William Krueger - Ordinary Grace

“Are you worried about me, Frankie? I know everyone else is.”

“You kind of scare me sometimes these days.”

“I scare myself.”

“Come home, Mom.”

“See, it’s like this. I can’t talk to your father. I’m too angry with him. I’m angry with everybody.”

“With God?”

“Frankie, there is no God. I could jump right now into that river and there would be no divine hand reaching out to save me. It would simply be the end.”

“Not for me or Jake or Dad.”

“My point exactly. There is no God to care about us. We’ve got only ourselves and each other.”

She reached her arm around me and pulled me gently against her and I remembered how when I was small and afraid she’d done the same thing.

“But your father, Frankie, he cares more about God than he does about us. And to me that’s like saying he cares more about the air and I hate him for that.”

I wanted to tell her about the night I’d seen him cry in Gus’s arms at the altar. And I wanted to tell her about his sermon the next day and how from that air she faulted him for caring about he’d somehow taken remarkable strength. Instead I just leaned into her and felt her weeping and looked up at the moon and listened to the frogs along the river’s edge and then I heard voices coming from the dark in the direction of town and I saw flashlight beams approaching along the railroad bed.

“Damn,” my mother said quietly. “Saint Nathan to the rescue.” She looked at me, looked me straight in the eye. “Will you do something for me, Frankie, something that you can’t tell your father about?”

The lights were not far down the tracks and in only a couple of minutes they would reach us. I had to decide and decide quickly. She seemed so alone, my mother. And because God and my father wouldn’t listen I figured I had to.

I said, “Yes.”

In the dead of night I rose. When I was getting ready for bed I’d folded my clothes on a chair and because I was not known for my neatness Jake had watched me with suspicion. But it had been a strange evening and everything was strange those days and so Jake didn’t question me.

I grabbed my clothes and went into the hallway where the door to my mother’s bedroom was closed. I wondered if she was awake listening for the sound of my leaving. I crept down the stairs careful to avoid the steps I knew would cry my presence to my father who had taken to sleeping on the sofa in the living room. In the kitchen I saw by moonlight that the hands of the wall clock read two-thirty-five. I slipped out the screen door into the yard where I put on my pants and shirt and socks and sneakers. I folded my pajamas and carried them to the garage and put them on a shelf beside an oilcan. I rolled my bicycle out, climbed on, and followed the road that was milk white in the moonlight into town.

I’d lived other places before New Bremen, other towns where my father had been the pastor, and although I got to know them quickly and discovered easily what was special and fun about them none had been as close to my heart as New Bremen. Ariel’s death had changed that. The town became alien to me and at night especially threatening and I biked each deserted street with a sense that menace was all around me. The unlit house windows were dark eyes watching. Awful things lurked in the shadows cast by the moon. The whole two miles to the Heights I pumped hard on the pedals as if chased by demons.

The Brandt estate was a football field of grass cut even as carpeting and set here and there with lush flower garden enclaves all of it tended by a groundskeeper, a man named Petrov whose son Ivan was in my class at school. A tall wrought-iron fence surrounded the entire property and the only way in was through a gate opening onto a long drive that led to the house. Ornately crafted into the iron of the gate was a great wrought-iron letter B . Two enormous stone pillars flanked the entrance and as I drew up before the gate I saw in the bright moonlight that a word had been spray-painted in black on one of the pillars: Murdrer .

I stood before the gate and stared at that angry misspelling. A can of spray paint lay on the ground not far away. I looked down the street which ran empty through the ghostly light. The houses on the far side were large and sat upon substantial properties though none even began to approach the extent of the Brandt estate. They all stood completely dark.

I continued a hundred yards farther to a place where a big maple grew outside the fence but with some branches that arched over the wrought iron. I laid my bike against the trunk, shinnied up the tree, scooted out along the thickest branch, and dropped into the Brandts’ yard. Across a broad lake of moonlight I raced toward the house that was all white stone and white columns and had been built in the days when New Bremen was young. I veered toward the garage, a converted carriage house. Parked on the drive in front was Karl’s little red sports car.

I did as my mother had asked then I sprinted back to the fence. Without the tree to help me I had some difficulty scaling the wrought iron but I finally made it over and leaped onto my bike and pumped hard toward home.

I hadn’t gone far and was just turning a sharp curve in the road that led downhill toward the main part of town when headlights from an oncoming car blinded me. I swerved quickly and almost fell off my bike. I stopped and the car stopped too. I heard a door open and close. Because of the headlight glare, I couldn’t see who it was. Then Doyle’s big shadow fell over me and I figured I was dead.

“Got a call someone was messing around the Brandt place,” he said. “Why am I not surprised it’s you? Off the bike, Frank, and let’s go.”

I followed Doyle to the back of his cruiser. He opened the trunk and said, “Put your bike in there.” When I’d done what he asked, he pointed toward the passenger side and said, “Get in.”

We continued up the road to the gate of the Brandt mansion where Doyle’s headlights illuminated the graffiti. He looked over at me but said nothing. He got out and picked up the can of spray paint and got back in. He turned his cruiser around and we descended slowly from the Heights. For a long time Doyle said nothing, just drove with his wrist draped over the top of his steering wheel. The radio of his cruiser squawked now and then but he didn’t bother to pick up his mic.

I sat silent beside him, feeling doomed. I saw my father coming down to the jail in the middle of the night in just the way he’d come for Gus and I could already see the look on his face.

At the junction with Main Street, instead of turning toward the town square and the jail, Doyle turned toward the Flats.

He said, “A lot of folks around here, they think the Brandts are kind of big for their britches. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened to your sister, it’s got people upset. The Brandt boy, I’m betting he goes scot-free. I’m sorry to say that, Frank, but that’s the way the world works. The rich, they walk on stilts and the rest of us, we just crawl around under them in the dirt. So what do you do? Well, you spray-paint the truth where the world can see it, I guess that’s one thing. Rub their noses a little in the stink of what they’ve done and who they are, huh?” He smiled and laughed quietly.

I thought I hated the Brandts but the way Doyle talked made me feel uncomfortable, like we were both part of some larger darker conspiracy, and I wasn’t sure I wanted that. Still it was better than being taken to jail.

He pulled to a stop in front of our house and we got out and he opened the trunk so I could get my bike. He held up the can of spray paint I’d seen lying near the Brandts’ gate. “I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Dump it somewhere nobody’ll find it. Frank, this is between you and me, understand? You say a word to anyone, I’ll swear you’re a liar, we clear?”