, shocked at my outburst. “Birdie,” she said helplessly and reached out to touch me. “I'm sorry. I know—”

“No, you don't know,” I yelled, the rage welling up inside me. I stabbed a finger in her direction. “You don't know what it's like! This is your fault! It's all your fault!”

Before I could say anything else, my mother stepped between us and grabbed my arm. “Birdie,” she said and then turned back to face Mary Jane and Natalie.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “She didn't mean it. She's just upset. She just—”

“Don't touch me,” I screamed and wrenched my arm out of her grasp. “Don't!”

I turned blindly and began to run—away from Grace's grave, away from the people, away from everyone and everything. I had gotten only a few yards away when I tripped and fell, my ankle twisting under me. Mr. Holmes, who was closest, reached me first.

“You okay, Birdie?” he asked. I tried to stand and he crouched down to help me. The moment his hand touched my arm, I heard my grandfather's infuriated yell.

“Get your hands off her!”

The words hung in the air, and Mr. Holmes froze. My grandfather hurried over and momentarily towered over us.

“I was just—” Mr. Holmes began as I scrambled to my feet.

“I don't care what you were doing,” my grandfather interrupted. “Don't you ever touch her again!”

Mr. Holmes rose to his feet and stood, towering over my grandfather. His eyes were hard and the veins on his neck and forehead pulsed. I watched as his left hand closed into a fist. Mrs. Holmes, who had hurried over as well, put a warning hand on his arm.

“Leave it, Anthony,” she said.

As she spoke, Natalie's father stepped between the two men.

“Edwin . . . Anthony,” he said in a low voice. “I think you should both take a step back. In fact, I think everybody needs to take a step back.” He said this last part loud enough for everyone in the small crowd of people who had gathered to watch the drama to hear. “I know we're all pretty tightly strung right now and this has hit us all pretty hard. But we're gonna find the man who did this.”

He looked around the crowd and pursed his lips.

“It's been a tough day,” he said. “The funeral's over. I think we should all go home.”

Almost relieved to have some sort of direction, several of the people began to walk to their cars or back to the school. Natalie's father led my grandfather away from the rest of the group. Their conversation was short and ended with my grandfather stomping back to his truck.

My father stood next to my mother, clearly torn between walking back to the school with us and going over to talk to his father and brother.

“Unbelievable,” my mother said, her voice tight with anger. “Where the hell does he get off acting like that?”

My father shrugged. “You know how he is when it comes to—” He glanced down at me and seemed to struggle for words. “—people like Holmeses.” He pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had taken off his suit jacket and sweat rings stained the armpits of his dress shirt. “I'd better go talk to him.”

My mother stared at my father incredulously. “You're joking.”

“Nance,” he said and shook his head. “Come on. Cut me some slack. I . . . I have an obligation to make sure he's all right.”

“Unbelievable,” she said sharply. “And what about your obligation to your family? Or, let's see, what about your obligation to set a good example for your daughter?” She pointed at my grandfather, who was retelling the story to a small group of people clustered around him as if they hadn't been there. “Is that the sort of behavior you want your daughters to see—to grow up thinking is okay?”

She glared at him for a long minute and then threw up her arms in disgust. “You know what?” She extended her hand for the keys to the car. “You're right.”

“Nance—” he began.

“Keys,” she interrupted, punctuating her demand with a single jerk of her upturned hand.

His mouth tightened, and they stared at each other for several long seconds before my father sighed, reached into the pocket of his pants, and pulled out the keys.

“Birdie,” my mother said without looking away from my father, “Are you okay to walk?”

I nodded.

“Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“This isn't over,” she said pointedly to my father and then turned. “Mark my words, John. This is just the beginning.”

Chapter 10

After Grace's funeral, everything about our small community seemed to change. Everyone had a theory as to who had murdered her and why. Gossip ran rampant and truth blurred into fiction as people recounted what they suspected, what they knew, or what they thought they knew. The only person who seemed to be unaffected by Grace's murder was Puddin' Puddin'. Unfazed by what was going on around him, he continued to ride around town on his rusted bike making his engine noises. Gossips around town wondered out loud if he was the murderer, pulling plot devices from
The Grapes of Wrath
. Did he find Grace by herself and try to touch her? When she screamed, did he try to make her be quiet? Yes, they said, he had the intellect of a child, but he also had the body of a man—a body with urges and desires he might not be able to control. It wasn't, some people whispered, out of the question that Puddin' Puddin' was the killer.

“Lord knows that Otis and Susan don't keep a good eye on 'im,” Randy Jenkins said to my father two days later. He had needed gasoline for the lawn mower and I had ridden to the station with him to fill the gas can. Randy was manning the pumps and sharing his observations with anyone who would listen.

My father, who had climbed out of the pickup and stood next to it while Randy filled the canister, nodded but didn't say anything. Instead, he squinted up at the late afternoon sky.

“So, who do you think done it?” Randy asked.

“Dunno,” my father said.

“Your girl found 'er, right?” Randy asked, peering at me through the rear window of the cab. I shrunk down, embarrassed and not
wanting to be the subject of any more curiosity. “She see anybody?” He looked straight at me, his expression almost menacing. “Did you see anybody out there?”

“Randy, leave her alone,” my father said and stepped in front of him. “She's been through enough and she doesn't need to be talking about it.”

Randy scowled and then turned, flipped the lever on the gas pump, and returned the nozzle to its cradle.

“Want me to put it on your tab?” he asked sullenly, sneaking a quick glance at me.

“If you don't mind,” Dad said as he pulled open the driver's side door and slid inside. “I'll settle up this weekend.”

Randy nodded, hawked up a gob of spittle, and spat as he walked back into the station. As we pulled out onto the street, Puddin' Puddin' rode past. He was dressed in his usual pants and long-sleeved shirt, his head down and his fingers tightly clasped around the cracked plastic grips of the handlebar.

I looked at my father, who glanced quickly at me but didn't speak.

I shared what Randy had said with my mother when we got home.

“Idiot,” she murmured to herself and then said more loudly to me, “I'm sorry, sweetie.” She pulled me into a hug and then pulled back and looked into my face. “I know I don't have to tell you this, but you don't need to be repeating what Mr. Jenkins said. There's enough gossip going around right now as it is.”

“I don't want to talk to anybody about this,” I said miserably. “You should have seen how Randy—”

“Mr. Jenkins,” my mother corrected.

“Mr. Jenkins,” I amended with a scowl. “You should have seen how he looked at me. It's like I'm a circus freak or something. I hate everyone looking at me, asking what I saw when I found . . . her.”

“I know, baby,” she said and reached out to cup my face. “I'm so sorry you had to—that you're
having
to go through this.” She paused and then said, “Hey, I have an idea. What if we invited Natalie over? Would you like that? You two could have a sleepover and—”

Before she could finish, I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “I don't want to see her.”

“Sweetie, I know you two had an argument, but it wasn't her fault this happened,” she said. “It wasn't anybody's fault. If you just talked to her, I'm sure—”

“I don't want to,” I said. “I don't want to talk to her or answer her questions about what happened or . . . anything. I just want to be left alone.”

My mother studied me for several seconds without speaking. Finally, she sighed and said, “All right.”

“All right,” I echoed. “I'm going to go to my room,” I said and started down the hallway. I had only gotten a couple of steps when she spoke.

“Birdie?” Something about her tone caused me to stop. I turned to face her. Her dark eyes were sad. “I love you,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

I stared at her, unsure how to answer. I didn't feel anything—not love, not hate, just . . . numbness. Finally, I nodded.

“I love you, too,” I said, even though it felt like a lie.

She nodded, reassured. “This will get better,” she said. “Just give it some time.”

After several days of listening to, and trying to defuse, the gossip, Reverend Ackerman took it upon himself to drive out to the Glenderson farmstead and talk to them about their son. According to my grandfather's eager retelling, Otis Glenderson told Reverend Ackerman he could go to hell because their son was a legally recognized adult and could do whatever the hell he wanted. Undaunted, Reverend Ackerman thanked him for his time and then drove into Winston and purchased a silver Huffy bicycle with reflectors on the pedals and wheels. Puddin' Puddin' rode it for a day before the bike was found parked on the church porch with a handwritten note that said, “We do not need your charity.” Later that day Puddin' Puddin' was again seen riding the antiquated, rusted bike he had pulled out of the brush down near Settler's Creek.

“I swear, I don't know what's wrong with that family,” my
mother said one afternoon as Puddin' Puddin' rode past our house making his engine sound. Surprised that my mother would say such a thing, I looked up in shock.

She saw my stare.

“Don't get me wrong,” she said quickly. “I'm sure he's a nice boy, he's just . . .” She trailed off and then looked at me. Her expression was serious. “Does he ever try to talk to you?”

I shook my head.

“Has he ever tried to get you to go with him?” she pressed.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, into the woods or down to the creek?”

“No, Mom,” I said. “Geez. He just rides around on his bike and pretends it's a motorcycle.”

She nodded thoughtfully and then sighed as if she had made a decision.

“So, I've been thinking and . . .” she said and then stopped. “Could you go get your sister? I want to talk to both of you about some things.”

I nodded, slid off the bar stool and went to the kitchen doorway.

“Tara,” I yelled in the direction of my sister's room. “Come here.”

“Birdie,” my mother snapped, “Go
get
her.”

I sighed and trudged down the hall to my sister's room She looked up from her Barbie dolls when I pushed open the door.

“Mom wants you,” I said and then added wickedly, “I think you're in trouble.”

Tara's blue eyes widened and she dropped the red plastic shoe she was attempting to shove onto Skipper's foot. She looked worried. “Why?” She pushed a curl of blond hair back behind her ear. “I didn't do anything.”

I shrugged as she scrambled to her feet.

“I don't know,” I said. “But she wants to talk to you. She looks pretty mad.”

With a final worried look, she hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen. I followed at slower pace.

“I'm in here,” my mother called from the living room.

Tara hurried into the living room, where our mother sat, hunched forward over a stack of index cards. She motioned for us to sit on the couch.

“I didn't do it,” Tara said quickly.

Our mother blinked in confusion and then looked knowingly at me. Tara caught our mom's expression and realizing what I had done, frowned.

“No one is in trouble,” Mom said, her attention once again on Tara. “I wanted to talk to both of you.”

She smiled and gestured toward the couch. Dutifully, we both went over and sat. Tara, who got there first, managed to pinch my arm without our mother seeing.

“Ouch,” I said loudly and rubbed my arm.

“What's wrong?” Mom said.

“Tara pinched me,” I said and glared at Tara who, in turn, looked innocently at our mother.

“You probably had it coming,” she said finally and winked at Tara. I frowned, angry at being the odd man out.

“Now,” our mother began, “what I want to talk to both of you about is what to do if someone you don't know—or even someone you
do
know tries to . . .” She sighed and seemed to search for the right words. “We've talked about strangers,” she began again. “And what to do if a stranger tries to get you to get in his car, right?”

We both nodded.

“What do you do?” she asked.

I glanced up at Mom, who was waiting expectantly for my answer.

“I say ‘no,'” I said.

“That's right,” she said and nodded in approval. “But what do you do if he tells you that . . . I don't know, he's looking for his puppy and needs your help. What do you do?”

“I tell him that's too bad about his dog and that I hope he finds it, but I can't help him look for it,” I said.

My mother smiled encouragingly.

“Right,” she said. “And what if he offers you money to help—or shows you a picture?”

“I still say ‘no,'” I said.

“Good,” she said and then turned to Tara. “So, what do
you
do if you're at school and a grown-up you know comes to the school and says I told him to pick you up? What do you say?”

Tara glanced at me and I shook my head slightly and mouthed the word “no.”

“
No!
” she yelled, surprising both my mother and me. “I'll say ‘no' and run back inside.”

“Good,” my mother said. “Good. You probably don't have to scream or run, but better safe than sorry.” She grinned and then became serious. “What if it's your grandma or grandpa?” she asked.

Tara looked at me and I shrugged.

“Yes?” she said.

My mother seemed unsure of the answer herself. “Probably, it would be all right,” she said. “But to make sure, the school should call me or, if I'm sending anyone else to pick you up, I'll call the school.”

“Why would Grandpa or Grandma not be all right?” Tara asked. I wondered the same thing myself.

“They probably would be,” my mother said. “I'm just thinking about why they would be coming to get you, you know? Just thinking about what would be going on that that would happen.”

She waved her hand dismissively.

“Anyway,” she said. “What do you do if someone tries to grab you and force you into their car?”

“We scream ‘no,'” I said.

“That's right,” my mother said. “But you have to be ready to fight, too. Do whatever you have to. Scream ‘no' if you can. Kick or hit them between the legs as hard as you can. Go for their eyes, too.” She paused. “Do everything you can to make noise, scream, scratch, hit,” she said. “Because the minute they have you in their car or have you away from other people . . . well . . . just fight them. And scream. Don't yell ‘help' either. Yell ‘fire' or ‘no' or something like that.”

Her eyes were wide and serious. Her fear was suddenly palpable and its intensity made Tara begin to cry. Mom looked at both of us and realized just how much she had scared us.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “I know I'm scaring you.” She
pulled both of us into her arms and held us tightly to her. “I just love both of you so much,” she whispered. “I could never stand losing you. I just want you to know what to do. I don't want either of you to get hurt. That's all.”

She rocked us against her until my sister stopped crying. Although I usually didn't like being cuddled, that night I leaned against my mother, my ear to her chest, and listened to her heart as it pounded away, rapid at first and then, finally, slower. We were all scared, I realized.

It was that fear which caused me to make amends with Natalie. Deep down, I knew the blame for what happened was no more hers than mine. We had let Grace down and we had to share that burden together. Her tone was cautious when I called her a week later.

“Hey,” I said when she came to the phone. “Look . . .” My voice trailed off as I searched for words. “I . . .”

“I know,” she said.

“Know what?” I asked, wondering for a moment if it would really be that easy.

“You're sorry,” she said. “I am, too.”

I exhaled deeply, not realizing I had been holding my breath. “I am. I shouldn't have said that—at the cemetery.”

Neither of us spoke for several seconds and then she said, “So, you wanna come over?”

The idea of leaving the safety of my house caused my stomach to tighten. “I don't think I can,” I lied. “I'm . . .”

“Or I could come over there,” Natalie said when I didn't finish the sentence. “We could cut a window into the tree house and boss Tara around.” She laughed and I found myself smiling. “Come on,” she wheedled. “It'll be fun.”

Okay,” I said.

“Right on,” Natalie said. “Let me ask Mom.” I heard her ask Mrs. Stewart in the background and then she came back on the line. “I'll come over after lunch.”

Unlike in the past when Natalie would race madly into the driveway and then skid to a stop, on this day, the first day we spent together since the funeral, she rode sedately into the drive and stopped without any kind of show.

I was sitting in the shade of the open garage. I stood as she coasted to a stop.

“Hey,” I said and smiled. It was the first time I had really smiled since Grace's death.

“Hey,” she said. She was sweating and her face was ruddy from the heat and the ride over. She didn't climb off her bike, but instead stood with her feet planted on either side and looked at me, waiting perhaps to see if I was going to start yelling at her. Instead, I studied her face. Her brown eyes looked tired.