Tending to Grace (10 page)

91

“Can I help you?” says a woman in the office who finally puts down her telephone and walks up to me.

“I w-w-w-want to come to s-s-school here.” It takes all my courage to look at her as I try to explain why I have no transcript. I don't tell her that my mother pulled me out of ninth grade when the school year was nearly over. “I'm a sophomore.”

“Well,” she says, “I just don't know.”

As I'm finishing, the man who stood at the steps walks into the office. Hearing what I'm trying to say, he asks, “Where are you from?”

“N-n-n-n-new York.” I'm still looking up, even when he looks away.

“You better put her in Mrs. Paul's room.”

“In this school we reach for the stars,” he says as I pick my sack off the floor. “Are you ready to do that?”

I feel myself begin to bloom from deep inside as I walk down the hall.

92

“Th-th-these are the books I've r-r-r-read,” I say a week later, slapping a paper on my English teacher's desk. I've written down the titles of all the books I've read over the last few years that already meet the sophomore honors English requirements.
To Kill a Mockingbird, A
Separate Peace, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights. She scans it for a moment, then looks up.

“Very nice, dear,” she says, stuffing a wad of Kleenex into the cuff of her sleeve. “Now go have a seat.”

I don't move. I've sat through this class day after day and each day grows worse. “I've read all of these b-b-b-books already. I should not be r-r-reading this.” I dump her watered-down
Tom Sawyer
on her desk. “Besides, I've already r-r-r-read this one.”

She looks up at the class and skims the paper again quickly, then hands the paper back to me. “Have a seat, Cornelia. We're going to read aloud today.”

I grab the paper. I leave the book on her desk and walk back to my seat.

The first boy begins. “ ‘The adventure of the day tormented Tom's dreams that night.' ” No one listens. A boy with his sneakers untied flicks a paper clip at a girl in the back of the room. Mrs. Paul doesn't notice. I wonder how the boy reading feels about being in this class. He reads straight and even, a pressed shirt. Maybe if they gave the kids in this class
real
literature, they'd want to read when they got home and we wouldn't have to read out loud like babies.

A girl begins to read. “ ‘The next afternoon Tom and Huck met down by the river to plan their strategy.' ”

I'm so furious and so hopeless as the next boy begins. I'm next. It's always the same. There's the buildup. I know what's coming. The faces will look at me when the words get caught in my throat, wondering what's taking so long. And then they will turn away.

When my turn comes, I look out the window.

93

I get called to the principal's office halfway through lunch. The principal and my English teacher wait for me at a table in the office.

“Mrs. Paul says you refuse to read in her class.”

I nod.

“Why would that be?” The principal wears the blue suit. I wonder if he has any others. I shrug.

“Is it because of your stuttering?”

I shrug again. It's pointless. Already they think they know everything about me.

“We have a speech therapist who comes once a week from Dover. We would like her to evaluate you.”

I nod.

“Very well. Any questions?” He's looking at me, waiting.

I shake my head.

He stands and waits for me to go. When I look up at him, his eyes tell me,
Problem solved.
But the problem isn't solved. I'm angry enough to spit nails into his teeth, but I'm afraid to open my mouth.

What about the honors class? I want him to talk about
that
. But I'm caught in the space between what I want to say and knowing I can't.
Or what I think I can't
.

I stand, too. And then I pull the reading list from my pocket and throw it in front of him. “I have read W-w-wuthering H-h-h-heights and you have me reading
Tom Sawyer
for b-b-b-babies. I should be in the honors cl-cl-class.”

He looks away. “Well, lots of kids think they should be in the honors class.” He looks from the clock on the wall to the class ring on his finger and he twists it back and forth. “Let's see how you do in Mrs. Paul's room for a while and then we'll move you up if you can do the work.”

I know how this plays out. You never move.
Nevermore. Quoth the
Raven, “Nevermore. ”

“N-n-n-no.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Hush now,” says Mrs. Paul.

I push her words aside. “I have r-r-r-read these b-b-b-b-books.” I push the paper closer to him.

He sits back down and reads them all.

“But you have no transcript. Has it arrived?” He looks up at the secretary, who walked into his office when she heard the fuss. She shakes her head.

“This is quite a list.” He looks at me. “How do I know you've really read them?”

“Q-q-quiz me.”

“Okay,” he says, “Wuthering Heights. Main character?”

“H-h-h-heathcliff and Catherine.”

“Conflict?”

“Heathcliff l-l-l-loves Catherine, but she m-m-m-marries someone else.”

“Time period?”

“Early eighteen hundreds.”

He turns to Mrs. Paul. “Is this right?”

She shrugs. “I think so. It's been a long time.”

He turns to the secretary. “Call Mr. Browne down here.” He taps his pencil while we wait. Mr. Browne doesn't hurry. We sit for ten minutes and wait.
Tap.Tap.Tap.

When Mr. Browne finally walks into the room, he is licking an ice cream sandwich and two drops of vanilla run down his tie and he doesn't notice.

The principal tells him my answers. Mr. Browne nods and smiles over at me. “Yes, it is quite challenging, wouldn't you say?” I grin. There are little snowmen rolling all over his tie. When he sits down, I see he's wearing Christmas socks.

The principal looks down the list.
“To Kill a Mockingbird?”

“Scout and her brother, J-j-jem, are the m-m-m-main characters, and their father, Atticus Finch, is important, too.”

“Conflict?”

“Whether p-p-people are good or evil underneath it all.” I glare at Mrs. Paul. “Also, it's about what happens when pr-pr-prejudice goes wild.”

The honors teacher looks over at me. “She's right.” He reaches for the list. “Have you read all these books?”

His voice reminds me of Warm Milk's at the library, only it's heavier, lumpier, but comforting, like mashed potatoes. I want to tell him my story. I look up at him. “Yes,” I say.

“Very well and good,” says the principal. “But we don't have any transcript.” He yells to the secretary. “Have you called down there yet?”

She begins dialing the phone.

I press my foot into the floor so hard that it cramps. But I don't look down. I look at the principal. “No. I'm n-not going back to that class.”

A few seconds of empty space hang awkwardly before Mr. Browne leans forward. “Why don't we try her in my class and see how she does?”

I bloom a little more from the spot deep inside myself. I am a chrysanthemum, a late bloomer, a fall bloomer, a bloomer nonetheless.

94

A pot of cinnamon and cloves and apples steams on the woodstove one Saturday morning when I walk into the kitchen wearing my warmest socks. Agatha sits at the table, a cup of sassafras in front of her. I take a cup from the cupboard and fill it with sassafras and sit on the wooden chair beside her.

The tiny sweater that I found under the bed all those months ago sits on her lap. She runs her fingers over the buttons and along the lace that edges the neck.

“I've stayed away from the mountain for too long,” she says, running her fingers along the delicate stitches without looking up. “It's been years. Want to go with me?”

I sip my tea. I haven't thought about the mountain in a long time. I don't want to escape so badly now that I have a tepee.

“It's pretty cold out there,” I say, grateful for my socks. “When are you going?” I take a large slurp of the sassafras. It warms me deeper now than coffee.

“I was waiting for you to get up.” She rubs the sweater against her cheek. “No snow in the air, not today. We can make it to the top and back if we get going.”

95

“Look down there, Cornelia.” I follow Agatha's finger back along the fields we have just climbed behind her house. I cinch my coat tighter.

“It's Thornhill land. All of it. And up there, too. Several hundred acres.”

“The mountain's yours, too?” It stretches high in the distance.

Agatha laughs. “You been callin' it a mountain since you got here. It's not much more than a hill. But yes, it's ours.”

Agatha's breath wisps out of her mouth in cloudy puffs. “They been wantin' our land for years, but I hold on and on. Some years I have a phone, some I don't.”

She walks up to a stone wall and sits down and I open the canvas sack and reach in for the cheese, muffins, and apples I've packed for us.

“Is it wo-wo-worth it if you can't have a phone?” I pour two cups of sassafras tea from the thermos. Agatha pulls a couple of sugar lumps from her overalls and pops them into her cup.

“You tell me. Look around you.”

White feathery ice glistens in the oaks now that the leaves have fallen. Thigh-high grass tilts in the cold wind. White pine and spruce, oaks and maples march up the sides of the hill into the distance. The sky is the thin blue color of the water in the brook.

“I could sell some of it off, like some of our neighbors want. Moss wants the wood. Others wanted to put a golf course here once, but we Thornhills have always known that land is the one thing you never sell. Because with land you got a place for your roots to go down deep.”

I think about my mother. She never got her roots down deep. Is that it? I wonder why having me wasn't enough to make her want to get root-bound. I wonder if the boyfriend is enough.

“There's one thing that would get me to sell some of it off,” she says after taking a loud finishing slurp of her tea, putting the cup back into the pack, and standing up. “Sendin' you to college. Bo's right. You read better than anyone, Cornelia. There's a big enough piece across the street to get you started, anyway.”

I am speechless and it's not because I'm afraid to talk. I reach over and hug her for the first time ever and when I do, she hugs me back.

We climb again and leave the fields and walk into a beech forest. I follow Agatha and listen to her moccasins pad quietly up the hill, past the tall straight trunks of the trees covered with bark as smooth and tight as young elephant skin. We pass another brook and I stop for a drink, feel the water alive on my tongue.

Agatha's steps slow as we get closer to the top and I wonder if her feet are getting cold. She wears the moccasins summer and winter; she just adjusts the number and thickness of socks to the weather. I slow down, too, matching my pace to hers so that we walk side by side. Then she slows even more and I start wondering about her age. Just how old is she? I've never asked; she's never told me. I've seen her carry bushels of turnips and potatoes, one after the other without stopping. She's the first one up in the morning, the last one to bed at night. I know she's solid as her own land, but she is definitely slowing down. The skin on her face looks tight, drawn.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, I'm fine. I just need to sit down for a bit.”

“You don't l-l-l-look too well.” I pour another cup of tea.

She drinks quickly, hands the mug back to me, and I refill it. “I haven't been here in a long time. You make me remember things. Come on, let's get going.”

Agatha's steps slow and then she stops. Tears puddle in her eyes. “What's the matter?” I say, alarmed. This isn't like Agatha, oak that she is.

“I stayed away from here for a long time, Cornelia. That's all.” As we walk on, I see that the crest of the hill is surrounded by a grove of pines. There's an opening, a doorway, and sun pours into the space in heavy drapes. Agatha quickens her step and walks into the space, a sanctuary in the woods, and I follow.

A wooden cross stands in the center.

GRACE THORNHILL
1960–1961

Agatha kneels beside the cross and pulls the tiny sweater from the pocket of her coat and lays it on her lap, along with the mittens, hat, and booties. She rubs them and closes her eyes. Tears stream down her face.

“Some things always hurt,” she says after a while.

“You bu-bu-buried her up here?” I whisper. “It's b-b-b-beautiful.”

“No. They buried her near the hospital. Her spirit's here, though. I made sure of that.”

“I'm sorry.”

Agatha looks over at me. “I didn't dump her off, as you said that day.”

I wish she wouldn't get into that fight we had all those months ago. Everything just hurt so much then.

“The doctor told me that no woman by herself could take care of a child that sick, that Grace would be better off in a hospital. I didn't argue, I didn't know any better. I was young and foolish and didn't speak up. I have been sorry about that every day of my life.”

“It's so t-tiny,” I say, looking down at the sweater.

“Took me half a year. I kept ripping it apart and starting over. But she wore it. It was winter when she was born.” She rubs the sweater on her cheek.

“I'm sorry,” I say again.

“Me too. Lots of pain in life. Lots more joy. You got to find a way to stand through both.”

96

One day in early December, Agatha and I drive back from the library with a pile of books between us. Agatha's
Bird Behavior
rests on top.

Snowflakes flit through the yard as I look across at my mother, huddled under her coat, on the front step. Half a year—it sure took you long enough is all I can think.

“Hi, Corns.” My mother stands up when I walk over. Her arms hang skinnier, if that's possible.

“What are you d-d-d-doing here?” I step forward, unsure, but my heart is leaping.

“Seeing you, you goose.” She laughs in that nervous way that scrapes at bone. She nods as Agatha walks up behind me. I am getting used to the quiet scuff of my aunt's moccasins. I had forgotten how she towers over my mother. Same thin wrists, but an oak and a sapling.

“Where's the ride?” my aunt says finally.

“At the store to get some things.”

“I knew you'd come back,” I whisper, stepping closer.

My mother looks at her feet, then steps forward and hugs me the way a little boy hugs his mother when his friends are watching. Her dress floats loose under her coat as she steps back. Her cowboy boots barely leave a print in the snow.

I want to give her a fat slice of whole wheat bread with a thick spread of molasses, some cheese, and a chunk of apple pie to keep her from fading away.

“I missed you real bad, Corns.” She looks up at me quickly and I see the hesitancy in her eyes in the instant before she blinks it away. “We're going to Atlantic City, Corns. I'll come get you soon as I can.”

My spine straightens and hardens as anger rises from deep inside. I clamp my teeth down over my climbing fury, imagining myself getting real heavy, folding over onto myself, getting thick so her words can't reach the spot deep inside that hasn't turned hard yet. And I'm trying harder than I've ever tried before as my mother keeps glancing out at the road for the boyfriend's car.

But it's not working. My mother lights a cigarette and I notice the Yodels package sticking out of her pocket. I unclamp my teeth. I've spent so much time in the tepee, so much time with Agatha, that when I push the anger down now, all I want is a voice.

“We won't be there long before we come get you. Just long enough to get settled and get jobs and stuff.”

My aunt touches my shoulder. My mother looks off to the road. She smokes her cigarette in short quick drags, and I watch her shoulders slump and I see her pain and then, like a gush from a vein, I feel mine.

“Maybe things will finally start working out for us,” she says while looking out at the road. “You can go to school down there, Corns.”

She keeps on talking, stumbling along about the way it will be for us someday, but this time, as the tears fall down my face, I look away from her.

I think about that day I began writing about my life in the tepee and how I promised myself I would never hide again. I watch my mother explain how she'll come back for me, how I can practically count the days on my fingers, she'll come back so soon. Never hide my face, I told myself that day, never again. Never look at my feet, never again.

I look up at Agatha, then back to my mother. “I'll b-b-b-be okay here.”

My mother looks away. But I walk across the miles and miles that stretch between us and hug her anyway.