This I Know Read online

  My younger sister, Chastity, hands us clothespins to fasten the linens against the wind. The three of us make a pretty good team and it only takes half an hour to empty all the baskets. Mama clips the last corner of the last pillowcase, then props the rope up high with a board cut into a V at the end. She stacks the empty baskets one inside the other and turns them upside down to keep any bugs out. When she heads back into the house I close my eyes and lean into a billowing sheet. Hiding behind the smell of bleach is a tiny promise of spring.

  Mama pushes through the back door holding a brown coffee cup in one hand and a plateful of powdered donut holes in the other. She sits on the back stoop and pulls her flowered housedress over her bare knees. Chastity and I plop down on either side and wait for her to say it’s okay to take a treat. We may have a bit of a wait because Mama has a way of staring off into space when she drinks coffee. She doesn’t even look down to dunk her donut, does it by feel, as if she doesn’t care about the soggy clumps floating in her mug. I know what that’s like. Not the soggy donut part, just the staring into space. My teachers call me a daydreamer, but I’m not dreaming. The me who goes places in my head is a lot more awake than the bored me sitting at my desk.

  My sister and I stare at the donut holes, little snowballs with skin-colored patches showing through. Chastity touches Mama lightly on the arm to remind her we’re here. She nods for us to go ahead and we each take two. I make a face when Mama tilts the mug back and drinks the last swallow of thick coffee. Chastity nods, holding her powdered fingers out in front of her so as not to get any on her dress. Mama stands and wipes her hands on her apron. I do the same, leaving white handprints on my green corduroy pants. Chastity is a bit of a fussbudget and runs inside to wash up before our walk to the post office.

  Mama pulls my head to her hip and smooths my kinky, red hair. “Grace, have I ever told you your hair reminds me of a sunset?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “Well, it does.”

  She eyes the brown grass along the edge of the sidewalk leading to the front yard as we wait for Chastity. “Almost time to plant flowers,” she says. “What do you think?”

  It doesn’t matter what I think because Mama plants her favorites every year, but I play along. “How about roses? Big, fat, white ones that you can smell a mile away.”

  “Maybe,” she says, smiling. But we both know that come summer the sidewalks will be lined with red and pink petunias, and bluebells and daffodils will fill the spaces next to the house.

  The back door slams and Chastity bounces down the back steps wearing her red plaid jacket and patent leather shoes. Mama pulls a light blue scarf out of her pocket and ties it under her chin before taking our hands.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  “Let’s go,” Chastity mimics, pulling on Mama as we head down the driveway.

  We turn right toward the post office, five blocks away. As we round the corner at Montmorency Street I catch sight of the blind girl swinging high on a board hanging from the branch of a dead elm tree. Tangles of brown hair flap in front of dark eyes that look off in different directions. She’s singing a song of nonsense words. I smile even though she can’t see me. Funny thing, she smiles too, almost as if she’s smiling back at me. I start to wave at her. Mama grabs my hand before it’s all the way up and pulls me forward.

  “Come on, Grace,” she says. “Don’t bother that poor child.”

  The sound of a hammer slamming against a nail startles all three of us. Mr. Weaver, our church janitor, is repairing the roof on the dilapidated house next to the tree swing. He does handyman work part-time, mostly for church members. The blind girl and her grandma don’t come to our church, but everybody knows Mr. Weaver. He used to be a drunk before Daddy converted him during his chaplain visits to the county jail. Daddy not only saved him from h-e-l-l but probably from falling off a roof as well. Couldn’t save his marriage, though. Mrs. Weaver left town with their two daughters the last time he was in jail and nobody has heard from her since.

  Mr. Weaver waves to us from the peak of the Andersons’ roof. Mama nods but keeps moving forward. The three of us walk the last block to the post office hand in hand. I love the soft flesh of Mama’s warm palm against my own even though sometimes I feel a deep sorrow through her skin. Mama usually does a good job of hiding behind her preacher’s wife smile, but sometimes her crinkled forehead gives her away. I wish I could draw her worries into my hand and shake them off like donut powder.

  When we reach the post office, Dean VanderPol waves from behind the counter. He’s the only person who works here besides Louise, who delivers mail to the rural routes. I wave back but Mama heads straight for our postal box. She lets me dial the combination. As soon as I open the tiny compartment the papery smell of mail crawls up my nose. Mama pulls the envelopes out and shoves them into her apron pocket without looking at who they’re from. I’m not sure if this is because she doesn’t care or she can tell by the smell who sent them.

  Dean waves again on our way out. “Have a good day, Missus Carter.”

  “Thank you,” Mama says back, but not until it’s too late and he’s out of earshot.

  Lately it’s as if Mama’s one step behind the rest of the world. On Sundays she sometimes waits until the second sentence of a song to open her mouth, and her last note dangles in the air after the rest of us have closed our hymnals. I wonder if it has to do with the extra heartbeat thump-thumping inside her that nobody else can hear. I won’t ask because Daddy gives me The Look when I mention things I’m not supposed to know without someone telling me.

  The first time it happened I was five. We were all at the breakfast table and I said, “Somebody should get that boy out of the lake.”

  Daddy said, “What boy?” and I just shrugged.

  We went on eating our pancakes. When I looked at the bottle of syrup on the table I saw a boy struggling, then slowly sink to the bottom.

  “Too late,” I said.

  Mama dropped her fork and pushed away from the table. She ran to the front window just as the ambulance flew by with sirens blaring. When she came back, her hands were shaking as she leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “How did you know?”

  “I saw him in the syrup,” I said.

  My sisters laughed at me. Not Mama and Daddy. They looked at each other for a moment like they’d seen a ghost before Daddy raced out the front door toward the lake.

  Later that day Daddy took me into his study and told me I should ignore it when I think I know what’s going to happen. Then he prayed and prayed over me for what seemed like hours. I don’t remember his exact words but I got the idea. He pretty much said that the devil had planted something bad in me, and he asked God to take it out. Ever since then he’s treated me different, almost like he’s afraid of me. His fear has built a wall between us that I can never seem to break through, no matter how much good stuff I do to try to tear it down.

  I started to feel ashamed after that day but Isaac assured me I was special. He reminded me of the words to the Sunday school song “This Little Light of Mine,” and that God doesn’t want us to hide our light under a bushel. The truth is, I don’t think there’s a bushel big enough to hide the Knowing. It keeps getting bigger and stronger, like a storm cloud before it grows into a tornado. I’ve spent most of my life holding it by the tail.

  On our way home from the post office Sheriff Conner’s police cruiser races by, which is unusual. He usually creeps along slower than I can walk. With the car window rolled down, he’ll pause to chat with people as he circles the lake several times a day. Everyone knows one of his sons went missing in Vietnam, but you’d never know it to look at him. He’s always so pleasant. It’s been harder on Mrs. Conner. The Conners used to have an American flag raised on a tall pole in front of their house. Mrs. Conner took it down when their boy went MIA. Some people say she burned it.

  Back at the house, Mama tells Chastity and me to sit on the front steps. My sister and I huddle against the chill. Ma
ma doesn’t seem to notice the cold even though she’s only wearing a light sweater over her housedress.

  “I have some news for you girls.” She wipes a stray blond hair from in front of her blue eyes and tucks it back into the scarf. She’s not wearing makeup but her cheeks are blushed. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

  Chastity claps her hands in front of her. “Tell us, Mama!”

  Mama looks toward the church across the street then back to us. “Pretty soon you’re going to get a new baby brother or sister.”

  Chastity glares at Mama as though somebody has just grabbed a candy bar out of her hand and eaten it. In the next instant she leaps from the step and runs toward the backyard. By the time I catch up to her she’s climbed halfway up the tree. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing since Chastity is usually such a little priss.

  “You better come down from there, Chas.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “You can’t climb a tree in those shoes.”

  “Can too. Go away!”

  Up she goes higher. If it weren’t for the sight of her fancy underpants I wouldn’t believe it was my own little sister. I glance toward the house. Either Mama is still trying to figure out what just happened or she’s given up and gone inside. I spit on my hands and swing a leg over the first branch. As awkward as I feel on the ground there’s something about trees, especially this one, that gives me monkey feet and no fear.

  I close in on Chastity near the top, where the branches start to get spindlier and more doubtful about holding someone up, even a child. She looks down and freezes, staring at the ground below. I pull up behind my sister and gently snuggle against her back, letting my arms circle the tree trunk along with her small body. Her legs are trembling.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’m right behind you.”

  I’m right behind you.

  Her blond ponytail beats against her chubby cheek. “I want Mama!” she whines.

  “It’s okay, Chas, we’ll go down a step at a time. On the count of three put your foot on the next branch under this one.”

  Chastity clutches the tree like it’s her mother, at least the one she had before Mama got pregnant, meaning Chastity will no longer be the baby of the family. I figured that out just as soon as I looked at her face during Mama’s telling of it.

  “I can’t,” she says.

  “Sure you can. I’ll help you.”

  I slip my shoe between her leg and the tree and push gently.

  “Stop it, Grace! You’ll make us fall.”

  “No I won’t. You have to trust me. Now lower yourself with me to the next branch.”

  She keeps whimpering, but her body relaxes a bit and we slowly move downward along the trunk until her red-checkered jacket snags on a nub. I give it a yank.

  Chastity screams so loud it hurts my eardrums. “You’re ripping my coat!”

  “Don’t worry. Mama will sew it back up.”

  This is the wrong thing to say.

  When Chastity cries she does it with her whole body. It’s all I can do to hold on as she flails her arms and stomps her feet.

  “Stop it, Chas. You’re going to make us . . .”

  I know it a half second before it happens. The next few moments play out in slow motion: Chastity throwing a fit, Mama rounding the corner of the house just as my sister pushes backward with her head, ramming hard into my chin and knocking me off balance. The two of us start down in a free fall, smacking into branches along the way. I cling desperately to my sister.

  Help!

  Suddenly the air feels thick and spongy. In my mind I clearly see a path through the rest of the branches. We stop tumbling and weave our way dreamlike through the tree. The next thing I know my feet find a firm landing on the bottom limb. Chastity steadies herself against the branch in front of her. I don’t understand what just happened.

  “Isaac?” I accidentally say his name out loud.

  Mama clasps her hands over her mouth as she drops into a heap on the lawn. Chastity pries herself from my grip and leaps to the ground, her dramatic protest suddenly forgotten as she runs to Mama’s side.

  * * *

  When Daddy gets home from his church office, Chastity practically attacks him to share our exciting morning. She already told Joy and Hope, and each telling gets a little more exaggerated. By her third report you’d think I was wearing a cape and a shirt with a big S on the front of it.

  Daddy spends a long time in the bedroom with Mama before supper. I picture him sitting on the bed, the way it sinks when he lowers himself onto it. Daddy tends to leave a dent in soft things. Not just because he’s big, but because he means to. Everything about him is heavy, from his voice to the way his foot lands on the floor. Sometimes just in the way he looks at you.

  After a while the door opens and he calls me inside. Mama is sitting on the opposite side of the bed with her back to me, gazing out the window. Daddy stands near the doorway, his tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone. Sweat stains circle his underarms. He’s not exactly smiling, but he seems pleased just the same. I figure for once I’ve done something right and he’s going to thank me for protecting Chastity.

  “Grace, you know that was an Angel of the Lord that helped you and your little sister down from that tree today.”

  “No, Daddy,” I say. “I think it was Isaac!”

  The sting as the flat of his hand burns across my cheek sends my frizzy hair flying along with my thoughts. All three of my sisters gasp from where they’re eavesdropping in the next room. Daddy has swatted us on the behind but never in the head. Mama starts to stand, but Daddy holds his hand in the air and she sits back down.

  “Your brother is dead, Grace!” His face flushes as red as Jesus’s words in my New Testament. A Southern drawl creeps into his voice, the one he works hard to hide but always comes back when he’s sad or angry. The one that sounds a little like me.

  “But Isaac is an angel,” I say, bracing for another swat.

  Daddy looks back and forth from one of my eyes to the other, green, same as his. “That’s it! Don’t you ever mention his name in this house again.” A hunk of cinnamon-blond hair has fallen down over his forehead and it hops up and down with his words. “Do you hear me, Grace Marie?”

  I look away from his face and straight into his round belly, not knowing whether to lie to him or to God.

  “I said, do you hear me, Grace?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I hear you.”

  He waves me away and pulls the door closed. Hope walks up from behind and rests her hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. I run past Joy and a smirking Chastity before slamming the bathroom door behind me. The cool water feels good on my face. I look in the mirror and place my hand over the red marks, fitting my own hand to the memory of his. When my brother’s name crawls up my throat I swallow it before it reaches my tongue.

  * * *

  Mama and Daddy kneel beside Chastity and me for bedtime prayers. Chastity mumbles a few words about keeping everybody safe, then crawls under the covers. Daddy looks at me and waits. I know what he expects, so I say what he wants to hear.

  “Dear Lord. Thank you for saving Chastity and me today. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  Daddy opens his mouth to say something, but Mama rests her hand on his freckled arm and he keeps quiet.

  “Good night, Grace,” she says. When I climb in bed she pulls the covers to my chin, then pats Chastity’s cheek. “Good night, Chastity.”

  Chastity turns toward the wall. “Night, Mama. Night, Daddy.”

  When they move on to Joy’s room my sister yawns from the pillow next to me.

  “Grace?”

  “What?”

  “Do you really talk to Isaac?”

  “Not supposed to speak about it,” I say to her back. “Go to sleep.”

  “Does he have wings?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never seen him.”

  “Grace?”

  “What?”

&nbs
p; “If it was Isaac that saved us, will you thank him for me?”

  “I suppose. Now go to sleep I said.”

  When I’m sure she’s no longer awake I tiptoe to the closet. I wait in the dark for my brother, but he doesn’t come.

  2

  We live in a town called Cherry Hill on account of all the cherry orchards. The hill is just a big dune above Cherry Lake where most of the houses look like they were trying to get as close to the water as possible without getting wet. The rich folks from Blue Rapids come for the summer to live in cottages on the beach across from our side of the lake. Up the hill from them are the nicer year-round houses with real lawns instead of beach sand and a view of gorgeous sunsets over the lake.

  Less than a thousand people live in and around Cherry Hill full time and they’re separated by two things: which side of the lake they live on and what church they attend. Daddy comes from a long line of Southern Baptists, but our church, The Church of the Word, is nondenominational. That’s supposed to mean anyone can come, but I bet if a Catholic walked in they wouldn’t feel too comfortable. Daddy thinks the Catholics got it all wrong. We believe in dunking, not sprinkling. If you’re saved you get to go to heaven instead of hell. And you don’t need a priest to forgive you when you can go straight to the Lord Himself. There aren’t any Catholic churches in Cherry Hill, but there’s one in Little Dune up the road about ten miles.

  Since our church is the oldest, the town cemetery sits behind it. I like our church best because it looks like it belongs on a jigsaw puzzle. It’s boxy and white with stained-glass windows on three sides. The roof has a steeple pointing to God. The other two churches are on the opposite side of the lake. Both are built out of tan bricks and look too new to be sacred. I don’t know what the difference is between Reformed and Christian Reformed, but I guess one doesn’t think the other is Christian.

  We go to services three or four times a week. I sometimes feel like the church is as much my home as the one we live in. Our two-story house sits across the street from the church and Cherry Lake is two blocks away. The house is white, same as the church, with a glassed-in front porch. There’s only one bathroom, but the claw-foot tub is big enough for two kids at a time. We moved into this place when I was five years old. The first day we visited, Daddy carried me while a deacon showed us around the parsonage. With my head over Daddy’s shoulder, I saw the rooms as we were leaving them.