Ширли Мерфи - The Grass Tower

But in a moment she was back in the drab little room, smelling the stench from the alley. A woman was standing before her, an old black lady. She was very slight, not much taller than Bethany. Her faded cotton dress came nearly to her ankles and she was barefoot; her feet, all the bones of her body, seemed unusually delicate and beautiful; her skin was drawn and wrinkled, her kinky gray hair cut short like a little cap, and her face was long and thin and the bones of it were lovely; her eyes were as black as Bethany’s own, and angry. “You have been at it again, you tease those boys and one day they will catch you and—”

“Not me! Never me!” Bethany shouted, and laughed scornfully at the old woman so a look of hurt came into the woman’s dark eyes and Bethany was sorry. But still underneath she felt glee.

“Look at your dress,” the old woman said quietly. “I must wash and mend it.”

Bethany looked down at the red dress, the one with the piping around the hem, the one she had dreamed, and saw that it was torn. When she looked up, the woman’s dark eyes were staring into hers with love and exasperation, and her words had turned to another language—then she faded. Bethany could see the garden through her. Then it faded, too. Nothing went quickly, there was just the soft fading; for a second in time there was black emptiness.

Then she was on the grass tower, wearing her Levi’s. She ran her hands down their roughness, clutched a handful of grass desperately as if it would hold her there, then stood for a long time staring blindly into the wind and seeing that other world.

Other world—but what other world? For days after that she puzzled about it, worried at it, knowing she ought to try not to think about it, but incapable of that. She was unable even to talk to Reid about it without getting shaky. Marylou said she looked pale; Colin asked her a hundred times what the matter was. Then, the day she forgot half the groceries she was supposed to buy, Aunt Bett said with tense irritation, “Child, if you don’t stop this daydreaming, I’m going to call Dr. Loren. You’re acting as witless as a sick dog.”

Dr. Loren! Bethany gave the grocery sack a shove and turned away in disgust. Still, Aunt Bett had reason enough to be angry; she had been cross and forgetful and done everything wrong, not answering when she was spoken to and letting her homework go completely. She was addlebrained enough to make a saint cross, she guessed, let alone Aunt Bett. But she couldn’t seem to help it, the visions and the dreams would come; it was no wonder she’d forgotten the bread and soup and mustard. Aunt Bett should be glad she’d gotten anything at all. What would Aunt Bett think if she knew? Bethany looked at Aunt Bett, stricken, wanting to tell her, but knowing she never could. Aunt Bett, seeing her confusion, put her arms around her, and Bethany found herself shaking with sudden, uncontrollable sobs. “Child, child, whatever is it? What ever is the matter?”

“Nothing, Aunt Bett, it’s nothing. Maybe I’m getting a cold.”

She couldn’t tell Aunt Bett; there was no one she could tell but Reid. And now even the comfort of the grass tower had been taken from her, for if she climbed it again, she was convinced she would be plunged into that other world.

“I’ve never seen you like this, Bethany. I don’t think working at the stables is wise if it’s going to make you so tired and irritable.”

“It’s not the stables! I like the stable.” She pulled away from Aunt Bett and dashed into the bedroom, slamming the door in frustration.

Marylou looked up at her smugly. “You’re all nerves and temperament. Adolescence must be terrible.”

“You ought to know, you’ve been afflicted with it ever since I can remember!” She hated Marylou; she hated everyone. She flung herself down on her bed and hid her face in the pillow. Even Reid refused to understand sometimes. Well, but how could he understand, it wasn’t happening to him! Why did she find his steady attitude so comforting sometimes, and so frustrating and impossible at other times? Maybe if Selma would leave her alone, if people wouldn’t badger her—

Selma had been at her, had met her twice after school so adroitly that Bethany could not duck into a shop. “But why?” Bethany had asked both times. “Why do you want me?”

“Because I want to know. Because there’s something there, something marvelous, and you made it come. I can’t, I’ve tried.”

“You don’t believe all that,” Bethany said as airily as she could.

But Selma only stared at her. “Would you do it for money?”

“No, Aunt Selma.”

“What, then?”

“I won’t; I told you I won’t!”

“But you must. It’s so important, the whole Book of the Zagdesha—”

“No, Aunt Selma. I don’t believe in the Zagdesha!” Bethany had pushed past her and run.

“But she’s right, you know,” Colin had said. “If there’s something to know, and you’re the only one who can bring it, then you—”

“I won’t!” Bethany had turned on him so furiously that he had stared back at her in surprise.

She heard Marylou go out, and turned over on the bed to find a Kleenex; but Marylou came back before she could hide her face again. She stood in the doorway, staring. “Ma says you don’t have to help with dinner,” she said crossly. “You left your books all over the table.” She banged them down on the dresser. “I don’t see—” She gave an exasperated sigh and turned on her heel, then flung over her shoulder, “You’re just getting spoiled, and you think you can get away with it and leave everything for me to do!”

It was too much. Bethany grabbed her sweater, pushed past Marylou, and fled out the back door.

“Bethany, you come back in this house, you—” Aunt Bett called.

“No!” she shouted back, muffled and seething. She ran toward the shore almost falling over a tricycle left in the sand, to collapse at last among the dunes where she could see neither village nor ocean, only the endless sand, and twilight, and the first stars coming out. No one understood, no one, all they did was criticize. And, she was losing touch with what to believe. Was there a real power of evil, the way Aunt Bett said? Was that what she had touched? She felt that there was, and yet she could not put it all to that; there was something else, something she felt that was different from the bleak touch of evil—almost a kind of longing, a feeling that tormented and confused her more and more.

What do I believe? she thought. She wanted to go to the grass tower. Do I believe in God? If I did, could I pray to Him about this? But if there is a God, Aunt Bett’s kind of God, then why would He make this happen? She didn’t know the answers.

When she returned very late, Aunt Bett sat down at the table and cut some pie for her. She looked upset, very upset. But calm on top of it, holding herself tight and calm. She didn’t waste any time, but got right to what she wanted to say, which surprised Bethany a little. “Child, Colin says I’ve been pretty hard on you. He says if you have a problem, my nagging doesn’t help, and I suppose he’s right. I suppose I have been unfeeling. He says that I have.” Bethany stared at her. This was not at all like Aunt Bett. “Is it Selma’s church that’s bothering you; has Selma been at you to go back?”

“No, Aunt Bett!” She lied, alarmed. What had Colin said? “No,” she said again, “Selma hasn’t bothered me. I’ll be all right, I guess it’s my period coming. I’m sorry I’ve been so cross.” She saw at once that Aunt Bett did not believe her—and she knew suddenly that Aunt Bett wasn’t sure how far she could push Bethany without— Without what? That part wasn’t clear. She studied Aunt Bett, but could get no more than that; she saw only a square, motherly woman who was trying her best to help, but was too uncertain, too afraid of harming Bethany. But why? Aunt Bett wanted to tell her something more, she felt certain of it. She tried to reach her thoughts, willed it as hard as she could; it was so close, something that might help her understand. But she could not.