Circle of Grace, page 3
“OK,” one of them said—a willowy blonde coed, a real stereotype. “Let’s get this thing started. I’ve got cheerleader practice at four.”
Grace had always harbored the secret suspicion that natural blonde hair allowed brain cells to escape by osmosis. The theory explained a lot. Now she had verifiable evidence.
“I think we should get to know each other first,” a second girl said. “My name is Tess Riley. I’m going to be a lit major, with a minor in creative writing.”
Tess was attractive, Grace noted, but not in a blonde-bombshell way. She had rich auburn hair and brown eyes, and wore jeans and a blue UNCA sweatshirt so new it still had creases down the sleeves.
“Liz Chandler,” the third said by way of introduction. “I’m double-majoring in political science and psychology—or will be once I declare.”
Liz, dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck, had short dark hair and shocking blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She reminded Grace of a beatnik from the fifties, someone who ought to be out on the Pacific Coast Highway riding motorcycles with Jack Kerouac.
All eyes turned toward Grace, and she introduced herself. “I’m Grace Benedict. Haven’t decided on my major yet,” she said. “I love literature, too—” She cast a glance in Tess’s direction. “But I’m not a writer, and can’t quite imagine myself as a teacher. I’ll end up in library science, probably.”
The blonde rolled her eyes. “OK, if we’ve had enough of the tea party chitchat, can we get this done?”
Tess shot a look toward Grace, grinned, and winked. Grace felt a warmth spread through her, and she smiled back. “Don’t you think you ought to introduce yourself?” Tess said to the blonde.
The girl did a double take, as if she couldn’t believe there was a soul on campus who didn’t know who she was. Then the facade cracked, and she gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to come across as such a bitch. I’m Amanda Love. My friends call me Lovey.”
Liz let out a snicker. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
Grace half expected Lovey to be insulted, but instead she giggled. “I’m afraid so. Awful, ain’t it?”
Tess shook her head. “I can beat that. My real name is Contessa.”
“No!” Liz stifled a snorting laugh.
“Yes.”
“What was your mother thinking?”
“I have no idea,” Tess said. “Maybe that I’d grow up to look like Lovey and become the next Princess Grace.” She chuckled. “We all have to live with our little disappointments, I suppose.”
Everyone laughed. Howled until their sides ached and the librarian appeared at the door to ask them in a whispered, condescending voice if they could work more quietly, please.
Tess wiped at her eyes. “Grace, you have to swear you won’t become that kind of librarian.”
Grace put on her haughtiest expression and pinched her mouth into a sour-lemon pucker. “It’s genetic, I fear,” she said in a breathy voice, aping the librarian dead-on. “Diagnosed at birth. We all have it, and if we don’t, we’re given injections during the first semester of graduate school.”
The girls dissolved in laughter, the kind that reached out and drew her in. And in their laughter was the promise that she did have some of Daddy in her, and that college might turn out to be a grand adventure after all.
If nothing else, the week-long discussion of the Pilate question served to emphasize the diversity of perspectives in their little study group. Grace began to think of them as the Four Corners, or the Compass Points.
Tess was North, with her head in the stratosphere, up in the thin air of creativity and metaphor. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” she quoted from Keats. “That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
Lovey was South, realistic and practical, her roots in the red Georgia clay. She had turned out to be not nearly as much of an airhead as Grace had expected. “What on God’s green earth is that supposed to mean?” she said. “Truth is what’s real, what’s…well, true. Truth is what you can see and feel and know. It can’t be defined.”
“But we have to define it,” argued Liz, the dissident. Grace thought of her as West—the pacifist, the radical, as far left as you could get. “Truth is within us,” Liz asserted, “not something on the outside. Truth is about what we do with our lives to make a positive impact on the world. It’s different for everybody. There’s no such thing as absolute truth.”
And Grace herself—East on the compass, right on the political scale—chimed in, “What’s that quote, something about knowing the truth and the truth setting us free?”
Liz began muttering under her breath, and Grace thought she caught the words superstitious drivel. But Tess looked into Grace’s eyes with interest. “What do you think that means?”
This time Liz didn’t bother trying to cover up her disdain. “Without the mumbo-jumbo, please.”
Grace turned. “Hey, Dr. Wall quoted Jesus, and you didn’t accuse her of superstitious drivel.”
Liz grinned. “I know, but she holds the grade book. Besides, she didn’t quote Jesus, she quoted Pontius Pilate.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Right. So, when you run for president, you quote Pilate and see how far you get.”
This time Liz laughed out loud. “OK, I give in. What do you think it means, Grace? The stuff about knowing the truth and being free.”
“Maybe it means that truth enables us to become the people we were created to be.”
“That’s it!” Tess grinned. “That’s our point of compromise!” She began scribbling on a legal pad. Then, after a couple of minutes, she put up a hand and began to read:
“Truth is the core of human experience, the center point which keeps us balanced and aligned, the hub which connects us to all we value. It goes by many names—faith, beauty, love, justice—but whatever we call it, however we experience it, it is the source of meaning and purpose in our lives.”
She sat back and exhaled heavily. “Does that do it?”
Liz took the page and studied it for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good to me, especially the image of the hub which connects us to what we value. It specifies the importance of truth without limiting it to a particular religion or philosophy.”
“I like the many-names part,” Lovey agreed. “It leaves room for people to get to their own truth through various means—spiritual, artistic, social, personal—and yet acknowledges that at the center there is a shared reality that joins us together.”
Tess handed the pad across the table. “What about you, Grace? Can you sign on to this definition of truth?”
Grace read it over a few times. “I’m in.” She looked around the table. “This has been quite an experience. I’ve never come across points of view that are so different from mine. Especially yours, Liz.”
“I know. I’m just a dyed-in-the-wool infidel.”
Grace chuckled. “Right. And you’re very good at it, too.” She turned toward the others. “It’s been fun. A challenge.”
“That’s great to hear,” Liz said. “Because I think you should be the spokesperson for our group. And I think you should write up the process we used to get to this definition.”
“Why me?”
Liz grinned. “Because Tess wrote the statement, and Lovey and I don’t have the faintest idea of how we got there.”
Grace typed out Tess’s definition and thumbtacked it to the bookcase over her desk. She spent three hours writing up the report. When midterm grades came out, all of them had received A’s.
But more important to Grace than the philosophy grade was the connection the four of them had made. They might have been compass points, each aiming in a different direction, but some magnetic force held them together. And when, at the end of the term, Lovey found a small house within walking distance of campus and invited them all to share the rent with her, Grace said yes without a moment’s hesitation.
-3-
THE DUMP
The first week of January, the tiny house three blocks from the university received its new tenants. Grace and the others had pooled their meager resources and bought some used furniture from the Goodwill store, and with four of them sharing rent and food and gas for Liz’s ancient Volkswagen Beetle, the cost was considerably lower than living on campus.
Grace’s father, however, was less certain about the arrangement.
When he and Mama first arrived, he had flirted shamelessly with the girls and, as usual, made everyone except Mama laugh. Grace could tell her roommates loved him, but that was nothing new. She was surprised, however, at what he said when he got her alone.
“Are you sure you want to live here?” he asked between heaving breaths as he lugged a trunk up the stairs to the dormer room Grace would be sharing with Tess. “You could still change your mind, come live at home and attend the community college. This place is kind of a dump, you know.”
The “dump” was a story-and-a-half cottage on Barnard Street, across the creek and up the hill from campus. Grace thought of it as a “grandma house,” with its rocking-chair porch and twin second-floor gables that gave it an expression of perpetual surprise. Actually, it had belonged to someone’s grandma—an elderly woman who had lived here since nineteen-thirty-something. When she died, her grown grandchildren decided to rent it rather than put money into it to make it fit for sale.
The cramped living room had matted green shag carpeting and bright yellow walls, and the two downstairs bedrooms—assigned to Lovey and Liz—were little more than oversized closets, barely large enough for a bed and dresser. Grace and Tess would have to share, but Grace secretly thought they were getting the better end of the bargain. The dormer room upstairs ran the whole length of the house. It was spacious and airy, with windows at either end and built-in storage closets and drawers under the slanting eaves.
When Grace tried to look at the place through her father’s eyes, she acknowledged that the faucets dripped and the rooms needed painting and the kitchen was a throwback to the thirties. But she couldn’t have cared less. “It’s great, Daddy,” she said. “We’ll fix it up. It’ll be absolutely perfect.”
What was perfect, although it took Grace a while to articulate it to herself, was the sense of freedom and belonging she felt. She had always known her parents loved her—Daddy demonstrated his love lavishly, and occasionally even Mama would break down and show a little warmth, enough so that Grace learned to believe what she didn’t always feel. But there had always been an underlying tension at home, something she sensed but couldn’t name.
Now she was in her own place, with a group of friends who liked her and accepted her. They had jokingly dubbed her the Truth Teller—not just because of the Pilate project but because she was the only one of them who could use humor to challenge and pacify Liz when she was being especially bullheaded. Grace was beginning to understand a little more why her mother was so enamored with college life.
If her father had raised the issue last semester, Grace might have jumped at the chance to flee Asheville and go home. Now there was no question of leaving. She fit here. These were her friends.
“No, Daddy,” she said when they paused to rest at the top of the stairs. “I miss you, but this is where I need to be.”
He dragged the trunk across the room and dropped it at the foot of her bed. The upper room was so chilly, she could see little puffs of white mist as he sank down on it, panting. “All right, Kidlet.” He smiled self-consciously at his use of the old nickname, held out his arms, and gathered her in. She inhaled his familiar scent and remembered the feeling, all the way back to early childhood, of being warm and safe in his arms. As long as he loved her—as long as he was Daddy—nothing could touch her.
“I miss you too,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I guess it’s kind of hard for your old dad to realize you’re not my little girl any longer, to let go and let you grow up.”
Grace lifted her face and grinned at him. “I’ll always be your girl, Daddy. Not so little anymore, but—”
He laughed, and as he hugged her tighter, two tears leaked from her eyes onto the front of his shirt.
When they got back downstairs, Mama was in the kitchen, unpacking the box of old pots and pans Grace had raided from home. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and she was opening and shutting cabinet doors with a vengeance, as if testing the strength of the hinges.
Grace took one look at her and knew immediately what was wrong. She was eyeing the carton of cigarettes Liz had left on the kitchen table. Mama heartily disapproved of smoking.
“They’re not mine,” Grace said before her mother could speak.
“I realize I’ve been telling you that college is a grand adventure, Grace, but I just hope you know better than to be influenced by—”
“Mama, please.”
Her mother slammed the last cabinet shut and turned, her arms folded across her chest.
Grace rolled her eyes. “Mother, why can’t you just be happy that I’ve made friends?”
“I am happy.”
If this is happy, Grace thought, I’d hate to see what miserable looks like. But she knew better than to say it.
“I simply want to be sure you know what you’re getting into. People can—well, sometimes they can turn out to be different than you expect them to be.” Mama lowered her eyes and studied the scarred linoleum on the kitchen floor as if it contained the answers to all life’s inscrutable mysteries.
“I’m fine, Mama. Everything’s fine.”
Daddy had followed Grace down the stairs but had been hanging back in the doorway. Now he stepped forward, and he and Mama exchanged a look Grace caught but did not understand.
“We’d better get going,” he said with a smile that seemed uncharacteristically strained. “Don’t forget us, Kidlet. Come home to visit now and then.”
“Of course I’ll come home to visit.” Grace swallowed the lump that was growing in her throat. “It’s only an hour and a half. It’s not like I’m moving to the Outback.”
“Come on then, Ramona. Our empty nest is waiting.” Daddy hugged Grace one last time and reached out a hand toward his wife. She pretended not to notice, gave Grace a quick, dry peck on the cheek, and headed for the car.
Every Friday evening just before dinnertime, Daddy called, regular as clockwork, to hear about Grace’s week and ask how she was getting along. Sometimes Mama would get on the phone for a minute or two of dutiful exchange, but they had little to say to each other, and both of them seemed relieved when Mama handed the telephone back over to Daddy. Grace felt guilty about it, but she had to admit she much preferred her father’s easy banter and welcome laugh to her mother’s stilted, formal attempts at conversation.
“What’s with your mother?” Liz said when Grace hung up the kitchen phone. “I can always tell when you’re talking to her instead of your dad.”
Grace squeezed around Liz and began dishing up spaghetti from a pot on the stove. “I don’t know. I’ve never known. But I can never talk to her without feeling like I’ve done something wrong. Like I’ve disappointed her.”
“It’s that mother-daughter thing,” Liz said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Freud right down the line. You’re your daddy’s girl, and your mom is jealous. You suppose they still have sex?”
Grace let out an exaggerated sigh. Liz could be counted on to speak her mind, usually without any censorship whatsoever.
“Honestly, Liz, I don’t spend much time speculating about my parents’ love life. Not an image I particularly want to carry around in my head on a daily basis. Besides, they’re pretty old—in their forties already.”
“Do you think he loves her?”
Grace slopped spaghetti sauce onto the stove top. “What?”
“Do you think your father loves your mother?” Liz repeated. “And do you think she loves him?”
“Of course they love each other. They’re married, aren’t they?”
“Sure, but if you think marriage necessarily equals passion, you really are naive. Nobody understands what goes on inside a marriage except the two people involved. And sometimes they don’t even get it.”
Grace mopped up the mess and threw the dishrag back into the sink. “What’s your point, Liz?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’m pointless. But it seems to me they’re an odd match, your mom and dad. He’s so alive, so funny and cute. She’s a black hole of depression.”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “You’re taking psychology this term, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“So quit analyzing everybody, for God’s sake.”
“But it’s fun. And insightful, too. Don’t you ever wonder about your folks—what attracted them to each other in the first place, what their relationship is really like, when nobody else is around?”
“No.” Grace bit her lip. “Well, sometimes.”
“See? You have to admit you think about it.”
“I’ve thought about it all my life—well, at least since I was old enough to notice things. And I’m not any closer to an answer. All I know is that Daddy is everybody’s favorite person, and Mama doesn’t seem to be impressed with his popularity. But I know she loves him. And he loves her.”
Liz took the plate Grace was holding out to her and set it on the table. “You keep on telling yourself that, and maybe someday you’ll believe it.”
“Just drop it, OK? Go dissect somebody else’s family.”
“All right. Forget I said anything.” But of course, she didn’t drop it. Instead, she leaned over the table and pushed back the curtains. “Good thing Daddy already called his precious daughter tonight. If this snow gets any worse, we may lose both power and phone lines.”
Grace stifled a biting comeback. “Make yourself useful and get the others in here to eat, will you?”
“Lovey! Tess! Dinner’s ready!” Liz yelled, not moving an inch from her spot by the table.
“Shoot, Liz, I could have done that. I meant go get them. Ask them to come to the table with some kind of courtesy.”
