Chapter Twenty-Nine. Rose
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ROSE
Funerals were a too-common occurrence during the war, but I’m positively dreading Stanley’s.
Auntie says I ought to go to support Grace. She doesn’t say that it will help alleviate suspicion, but I’m keenly aware of it.
I didn’t like Stanley. But I didn’t kill him.
I don’t think I killed him.
I look down at my hands. I removed the crimson polish and varnished them a tasteful shell pink for the funeral.
There are ten perfect ovals, and if anyone notices they’re a bit shorter than they were a week ago, filed down so that one jagged nail on my right hand wouldn’t be obvious—well, no one pays that much attention.
No one knows what I did.
Except for Mr. Harrow.
It’s terrifying that he knows, when I don’t.
How long was the ghost wearing my skin? Did she claw words from my throat, or only rake my nails across his cheek? If I spoke—did he recognize her voice, her words? Were they words she said to him in life?
No wonder he accused me of attacking Stanley, too.
But he doesn’t have any proof.
Besides, if I’d killed Stanley—even by accident—I wouldn’t have the nerve to show up at his funeral, demure in a knee-length black taffeta dress.
I’m wearing only a little mascara, and stockings and pumps.
I look the picture of a rich hotelier’s daughter.
If it’s my word against Joe Harrow’s, mine wins every time, thanks to my station and my father’s money.
Unless he shows people those letters.
I hesitate in the doorway of the church with Ella hollow-eyed behind me.
She’s taken Stan’s death hard. I tried to talk with her in the car, but she gave me clipped answers.
She spends all her time these days whispering with Magnolia or hitting tennis balls against a wall with her frighteningly powerful forehand.
Coop makes his way toward us, that shy smile lighting up his face. He’s handsome in a black suit and tie and a crisp white shirt, his unruly hair tamed with pomade. “Rose! You came. Ella, hey.”
I haven’t seen the twins since the awful morning when Stan’s body was found. I haven’t been alone with Coop since his father interrupted our kiss. It feels like eons ago.
“How is she? How are you?” I ask.
“I’m all right. Just worried about Grace.” He leads us toward the back of the queue of mourners, where Mr. and Mrs. Harrow stand with Grace.
My stomach twists. I was snug in bed the night Stan died. I was afraid I wouldn’t sleep a wink after that debacle with Mr. Harrow, so I snuck one of Auntie’s pills from the medicine cabinet. I was in bed with a book by nine and slept like the dead till Lou came in at six thirty.
I would know if I had woken up. If she had been in my head.
Wouldn’t I?
The church is packed with hundreds of people filling the pews and more lining the walls.
I wonder if Stanley was genuinely adored—which is hard for me to fathom, honestly—or if the townspeople are curious about his untimely death.
Mr. and Mrs. Grotowski stand at the altar with Stan’s sister, Maja, and her husband and two kids.
Slowly, the line of mourners moves forward, as people express their condolences to the family, view the body, and take their seats.
They manage to fit in a good bit of whispering and staring along the way.
They’re staring at Grace, mostly.
Her honey-colored hair falls in long barrel curls, tied back on the sides with a simple black ribbon. She wears a calf-length black dress with a satin sash. Her eyes are dry, in stark contrast to the dozen girls weeping into their lacy handkerchiefs.
“Grace, I’m so terribly sorry,” I say softly.
She nods at me dully. There’s nothing of her usual spark and sass. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for coming, Rose,” Mrs. Harrow says. “Ella.”
Ella murmurs a few polite words. Her eyes are glassy. Is she crying? Over Stanley?
I don’t dare look at Mr. Harrow, but I can feel his gaze burning me.
“This isn’t right,” he mutters. “We shouldn’t be waiting in line with half the town. We should be up there with the Grotowskis. Grace, come with me.”
“Joe, I don’t think—” Mrs. Harrow whispers.
Grace winces. “No, Dad, I—”
“Now.” He grabs Grace’s elbow and hauls her down the crowded aisle.
Coop looks at me, dismayed, then plunges after his sister. I follow him, and Ella follows me, making our way more gently, quite conscious that we are cutting the line in very rude fashion and trying not to further the insult by stepping on any feet.
“Jacek, Zuzanna. What a terrible loss. Stanley was like a son to me,” Mr. Harrow says, right as we arrive, breathless, at the altar rail.
I wince at his presumption. If Grace and Stanley hadn’t broken up on Sunday—if she hadn’t been interrogated by the sheriff about his death—she would have been standing with his family today. But to pretend that none of that happened … My God, the sheer gall of this man!
Mr. Grotowski shakes Mr. Harrow’s hand. I don’t think I’m imagining the contempt—disdain—distaste on his thin face. “Thank you.”
His mother nods at Grace. “How are you, my dear?”
Grace attempts a smile, but it’s ghastly. “All right.”
“‘All right’?” Stanley’s sister mimics. “I don’t know how you sleep at night! If it weren’t for you, my brother would still be alive!”
Grace recoils. “No. I didn’t—”
Her eyes dart to mine. Does she need my help, like during our interrogations?
Or does she suspect that I killed him?
“Maja!” her mother chastises. “It was an accident. A terrible accident.”
“No, it’s true! Everybody in town knows it!
” Maja is a short, pigeon-shaped woman with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair.
She’s wringing a lacy white handkerchief in her hands.
Her husband shushes her, but she won’t have it.
The church has gone silent around us. “What was he doing there so late at night, huh? We only have Grace’s word to go on! ”
“Grace’s word is good.” Coop is steadfast at her back. “My sister isn’t a liar.”
We both know that isn’t true. Grace is a marvelous liar.
But then, so am I, these days.
“Your brother, he liked beer. Too much, perhaps, since the war,” Mr. Grotowski says. “He fell. That was not Grace’s fault.”
“He was pushed! And she didn’t get help! She could have saved him, but she was too worried about what people would think. The whole family are a bunch of wretched social climbers,” Maja spits.
“He was fine when I left him.” Grace’s voice is barely a whisper. “I swear it.”
I believe that she left Stanley to sleep off his bender. But what if she came back later, furious over his threats? What if the ghost possessed Grace, the way she’d possessed me the day before?
“Why should we take your word for it? My brother is dead!” Maja lets out a sob.
“Maja, stop. You are making a scene,” Mr. Grotowski says.
Grace only stands there, dry-eyed, a ship without sails.
Why doesn’t she speak up? Why isn’t she furious at being publicly accused of something she didn’t do? Staring at her, I catch the slightest wobble of her lower lip, and then she bites her pearly teeth into it till she winces.
Oh. All of Grace’s energy is focused on not crying in front of everyone.
Despite the scandal that Stanley’s death saves her, she is grieving.
People can’t see it—I didn’t see it—because she’s Grace, and she isn’t making a show of it. Her dry eyes and her silence make it easy to cast her as the villain.
“Grace still loved him,” I say. Heads swivel toward me in surprise.
I say a little prayer that I’ve inherited some of what Nanny calls my father’s gift of gab: that ability to charm anybody, anywhere.
Someone has to say something before this whole town decides to tar and feather Grace.
“But she knew they had grown apart. Their romance had run its course. I didn’t know Stan very well, but I think in his heart he must have felt that Grace was right.
He had already been … talking with?” That feels innocent enough, a good euphemism.
“Talking with other girls. Girls who wanted to settle down and live right here in Greeley, where Stan could take over his father’s drugstore.
That was his dream.” That’s a leap of imagination, but I hear a sob and wager that it’s Lottie or some other girl whose hopes have been dashed.
“But Grace is a modern girl; she has her heart set on college. Stan’s father gave her the idea, actually.
Stan didn’t see the value in it. He was a traditional guy.
But Grace knew she couldn’t give him the life he wanted.
Still, she cried her eyes out when he broke things off.
She knew people in town would blame her, because Stanley is so beloved.
But his happiness was more important to her than her reputation. He was that dear to her.”
Grace stares at me with genuine shock. And then—either because she has a brilliant sense of timing or because my words contained enough truth to move her—she bursts into tears.
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Grotowski embraces her. “He loved you, too, Grace.”
“College, eh?” Mr. Grotowski says. “You should go to college. That is what I wanted for my son. You are a very smart girl, Grace.”
“What about the scratches on his face, though?” Maja asks.
Grace pulls away from Mrs. Grotowski. “Maybe it was the cat. Dad was scratched by a stray cat the other day. Right, Dad?”
I hold my breath. A cat?
Mr. Harrow won’t accuse me here, in front of the whole town, will he?
“Yes.” His voice is choked. “A real hellcat.”
I glance at the mark on Harrow’s cheek, almost gone now. I did that. It doesn’t feel real; I have no memory of it.
“What if Stan tried to pick the cat up and it clawed him? You know how he loved animals,” Grace says.
“He was always after Dad to get us a dog.” Maja sniffs. “I’m sorry, Grace.”
Tears drip down Grace’s face. Coop hands her a handkerchief, and she buries her face in it. Behind Grace’s back, his hand brushes mine. It’s the lightest touch, there and gone, but I look up. Thank you, he mouths, grateful.
The minister interrupts—finally!—and gestures our group forward to view the casket. It’s surrounded by white lilies and carnations and Stanley’s high school graduation photo.
Grace takes one look at the photograph and hides her face in Coop’s shoulder. He wraps a protective arm around her. I follow Ella. She’s been a silent shadow at my side this whole time.
The casket is open. Stanley wears his green army uniform with the brass buttons marching up the front.
His short sandy hair is artfully pomaded, and his face is made up with an approximation of the ruddiness it had in life.
The mortician has done a fair job covering up the scratches, but if one looks hard enough, the telltale streaks are visible beneath a thick layer of Pan-Cake.
Otherwise, he looks handsome, wholesome. The hometown hero.
He couldn’t have been all bad, or Grace wouldn’t be crying like that.
Behind me, the mourners are abuzz. Grace’s tears—and Mr. Harrow’s lie about the stray cat—have made all the difference.
An elbow jostles me, hard, and I stumble. I catch myself before I fall into the casket. It’s a gleaming cherrywood, cool and smooth beneath my hand.
I turn around and meet Mr. Harrow’s icy blue eyes. “Pardon me, Miss Thorpe.”
He’d like to see me in a casket of my own.
I smile prettily in case anyone is watching, but I’m rattled.
I won’t make the mistake of turning my back on him again.