William Krueger - Ordinary Grace

“Not exactly, sir,” I said approaching the desk. “There’s something important Gus needs to do.”

“It’ll have to wait until Monday, son.”

“It can’t wait. He has to do it now.”

Officer Blake laid the remaining posters on the desk. “You’re Frank, right? What’s this important thing, Frank?”

“Gus was digging our sister’s grave. He didn’t finish it.”

“That’s important,” Officer Blake allowed. “Tell you what, boys. I’ll call Lloyd Arvin. He’s in charge of the cemetery. I’m sure he’ll get someone over there to finish the job.”

“I don’t want someone else, sir. I want Gus.”

The chair in which Doyle was sitting squeaked and I glanced his way and saw him sipping idly from his Coke. I figured he was probably enjoying the scene.

“Look, boys, I can’t help you out here,” Officer Blake said. “I’m sorry.”

“But, sir, this is really, really important.”

“So’s the law, son. I told you, Lloyd Arvin’ll get someone else, and whoever that is will do a fine job, I’m sure.”

“No, please,” I said. “It has to be Gus.”

Doyle put his Coke down. “Why Gus?”

I wished that Doyle weren’t there and wished that I was older and bigger and could have finished the job Gus had started on him. I didn’t even want to acknowledge him let alone actually talk to him. But I was desperate.

I said, “Because he comes from a long line of gravediggers, and he won’t just dig a hole.”

“But, son, that’s what a grave is,” Officer Blake said. “Just a hole.”

“No, sir, it’s not. When it’s done well, it’s a box carved into the earth that will hold something precious. I don’t want just anyone carving Ariel’s box.”

“I sympathize, Frank, I really do. But I can’t just let a prisoner go.”

Doyle picked up his Coke bottle and said, “Why not, Cleve?”

Officer Blake fisted his hands and leaned his knuckles on the posters on his desk and bent toward Doyle. “Because I’ve already done the paperwork. And I don’t have that authority. How do I explain it to the chief?”

Doyle said, “What’s to explain? You let him go, he finishes the girl’s grave, he comes back.”

“What makes you so sure he’ll come back?”

“Ask him.”

“Look, Doyle-”

“Just bring him out here and ask him, Cleve.”

“Bring him out?”

“Are you afraid he’ll overpower you or something?”

“You’re one to talk,” Officer Blake shot back.

Doyle put fingers to his bruise. “Sucker punched me,” he said. “Bring him out, Cleve.”

“Jesus,” Officer Blake said. He eyed Doyle and then me and then Jake and finally shook his head and gave in. He took a ring of keys from the desk and unlocked the metal door in the back wall and went into the jail.

Doyle didn’t say anything to us while the other cop was gone, just sat and idly drank his Coke as if a bruised face and a friend in jail and a couple of naive kids on a hopeless mission were normal events for him.

Me, I wondered if I should spit in his eye for causing all this trouble, or if I should offer him grudging thanks for helping us now.

Gus who was still wearing his soiled T-shirt and who himself was sporting a black eye came out ahead of Officer Blake.

“Hey, guys,” he said to us.

Doyle said, “They came to spring you.” He could have laughed but he didn’t. He gave the words serious weight.

“I explained the situation to him,” Officer Blake said.

Doyle said, “What about it, Gus? Cleve lets you go so you can finish digging the Drum girl’s grave, will you come back?”

Gus said, “I’ll come back.”

Officer Blake didn’t look convinced. He opened his mouth to say something more but Doyle cut him off.

“Gus says he’ll be back, he’ll be back. Let him go, Cleve.”

“The chief-”

“Screw the chief. It’s the right thing to do, and you know it.” Doyle looked at Gus. “You need a hand?”

“No, I got it.”

“All right.” Doyle dug into the pocket of his dungarees and brought out something he tossed to Gus. “The key to your motorcycle,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Doyle swung his eyes to Jake and me and I couldn’t read what was on his mind. Did he expect a thank you? Did he believe we were square now? He said, “Your old man know you’re here?”

“No, sir.”

Doyle lifted a big arm and checked his watch. “If I’m not mistaken, the visitation for your sister begins pretty soon. If I were you boys, I’d get my ass home.”

To Officer Blake I said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Go on,” the policeman said. “Gus, you’re not back in two hours, you’ll regret it.”

Gus followed Jake and me outside. “I’d give you a lift on my motorcycle,” he said, “but I need to get to the cemetery.”

“We can walk,” I told him.

“I’ll give Ariel a grand grave, I swear,” he promised. He loped across the square to his Indian Chief, swung a leg over, and was quickly gone.

Jake and I were halfway home just turning onto Tyler Street toward the Flats when the Packard pulled to a stop alongside us. My father leaned out the driver’s window. “Get in,” he said. The iron in his voice was a dead giveaway that he wasn’t happy. I figured it was because of our mysterious absence from home but knew it could also have been because of whatever had gone on at the Brandts’ home.

For once Jake didn’t call shotgun and I sat up front with my father.

“I’ve been driving all over town looking for you two,” he said shifting into gear and taking off.

I explained what had happened. He listened without interrupting. At the end he looked at me with what seemed like amazement and said, “Well, I’ll be.”

And as for any anger he might have felt toward his sons that was that.

I asked, “Did you talk to Karl?”

“I couldn’t get past the front gate, Frank.”

“Do you think they know?”

“I’m sure someone has told them. I just wish I could talk to that boy.”

“Maybe when things quiet down?”

“Maybe, Frank,” he said but didn’t sound hopeful at all.

At home we finished getting ready for the visitation while my father called my grandfather’s house to tell him we’d been found. Then we piled back into the Packard and headed to van der Waal’s.

We arrived at four o’clock and Mother was already there with my grandfather and Liz. She was different from when she’d stormed from the house because my father had once too often said the name of God in her presence. The hardness was gone and maybe, I hoped, the anger. She looked frailer, fragile somehow, and it made me think of those hollowed eggs that sometimes people elaborately painted. She’d always been a powerful force in our family, a kind of empowering fury, and it was hard seeing her this way.

She smiled gently and straightened my tie. “You look very nice, Frank.”

“Thanks.”

“You guys doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“I’ll be back,” she said. “I just need. . oh time, I guess.” She looked away, across the room where the closed coffin sat flanked by two great displays of flowers. “Well, here we go.”

She took my hand unexpectedly as she walked toward the casket and so I walked with her thinking that it should have been my father’s hand she was holding. And I understood that something had been lost between them, something that had kept my mother anchored to us and now she was slipping away and I understood too that we hadn’t just lost Ariel, we were losing each other. We were losing everything.

I had been to visitations before and have been to many since and I’ve come to understand that there’s a good deal of value in the ritual accompanying death. It’s hard to say good-bye and almost impossible to accomplish this alone and ritual is the railing we hold to, all of us together, that keeps us upright and connected until the worst is past.