Natashia Deon - Grace

And this morning, he took care of me.

I had lost my voice in the night and had gone to bed speechless. I don’t know if it was my talking too much that done it, or being out in the cold, or the coughing, but I lost it and Albert wanted to heal me.

I pretended to be ’sleep while I watched him tiptoe around our new living area. His back was against the stone wall he just built floor to ceiling to separate our new space from his shop. Ours is ten feet by ten feet, the ceiling is eight feet high to match his shop. “Mostly fireproof,” he said, except for the doorway in the wall that leads to his work.

We both sleep on the same side of the door even though we ain’t married. I sleep on my bed mat on the floor, and Albert sleeps across the room in a padded chair next to the oven. We eat and sleep on this side now.

And this morning, I was watching him go across the floor on the balls of his quiet feet. He started bothering his “secret” stash of liquor behind the box where he keeps his spare tools. This hiding place wasn’t his best kept secret since all the bottle necks of his liquor stick up and over the box — a line of sight from my pillow — so I cain’t say (and be honest) that I’ve never took my liberties with ’em. That’s why when he woke me up this morning and only gave me a stingy swallow of his expensive Talisker whisky, I had to gag on it a little to pretend it was new to me.

“It’s strong, isn’t it?” he said. “Burns. But it’s the best around. Tastes a little woodsy?”

“A bonfire in a glass,” I said.

“And I already know I’m gon’ regret giving you a taste.”

“’Cause now I know where you hide your costly whiskey?”

“Naw, ’cause now I gotta hear you talk.”

I LIKE THE way we think of each other — sister and brother. Adopted, maybe. It’s like I can read his mind and know what he wants to eat or drink before he’s hungry or thirsty. And he thinks of things I need before I even want ’em. Like the bag of candy he brought back from town this morning. He came in the door popping a piece of it in his mouth. The smell was clean lemon. He didn’t even ask if I wanted some ’cause that’s the difference between us — I give it freely and he wants me to ask. Teases me. “Sure is good,” he said.

I wasn’t gon’ ask.

I tried not to pay him no mind. Instead, I focused on greasing my feet. Took the grease jar from under the bench and twisted it open. I scooped two fingers in it like a spoon, pulled back a clear wad, smooth as jelly, then warmed it by rubbing my hands together. That’s when he got louder with his sweets, clicking that rock candy against his teeth, slurping sugar slobber.

I laughed, “Let me rub some of this grease on your face. It’ll loosen your scars.”

“Can’t you see I’m working my mouth to enjoy this tasty treat?”

“Suit yourself,” I said and widened my legs so that my big belly could fit between ’em. I swiped the grease on my right foot, then my left, took a deep breath and collapsed back on the bench, exhausted ’cause bending over winds me now.

“Why your feet need greasing again anyway?” Albert said. “You just greased ’em this morning.”

I laid back, took some deep breaths. It’s like I grew in a half second. “Albert,” I said. “Come and rub some grease on my feet.”

“I ain’t touching your feet.”

“I wiped your ass.”

“Thank you,” he laughed.

“You said it yourself, I’m eight months pregnant. I cain’t do everything I used to. You could help me.”

“Fine. But let this be the first and only time.”

He came over and got down on one knee, lifted my foot to his thigh. He dug a finger in the grease pot and hesitated to touch my foot, said, “I don’t think I can do this.”

I wiggled my toes and smiled.

He closed his eyes and touched the grease to my foot, gentler than I woulda thought. He cupped my whole foot in his palms and rubbed his thumbs along the ridge.

“There,” he said and dropped my foot. “Give me the other one.”

“Thas all you gon’ do?” I said.

“Fine,” he said and lifted my half-greasy foot to his thigh again.

He buried two fingers in the jelly, rubbed it around both hands, slid ’em over my foot, then underneath it, kneading his knuckles firm but gentle into the flat of it. He twisted a hand around my heel turning it like a knob and moved up to the ball of my foot, then through my toes. They separate easily for him.

He ran two fingers up each toe, one at a time, a soft pinch over the bulgy tip, then back down again.

I didn’t want him to stop.

But he grabbed my other foot.

He took his time with it. More time. Like he was discovering every crease. Gave me the chills.

He put my foot down softly and said, “Where’d you get this grease from?”

My voice quivered, “Bernadette said it’ll make my feet look young and smooth.”

“Don’t make no sense. .” he said.

I stuck out my leg to see my feet, told him, “Ain’t everybody gotta walk around ugly as you.”

He cleared his throat, got up from the floor, and sat up on the bench.

He wouldn’t look at me.

I put my hands on his forearm and shook him. “Albert? Don’t be like that.”

He kept his head down.

“I don’t think you’re ugly, Albert. Albert?”

For the first time since the accident, tears dripped from his eyes. Just one at first.

“Albert, I’m sorry. You ain’t. .”

“I know what I look like, Naomi. We’ve come too far to start lying to each other.”

That’s when I kissed his face. And kissed him there on the side of his lip, scabs and all — so rough on my lips. He stopped talking for my kisses and sat up straight.

“Not ugly, at all,” I said.

And I kissed him again. Kissed his bottom lip that time. Gently. Felt it soft and unburnt, let him feel me soft, too. My lips were wet and I held myself there. I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

SOMETIMES, WHEN nothin happens between friends, it changes everything. Like them Charleston earthquakes Cynthia describe. She say the happening is over before you realize something went wrong. Just a tremor along the porch at first. Like somebody was walking up the stairs — the beams sway, the wood creaks, and by the time you bother to look and see who’s coming, nobody’s there, the quake is already over, and the damage is done. But it also leaves you uneasy, knowing you was part of something big and missed it at the same time. It’s what happened between me and Albert when I kissed him.

I’m guilty.

I started the quake that changed our normal — my kissing him and the way I let myself feel when he rubbed my feet. Those innocent things damaging us.

He’s different now.

More different than what the fire did to him.

So I been avoiding him. Hard to do in this place so small. Three days and I already miss our card game. We cain’t play no more. The way he looks at me makes me shy. I lose my words in his glances. I just want to get out of his way.

I hardly took a breath until a few hours ago when he went to town for Cynthia.

He’ll be back soon and we’ll start our strange dance over again — he’ll step forward, while I’ll step back. He’ll go right and I’ll go left. Yesterday, he bumped into me in the space between our sleeping quarters and his shop. Started us both rambling off apologies. For a second I thought he wanted to say something more but before he could, I took off into the shop. I thought, maybe I could clean something in there.

In this shop is where I spent last night sleeping and didn’t get up this morning ’til I heard him go out the side door next to me.

THE SIDE DOOR jerks open.