Chapter Nine. Grace
CHAPTER NINE
GRACE
Something is wrong with me.
I’m so angry. Have I ever been this angry in my life?
My entire body feels flushed with it. My cheeks are hot; my jaw is clenched, teeth grinding, shoulders tight.
My eyes narrow on Stanley’s hand, his sausage fingers inching toward Ella’s bottom.
His mouth, wet from slobbering on her like that in front of everybody.
Her lipstick is smeared. She’s blinking back tears.
She’s just a kid. Fourteen.
She’s a year older than I was when Stanley took up with me.
I didn’t feel like a kid then. I felt flattered and grown-up.
But I was starting eighth grade, and Stan was a senior, almost eighteen.
Everybody told me how lucky I was that he picked me.
Wanted me. He could’ve had any girl in town!
And he was real sweet at first. Respectful.
So I let him kiss me. Touch me. I let him slip his hands under my sweater, and later (right before he left for the service) under my plaid skirt.
Let him rub himself against me, his breath hot in my ear, his tongue in my mouth, his octopus hands everywhere, till he collapsed in a sweaty heap and stroked my hair and told me I was beautiful.
I didn’t enjoy it. Didn’t even understand what was happening.
“It’s only a game, Grace.” That’s Barb’s nasal voice. Throwing my words back in my face.
It is a game, to Stanley. A game that only he can play. He can put his lips and his hands all over Ella, humiliating me in front of my friends (humiliating me in front of Rose!), and I’m not supposed to say boo about it.
Well, I am not playing by those rules anymore.
A tear slides down Ella’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Grace!”
I know that look. Shame.
She feels like this is her fault.
It’s not. But I’ve worn that look too often since Stanley came back.
Especially since that night last fall when he pushed me to my knees and told me to take him in my mouth.
Didn’t I want to make him feel good? If I wouldn’t, he bet some other girl would.
And it’s not as though I’d get a baby that way.
I did it, but I hated us both for it.
What had I said—what had I done—to make him think I was that kind of girl?
Now I understand. It’s not my fault. It’s not Ella’s fault. This is all Stanley’s fault.
I stalk closer, gripping the knife in my outstretched hand.
“Aw, baby, don’ be jealous,” he slurs.
“I’m not jealous,” I say, scornful. “I’m angry.”
I feel like a storybook dragon, breathing fire, aflame with it.
“Grace.” Cooper sounds worried. “Hey. Give me the knife.”
“No.” I jut my chin at Stanley. “Let go of her.”
Kitty gasps. “She’s soused!”
I’m not. I’m never. If I was drunk and didn’t insist on it, would Stan wear a rubber? I am not getting tied to this man and this town for the rest of my life, so help me God. I would rather die.
“You’re acting nuts.” Stan sounds nervous. Good. “Your sister’s nuts, Harrow.”
I don’t feel nuts. I feel clarified by the anger rushing through me, tightening my muscles, clenching my fist. I feel strong.
I take another step. I’m within arm’s reach.
I could leap forward and slash him right across his big, meaty forearm.
How would he use his octopus hands then?
I’d have to push hard to saw through the muscles and tendons.
The knife is small. Stan is big. Strong.
He’d probably be able to wrestle the knife away from me. Even if he was bleeding.
I’d like to make him bleed.
“Grace.” That’s Rose, with her plummy boarding-school voice.
Am I still Grace? I feel like someone new. Someone vicious.
I like it.
Stan can tell. He’s scared. Of little old me? Gee. My heart pumps with pleasure.
He shoves Ella in front of him, the coward.
He’s nothing but a goddamn coward.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to stab him, honestly. He’s a complete boor, even when he isn’t foxed,” Rose says. “I’m only worried you might hurt Ella by accident. You don’t want to hurt Ella, do you? None of this is her fault.”
“I’m sorry.” Mascara weaves dark trails over Ella’s thin face. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”
If I stab him, I might hurt Ella.
None of this is her fault.
Slowly, Rose’s words penetrate the fog of my fury.
I don’t want to hurt Ella. I want to hurt Stanley. Only Stanley.
Later. I’ll get him later.
I nod. My shoulders relax. I lower my outstretched arm.
Cooper sees the moment it’s over, the moment it’s safe, and grabs for the knife. Lowers it so it’s pointed at the floor. He lets out a pained hiss between his teeth. In his hurry, he’s cut himself on the blade.
I hurt him. Again.
The euphoria of my anger is fading, replaced by confusion. Embarrassment.
What have I done?
“Hey. It’s all right.” Cooper tries to put a comforting arm around me, but I shrink away. I don’t want anyone to touch me. “It’s just a scratch, Gracie. I’m fine.”
(I’m not. I feel so strange. Empty. Like my insides have been hoovered out. My thoughts feel slow. Muddy.)
Now that he no longer needs her as a shield (goddamn coward), Stan releases Ella. She flees to Rose, who wraps both arms around her and rocks her like a child, smoothing her dark hair. For a moment, Ella’s sobs are the only sound in the library. Everyone else is shocked silent by what I did.
(What the hell did I do?)
“It was lovely to meet you all, but I’m afraid the party is over,” Rose says, one arm still wrapped around her sister. “Thank you ever so much for coming, and for such a warm welcome to Greeley. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”
She doesn’t need to say it twice. She has that bossy rich-girl way about her.
Gene and Art and Fred mumble, “See ya, Harrow,” and head out in a subdued pack.
Kitty and Barb thank Rose for the party as they tie silk scarves over their hair to protect their curls from the rain.
Neither meets my eyes. Neither asks if I’m all right.
(They’re supposed to be my best friends.)
Stan pulls out a pack of cigarettes, fumbling with his lighter. “Grace, baby, it was jus’ a game. Don’ cry.”
Oh. I touch my wet cheek. I never cry in front of people.
“I’m sorry, perhaps I wasn’t clear.” There isn’t an ounce of apology in Rose’s voice. “I’d like you to leave, too, Stanley.”
He straightens, his lip curling into a snarl as he glances at Rose. He jabs a finger toward me. “Tha’s my girl. I’m not leavin’ without her.”
As though I’m a thing. A possession, not a person.
But my anger is a pale imitation of what it was. I feel small and tired. When Stan comes toward me, I shrink.
He’s never hit me, but sometimes it feels like we’re one beer away from it.
How many times have I shrunk away from Dad like this? Tried to make myself less of a target, or—less, in general? What is it in me that makes them so mad?
Rose steps between us. “Do you want him to take you home, Grace?”
What? I blink at her. Nobody has ever asked me that.
I don’t want him to. I really don’t. But if I say that—
He’ll be so mad. I’ll have to make it up to him later.
“I’ll make sure Gracie gets home safe,” Cooper says.
My brother never interferes between Stan and me. I never let him. I made it clear years ago: Stan was my choice, and Cooper didn’t have to like it, but he had to let me be.
“Why don’t you let her sleep it off?” He knows I’m not soused. “You can see her tomorrow at the weenie roast.”
“All right. Yeah. Night, Harrow.” Stan scowls at Rose, but she purses her little rosebud mouth, unbothered, and waits him out. She keeps her body between us.
It’s dangerous, standing up to a man like that. It’s marvelous.
“I’ll phone you tomorrow, Gracie,” he says finally, around Rose.
“Okay. Good night.” I sniffle as he lumbers out into the hall.
The moment the front door slams behind him, I sink into the nearest armchair and bury my face in my hands like I’m a puppet with the strings cut.
Why couldn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? It’s not the first time Stan’s gotten fresh with another girl during a party. He’s a wolf when he’s drinking (and he’s been drinking a lot these last eighteen months). It doesn’t mean anything. But it makes me feel such a fool in front of everybody.
I peek between my fingers at Ella. She’s curled up on the other armchair with her bare feet tucked beneath her. She’s staring out the open window at the rain, her expression blank. What must she think of me?
I glance at Cooper. He’s wrapped a linen napkin around his palm. Blood seeps through.
“We have a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I’ll go get it,” Rose says.
Cooper nods. When she’s gone, he kneels next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. You’re all right. Nobody got hurt,” he says.
“You got hurt.”
Like last time. Twice, my rage has spilled over, and my sweet brother has paid the price.
“I’m fine. Just a scratch.” He grins at me.
I jerk my head in Ella’s direction. “What if I’d hurt her?”
“I wouldn’t have let you.”
Could he have stopped me? I wasn’t myself.
Or was I more myself than ever? I felt so clearheaded and purposeful.
Usually, when I feel hot and angry, I know she’s here. I see her. I feel her.
This time, I didn’t. What if all that anger was mine?
“What’s happening to me?” I whisper.
Coop’s brown eyes are worried behind his specs. “I don’t know.”
“What if it happens when you’re not here?”
What if I hurt someone in a way I can’t take back?
What if some part of me is like Dad?
Rose comes back with a first-aid kit, a bottle of brown liquor, and four crystal tumblers filled with ice, all on a fancy silver tray. She sets the tray on the coffee table. “I think we could all use some scotch. For medicinal purposes. Nanny says it calms the nerves.”
“Your gran?” Cooper asks.
I smirk, feeling a little more myself. “Their nursemaid. Like the dog in Peter Pan.”
“She’s been with us since my mother died,” Rose says mildly.
Cooper gives me a reproving look, and I feel rotten again.
“When did your mom pass?” he asks.
“When I was born.” Rose hands us each a glass. I sip mine. It tastes like smoke, and it makes me cough, but it burns away some of the fog in my brain.
I watch as Rose approaches Ella cautiously. While Cooper and I were talking, Ella wiped her face and smoothed her hair. She sits curled into herself, closed-off, brittle. It does not invite comforting. Nor apologizing.
“Do you want some?” Rose asks. Ella nods, and Rose hands her a glass with a sigh. “I wish Nanny were here.”
“Me too,” Ella whispers. The yearning in her voice makes my heart ache. Imagine wanting someone who was paid to look after you, not your family. For the first time, I feel a little sorry for the Thorpe girls. At least I’ve got Cooper.
Rose’s hand flutters over her sister’s shoulder, like she isn’t sure whether or not to touch her.
In the end she doesn’t. She goes over to the record player and puts on some jazz.
With the steady drumming of the rain and the liquor burning its way down my throat and a saxophone wailing, the library feels almost cozy. Almost safe.
I try to reassure myself: I am safe. We’re all safe.
But for how long? Dad will be back tomorrow. I’ll have to see Stan at the weenie roast and make things right. And I never know anymore when she’ll pop up.
Cooper sits on the couch next to the first-aid kit. Rose perches next to him.
“Let me.” She dabs some iodine on his cut, and he yelps like a big baby. “Does it sting?” She blows cool air across his palm, and the way my brother looks at her—
I’ve never seen Cooper look at a girl like that.
I wasn’t sure he could look at girls like that.
Rose gets out a roll of bandage and winds some around his palm. “I’m in the Junior Red Cross at school,” she explains as she tucks the bandage in. They’re both blushing now.
I think Rose likes my brother. I saw the little breath she let out when he kissed her. She let down her guard.
I can never do that with Stanley.
Tears knot my throat. I’ve already given him so much.
I don’t want them to see me cry again.
“I’m going to the powder room.” I choke out the words.
I nab the bottle of liquor as I pass the end table.
Then I head down the hall, through the house that used to be ours, into the south wing.
The dormitory-style bathroom has been torn out.
The walls between the eight small bedrooms have been knocked down, and in their place is the framing for four large guest rooms, each with a private bath.
I walk through them, my penny loafers scratching against the scarred old floors, until I reach what used to be the Blue Room.
(Cooper and I called it the Blue Room on account of the wallpaper: bluebells on a cream background. All the bedrooms in the south wing had soft, floral wallpaper. I guess somebody thought it would be calming for the girls.)
There’s still wallpaper on the exterior wall, around the barred window.
They’ll paper over it eventually. And they’ll take the bars off the windows and paint the windowsill.
They won’t want their hotel guests to see the ninety-four lines carved into the wood.
Cooper and I counted them once, years ago.
Wondered about the girl who must have painstakingly scratched them with a hairpin.
Girls weren’t permitted nail clippers or tweezers or anything too sharp, for fear they might hurt themselves in some desperate moment.
“Was it you?” I gather the courage to check my reflection in the dark window, but the only face I see staring back at me is … me.
What if she isn’t real? What if all that anger and violence is mine—an ugly inheritance from my father?
I’m not like him. I don’t want to hurt people.
Not unless they deserve it.
I take a sip from the bottle and cough as it burns my throat.
“Who are you? Were you one of the wayward girls?” I can’t make Dad into a doting father, and I can’t make Stan stop drinking, but I can try to figure out who she is and what she wants. “Was Dad cruel to you? Is that why you’re haunting me? The sins of the father, et cetera?”
I trip over an uneven floorboard. Maybe I’ve had enough to drink.
I lean against the skeleton wall, staring at the windowsill with its ninety-four scratches. Maybe we aren’t so different, biding our time here. I’ve got fourteen months till I turn eighteen, and between Stan and Dad and her, sometimes it feels unbearable.
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor. The room smells sweet, like sawdust. I toy with Stan’s class ring. He’s going to be so mad at me for embarrassing him like that.
“Why is this happening to me?” I’m begging now, but no one answers.
I lift the bottle to my lips, then stagger to my feet.
Fine. I’ll go and find the answers myself.