William Krueger - Ordinary Grace

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then. Get some sleep, kid.”

He watched me lean my bicycle against the garage wall and then go quietly in the side door to the kitchen. Before I went upstairs to bed I looked out the front window and he was gone.

First thing next morning the sheriff arrived. We were eating breakfast, all of us except my mother who was still in bed. My father answered the front door and the sheriff stepped inside. I got up from the kitchen table and stood in the doorway listening to the two men talk and I could barely breathe.

“We had some vandalism last night out at the Brandt home, Nathan. Somebody spray-painted those folks’ front gate. Wrote Murderer there. Except the vandal wasn’t too bright. Left out an e and spelled it Murdrer. But it’s pretty clear what the intent was.”

“That’s a shame,” my father said.

“I don’t suppose you or your family know anything about it.”

“No. Why would we?”

“Didn’t figure as much but I’ve got to ask. The truth is it could be just about anybody in town. Sentiment against the Brandts is pretty sour these days. By the way, heard you almost lost Ruth last night.”

“Nothing like that. She just took a walk and didn’t tell any of us where she was going. It got a little late and we got a little worried.”

“Ah,” the sheriff said. “Must’ve heard it wrong.” Then he looked past my father into our house the same way he’d looked past me a couple of days earlier. His eyes found me in the kitchen doorway and held on me in a way that made me believe he was certain who the vandal was.

“Is that all, Sheriff?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Just thought you ought to know.”

He left and got into his car and drove away and when I turned back to the kitchen table Jake was sitting there looking at me in the same way the sheriff had. My father returned to the table and Jake didn’t say anything and we finished our breakfast.

Later in our room Jake said, “Murdrer? You couldn’t even spell it right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I wondered why you went to bed in your pajamas but got up wearing your underwear and T-shirt. You went to the Brandts’ last night, didn’t you?”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m not.” He sat there on his bed looking up at me but he didn’t look angry or worried. “Why didn’t you take me?”

“I didn’t want you to get into trouble. Look, Jake, I was there but I didn’t paint that word.”

“What did you do?”

‘‘‘Mom asked me to put an envelope on the windshield of Karl’s car.”

“What was in it?”

“I don’t know. She made me promise not to open it.”

“Who spray-painted the gate?”

“I don’t know. It was that way when I got there.”

I was about to tell Jake the whole story when I heard the feisty growl of a little automobile engine and when I looked out the window Karl Brandt drove up in his sports car. Jake and I both went downstairs where our mother was finally up and eating some toast and drinking coffee. My father had gone to his office in the church but he must have seen Karl arrive because he came quickly home.

Karl knocked on the front screen door and I opened it. As he walked in, Dad bounded up the porch steps behind him. Karl looked like death. He stood in the house with his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast and there came from him, as if it held an actual scent, the air of despair. My mother stepped in from the kitchen with her coffee in her hand. She didn’t seem surprised at all. Karl’s dark eyes lit briefly on each of us then settled at last on my mother. He held up the envelope which I recognized. Not a word passed between them yet my mother came forward and put her coffee cup on the dining room table, took the envelope, and walked to the living room. Karl followed her. The rest of us watched as if it was a silent play being performed. Mother sat down at the piano. She opened the envelope, took out a couple of pages of sheet music, settled them on the music rack above the keyboard, and began to play and to sing.

The song was Unforgettable, the great Nat King Cole standard. She played flawlessly and sang in a way that was like a pillow inviting you to rest all the weariness of your heart upon it. Karl had sung this same song with Ariel at the Senior Frolics in the spring, a duet that had brought down the house. We’d all been there and after I had heard them sing together I’d figured I knew pretty well what love was all about.

Karl Brandt stood with his hand on the piano and I thought if he hadn’t had that great instrument to lean against he might have collapsed. He’d always seemed to me to be old and mature and sophisticated but at that moment he looked like a child and like he was going to cry.

When my mother finished he whispered, “I didn’t kill Ariel. I could never hurt Ariel.”

“I never thought for a moment that you did, Karl,” my father replied.

Karl turned and said, “Everyone else in town does. I can’t even leave the house anymore. Everyone stares at me like I’m a monster.”

From where she sat on the piano bench my mother looked up at Karl and said, “You got my daughter pregnant.”

“It wasn’t me,” Karl said. “I swear it wasn’t me.”

“You’re telling me my daughter slept around?”

“No. But I never slept with her.”

“That’s not what you told your friends.”

“That was just talk, Mrs. Drum.”

“Hateful, hurtful talk.”

“I know. I know. I wish I’d never said those things. But all the guys say them.”

“Then all the guys should be ashamed of themselves.”

“I didn’t kill her. I swear to God, I didn’t touch her.”

We heard the pound of steps on the front porch and the hammer of a fist on our door and there were Mr. and Mrs. Brandt looking at us with their faces dark through the mesh of the screen.

My father let them in and Mrs. Brandt rushed to her son and put herself between him and my mother and said to Karl, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to tell them,” he said.

“You had to do nothing of the sort. You owe no one an explanation.”

“Oh, but he does, Julia.”

Mrs. Brandt turned on my mother. “He had nothing to do with your daughter’s death.”

“What about her pregnancy?”

“Or that.”

“He’s been telling two different stories, Julia.”

I couldn’t believe how calm my mother seemed, how solid, like cold iron.

Mrs. Brandt said to her son, “Karl, you go home and wait for us there. We’ll take care of this.”

“But they need to understand,” he pleaded.

“I told you, we’ll take care of this.”

“Go on home, Son,” Axel Brandt said. He sounded tired and some of Karl’s despair was in his voice.

Karl slowly crossed the room, cowering, and I saw him in the same way the sheriff and Doyle must have seen him when they called him the Brandt boy. He reached the front door and paused a moment and I thought he was going to turn back and say something more. Instead he simply pushed out into the morning light. A minute later I heard the sound of his car pulling away.

“Now,” Julia Brandt said returning her attention to my mother. “Is there something you want to say to me, Ruth?”

“Just one question, Julia: What are you afraid of?”

“What makes you think I’m afraid?”

“Because you’ve been hiding. Nathan and I have been trying to talk to you and Axel and Karl, but you’ve refused to see us. Why is that?”

“Our lawyer,” Axel Brandt said. “He advised us against speaking with anyone.”

“Given the circumstances,” my father said, “I think the least you could have done was to have agreed to see us.”