Chapter 9
3853words
Went out, be back soon. -G
No explanation, just simple scribbled pen strokes. Mary set the note back down. She slid on her sandals and shuffled out the door. She wandered down the hallway, searching for the bathroom. She stumbled upon a white door, the paint chipping and fading around the words "WASHROOM". She opened the door, revealing the small bathroom. It was nothing more than a few maroon stalls, an elongated sink, and a clawfoot washtub. The washroom was still, the kind of stillness that carried water in its bones. The tiles were worn smooth patches, the scent was a mix of mildew and bleached but softened by floral remains of someone's shampoo.
Mary stepped in slowly, her sandals echoing on the bare tile. She paused in front of the mirror.
The redness across her cheek had blossomed into a bruise over night. Purple crept along her swollen cheekbone, faint reds haloing around it. It was if something tried to push through her skin from the inside.
She tilted her face in the light, touching it gently. The skin was tender, but not broken, just claimed. Marked. Her father's hand. His final word imprinted on her face. The slap hadn't just cast her out, it had named her.
She stared at her reflection for a long time, struggling to recognize herself. The woman who stared back looked older than she had remembered. Her mouth was downturned, her jaw was tensed, the soft curve of innocence had been eroded away like sandstone. Bags dragged and deepened underneath her worn hazel eyes, her blonde hair was frizzy and frayed from sleepless nights. Her cotton slip hung off of one shoulder. She looked like someone who had wandered too far and didn't know the way back yet.
She reached for the paper towel dispenser. With a ten towel, she wiped down the sink, the spout. Then the mirror. Then the tile around d the tub. Slow, unconscious gestures, like she could wipe the day away. Wipe herself clean.
A stray hair fell into her eyes, and she tucked it away. She stared at the mirror again. She was still not herself.
Or perhaps more herself than she had ever been.
She turned on the faucet, washing her hands slowly. Then her face. The cold water shocked her nerves, which helped slightly. Yet when she dried her face with a thin paper towel, she felt it again. The strange flutter in her chest. Not anxiety, not grief. A mixture of the two.
She was alone.
Grace was gone. The washroom was quiet, their room was quiet, the boarding house was still. No eyes peering around except her own.
She suddenly thought of cigarettes. She herself didn't smoke, but Grace did. She thought of the smell of tobacco that clung to Grace's skin like a period to the end of a sentence. The way the smoke curled between the gaps of silence before it dissipated into the sunlight and breath.
Mary didn't smoke, but she knew which brand Grace did.
She stepped back into the bedroom, the air still warm with last night's incense and sleep. The note fluttered on the dresser as the fan lazily turned side to side.
In her flurry, she really didn't pack much from her father's house. A few dressed, her hand brush and mirror. The suitcase lay open near the foot of the bed, half unpacked.
Mary pulled out a pair of shorts, worn and weathered from years of overuse. She slipped them on and stared in front of the mirror, unsure. Her hand hovered over her own blouse, then shifted as she opened a drawer from the dresser. She paused for moment, almost reverently, as if she was reaching into someone's chest.
The drawer smelled of Grace. Honeysuckle and cigarettes. The shirts inside were mostly worn band tees. She sifted through them slowly, before her fingers lingered on one that read The Velvet Underground faintly. She held it up to her face and breathed it in before slipping it over her head. It hung loose on her frame, the sleeves slipping past her shoulders, the collar gaping around her neck. It was too loose and perfect.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Grace's shirt, her bruised face. A strange calm settled in her chest like the inhale before whispering a prayer.
She smiled faintly before turning towards the door.
The sun beat down through the cotton shirt relentlessly, sweat beading around her collar. As she walked, she could feel eyes trained on her. She could've sworn she heard whispers too, saw a mother pulling her child closer. None of it bothered her. Her step became a little less urgent the more she felt the attention. Let them gawk, she knew who she was.
She turned into the corner store, the bell sounding with a crisp ding. A young man, someone she recognized from her graduating class, sat at the counter. He looked up from his magazine, drollness strewn across his face before his eyes flickered in recognition, then something like unease. He quickly looked back down at his magazine as Mary turned the corner.
She cleared her throat and pointed at the rows of cigarettes behind him. "Virginia Slims," she said.
He looked back up, struggling to control his face but Mary could see the uncertainty. He turned around and quickly grabbed the package. "Fifty cents."
She placed the coins on the counter, wasting no time in grabbing the package and striding back outside.
The sunlight seemed harsher than it was when she went inside. It stung her skin like a warning. Her sandals slapped the concrete in a droll rhythm. With her errand accomplished, she wasn't going anywhere in particular. Perhaps just walking to avoid the eyes and whispers, or maybe to let her presence linger publicly in the town for a little longer. She was not going to be erased or chased. Neither her nor Grace would be.
She turned the corner near the courthouse where the trees grew a little taller and the main road began to dip down a hill. The old fountain stood in the center of the town square, empty and dry as always. The sun hit the cracked basin, making it almost glow in the sunlight. Mary sat at the edge of it.
She held the carton of cigarettes in her lap, thumbing the edge delicately.
The town moved around her. The occasional truck passed by, the cicadas buzzed against the concrete, a radio was blaring off in the distance. A screen door slammed somewhere, a dog yapped at the sun.
The plastic wrap of the carton crinkled against her fingertips like a question. She wouldn't smoke them, that wasn't the point. She wanted to do something for Grace, even something so small. She was grateful for taking her into her room, for being her friend, for loving her. None of these things could ever possibly be repaid, but Mary could love her back tenfold and bring her cigarettes.
"You're with her," a voice said, interrupting her thoughts.
Mary looked up to see Mrs. Campbell. She was older, nearing the end of her 60s. Her frame was small, thin, but still strong, like she never got a taste of luxury. She remembered her from years of attending the congregation, and even bowing her head and whispering prayers for her husband Mr. Campbell when he got sick. Folks had whispered that he had drank and smoked himself to death. The reason, no one was quite sure of. The Campbells had lived a peaceful existence, living on the edge of town, from what Mary knew. But she realized then in that moment, she wasn't quite sure of their history or even when the last time she had seen the widow at church. Part of her had assumed she had passed on too.
Mrs. Campbell held a small jar and wrapped loaf of bread in her wrinkled hands the contents bright red in the sunlight. She held it against her purple dress, her straw hat with a matching faded ribbon moved slightly in the hot breeze.
"I saw you," she said, not cruelly, just stating fact. "Leaving the chapel. After the boy spoke."
Mary said nothing at first, just blinked. The heat felt like it was curling around her neck like a chokehold, the plastic wrap of the cigarettes suddenly feeling sharp.
"Grace is... something," she finally said.
Mrs. Campbell stepped closer. "I lost my husband two years ago. Knew it was comin' but still felt the word cave in under my feet. I haven't felt anything since then. Until that girl made the boy speak. I felt hope again."
She set the jar and bread beside Mary. "Strawberry jam and bread," she said promptly. "For her, or you. Whoever knows what to do with it."
Mary began to piece it together. It was Mrs. Campbell that set out the offering the night before. She eyed the bread and jam carefully before gazing up at the widow again.
"I don't understand it," Mrs. Campbell murmured, seemingly more to herself than Mary. "But I need to know where she'll be."
Before Mary could respond, Mrs. Campbell had already turned away and walked back through town. She glanced back down at the offerings, catching sight of a small piece of paper tied to the bread. She tore it off, unfolding the note. Scribbled in pencil was another verse, slightly altered.
"She shall be as a tree planted by the waters and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green." - Jeremiah 17:8
Mary walked on.
The bread and jam felt heavy in her arms, the package of cigarettes crinkling softly alongside the note in her back pocket. Her feet meandered and she thought about going back to the boarding house. But something in her feet urged her onwards to she continued through town.
She turned down the dirt path. Elder oak trees canopied the sky, the hot breezing turning cooler. The graveyard bloomed like a bruise up the hill, crooked tombstones stood like jutted teeth, the gates rusted and worn from decades of standing. Mary pushed the gate open, rust scratching at her open palm.
It had been years since she had visited the cemetery. The last time was when they buried her mother. She still remembered the hymns, soft and lilting, sung as the grave was swallowed by the earth. The first time she had seen tears slide down her father's cheek. The whole town was attendance as Lilian Harlow was well loved. People she had never met before had come to the podium and spoke stories of her teenage cheerleading days or the time she sowed quilts for the homeless in the city multiple miles out. She remembered the kind of flowers that were on her wooden casket. Lillies of the valley, her favorite. They were always in the home, her father driving miles to get her a fresh vase every week.
She suddenly felt the pain of grief she hadn't felt since she was eleven.
The air seemed to change as she wandered through, the same way the air seems to do that in places like this. Like time had slowed, or rather forgotten to pass.
She moved amongst the graves, eyeing names she didn't recognize from dates long before her time. Fresh flowers laid bright in the glimpses of sun, others wilted and broke on stones. She did not look for her mother's. Not yet, at least.
She saw Grace before she heard her.
Under the bare limbs of a dog wood tree, she sat knees up, one arm extended, the other buried in the overgrown grass. Beside her was a boy, no older than sixteen, curled against a tombstone. His eyes were looking up at Grace, faded and glazed, as he cradled his arm awkwardly in his lap.
Mary gasped.
Dark and fresh, it coated his unbuttoned plaid sleeve and dripped down his wrist. Mary could see the rise and fall of his chest, but it was shaky and haggard.
Grace's hands moved. One pressed gently to the boy's chest, the other steadily held his bloodied wrist. She whispered something into the air. Not exactly words, more like a hum, a breath to the boy's blood. Her fingers curled up his arm, and she leaned in closer to the boy. Mary stepped forward, her the earth suddenly feeling soft underneath her sandals. Too soft.
She got a closer look. A long vertical slash was carved through the boy's arm. Deep, too deep to promise the boy from taking another breath before he bled out. But as Grace murmured, she saw the skin begin to weave itself together. The action was languishing, but soon the skin had merged together, sealing the wound shut and replacing it with a thin pink scar.
"I know what it's like," Grace said low, holding the boy's gaze. "I know what it's like to carry 'round somethin' that folks would rather see dead. To think that the best way for everyone is to disappear."
The boy's eyes fluttered slightly, tears welling at the edges. A sob racked his body and he fell forward into Grace's arms. She blinked, a sharp look crossing her face, before wrapping her long arms around the shuddering boy. Mary took another step forward when Grace's gaze caught her's. She gave a small, tired smile. Beside her feet was a bouquet of lilies of the valley, white and glistening.
"You followed me," she said with a soft chuckle.
Mary swallowed. She didn't realize she had been shaking. "Of course I did."
Grace stood slowly, wrapping the boy in her arms as she rose. She didn't ask Mary for help as she turned to leave the graveyard, the bouquet now in ownership of a gravestone so old that the name and date was unreadable. Mary blinked then trailed after her.
They walked in silence, the cicadas even seemed to have quieted their screams, to the little dilapidated white house on the edge of the town square, the boy's home Mary assumed. By the time they reached it, the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in pale shades of blood. Grace gently sat the boy down against the supporting beam of the porch, her hand lingering on his cheek for a heartbeat. The boy's eyes fluttered open slightly, then closed again. The women turned and left.
They walked side by side now, hands clasped tightly around each other, fingers intertwining like roots. The bread and jam was stuck in the crook of Mary's arm, the cigarettes still waiting in her back pocket. Grace's stride was slower than usual. Her shoulders seemed less tensed, her arms swinging softly in a mixture of peace and exhaustion.
A few blocks passed before Grace glanced at the gifts and then at Mary. "What's that?"
"Bread and jam," Mary responded. "From Mrs. Campbell."
Grace blinked. "The widow?"
Mary nodded. "She stopped me by the fountain. Said she saw the boy speak yesterday. Said she hadn't felt anything for years until then." She shifted the goods in her arm. "Strawberry jam. I'm guessin' she's the one who left the honeysuckle jam last night too."
Grace didn't answer, just looked ahead. Her jaw worked slightly like she was chewing on something she wasn't ready to swallow just yet. The silence between them shifted, but didn't break fully. It seemed charged now. Full, sacred in its own way.
They walked the rest of the way with the weight between them: warm bread, strawberry jam, and a town beginning to believe.
The porch creaked underneath their feet as they stepped into the boarding house. The door groaned as Grace pushed it open as it always did - slow, reluctant to break the quiet stillness. The hallway was dim with the lasting bits of glow of sunlight and the amber lightbulbs humming overhead.
Grace said nothing as she crossed the threshold of the room. She simply stood in the middle for a few breaths then slipped off her sundress and kicked off her wedges. Mary sat the bread, jam, and cigarettes on the table with the gifts left from yesterday, smoothing out the thin towel underneath. The ensemble resembled more of a small altar than she had anticipated. Grace sighed and dropped the curtain from her hand before reaching to the battered silk robe that lay across the chair of the vanity. She sealed herself in it, tying the black silk lazily.
"I need to wash today off," she said, her voice dripping in exhaustion. Her gaze was unreadable, something tangled in exhaustion and something else. Just distant.
Mary nodded and trailed Grace down the hall into the washroom. Someone's radio echoed softly in the hallway. Mary recognized it as Roy Orbison, an artist she was actually familiar with.
Inside the washroom, the lights above the elongated mirror buzzed faintly. The porcelain tub sat underneath the window like a relic. Steam began to rise slowly as Grace hunched over the knobs. She tested the water with nicotine stained fingers before she unraveled the robe, dropping it to her feet without a comment towards Mary's trained gaze. She simply smiled over her shoulder as sunk into the water, letting it fill until it reached her collarbone. She closed her eyes slightly, before opening them again and smiled a bit wider at Mary. She stood by the doorway, unsure of her position. Grace chuckled slightly and lazily drew her hand out of the water, beckoning her in. Mary shuffled forward, pulling a small footstool to the tub. She sat silently, reaching for the metal cup that sat at the edge of the tub,.
Grace tipped her head back but not before reaching into the pocket of her robe to retrieve a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. She stuck one in her mouth and lit it, before tossing it back on her robe. A thin trail of smoke emanated before Mary reached over and plucked it from her fingertips. She set it on the ashtray on the windowsill. Grace said nothing still, but raised an eyebrow. Mary filled the metal cup with water. She then tipped Grace's head back, pouring the water onto her hair. Grace closed her eyes, her breathing slowing slightly.
Mary continued to fill and empty the cup again, letting the water pour onto Grace's head and shoulders. It was like muscle memory, as if she had done it time and time again.
The water lapped against the porcelain as Grace reached for the cigarette again once her hair was fully drenched. She exhaled from the corner of her lips.
"I came here to die," she finally said, her voice low.
Mary didn't answer, just refilled the cup and poured it cross Grace's legs.
"I thought that's all it was gonna be. One last walk through the wreckage." She paused, dipping the cigarette into the ashtray, flicking off the bits of ash. She took another inhale. She spoke as smoke came out of her lips. "But now there's people leavin' bread on my doorstep. Kids followin' me around like I might fix 'em if I just touch their shoulder."
She huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. "I don't know what to do with all of that."
Mary set the cup down. She reached across the sink and grabbed a towel from the stack. She unfolded one in her lap and gently grabbed Grace's foot.
"Maybe you don't have to do anything with it," she murmured, brushing the towel along the arch of Grace's foot, slow and careful. "Maybe just let 'em come."
Grace watched her. She didn't smile or flinch away. She observed, as if taking inventory of the moment.
"They want somethin' I ain't sure I can give," she said softly.
Mary switched to the other foot, smoothing the towel over damp skin, her head bowed. "I think you already have," she said.
The room went quiet again, save for the soft dropping of water from the bathtub's faucet and the faint rustle of linen. Mary cradled Grace’s foot in both hands now, rubbing it gently with the towel, her touch somewhere between care and prayer.
Grace let her eyes close.
Neither of them spoke again.
