State of Grace (33 page)

Below us, Tommy stood up and walked several paces from where he had been sitting and then turned. Squinting, he picked out a target and then flung the knife at it. His aim was bad and the knife somersaulted into the bushes. Grace and I watched as Tommy repeatedly retrieved the knife and threw it.

“This is not real, Grace,” I said loudly and looked around the shower. “This
memory
is just you trying to mess with my head. You can't
show
me things. And you know why? Because you're dead.” I spat these last words meanly. “You're trying to make me crazy so no one will want to be with me. And who knows, maybe I am . . . I mean, come on . . . I have a dead person living in my head.” I snapped the handle of the shower down. The room was silent aside from the drip of the shower head.

“But you know what? I'm done.” I yanked a towel off the wooden hook and dried my arms and legs. “I've had enough. I've given you as much as I can, but I can't do it anymore. Get out of my head, Grace! And take your visions and memories with you!”

Angrily, I stomped into the bedroom, yanked open the closet door, and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater. As I dressed, I considered what to do next—what would take my mind off the thoughts that crept, unbidden, into my head.

“We're cutting wood and laying in supplies,” I told Toby as I tromped downstairs and unplugged the computer. “No more e-mail, no more conversations with people who aren't there, no more hassle. Just you and me, buddy.”

I picked up the keys to the Jeep and unhooked his leash from
the row of pegs that ran along the wall next to the door. Knowing that this meant a car ride, Toby eagerly scrambled up and ran to the door. I followed and then turned to survey the room. Going into town would be a good thing. Maybe I would force myself to chat with the people in town—or go to one of the restaurants and have a beer or a glass of wine. I went to the kitchen and pulled a wine glass out of the cupboard. I never used restaurant glasses because they weren't sterilized. I carefully slid the glass in a plastic freezer bag and then walked to the front door.

“Okay,” I said to Toby as I opened the door. “Let's get out of here.”

As we drove into La Veta, I was once again struck by the intersection of new and old. The fort and the depot, which were preserved as historical sites, were juxtaposed against tiny art galleries tucked into the closely situated buildings. It was a progressive community that was firmly anchored by the traditional values of hard work, honesty, and community. Everyone from the crusty ranchers to the lesbian bakery owners worked in unison to make it a place of worth and value. That was one of the things that drew me to the town. The other was the fact that people in La Veta respected each other's right to be themselves—myself included. I knew I was regarded as an oddity, that crazy artist woman who lived all alone with her dog. But no one seemed to care.

Despite the September chill, I rolled down the window so Toby could stick his head out as we drove slowly down Main Street. People milled about, their breath visible in hazy billows. It was a Saturday, I realized, when I saw the tourists ambling down the boardwalk, toothpicks sticking out of their mouths, their bellies full of hearty mountain breakfasts. I pulled into a parking place in front of Charlie's Grocery and grabbed my list.

“You wait here, buddy,” I told Toby as I climbed out of the Jeep and slammed the door with a metallic clang. “I'll be right back.”

I hurried into the store and began to collect the supplies I
thought I would need for the next couple of months. I knew from experience that once the snow began to pile up, I could be left to my own devices for several weeks, so I filled the cart with canned goods and foods that could be frozen or stored in the pantry. As I stood at the checkout counter, the woman ringing up my items smiled at me.

“What's your dog's name?” she asked, looking at the pile of dog food and treats. She reached under the counter and pulled out a Milk-Bone dog biscuit. “You should give him this. We keep a supply for all of our canine customers.”

“Thanks.” I glanced out the front window and saw Toby sitting upright behind the steering wheel. He looked like the getaway car driver. His expression made me laugh. The cashier's gaze followed mine.

“That him in the Jeep?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, still laughing. “His name is Toby.”

“They're like children, aren't they?” She grinned and extended her hand. “I'm Marjorie. I've seen you in here every month or so for the past couple of years and I always mean to introduce myself and then don't.”

“Rebecca,” I said and shook her hand quickly and tried not to think about what she might have touched before shaking my hand.

“You're that artist that lives up in that cabin way off of Highway 11, right?” she asked. “In Harry Beterman's old place?”

I nodded. “That's me.”

“Nice property,” she said. “Kinda remote, but still, nice. You probably get snowed in some, huh? Not many plows head up that little road.”

“Well,” I said, “It's not uncommon.” I gestured to the pile of groceries. “But I'm ready for any emergency.”

She nodded in approval and rang up the rest of my purchases.

“That'll be $279.93,” she said. “Need help out with this?”

I shook my head.

Back in the Jeep, I nudged Toby back into the passenger's seat and then handed him the treat.

“That's from Marjorie,” I said as he gobbled it down.

Next, I drove to the hardware store, bought rock salt and bird seed, and exchanged the empty tank of propane I had put in the back of the Jeep the week before, for a fresh one. My final stop was the liquor store, where I took my time choosing a couple of cases of wine. As I climbed into the Jeep, I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It wasn't even noon and already I was tired of interacting with people.

“I think that's enough for today,” I told Toby as I started the engine, put the Jeep in reverse and backed out of the parking lot onto the main street. I rolled down the window slightly for the drive back to the cabin. The air tasted of coming snow.

Back at the cabin, I immediately began unloading the groceries. During each trip to and from the kitchen, I made it a point to ignore the blank, unplugged computer. There was, I knew, a message from Tommy. I sensed it. But I was torn between wanting to see it and being frightened of what it might say and Grace's recriminations.

“This is stupid,” I said aloud as I put the last can of green beans in the pantry.

I glanced out the kitchen window at the neatly stacked firewood on the back porch. I had worked for almost a week cutting and splitting the logs. One remaining tree lay in pieces, waiting to be split into firewood. I would do it today, I thought resolutely. The physical activity would do me good and take my mind off of Tommy and Grace. I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, opened it, and then used an alcohol swab to carefully wipe off the mouth of the bottle. Even though it was cool outside, I soon would become sweaty and a beer was usually what I craved to cut the thirst.

Four hours, three beers, and two blisters later, I had split most of the logs and stacked them neatly on the growing mountain of wood. I had a chainsaw but preferred to use an ax. My body was tired and pleasantly sore. All I wanted was a bath, something to eat, a glass of wine, and the comfort of a fire in the fireplace. First, though, I had to deal with the issue of Tommy. It had been bothering me the entire time I was working and I had decided that the only way to deal with it was to face it head on. Moving quickly before I changed my mind, I plugged in the computer and waited while it
slowly came back to life. As it hummed and whirled, I decided to skip the bath and take a quick shower. Within ten minutes I was dried, dressed, and seated in front of the waiting terminal with a glass of wine. Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the AOL icon and waited. Not only was there this morning's e-mail from Tommy, but also a reply from Roger and one from my mother. I clicked on Roger's first.

         
Dearest Rebecca:

                
Two things:

                
A. I refuse to take blame for something I didn't do, but I'm willing to let bygones be bygones and simply say that I don't know what you're talking about and I did not violate our agreement. Think what you will, but you're wrong.

                
2. You ARE coming to visit. You don't know it yet. We will arrange for a dog-sitter. Or, since I'm sure you can't stand the thought of anyone in your house, we can get Toby boarded. I've checked. There are several places on the way to the airport.

                
I will not be dissuaded.

                
XXOO

I considered what to say. Nothing came to mind. He wasn't going to admit what he had done. Fine. I had made my point. As for Chicago, I would deal with that later. I clicked on my mother's e-mail. Both Tara and I had been surprised when our mother announced that she had purchased a computer and that she was going to be online. But, it had turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened. By communicating via e-mail, we were much better able to keep in touch—but at a distance.

         
Hello sweetie:

                
How are you? I was thinking about you the other day. We (the girls and I) were at coven and one of the women was talking about herbs and energy work to clear blockages in mind/body unison. I know you're against medication, but
what about herbs? St. John's Wort is wonderful for depression—not that you're depressed. And Valerian is great for relaxation and sleep enhancement. I've talked to her about dosages and will be sending you some in the mail. You don't have to take it—just think about it. Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, when I'm there for Christmas, I'm going to smudge your cabin (burning sage to cleanse it).

                
Let's see . . . what else? Nothing much is going on here. Mrs. Spencer from next door passed. Apparently, she had been keeping track of everything everyone in the neighborhood had been doing. I guess they found hundreds of notebooks with notations of times and dates. Lord knows what she thought of some of the things that went on here!

                
Tara sends her love. She and Andy are looking at getting a timeshare in California.

                
Well, that's all I know. Write when you get a chance.

                
Love you.

That left Tommy's message. I returned to my inbox, where it sat boldfaced to indicate that it hadn't been read. I stared at it. Grace did, too. I could feel it and I didn't even try to hide it from her. I felt my heart begin to beat faster.

“Go on,”
she said finally.
“You want to. And you've made it clear I can't stop you.”

Her words caused me to stop for a second. She was right. She couldn't stop me—at least not physically—from doing anything.
I
had that control.

“You're right,” I said and clicked on Tommy's e-mail.

         
Birdie:

                
I'm not sure there
are
answers, to tell you the truth.

                
Why did I run away? I don't know. I didn't know what to do. Part of me was scared the person who did it was still there. But really, I think a lot of it for me was that I was scared everyone would think I had done it because it was my knife—well, sort of. I had stolen it from that little
store on the corner. I had been using it for target practice. My fingerprints were all over it. I thought if they connected me to the knife . . . you know. I guess, deep down, I was just a coward. I was scared. I don't know if that answers your questions, but that's the best I can tell you.

                
Tommy

I tapped my fingers on the table as I read and then reread his reply. In my head, I felt Grace's smug satisfaction—a mental “I told you so.”

“So what?” I said. “He told me about the knife of his own accord. I didn't have to ask. He volunteered the information. So what does
that
say about him?”

I thought about how to respond. I wanted to know more, but at the same time, continuing the conversation felt like playing with fire. Still, I wanted—make that needed—to know more. I felt Grace's disapproval and frustration that she couldn't stop me, couldn't control me. I clicked Reply.

         
Tommy—

                
I'm not sure what to say. I appreciate your honesty, but your confession—or, more accurately, series of confessions—is unsettling to say the least. How did your knife end up being used to murder Grace?

                
Birdie

“I can tell you,”
Grace said.
“Better yet, I can show you. Want to see my rape and murder? I know I've refused to let you see it in the past, but I think it's time you saw what really happened.”

“Go away,” I spat.

“You're going to regret this,”
she said.
“He's not who you think.”

I ignored her and reached for my glass of wine. I sipped as I waited to see if he was online and if he would reply. I didn't have to wait long.

Within ten minutes, his response appeared.

         
Birdie: