State of Grace by Joy Williams Page A

“But it troubles me the way you drift off. You were looking back then again, weren’t you? A terrible weakness, memory. Memory’s just a hole that fills a lack.”
    “I wasn’t remembering anything,” I say,
    “I can see your problem, Kate. Really, I’m very sympathetic to it. You were born nicely, weren’t you, and were christened like Doreen here and you wore a little frock and you had white sturdy shoes. Your daddy told your mama to raise you so that you would love that which was good and hate that which was evil and you grew up hating and loving all the right things in all the right places and that’s dandy but it doesn’t seem to work out in the long run. Now it’s easier for me because my mama was nothing but a tumblebug. Rolled up a little ball of dung and laid her egg. And I hatched right there—surrounded by shit.”
    “Icchhh!,” Doreen is insistent this time. “You’re gonna make me sick, Cords. You’re gonna make it impossible for me to eat any lunch.”
    “At the very least,” I say. “I’m going now,” I say. My simple statement sounds much too aggressive as though I didn’t know I didn’t mean it.
    “I think you unsettled her even more than me,” Doreen whispers as I stride away.
    “Don’t be stupid,” Cords says.

14
     
    “I think I changed my mind about the beach,” I tell Grady. We are in an eddy of boys with slide rules slapping from their belts in holsters. Part of the wall in the first hall of this building supports a piece of redwood the size of our trailer. It is dirty and stained, with a tragic and breathless presence. THIS SLAB IS OLDER THAN CHRIST , a sign says. In part.
    “Do you want to go anywhere?” Grady asks.
    “No, nowhere.” Our legs seem trembling in a pool of pink from the redwood.
    A POISONED HOST PREVENTED HER FROM DYING . I shake my head to try and clear it.
Grady, leave me
. I cling to him, forcing a smile. We walk back to the Jaguar.
    Had Cords always appeared to be wearing a nylon stocking on most of her face? There is no assurance. Had Father ever bought me a sugar cone? And was it sherbet or a cream? Daddy never did. Had Daddy bought my napkins? Who else would I have asked? I was shy but he proceeded. Shameful tactics not of my invention.
All grown up
, he said. Before, Mother had always told us,
Carry two safety pins and a dime for a telephone call at all times and in case
.
    The baby turns his big remora head and fastens on my heart. Grady has one hand on the wheel. He clutches his chest with his other. I cannot tear my eyes away. He gathers up the cloth of his shirt embarrassedly over the hole in his chest. I can see his quiet lungs …
    “Look here,” he says, taking out a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to me. “Would you like to go out Friday night for dinner?” There is a name on the paper and a number and an address. I can see the letters. “You remember them,” he says. “You’ve met them before.”
    “Dinner? Of course,” I say ambitiously. “I’ll make a salad!” I am so grateful that Grady’s chest is not open, that he is speaking.
    “They are a pleasant couple although he sometimes becomes tedious on the subject of ferns.”
    “The Fern Fellow,” I exclaim, remembering. “Very agreeable.”
    Right,! he would say to anything and then pursue his own dichotomous course. Right! We haggled all night. Small silky hairs grew from the palms of his hands.
    We are on the road now, heading home. There is a truckahead of us, moving slow. The road is narrow and winding. It is a small truck, hauling mirrors. They hang from all sides in glinting sheafs. “Oh, pass him!” I cry. Grady noses around his bumper, but pulls back in. Seconds later, a logging rig hurtles by from the other direction.
    “I can’t for a minute,” he says. “We have to wait until the road straightens out.”
    THAT WHICH HAS BEEN IS NOW AND THAT WHICH IS TO BE HATH ALREADY BEEN AND GOD REQUIRETH THAT WHICH IS PAST . The eye’s our totem