Joy Williams - State of Grace

GALLOPING HORSELESS TOWARD HER LIFE, which is up past the hill, in the parsonage, in the winding halls, in the rooms gone to storage, in this silence, this requirement, this breeding place of dreams …

They hear the child’s voice.

“I thank you for dropping by, but I’m afraid if you stay much longer, you’ll all be sure to come down with my cold.”

“Yes, we must be going,” someone said. “It’s almost lunch-time. What do you have for lunch, dear?” They found it so tedious speaking with a child.

“Daddy and I often don’t have lunch,” the child said. “We try to use that time more constructively. We speak of things and such.”

Everyone straggled back into the kitchen. They didn’t consider that they had actually left it. What right would they have to do so? What reason would they have given? And yet they were tired and troubled as though they had returned from a long and fruitless journey.

“Well now,” Mrs. Morgan began, coughing slightly, unnecessarily. Her words had been chosen and approved by the group. It was disappointing to her that it was merely the child she must address, but it seemed apparent that the Reverend was not home. And yet, had he not been present in one of the rooms they passed by? Had he not simply ignored them, making no attempt to restrain them? Had he not been there, oblivious to their petty acts of trespass?

And was not this child, trapped in her awkward childhood, feeding in his cold gaze even at the moment?

“I’m sure we would all like your father to be present for this,” Mrs. Morgan began. The child was doing an odd and formal dance, touching her heel with her toe. She was not paying attention. And the men were in the hallway, eager to be off, their stomachs growling.

Mrs. Morgan said, “It’s for both of you, of course, but we would like your father to be here for the moment of its unveiling.”

“But he’s not here now,” the child said sensibly. “He’s resting and thinking. I can understand that perfectly, can’t you? I understand everything he thinks. Later today, the two of us will open this together. I wouldn’t care to see it by myself. Father and I will look at it together, at the same time. I know that would be best. I hope this isn’t valuable. I mean, I hope you didn’t spend a lot of money on this. True value lies in self-knowledge. All else is rust and rot. You must excuse me now. When you leave, please don’t slam the door because then it won’t catch. I have a fever. When you have a fever you should get ten or twelve hours of sleep a day. I haven’t begun any of them yet.”

She pirouetted around the corner. Mrs. Morgan pursued her appointed course doggedly. “You’re a little young now, dear, but we’re sure as you grow older, you’ll see the pricelessness of this portrait. And we were so happy to be able to do it. Though the price was considerable, for we dealt with no sign painter, we dealt with a real artist, an artistic, creative person. And how could the price be too great in this case? For in its way, this will live right along with you. We’re sure you will dwell on this portrait often. And may your hearts be glad! Do not sorrow any more!”

And here she dropped her voice for there had been disagreement among the congregation whether this should be said. “Who knows the joys of heaven? I wouldn’t dream of saying anything out of place, but who knows the arrangements the Lord has made for our everlasting peace? For Time is only here on this sad earth, isn’t it? Another example of man’s ignorance? For in God’s Love there is no Time! There is no East or West!” The lilt of the hymn caught her up. Once her future had been bright, so bright. Beside her photograph in the high-school yearbook so long ago they had said a girl with her eye on the stars who will go jar . And what had happened? Where had she made her errors? “For in heaven,” and she smiled bravely, her voice rose again, “beyond the limitations of our poor lives, will not all promises be kept, will not all our dreams become real? And will we not all sit at the Lord’s table and rejoice, with all our lost loved ones restored to us, with the moments that were and the moments that could have been at last One, Triumphant and Complete!”

She stopped. Mrs. Morgan felt that she had never been so eloquent in her life. She had tapped a new and wealthy source within herself. She moved her hand up to her breast and the fluttering of her heart. He eyes descended onto her husband. There he was, quite fat; Mr. Morgan, with a look of wonder on his dumb and dumpy face.

The child danced around the corner again. The robe had slipped down over one shoulder, exposing her thin flat chest. “I hate to say it,” she muttered sadly, “but I think I know just what you’ve got in there.” She tipped her head far to the left and then far to the right as though she were shaking water from her ears. She left them all again, and this time did not return.

Those present agreed that they should unwrap it. They carried it into the room that seemed most lived in and hung it on the wall, on a conveniently placed nail.

“It certainly does become the focal point of the room,” said the wife of the man who sharpened blades, as the painting was going up.

High above them, in the sunroom, the child was dancing with her father. They moved with measured slowness across the wide pine boards of the long room. They danced to Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor as played by Albert Schweitzer. The music is inventive and bold. It is known that Bach composed most of his religious music as he played it in the little and large churches of his youth. The music was created as it went along. As is the dance in this cold and endless room. As are the dancers.

THE PAINTING was, as is to be expected, of a family grouping. It is done in oranges and yellows, shrimp and sun colors. Most of it was copied from an old photograph, taken a year and a half ago, in the garden. The garden, at the time, was quite spoiled and brown. It was not the season for a garden. The mother and the girls, Kate and her sister, are seated on a little wrought-iron bench. The bench is too small for them all. The child, Kate, is turned sideways and it appears that she is giving more room to the others. The Reverend stands behind them, wearing a white coat which is also out of season. Somewhere, beyond the picture, there must be a stiff wind blowing, for the mother is holding her skirt down across her knees and laughing while the sister seems to have just returned from a motion of brushing back her hair. Kate is wearing a pullover sweater and shorts. She is not smiling, for she has lost her front tooth. She fears that she will never get another one. There is a great deal of foreground. The sky is not even visible.

The man who took the picture was the sexton. He had not taken many pictures but he had recently bought a camera at a pawn shop and he was trying it out on everyone. He also bought a lie detector and four metal ornaments that had once been fitted to a Japanese sword hilt. His wife said he’d gone soft as a sneaker. The sexton thought the lie detector would be a nice way to pass an evening with people if his wife ever had anyone over for coffee and cake. His wife was not a hostess. The lie detector went its way. Little Kate wanted it, but it passed into other hands.

So the sexton took the picture and in time it was developed and printed. And it was this picture that was brought to the lady painter on the mainland with the artistic personality. She could not be reached on the phone or in person. She had to be dealt with by correspondence.

The painting was large. The likenesses were not excellent but they were good enough. That is, no one would mistake those who were being represented for others, who were not being represented at all. License was taken with the land. It is covered with flowers. A dress has been put on Kate and she has been turned around to face the others. Everyone’s hand seems vaguely on top of everyone else’s hand, as though there was a mallet between them and they were determining who should be first at croquet. And before them all, his own little hands resting on his mother’s knee, is a standing infant. His back is to the viewer. He wears a charming, common smock and his head is covered with tight blond curls. His head is tipped slightly toward his mother’s lap. And everyone’s head seems slightly tipped toward him. The expressions on the faces of the mother and her oldest daughter are marked by a tight-lipped calm, as would befit those, we might suppose, who have passed on. Entwined in the lower windings of the iron bench is an empty nest.