Chapter 3
2707words
"You're up late," he said low and raspy. He took a drag from his cigarette and flipped a thin page.
Mary turned the faucet on. It sputtered and spat warm water into her glass. "Didn't sleep good."
"Where were you yesterday?" He kept his eyes trained on the Bible, but Mary could feel a slight edge in his voice. She tried not to think too deeply about it. He had become protective over her since her mama passed. Always suspicious, always casting narrowed gazes at the men whose eyes lingered too long. He gave her a long enough leash - she could meander into town, wander near the chapel and library, but his eyes were always watching. Always wary. He had loved his family dearly and losing his wife nearly killed him. Mary recalled the lonesome nights he had spent sitting in the middle of her mother's garden. The plants had all wilted and withered from neglect during her weeks spent in bed. Crowded in the dead, he would lay on the path he paved for her, gazing into the empty night with a bottle of wine next to his head. Sometimes, he would fall asleep out there. Mary would walk out and try to gather her drunken father, ushering him inside to at least get to the couch. Sometimes she would be successful, other times he would wake with dew clinging to his eye lids and a blanket laid on top of his damp body.
"I took a walk after church." She turned but didn't look at him, instead choosing to anxiously rub the lip of the glass. "Needed to take some time to clear my head."
Ezekiel took off his reading glasses and looked up at Mary. "Saw someone walking down Magnolia yesterday. Didn't recognize 'em." He set his cigarette into the ashtray next to him but kept his eyes trained on Mary. His gaze was heavy, searching. "You see anyone out that way?"
Mary set her glass down, turning back to the sink. She looked outside the kitchen window, sun already burning across the grass. The dogwoods near the window moved slightly in the breeze, then stilled. The sky burned a chalky white, promising an unrelenting heat for the day and possible thunder in the evening
"No one worth mentioning," she murmured, but her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the dish towel.
Ezekiel turned back to his Bible, the pages rustling like dead leaves. Mary quickly excused herself and walked out, the screen door brushing behind her.
Mary wasn't sure where she was walking to until the familiar oak trees began to shade her path and weeds began to tickle her ankles. The air hung thick, but the shaded breeze calmed her sweating skin. She heard the familiar bubbling of the creek and walked faster. She hadn't meant to walk to the creek, but she had found herself wandering behind the chapel until the trees had started thickening. The path was now overgrown and choked with devil's grass and brambles. The trees stretched higher, holding the sacred close.
She found Grace sitting next to the creek, her yellow sundress from yesterday drench at the bottom. Her skin glistened in the few rays of sunlight that managed to kiss the drops of creek water. Her hair hung down her back, curling slightly from the thick humidity. Her gaze was on the water before her, her bared feet sunken into the creek. She looked like she belonged there, risen from the creek and unearthed by the land. She was soft, angelic. Sacred.
Mary sat cross-legged in the moss next to Grace. She looked at Grace closely as the woman stared off into the creek. Mary had been cataloguing different vignettes of the younger woman. The way the light caught her shoulders in the sun, how her hair dried in long waves. She had told herself that this was the same girl from childhood, but something murmured in her bones that she wasn't.
She was something else now. Something more. Or maybe Mary was just seeing her a bit more clearly now.
"Where did you go," Mary asked softly. "After... after everything."
Grace fanned her hand out in the water, sending out delicate ripples. "Lots of places. None of them felt like mine, though."
Mary looked down, picking a piece of grass and twirling it absently in her hands. "Couldn't write?"
"I didn't think you'd want me to," Grace replied. "Not after things were left. Not after I-"
Her voice broke. She looked over at Mary, eyes slightly wet. Mary held her gaze for a brief heartbeat, not pushing it further.
"I prayed for you," she tried instead.
A smile pulled at Grace's lips. She raised a hand to brush away a tear. "I know."
Mary blinked. "You said that yesterday."
Grace leaned in, closing the space between them. The smell of honeysuckle and creek water clung to her skin. She reached out and brushed a stray hair, tucking it behind Mary's ear. Her fingers lingering on Mary's temple sent a flood of warmth through her skin, feeling almost like benediction.
"You asked Him to keep me safe," she murmured. "That I'd eat something warm. That I wasn't afraid in the dark... when he drank too much. To keep my head high when I had to leave."
Mary's breath caught. She stared in blank shock at Grace. The prayers she had whispered into her pillow. Into her closed palms, into her huddled knees. These were not the kind of prayers her father had taught her. They were prayers made from fear, longing, and painful aching. She had never spoken the words aloud.
Her thoughts began to scramble. Did she tell someone she couldn't remember? Did Grace somehow find a letter or diary? Did someone hear her sobs the night she discovered Grace had left? She grasped for an answer, but found none. And something, deep in her marrow, didn't want one.
They sat in silence. Grace shifted closer, their arms now touching lightly.
"Do you remember when we were out here catching lightning bugs in jars?" she asked, though her voice held a slight tilt as if she already knew Mary remembered.
Mary nodded. "You swore God didn't care if you were made cotton or silk, as long as you came clean."
"And you said I'd get struck down for swimming without drawers on."
Mary laughed, a sound that surprised herself. "You did get a nosebleed that day." She remembered the day fondly. They were sixteen and fifteen, and the days were cut in half, the sun burrowed itself down sooner in the day. They had spent most of the day inside the walls of the chapel, Mary drilling new chord progressions into her head. After hours and hours of the whining organ, they had wandered out, the sky beginning to fade into a bright orange. They ran, laughing and giggling until they hit the creek. Lightning bugs danced out of the trees and bushes, illuminating the creek like blessings. They collected them in their hands until stumbling upon emptied jam jars they had left from their picnic just a few days before. Grace was the one who casted her jar of lightning bugs aside first before tearing off her clothes and sprinting into the water. Mary laughed and called out for her, incredulous that the girl darted into the water, naked as the day God molded her. Mary had come in after her, shedding her own layers. They splashed and squealed, their laughs echoing in the grove. At some point, blood began to pool down Grace's face. Mary pointed it out, reaching to wipe away the blood on her face. She remembered the smile Grace had painted on her. All dimples.
Grace leaned her head onto Mary's shoulder. Mary did not move. The touch felt warm, familiar. It felt good, right even. Like slipping into something that still fit even after all this time.
Mary swallowed. She could feel Grace's breath rhythmically tickle her collarbone. The birdsong had quieted, the wind had stilled. Even the cicadas seemed to have dimmed their screeching. Then something rustled in the tree near them, followed by a quiet thud.
They both turned. A mockingbird lay at the foot of the dogwood next to them. It was crumpled in the leaves, wings splayed awkwardly, beak partially open as if it was in mid song. It appeared to had fallen from its perch in the trees or something had struck it in air. Mary stiffened.
"It's dead," she whispered.
Grace peeled herself from Mary, rising from her spot. She stood, brushing dirt and moss off her dress. "Not yet," she said simply.
Mary watched as Grace strode over to the tree. She crouched down and gently gathered the bird into her hands. Its neck lolled slightly, neck bent in a sickening angle, its wings caked in blood. Mary had seen dead before - cats in the road, deer out of season. This was the same, no question.
But Grace held it with a certain reverence. She cradled it gently, her thumb brushing delicately on its breastbone. Her eyes slipped closed and her mouth moved wordlessly. Not in prayer, not in whisper, but just in breath.
Mary couldn't question. Couldn't ask what the woman was doing. Her body had grown still with the air. Thick and trembling with unease, as though the world held its breath with Mary.
Then the bird twitched.
Not much, just a slight jerk from its wing. It could've been excused by the wind, but Mary's skin grew cold. Her eyes did not deceive her. Then, with further confirmation, the bird gasped, wet and short. It's eye blinked, staring directly at Mary. Hairs raised on the back of her neck.
Grace smiled, still looking down at the mockingbird. "When you were eleven, you asked God to give you a sign once," she said lightly. "You told Him that if He loved you, He would bring something back to life."
Mary's lips parted, but no words came.
Grace looked up at her, their eyes locking. "He might not be listening anymore," she murmured. "But something is."
She crouched back down, setting the bird into the grass before her. The bird shuffled forward slightly. Then it shakily spread its wings in flight, disappearing into the branches of the canopy.
Mary was frozen, her hands trembling in her lap. A strange warmth was building in her chest, slow and thick like molasses.
Grace stared back to her, smiling wide. All dimples. "You were always good at prayin'."
They walked back in silence save for the grass crunching under their feet and the occasional rustle of wind passing through the trees. Mary could not remove the bird from her mind. The limpness of its neck, the blood smeared on its wings. It was dead. But yet, its eyes blinked alive, staring deeply at Mary before fluttering off into the trees. The hairs on her neck stood. The air felt too still, too knowing.
She stole glances at Grace. Her face was calm, unreadable, but her fingers rubbed idly at the hem of her sun dress. Mary wondered if Grace's head thrummed the same questions, or if Grace was simply a vessel and the impossible was just a drop in the bucket for her.
Mary opened her mouth to speak, to say anything, but her voice caught in her throat.
In the distance, a figured stood slouched, half shadowed against the long limbs of a pine tree. A burgundy bottle glittered slightly in the light, and his head hung low. Mary felt her stomach jolt.
"Todd?" she murmured.
His head tilted up. His gaze found Mary first, but then lingered on Grace. He stared a moment too long - brow furrowing, mouth parted slightly opened. Confusion swam across his face until recognition began to peek through followed by something heavier. "...Beau?" he asked, his voice cracked and gravely.
Grace stopped walking and held his gaze. "It's Grace now," she said softly.
Todd's jaw flexed and his eyes dropped to the bottle. He looked back up, a flush creeping up his neck. He rolled his finger tips on the neck of the bottle anxiously.
"Right," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Grace." He swallowed deeply. "I heard folks talking about someone walking through here like they knew the dirt." He held Grace's gaze now. "I just didn't think it would be you."
There was a long stretch of silence before something in Todd's gaze softened slightly. "Almost didn't recognize you, but you still got those same eyes," he added, quiet and almost fond. "You holdin' up okay?"
A small smile curled on Grace's lips. "Doing a lot better."
Todd nodded, shifting on his feet.
There was another beat of silence. Todd's tongue flicked nervously against the back of his teeth. He looked like he wanted to say more, like words desperately trying to claw their way out but every one didn't seem worth saying. Mary watched him carefully with a silent curiosity. She could sense the awkwardness, but there was something more. An ache. An underlying history unspoken and unfinished. She glanced at Grace who stood calmly, gentleness radiating from her face. She wasn't tense in the slightest, but Todd looked as if he was trapped in a memory. One that didn't quite sit right.
"Well I'll leave y'all to it," he muttered. "You two... take care now."
He took a swig from the bottle and turned away, boots crunching in the grass. The two women watched him vanish into the distance in the direction of the road. The trees swayed, no longer listening but watching. The silence still lingered when Todd left, the air thick with memory and unspoken histories.
Mary's legs felt unsteady beneath her and her pulse throbbed in her throat. Her thoughts spun between both the bird and Todd's appearance. Grace's voice echoed in her brain. He might not be listening anymore, but something is. It all curled around her and gripped her skin like the start of a fever.
She glanced over at Grace again, her face serene and a faint smile painted on her lips. She was calm, as if this was all meant to happen. Like none of it was strange.
And for the first time, Mary wasn't afraid of God.
She was afraid of what was coming to take His place.
