Circle of Grace, page 8
Truth was not an abstract concept for Grace. It had a color, a taste, a smell. A dark red hellish light, a bitter burn like acid on her tongue, a scent of smoke and ash and the rotting remains of half-cremated dreams.
And truth had a face. The guileless, winsome appearance of a child, distorted by leering, nightmarish adult features that flickered just below the surface.
It had been years since Grace had thought of little Emmy. Even when Dr. Sangi asked if she had family she could call on to support her, her own half sister hadn’t come to mind.
But of course, she hadn’t kept track of the child—no, not a child, she realized with a jolt. A woman. Emily Ryerson would be in her mid-thirties by now. Where was she? What had her life been like, growing up fatherless and motherless under a cloud of death and illegitimacy, with only a single aunt to raise her?
It was too late to find out now. One twisted strand of DNA wasn’t a strong enough thread to bind strangers together.
Besides, what else might she discover if she lifted that rock to see what was underneath? Other bastard children her father had left behind? More truth that would cut like a razor and drain whatever drops of hope remained in her veins?
Grace didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. Long ago she had quit believing that the truth would set you free. It manacled you instead, chaining you hand and foot and heart and soul and leading you places you never intended to go.
During the summer break, Grace had gotten together with a few of her old high school girlfriends. They went shopping, shared a pizza, forced themselves to laugh and talk and pretend everything was normal. It was a charade, and they all knew it. With her father dead, and Grace in the pit with the great secret hanging over her like a razor-sharp pendulum, nothing would ever be normal again. She endured the company of her friends and tried to ignore the pitying glances, the whispered conversations behind her back. But by the time August finally rolled around, Grace was more than ready to return home.
Home. Compared to her mother’s farmhouse, the little place on Barnard Street was dated, drafty, and, as her father had once remarked, dumpy. Yet it had become home. The place where she belonged.
Tess had called her several times in the past two months, and Liz and Lovey had gotten on the phone as well, hinting that they’d all like to come visit for a weekend, but Grace had let the suggestion drop. She wasn’t prepared to face them yet. She was too afraid that her raw edges would show, that they’d ask questions and she would unintentionally let the truth about her father slip out.
And she had no intention of telling them the truth.
They were too important to her.
Now that Daddy was gone—more to the point, now that her image of her father was blasted beyond recognition—all Grace had to hang on to was her friendship with Tess and Liz and Lovey. They were the only remaining buoys that kept her afloat, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—risk that their view of her might change.
Tess would smother her trying to be supportive and nurturing. Lovey would attempt—unsuccessfully—to keep things light and uncomplicated. And Liz? Liz would have a field day psychoanalyzing the information, and whether or not she actually said the words, the implication would hang over Grace like a shroud: I told you so.
No. Grace couldn’t take the chance. All summer she had been preparing herself, pushing down the anger that simmered below the surface, perfecting an attitude of cheerful normalcy in front of the mirror, making jokes.
Grace tried out her act on Mama, telling stories about Lovey’s awful attempts at cooking and Liz’s outrageous, irreverent table prayers. Not since childhood had she seen her mother smile so broadly or laugh with such abandon. It almost felt like having a friend.
But, of course, it was a sham. Mama might be happy, but Grace was thoroughly miserable. She couldn’t wait to get out of the house, away from memories of her father, away from the possibility that she might run into Bette Ryerson and little Emily. Back to Asheville, where she could create for herself the kind of life she wanted. Back to Tess and Liz and Lovey.
Besides, Grace thought as she packed suitcases and boxes of books, she had it all planned. She would tell them how she had struggled to come to grips with her father’s death, how she had reconnected with her mother. How she had finally grieved, and had come through the period of mourning stronger because of the suffering she had endured. She would confide in them up to a point, and that would be enough.
“We’ve got so much to tell you,” Tess said as they crowded around the tiny kitchen table for dinner. “It’s so good to have you home.”
“For more reasons than one,” Liz agreed, eyeing the casserole suspiciously. “Who made this stuff? Has it got tuna in it?”
“I made it,” Lovey said. “And it’s chicken.”
“Looks like tuna.” Liz gingerly touched her tongue to her fork. “Tastes like tuna. Since when is chicken gray?”
“Since Lovey started learning to cook,” Tess said. “Just eat it.”
Liz made a face. “I hate tuna.”
“Forget the tuna, will you?” Tess turned back to Grace. “We want to hear all about your summer. You doing OK?”
“It’s not tuna, it’s chicken,” Lovey said.
Grace began to laugh. “I knew I missed you all, but I hadn’t realized how much. It was good to get your letters and phone calls. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you to come to visit. It was just rather…complicated.”
“Well, we all kept pretty busy this summer,” Lovey said. There was a glint in her eye and an overtone in her voice. Grace wondered what she wasn’t saying.
“That’s true,” Tess said. “I worked almost every weekend. Liz went to Raleigh for a civil rights demonstration. And Lovey—well, Lovey has some news of her own, which I’ll let her tell. We wanted to come, but we gathered maybe you needed some time on your own, with your mom. Are the two of you getting along better now?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, we are. And I’ll tell you all about it. But first I want to hear your news.”
“Liz got thrown in jail,” Lovey said.
“What? When?”
“Just overnight.” Liz shrugged. “A bunch of us went to a sit-in on the Capitol steps. It wasn’t like Selma, or Birmingham. Nobody got sprayed with fire hoses or attacked by police dogs. But some of us did get arrested.” She sighed. “I’m not sure it did any good. Sometimes it seems like the whole movement has fallen apart since Dr. King was killed.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Grace jibed. “Becoming a felon is now the fashionable way to make changes happen?” She meant it as a joke, but her attempt to cajole Liz out of her black mood clearly wasn’t working. “Maybe folks need to just give it a little more time,” she ventured.
“Time?” Liz exploded. “It’s been six years since the Civil Rights Act was passed—long overdue, I might add. And with Tricky Dick in the White House, who knows how far into the dark ages we’ll slide?” She narrowed her eyes. “He’s a crook. And he’s already stepped up the bombing in Vietnam.”
“But we elected him, and—”
“Elected authorities need to be held accountable,” Liz interrupted. “Look at the invasion of Cambodia. Look at what happened at Kent State. Or maybe you don’t give a damn that our civil rights, and the rights of people all over the world, are being violated.” She got up from her chair, squeezed past Tess, and went into the living room.
“She’s not really mad at you,” Tess said. “She’s been wired up like that since the beginning of summer.”
“She’ll be all right,” Lovey added. “And now, do you want to hear my news?”
Grace took a breath and tried to forget about Liz’s animosity. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s have it.”
“Well—” Lovey leaned forward, her voice hushed and whispery. “I think I may have found the one.”
Grace blinked. “The one what?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Lovey, don’t be so dramatic.” Tess arched her eyebrows. “Lovey’s got a new boyfriend.”
“No kidding? What happened to What’s-His-Name?”
“Vince?” Lovey let out a derisive snort. “Ancient history. He’s a boy. Bo is a real man.”
“Bo?”
“Bo Tennyson.” Lovey’s eyes unfocused. “He’s a football player—”
“Who’d have guessed?” Tess grinned.
“He’s wonderful,” Lovey went on, unfazed. “He’s tall and blond and gorgeous and really smart, too. He plays tight end at Chapel Hill. He’s a business major. And he’s twenty-one. The long-distance thing is a bummer, but at least he was red-shirted as a freshman, so we’ll graduate at the same time. And probably get married right after.”
Grace tried to take all this in. “How’d you meet him, Lovey? And when?”
“About a month ago. He was in Asheville part of the summer doing something—oh, I don’t know what. Some kind of job. We met in a bar downtown, where my cousin Sylvia and I went when she was in town visiting.”
“You picked up a guy in a bar?”
“Well, it was a nice bar, not a dive.”
Grace shook her head. “Let me get this straight. You went to a bar, got hit on by some hunk, and now after dating him for a month you think he’s going to marry you?”
“I wouldn’t call it dating, exactly. Dating is for teenagers.”
“You are a teenager, Lovey.”
“Only technically.”
“Your birthday is in June,” Grace corrected her. “You’re barely nineteen.”
“Well, nineteen is almost twenty. Twenty is a woman.” She turned her brightest smile on Grace. “You’ll meet him next weekend—it’s his last free weekend before football practice starts. You’ll adore him.”
“OK,” Grace said. A nagging thought prodded at the edges of her mind. “Lovey, when this Bo Tennyson comes to town, where’s he planning to stay?”
“Well, here, of course.”
Grace turned to Tess for help but didn’t get it. “I don’t know, Lovey. This house is pretty small, our couch isn’t very comfortable.”
“Who said anything about the couch?”
“You mean—”
“He’ll stay with me, in my room. I know it will be a little more crowded, especially with only one bathroom and all, but it’ll only be for a few days.”
Unbidden, a shadowy image flashed across Grace’s mind. Her father, laughing drunkenly and pressing himself against a woman who was not her mother.
She felt her face flush, and Lovey laughed. “Don’t look so shocked, my innocent little hothouse flower. It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last. Besides, he’s not likely to be here very often. Most of the time I’ll be going down to Chapel Hill—assuming that one of my wonderful roommates will lend me a car.” She took her plate from the table to the sink. “Liz was right—this stuff is awful. I really will have to work on learning to cook. Maybe you could help me, Grace.”
“Sure,” Grace mumbled. She could think of nothing else to say.
“Since I made dinner—even though it was terrible—you two get the cleanup.” Lovey flung a salacious grin over her shoulder as she left the room. “I’ve got a long, juicy letter to write.”
By the time the dishes were done, Liz had recovered from her snit and was sitting on the couch with the UNCA catalogue and registration papers spread out across the coffee table.
Grace sat down beside her and peered over her shoulder. “Didn’t you preregister?”
“Yeah, but now I’m rethinking everything. What kind of college doesn’t offer classes in passive resistance or the civil rights movement? And Gandhi. There’s not a single course about the politics and principles of Gandhi.”
Tess sat cross-legged on the floor next to the fireplace. “Liz, you could teach courses in passive resistance and the civil rights movement. I’ve seen your bookshelf. If your collection is any indication, you’ve already memorized most of Gandhi.”
“I know. But it would be great to have some real discussion about his work.” Liz shook her head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m way out in left field, all by myself.”
Grace nodded. “I know what you mean.”
“Yeah,” Liz said, “except you’re in right field all by yourself.” She stuffed her papers into the catalogue and set it aside. “So, tell us about your summer.”
Grace shrugged. “Lots of changes.”
“Change is good.” Liz arched an eyebrow. “A step in the right direction. Or, dare I hope, a step to the left?”
“I haven’t become a raving liberal, if that’s what you’re asking,” Grace said. She chuckled at Liz’s crestfallen expression. “But I did face some things this summer. You’d have been proud of me.”
Tess leaned forward. “Tell us more.”
Grace launched into her carefully rehearsed account of what had happened since the Monday after exams, when her mother showed up in the Cadillac DeVille convertible.
“So, it wasn’t an easy summer,” she concluded. “But Mama and I are doing much better. She’s come around, isn’t so stiff and distant anymore. Toward the end we actually had fun together.” Grace ducked her head and pulled at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa. “I guess I owe all of you an apology. I was pretty upset when my father died. And yes, Liz, I do realize that anger is one of the stages of grief, but it still made me—well, made me feel like a heretic—like I was being disloyal to my father.”
“Hey, I love heretics,” Liz said.
“I know. But I stuffed everything down, and sort of withdrew. I was really afraid of losing my grip, and I didn’t know how to talk to all of you about it, since—”
“Since we’re a bunch of heretics.” Liz threw back her head and laughed. “Grace, you should know you’re safe with us. Despite our differences, we’ve always tried to accept each other and be real with each other.”
Grace’s stomach twisted. OK, here’s some reality for you, she thought. My father was unfaithful to my mother. The woman who was killed in the wreck with him was his mistress. He has an illegitimate daughter.
Safe, Liz had said. But how could Grace know for certain, unless she took the risk to utter the words, that she was safe here, that her friends could accept her without condemnation and love her without judgment? The truth burned to be spoken, a corrosive in her gut trying to bore its way out.
But the words lodged in her throat and gagged her. The risk was too great, the shame too strong. And so, deep inside, like a rat chewing its way out of a locked room, Grace’s truth continued to gnaw at her, trying in vain to break free.
-10-
LOVEY’S CHALLENGE
Bo Tennyson arrived the following Friday afternoon, skidding to the curb in an old yellow Triumph Spitfire convertible with a large sports bag tied on the back. Even from this vantage point—peering between the living room window blinds—Grace understood immediately why Lovey had fallen for him.
He was tall and muscular, with windblown blond hair and eyes more vivid than the blue of his Tar Heels jersey. His upper torso looked as if he had forgotten to take off his shoulder pads. And although Grace was pretty sure being a tight end didn’t have anything to do with the shape of his butt, he certainly filled out his jeans nicely.
She watched, with Liz and Tess jostling behind her for a better view, while Lovey ran to the street and jumped into his arms. He picked her up and whirled her around and kissed her, then turned and waved, grinning, in the direction of the living room window.
Grace scrambled backward, tripping over Tess and Liz in her haste. They all fell in a heap on the carpet, giggling and gasping for breath.
The front door opened. “Hello, ladies,” he said.
“What on earth are y’all doing?” Lovey demanded. “You’re spying on us!”
Bo set his bag down and held out a hand. “Let’s see, you must be Grace.” He helped her up from the floor. “And this is Tess, and that’s Liz.”
When they were all on their feet, he took a step back and put an arm around Lovey. “I’m Bo Tennyson.”
“We know,” Liz said.
He laughed easily and turned to Lovey. “Want to put that away for me, hon?” he said, pointing to his bag. He moved over to the sofa, sat down, and propped his feet on the coffee table. “And then maybe get me a beer while I get acquainted with your roommates.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Bo Tennyson regaled them with football stories. Third and long with a minute to go. A blocked punt taken in for a touchdown. The flea-flicker. The double reverse. A game-winning Hail Mary in the last five seconds of the division championship. Grace had seen a few games but was fuzzy on the details, and for the most part she didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. Still, she had to give him credit for being entertaining.
But so was Daddy. She watched, as if in slow motion, as Bo Tennyson downed one beer and then another. He wasn’t drunk by any means, but by the third beer he had become more animated and less inhibited about touching Lovey in ways that made Grace feel as if bugs were crawling under her skin.
One thing was absolutely clear: Lovey adored him. She sat next to him on the couch with one hand on his thigh, watching his eyes, laughing and throwing glances at them as if to say Didn’t I tell you he was wonderful?
Finally the beer was gone and the football stories wound to a close, and Bo and Lovey left to go out to dinner. The door had barely shut behind them before the postgame analysis began.
“Well, he is gorgeous,” Liz said. “I’ll give him that much.”
“Yes, he is,” Tess agreed. “But what was all that bull about ‘getting acquainted with us’? He never once asked any of us a single question about ourselves.”
“Ha,” Liz said. “Even if he had asked, he never stopped talking long enough for anyone else to get a word in edgewise.”
