Chapter Twenty-Seven. Grace
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
GRACE
When Dad stomps into the cottage, Ma and Magnolia and Cooper and I are already gathered around the kitchen table.
We all stare at him in shock. He’s got a long, thin scratch across his cheek, like he lost a battle with a blackberry bush.
And he’s in his shirtsleeves, his jacket abandoned, his tie loosened.
Dad stays buttoned-up from breakfast till bedtime. What happened to him?
“Joe, your face! Let me see.” Ma hurries over, but he bats her hand away.
“Cat got me. I’m fine.” He doesn’t look fine. He looks sweaty and sick. He leads us in prayer, asking God to rid us of evil influences, and I wonder if he means Rose.
Is she all right?
Dad pushes mashed potatoes around his plate for a few terse moments, then puts his fork down. Ma’s roast chicken turns to sawdust in my mouth. “Grace, I’ll drive you over to the Grotowskis’ after supper so you can apologize to Stanley.”
“Did you two have a fight?” Magnolia leans forward, nosy as ever.
“Are you okay?” Cooper asks, forehead furrowed.
“Stanley broke up with her,” Dad announces. “But she’s going to fix it.”
No. I’m not going backward. Not even if Dad locks me in my room.
“No.” My voice is quiet but firm.
Dad shoves his chair back from the table. “Are you disobeying me?”
“No, sir. But Stanley wants to date other girls, and I—” I can’t say that I want to date other boys, or he’ll accuse me of being fast. Nobody will want me once Stan runs his mouth, anyhow. “I agree that we should go our separate ways.”
“This is that Thorpe girl’s fault.” Dad picks up his fork and stabs at Ma’s fresh green beans. It’s not hard to imagine he’d like to stab Rose instead. “She’s filled your head with nonsense. Made you think you’re something special.”
The notion that I’m anything special is laughable to him. Preposterous.
That shouldn’t sting anymore, but it does.
“You’re throwing away your future,” Dad grumbles.
“I’m a bright girl. I can have a good future without Stanley.” Saying those words out loud feels revolutionary. Like firing a cannon shot.
“Hell yeah, you can!” Cooper cheers. “Sorry for cussing, Ma.”
I sneak a glance at my mother. Does she look a little bit proud?
“Stanley is a good man. A veteran,” Dad says. “I won’t have you disparaging him.”
“He is awfully handsome,” Magnolia says dreamily.
I glare at her. “Nobody asked you.”
“Grace!” Ma chides. I blow out a frustrated breath that makes my hair dance. I resent that she’ll stick up for Maggie, but not me.
“He treats Grace like dirt. She deserves better,” Cooper says.
Dad gives him a scathing look. “You can keep your opinions to yourself, unless you plan to support your sister and her smart mouth.”
“I can support myself,” I argue. “Lots of girls have after-school jobs. I can work full-time after graduation.”
The world has changed, even if Dad won’t admit it.
Only a handful of girls in my class plan to be homemakers.
Jeanne wants to be a music teacher; she already gives French horn lessons.
Kitty is going to be a beautician like her cousin; she’s great at doing hair.
Even Barb works as a hostess down at the Oyster House.
“Well, I don’t care what other girls do!” Dad thunders. “A man’s job is to provide, and a woman’s is to be a helpmate to her husband and a light to her children. No man wants a wife who outearns him!”
Dad is clearly sore about Ma working at the hotel. But he hasn’t been much of a provider, and we all know it. We were living hand to mouth before the Thorpes bailed him out. He inherited the Harrow Home in mint condition, at the height of its popularity, and he mismanaged it right into the ground.
“What if I found a womanly job?” I persist. “I could babysit. I’m sure there are some poor war widows who need help.”
Dad’s face twists with anger. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“No!” Why does he always assume the worst of me?
Cooper looks skeptical. “You, minding kids?”
He has a point. I don’t actually like children.
“What about taking in some sewing? I’m a deft hand with a needle and thread, thanks to Ma.
” I smile, grateful now for all the times she made me mend my own stockings and sew my own buttons back on, despite my moaning impatience.
“Last week Rose and I took a dress of hers to Kath Johnson for alterations. Her business seems steady. Maybe she needs an assistant.”
Ma’s fork screeches against her plate. “You went to see Kath?”
Her face is doing something odd. Doesn’t she like Kath? Or maybe Kath reminds her of Emmeline. My parents got married when Emmeline was (I do the math) only six; Ma watched her grow up. I wonder if they were close before Em’s death.
“Rose this and Rose that. I won’t have it!” Dad bangs his fist on the table, his anger all out of proportion. The china trembles; the sweet tea sloshes in our glasses. What did Rose say to get him so worked up?
“I’m still the head of this household, and I say no daughter of mine will go out to work! That’s that. And you will make up with Stanley. We’ve been working toward this for too long for you to throw it all away!”
We? My cheeks flush with the memory of the things I’ve had to do to placate Stanley.
“I won’t have you ruining your future because that girl has been whispering in your ear. Not again!” Dad declares hotly.
“Joe!” Ma snaps his name. “Mind yourself.”
We all look up, startled. Ma never yells. Never.
“This isn’t Rose’s fault. Stanley’s changed. So have I.” I remember my talk with Ma on the back porch. “Ma can see it.”
I look at her with pleading eyes. I need her to take up for me just this once. I can’t go back to Stan. I won’t.
“She does, does she? Have you been going behind my back again, Martha?” Dad growls.
Again? I can’t imagine Ma ever defying him.
Ma’s face has gone stony, her slate-colored eyes cold. “I think we had better discuss this in private.” She stands and puts her napkin on the table. “You all go ahead and finish your supper, and then clear the table and get started on the dishes, please.”
She sails into Dad’s study. He follows and slams the door. I strain to hear, but I can only make out the rise and fall of their voices as I half-heartedly spoon mashed potatoes and gravy into my mouth.
This is absolutely unprecedented. Ma never loses her temper with him. The woman has the patience of a saint.
Does she really believe that I can make my own way in the world without Stan? Or did mentioning Kath remind her how poorly Dad handled Emmeline’s rebellion—and the tragic consequence?
I hope she knows that I’m more Daisy than Emmeline.
“What happened with you and Stan?” Cooper asks as he clears his plate.
I glance at Magnolia, eavesdropping at the table. “It’s like I said. We just don’t suit anymore.”
I’m nearly asleep when I hear it: a sharp rap against my window.
The noise would have made sense up at the main house, where the old oak tapped against the glass with its skeletal fingers whenever the wind moaned.
I’d huddle beneath my quilt, eyes shut, afraid to see her reflection staring back at me from the dark window.
But here at the cottage, there’s only Ma’s purple wisteria climbing up the whitewashed brick.
!
I hear another tap. Could it be hail? Wind flutters the white drapes, but I can’t hear the thunder over Magnolia’s snores.
(Irksome, even in her sleep.)
I go to the window, part the drapes, and nearly scream. Stanley is standing in the middle of Ma’s garden, his hand poised to throw another pebble.
“Grace!” he hisses. “Gracie!”
Good Lord, what is he thinking, coming here in the middle of the night?
I put my finger to my lips. If he wakes Dad, I’ll be to blame.
Why did Stanley think he’d be welcome at this hour?
Have you snuck out to meet him before? Didn’t I raise you to know better?
That’s how girls find themselves in a fix.
“I jus’ wanna talk!” I can tell from the slur of his voice that he’s been drinking. Not to mention the fact that he’s here, trampling Ma’s cornflowers, at (I check the alarm clock on my nightstand) two o’clock in the damn morning.
If he doesn’t shut up, he’s going to wake somebody. And in this state, he’s liable to start running his mouth about how I’m “used goods.”
“I’m coming. Be quiet!” I hiss.
I’m wearing short-sleeved pajamas, so I’m decent, but the more layers of clothing between me and Stan, the better. I throw on my pink cotton robe, then ease the door open. Magnolia snores on, and now I’m thankful for it.
I tiptoe down the hall, through the kitchen, and out onto the back porch.
Stan is waiting at the bottom of the steps.
“What do you want?” I demand.
“Aw, Gracie, don’ be like that.” His eyes are bloodshot and bleary, and his face is flushed despite the cool air.
I cross my arms over my chest. “How should I be, after those awful things you said?”
He has the good sense to look ashamed. “I was jus’ mad. She makes me so mad, bossin’ everybody aroun’ like she’s the queen of England.”
Of course. Nothing is ever his fault.
“Don’ be mad at me!” He’s too loud. I weigh the risk of being alone with him versus the risk of him waking my father. Stan is almost falling-down drunk. I could outrun him if I had to. Facing my father in his black mood feels more dangerous.
“Don’t worry about Stanley,” Ma said when she finally emerged from Dad’s study. “As for an after-school job … I’ll need plenty of help around here once the hotel opens. But I’ll keep working on Dad. It’d be good for you to have a little money of your own. Gives a woman confidence.”
She smiled at me, and I hugged her in a rush of affection.
Still. I don’t want to give Dad any reasons to change his mind.
“Shhhh.” I hurry down the steps and lead Stan toward the pool. “Come on.”
“You wanna go for a swim? I didn’ bring my suit, but we can go in our birfday suits. Nekkid, you know?”
“Yes, I—” He starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “No! I don’t want to go swimming. Keep your clothes on, Stanley!”
He stops, pouting. “You’re no fun.”