A Peculiar Grace Read online

  Hewitt took this in. Then he said, “Why’d you come back?”

  “Because I had something to tell you.”

  Gently he said, “And what’s that?”

  She lifted her beer and looked at him with one eye over the top. Then she blinked and lowered the bottle and said, “Do you trust me, Hewitt?”

  “Pretty much, I guess.”

  “Maybe this afternoon was the right time. But tonight is not.” She said, “That girl Emily? That’s her husband, right? The guy in the paper?”

  He rolled that one around a moment and had to agree. Whatever it was, whatever trouble or secret or danger less or more, he’d had enough for the day. He said, “That’s correct.”

  She said, “You’ve got enough on your mind just now. Without my little drama.”

  Some period of quiet. Then he said, “Hey Jessica? Promise me?”

  She waited.

  “No more crap with the gun. Period.”

  “It’s as good as gone.”

  “Okay, then.”

  They sat quietly. Hewitt finished his beer and set the bottle on the floor.

  Then she said, “So what’re you going to do?”

  He said, “I don’t know. Go see her, I guess. Walter says go soon.”

  She nodded. “Two days,” she said. “No more. You have to get used to the idea. Then just fly. Don’t think it to death.” She flinched. “Not quite what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  She nodded. “I mean, just fly with it, Hewitt.”

  “You think so?”

  She shrugged. “You really won’t know shit until you get there.”

  He took a break and went upstairs and peed. The bathroom still moist and redolent of lavender soap and damp towels and her dirty clothes on the floor. He found the formidable end of Walter’s joint and lit it and carried it downstairs.

  Jessica was hunched over the long rows of vinyl recordings, her head tilted down trying to read titles. “So did you bogart that joint or bring it down with you?”

  He walked over and handed it to her. Her T-shirt billowed out and he saw a nipple dark as love. He said, “You find something you want to hear, put it on. I’m going to get us some water. The truth, I’d be happy with silence.”

  “There’s no silence. It’s either music or me. What do you want?” She reached up for the remains of the joint.

  “I want Eric Clapton sitting in that chair over there playing acoustic blues and not saying a word. Why don’t we sit quiet and light candles and mellow out. It’s been a terrible hard day.”

  And did not wait but went for mason jars of water. And heard it before he believed it but came back into the room with three candles and a girl back up on the corner of the couch and Charlie Haden soft and low somewhere deep within the speakers. And smoke furling and curling and inviting it all out around the room. He sat on the other end of the couch and they finished the joint and Hewitt said, “After I came down the hill this afternoon I talked to your father.”

  Her voice extraordinarily simple she said, “You what?”

  Solid but easy he repeated, “I talked to your father.”

  She looked down and picked at the fabric of her jeans. Hewitt waited. She finally looked back, her face gone now blank as Greek tragedy and said, “So what did Daddy have to say? Did you learn anything helpful? Do you know me better now?”

  Hewitt studied her. The girl at the end of the couch. He walked all the way out the plank and jumped. “He said to let me know if there’s anything he can do.”

  Now she looked at him. “That’s what he said?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  She chewed her lip.

  He was quiet. There was nothing to say.

  She came down the couch like a wounded creature and wrapped herself around him and cried. This not some woeful weep but a deep racking from far within her. Hewitt held her, stroked her back. One side of her face was pressed into his shoulder, the other up against his cheek and he stroked her back and held her as she wept. He wasn’t sitting in for anyone, least of all her father. He was just there and sometimes just there is as good as it gets.

  Four

  In the morning he left a message for the man in Pomfret—there had been a death in the family, but the gates would be completed and installed no later than mid-July.

  Jessica hiked up the hill and cleared away the branches from the VW and they drove to Hanover where he left his one summer sport coat with the two-day dry cleaners, along with a pair of slacks and two dress shirts to be pressed. He bought new socks. With the feeling he was overpreparing. He suspected he’d wear only his usual Levi or Carhartt jeans and T-shirts. But there was the faint sense, not fantasy so much as image, of Emily consenting to be taken to dinner. He also took Jessica to the Co-op and bought a sack of groceries, things she picked out.

  Driving back Jessica broke his contemplation, his building apprehension. “Can I tell you a story? You’ve got several days to scare the shit out of yourself. Let me tell you about this man I met.”

  He glanced at her. She was watching him and did not take her eyes away. She’d done this before and it was impressive but disconcerting. As much to get her eyes back on the road as for any illumination she might offer, he said, “Is this somebody I might know?”

  But she was peering ahead again and didn’t pause for him. She said, “It was last winter. I try to stay pretty far south in winter but somehow I’d landed in Norfolk, Virginia. I was down along the waterfront, away from the harbor but where the river there, the James, comes down. I found a little patch of woods behind some kind of factory, a strip of woods where nobody had bothered to put up a fence. And the building hid the woods from the main road. So you could camp out and risk a fire. I’d been there about a week and was trying to figure out how to trade food stamps I’d gotten hold of for some cash. The stores are hip to you. You can’t get any real money back, not to speak of. Some coins. The rest of your change is always food stamps. Which is good if you’re hungry but useless to buy gas. Which was what I wanted. To get the fuck south from there. I mean it was cold. Rain and wind off the ocean and ice over everything. And sailors everywhere. Tell you the truth it was the only time ever I thought about selling my ass. A couple tricks would have taken me all the way to Florida.

  “So one night I’d found a safe place to park and was slipping around that building and getting close to the woods. I had my sleeping bag under my arm and all the sudden I saw a campfire down there. The woods were puny and I was halfway across the parking lot and I knew whoever was there was watching out too and so it seemed best to just march right in. So I did. And there was a man, an old man with about twenty layers of clothes on and a rabbit or a squirrel or maybe even a cat roasting over the fire. With thick gray waves of hair down on to his shoulders and a beard the same color stained and stuck together but even in that pale light he had the most lovely yellow cat’s eyes I ever saw on a person. And he called out for me to come on next to the fire.

  “I kind of stomped in and threw my sleeping bag down and told him this was my spot and he’d better scram before I kicked his ass. But he just smiled at me and told me there was room for both of us. Then goddamn he pulled a switch knife from his pocket but didn’t open it and tossed it over. All the time looking at me. I didn’t move. That thing was right up against my foot. My old razor, no matter how fast I was, was no match for that. Then he stretched out his right leg and dug into his trousers and came out with a regular old barlow jackknife and held it up. Told me he’d need that back when the meat was cooked but that was the end of what he had. He laughed and said, ‘Go on and kill me now girl.’ I told him I expected he’d showed me maybe half of what he had and he nodded and said, ‘Ain’t half enough?’ So I tossed his mess back to him. At that point it was clear if he was going to kill me he could do it. He kept grinning at me and those yellow eyes was lit up like candles. The sort of crinkled eyes and smile that you flat have no choice but to trust.”
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  She went on. “He ate that meat, whatever it was. Then we shared some Southern Comfort. And he told me his story. Damn, I can still see his face. It’s all stories, isn’t it Hewitt?”

  He nodded, watching her, intent on driving and her telling now, and said, “Go on.”

  “He was in the war, you know the Second World War. And married to the woman he loved. He spent three years of that war living because of her. I guess he was also lucky but the way he told it, it was waiting to get home to her that kept him alive. And you know what? The war ended and he came home. He said he was in the big parade in New York City. The next day he took the train home. Chicago. And he walked in and she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, just like he remembered her. But she had a baby. A little boy. Not even a year old. And he freaked. She tried to explain about how it happened. But nothing mattered. Because what he’d thought was keeping him alive hadn’t been enough somehow for her.

  “So he left. He told me some of how he spent the years since. None of it pretty. But you know what Hewitt? You know how he ended it?”

  Hewitt was feeling sick to his stomach. He just waited.

  “He said he couldn’t forgive her but he couldn’t let her go either. He said he’d have done as well to die in the war but for one thing. That best he knew she was still out there somewhere. And it didn’t matter if she knew it or not. What mattered was that he did. And he believed because he did there had to be someway she knew it too. That he’d never betrayed her. That until his dying day he’d be true to her. He said he knew he should’ve gone back and let things be as they were. He understood all she’d needed or wanted was solace, someone to quiet her fearful heart and the boy wasn’t the fault of anything. Except life itself. But by the time he learned that it was too late. He sat across that fire from me and drank the liquor and his eyes burnt into mine and he said that until he was cold she would live inside him always. He told me he knew he was a fool but had no choice. Because fool is just what’s in the eyes of other people. And he laughed and poured a little of the booze on the fire so blue flames jumped and then he was serious and handed me back the bottle and thanked me for listening to him. And began to roll up in his blankets. I asked him his name. He said it didn’t matter. All that mattered was he prayed he would be dead soon and released. ‘She’s an old woman now,’ he said. ‘Probably with grandchildren doting on her or ignoring her as the world works. But I’m just a crummy old bum and the last thing she’d even want to know about. So let me die,’ he said. He lifted his head from the blankets and looked at me and said, ‘It’s an awful way to live.’ Then he settled back down and within five minutes he was sleeping peaceful as if he was beside her.

  “Once he was good and asleep I got my sleeping bag and went back to the Bug. The needle showed there was no gas but I drove maybe ten miles and then stopped at an all-night gas station and went in with my handful of food stamps. It was late. There was a kid behind the counter. I gathered up maybe ten dollars’ worth of food and while he was ringing it up I told him a story how I had to get somewhere that night and needed gas for the car and spread out what was near a hundred bucks of food stamps. And he came out and filled the Bug and checked the oil and shit and as I was thanking him he handed me back the food stamps but as I was getting into the car he ran his hand real slow down over my ass between my legs. I gently pushed away down into the car and started it although the driver side window was open and he had both hands on the doorframe so I looked up at him and asked him to kiss me. I already had the car in gear. So he leaned in like I knew he would and I slammed my foot on the gas and was gone.”

  They’d come all the way back and were idling in the farmyard. It was dripping hot in the car and neither of them could look at the other.

  Finally Jessica said, “I always overdo it, don’t I?”

  Now Hewitt looked at her. He did that for a long moment. Then said, “I wouldn’t say that. No. I would not say that at all.”

  “Kiss my ass,” she said and got out of the car and walked toward the house. He watched her go.

  THREE DAYS LATER the Thunderbird was washed and waxed, the whitewalls scrubbed and the chrome polished like so much fun-house mirror.

  “Jesus, Walter. Why didn’t you just paint Notice Me on the trunk?”

  Walter shook his head. “I fear for you, man. I truly do. This baby is creamy. You’re going to get a lot of looks but only a citizen maintains a car like this, only a citizen takes it out on the road. Unless you do something really stupid the cops’ll leave you be. Except maybe to cruise up and pass slow as they take it in, maybe give you a wave. But remember, it’s a friendly wave. Smile and wave back. It comes with the territory. All you really have to worry about is the random accident that’s completely beyond your control. Even there, the odds are low. People pay attention to a car like this. Nobody wants to get too close.”

  “That’s supposed to be reassuring, right?”

  “Sure. Look at me. Just pretend you’ve got five pounds shrink-wrapped in the trunk and drive carefully. But not too carefully. I generally run about four miles over the speed limit. Never had a problem.”

  “Okay. But say I do.”

  Walter laughed. “I’ll just tell em you stole it.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “No, seriously. Don’t sweat it. I loaned you the car. I have no idea you don’t have a driver’s license. I just thought you were one of those green weenies who go everywhere by bike.”

  Hewitt was quiet a moment. Looking at the car. “You know, I appreciate this.”

  “What’re you doing with your little urchin while off on this quest?”

  “Leaving her in your care.”

  “Ah …”

  “I’m serious. The official story is she’s the daughter of an old friend of mine who’s going through a rough patch. Beyond that she’s house-sitting for me while I’m out of town on business. That’s the story. And I think she’ll be okay but I can’t say for sure. I don’t think she’d hurt herself and I think, without her exactly telling me, that she’s sort of looking forward to some time alone. She’s stocked with food. She should be okay.”

  “But.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could check on her a couple times. Your jeep still running?”

  Walter looked at him as if the enormous stupidity of the question was too much to bear.

  Hewitt said, “So if you could swing by. And if you see any strange cars here I’d appreciate it if you came in like gas on a fire. She knows people all over the place and I’d bet a fair amount of em aren’t exactly who I’d want hanging around. There’s also the fact she really doesn’t have a clue about my dad. She’s seen the paintings but that’s about it. I haven’t talked about him to her. But I could see her thinking she was doing me a favor if some slick fuck showed up with a wad of cash.”

  “All I’m doing these days is tending my tomato plants. I’ll drop by. She seems like a good shit.”

  Hewitt nodded. Then he said, “Walter?”

  “What is it, worried man?”

  “It’s just, well, try to leave her be. I mean there’s times when she’s pretty fragile and is scared of people but wants to be comforted. I guess—”

  “Hewitt, what’re you trying to say to me?” Walter’s eyes bright and hard.

  Hewitt paused. “Nothing, man.”

  Walter nodded. “Go say your goodbyes. You’re wasting a pretty day.”

  “Already done. She’s settled in, cooking up some kind of lentil gruel. I was to go back in she’d think I was hovering.”

  “Good. Then go. And I’ll walk up to the house and see if she’ll give me a lift home.”

  “I could do that.”

  “Hewitt.”

  “Alright. Thanks Walter.”

  “Is nothing. Oh, one thing. On the highway keep the top up. That’s what the serious boys do. Keeps the sun from fading the leather. But if you get that woman to go for a ride put it down. There’s nothing like it.”
r />   TWO HOURS LATER he had gone over the spine of the Greens and was out on the four-lanes. Down I-87 to Albany and the thruway west. Then off into the Finger Lakes. Six hours total. It was great to be driving and his stomach was roiling. He had the windows down and the air rushed through the car. His hands slick on the steering wheel. Walter had been right—other drivers were polite, almost deferential, certainly in good humor just at the sight of the car. It was a juicy little machine. Even with his long absence from driving he could appreciate how it handled, how it felt. Some cars went from place to place—others were always moving and always exactly where they were and the T-Bird was one of the latter. He really had to watch his foot, watch the speedometer.

  He couldn’t think about Emily. He had no plan. Except to get to Bluffport and find a place to stay and maybe drive around a little. There were some places he wanted to see. He certainly was not prepared to see her this afternoon. He wanted to get his feet under him. Or at least on the ground.

  He was also aware plans were fruitless when it came to other people. Things worked according to a pattern or rhythm unknowable.

  He was prepared for that.

  What he thought he might do, unless a wild hare got into him, would be to spend that first afternoon and evening alone. First thing, once checked in and washed up, would be to locate and visit Timothy Farrell’s grave.

  In his pocket was a single hand-hewn nail—a heavy one pulled from a beam in the barn and no less than two hundred years old. Not a cut nail, not a stamped nail. But a big spike with centuries-old hammer marks visible on the crown and down along the taper. Which he planned to not set on Timothy’s gravestone but with the heel of his hand drive deep into the soil before the stone. Deep enough so the cemetery caretaker would mow right over it. He knew Timothy would like having this piece of simple handwork close by, even if many years late. And the other part for Hewitt was also a gift. This one to himself. Driving a mild stake into the master to assuage as much as he might his guilt.