Stolen Grace (11 page)

He knew her every movement. Her every sign.

“Sylvie,” he moaned into her mouth as he exploded into her. “I’m so in love with you. So in love.”

Tommy awoke with a start. He felt as if he’d overslept, but only a few hours had passed. He double-checked the alarm was set on his cell—he had several more hours sleep time.

He was still hard, even though he’d just come in his sleep. His erotic dream, starring his very own wife, reminded him how deep their bond was. How much he still needed her. Desired her. Fantasized about her.

He wished things hadn’t gotten so complicated.

His family, which had seemed so indestructible, was now as delicate as an eggshell. How had that happened?

He thought of Gracie. He couldn’t wait to get home to her and see her face when he gave her that sparkly pink guitar.

Sylvia

I
t had been such a full-on day, and even though Sylvia wanted to sleep more than anything, she couldn’t. She thought of Aunt Marcy. The hospital had told her to call back and she’d forgotten. Damn. Sylvia had offered to bring her to the house to look after her till Melinda arrived for the funeral, although her aunt was insistent that she could take good care of herself and wanted to go straight home. If she changed her mind, it would be a lot to take on all at once, but what was family for? Infallible Jacqueline would soon be by to help. Thank God.

Her first memory of Jacqueline’s presence was when Sylvia was about three. Sylvia had stolen her dad’s underpants from the washing basket, and secretly put them on. In those days, she wanted to be a boy. But then she peed her pants and the undergarments were saturated with yellow. Jacqueline didn’t say a word. It was their secret. She took away the enormous soiled Y-Fronts and soaked them in soapy water. Then she took Sylvia to the bathtub, pretending that the child had muddy knees and it was easier to put her in the tub. The pee was humiliating enough, but being discovered in her father’s giant underpants was doubly shameful to a small child, even a Tomboy like Sylvia, and Jacqueline sensed that. Never did she mention it to anybody. So loyal.

Grace had occasional little mishaps in bed but, just like Jacqueline, Sylvia never made a big deal out of it, or she pretended she didn’t even notice.

The other indelible memory of Sylvia’s was when Jacqueline took her to her church. Sylvia’s parents’ church was uneventful, with only white people looking sour and bored, but Jacqueline’s was wild with song, full of Praise-The-Lord. One man, in a wheelchair, was rocking so hard he popped out. The force of it set him rolling about the floor, still singing, praising the Lord even harder. After that, Sylvia begged to
only
go to Jacqueline’s Baptist church—it was so much more fun! But her mother told her to wait until she was older—then she could choose. But by the time she was older, Sylvia had lost interest in church of any kind.

She had been brought up with so much goodness around her. The neighbors, Aunt Marcy, Jacqueline. She knew she’d had a blessed life.

Earlier that evening, Mrs. Wicks had brought Sylvia another tasty meal in a casserole dish—wouldn’t accept no for an answer—such kindness.

Sylvia rolled over in her bed for the umpteenth time but couldn’t even close her eyes, let alone sleep. She decided to tackle her father’s closet. She’d pick out the right suit for him and make a Goodwill pile and a Special pile. What she would do with the Special pile she had no idea, but at least it was a start. Tommy was not her father’s size.

She got up and walked with trepidation into the spare bedroom, which her father had used as a dressing room. There were two Regency-style single beds and a chest of drawers to match. She opened the top drawer. It smelled of rose-scented paper liners, and was full of lavender bags that her mother had once bought on a trip to France.

The walk-in closet was stuffed with hand-made shoes, too small, unfortunately, for Tommy’s feet. The same could be said for the tailored suits, which was a shame as some of them harked back to the sixties and were pretty stylish. Sylvia stood on a stool and rummaged through the shelf above. There were hats—even a top hat that folded flat, which she remembered her father had said belonged to
his
father. It was an opera hat, designed to sit on, so when you went to the theatre, it didn’t take up space. There were shoeboxes, all clean, meticulously organized. Except for one that nestled in the top right hand corner. Strange, thought Sylvia, it was unlike Jacqueline to let dust gather. It was obvious that it hadn’t been touched for years. She reached over on tiptoe and grasped the shoebox with both hands. At a closer glance, she saw that it was sealed tight with duct tape. Why sealed? Could there be a pistol inside? She didn’t think so. Her father was not a pistol kind of man.

She sneezed from the musty attic smell of the box. It reminded her that the attic would have to be next; it didn’t even bear contemplating the amount of junk that must be up there. Maybe the luxury of having $247,000 in her bank account, despite the guilt attached to it, would stave off selling the house a while longer. The idea of sorting through it was horrifying; the memories, the sheer volume of stuff. In fact, she’d leave it all. No suit sorting into piles—the whole thing would be too much of an ordeal right now.

She brought the box close to her chest and stepped down from the stool. She took it to the bathroom and wiped off the layer of dust with a damp cloth. She set it down in a corner.

But then she sat on the edge of the tub and took a breath, eyeing the box with suspicion. There was something ominous about it.
Pandora’s
Box
? Was she even ready to look inside?

No, she wasn’t.

She loved this bathroom. It was all white with a huge old tub in which you could stretch out so your tiptoes touched the end. The mosaic tiles were original. There was a laundry chute where you could shove your stinky socks and sports clothes at the end of a tiring school day and they would magically appear fresh and ironed forty-eight hours later. Sylvia hadn’t realized how spoiled she’d been as a girl, how privileged. Because of the breakdown of the automotive industry there was a lot of unemployment now in Saginaw, even for people of her class.

She remembered the time she had made a new friend. Not from school, but from one of the streets behind, where the worn-down clapperboard houses were, and working class families lived. Her grandmother was staying with them for the summer. Sylvia must have known that her grandmother would be unhappy about her new friendship because she took her friend upstairs, like a secret, and they played in the bathroom. And Sylvia locked the door. Her grandmother lost her temper, banging her fists on the locked door, shouting, “Sylvia, get that poor-white-trash out of this house!” The girl heard. Sylvia was speechless, she’d never heard her grandmother, who was usually so kind, raise her voice like that or be so rude. The little child (how old were they, seven or eight?) slipped away and never dared play with Sylvia again.

It wasn’t until she went to college that Sylvia had a mix of friends from different backgrounds and races. At school, the black kids and white kids tended to sit at separate tables for lunch, not because they didn’t like each other or were racist, but because they felt more comfortable with classmates who were most like them, with whom they related to best. Kids would say things like “across the river,” “the East Side,” or “the First Ward,” as if they were foreign countries. Sylvia discovered that these terms all meant the same thing: the poorer neighborhoods where most of Saginaw’s racial or ethnic minority population lived, mostly African American. Things probably hadn’t changed much. The river dividing the city into two geographical areas might as well have been the Berlin Wall.

She never understood this racial chasm, how her parents could adore Jacqueline so, but be struck with shock any time she suggested bringing home a friend “from a different world than ours, honey” (as her mother would politely put it). Once, Sylvia confronted her parents at the dinner table. “How about Jacqueline then, you love
her
?” she shouted. “
She’s
black.”

Her father cleared his throat and went quiet. Her mother smoothed her perfect hairdo and said, “Jacqueline is
different
.”

Sylvia looked at the clandestine box again. Some force was preventing her from ripping it open. It was true what Melinda said about her—she could detach herself. Other people wouldn’t be able to contain themselves the way she could. She’d always done that. Saved her candy in a jar while Melinda ate hers all in one go, and then begged Sylvia to share (which she always did). Sylvia prided herself on her composure; being able to stay cool when others lost themselves. She had lost herself with Tommy and it hurt. Snooping through his cell phone, surrendering herself—losing herself when he made love to her. The unopened box was her way of mastering that control, showing that she wouldn’t crumple with her father’s suicide.

She stood up, had a pee and washed her hands. She turned on the faucet and out poured steaming water. She wished their plumbing in Crowheart could be as reliable. She went downstairs, holding on to the banisters as she descended, because the house was still semi-dark. She went into the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and took out the Sara Lee chocolate cake she’d bought earlier that day, and poured herself a tall glass of milk. Why she felt she could eat Sara Lee only at her parents’ house and nowhere else, she wasn’t sure. A bit like having cream teas in England, or Piña Coladas in the Caribbean; they tasted better in their original environment. Sara Lee tasted of childhood. The Sara Lee chocolate cake had been beckoning her for hours.

She went back upstairs and soaked herself in the tub, her body fully stretched out, carefully eating the cake so as not to let any crumbs fall in the hot water, and glugging the cold milk to wash down the gooeyness of the icing. Something about prolonging the opening of the box made her feel strong, powerful. Some women had eating disorders and wielded their control by not eating. Like Ruth. But Sylvia had willpower when it came to small things.

She thought about Tommy. A tingle of fearful exhilaration crept along her backbone at the idea of moving to LA. She was aware of it being a false, ruthless place, full of phony promises given by people with perfect smiles and wrinkle-free expressions. But there was also an artistic community, a plethora of fascinating individuals if you dug deep enough: yoga classes, hiking, all year-round barbeques, art openings. It could be a fun place for Grace, too, if they found the right neighborhood to move to and a friendly school. It was a fresh start for their family. Crowheart had been a beautiful experience but living there for the rest of her life, however stunning the countryside, filled her with dread.

Tommy. She had in her mind’s eye his hard body, his firm stomach, ripped by chopping wood all winter, the soft down of the hair on the small of his back, the way his jeans hung from his slim hips, and the curves of his biceps. His eyes could still penetrate; just a look could send a double flip through her. Still. After all these years.

She took the showerhead and turned on the faucet again. She opened her pale thighs wide and let the water spray between them. She raised her hips and rubbed the metal head gently between her legs. She felt her pulse throbbing in her groin like a heartbeat, the water coursing and surging; small vibrations trembling, pounding. She held her breath and pressed herself against the head of it a touch harder. She gasped. It felt so . . . . ah . . . the water was coming hard at her like thousands of tiny pin drops of beating rain. She imagined Tommy and her ex, Lance. But it was only Tommy who had ever made her come, and Tommy she desired. She turned the pressure of the water up and flexed her hips, holding the snaking shower hose in one hand and with the other, slipping her index finger inside herself. She had an image of Tommy’s erection poised at her entrance and heard his groans when he would thrust himself inside her. Sometimes if she moaned a lot, he’d really fuck her hard and she loved that—loved being claimed by him. Dominated. That’s when she really let go of herself.

She could feel her own slick moistness now, despite the bath water. She hooked her finger inside her soft flesh and pressed it high up against her G-spot. Her eyelids were half-closed and her lips parted as she felt the tension build up. It was coming deep from within. She took her hand away and concentrated the spray between her legs again and felt the heat rise through her in a thunderous bolt. Such relief and ecstasy both ripped through her at once. It was almost a surprise it was so intense, so satisfying. It reminded her how badly she wanted Tommy and how she wouldn’t give up on him. She needed him. Doing this alone just wasn’t the same. She wanted his body pressed against her. She needed him inside her.

She wouldn’t push him away anymore.

She lay there recuperating from the carnal after-shocks; closed her eyes and tried to meditate. But the sealed box was calling her name. She stood up in the tub—the suddenness of her movement, and the Sara Lee sugar-rush, caused blood to stream to her head; white stars and water dropped from her body like little diamonds. She stepped out, dried herself off slowly with one of her mother’s soft, floor-length towels, put on her mom’s flowery silk robe, and picked up the box. The scented soap on her skin mingled with its dank, old, bookish odor.

Finally, she succumbed. She needed something sharp to open it with, so took it with her downstairs, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, floated to the dining room—her robe flowing behind her—and set it on the table.

She ran the blade along the lip of duct tape which was sealing the shoebox as tight as a wetsuit.

Inside was a pile of letters, some photographs and a couple of children’s paintings. Sylvia, careful not to shuffle the order, flipped through. They were all of the same person: a little black boy. The little boy playing a toy drum. The boy smiling at the camera, sitting high in a tree. Younger now, holding an ice-cream cone. That one was black and white.