Without Grace: A Novel

By Carol Hoenig

"Searching, soulful Without Grace is a heartfelt exploration of that small town in all of us, our bittersweet Place of Angels."
-Arthur Kent, journalist, documentary filmmaker, and author of Warlord Reborn

"Like Scout Finch and Mattie Ross and Ellen Foster before her, Vicky Finley has grit and will and insight, a wry eye for the world around her, and a deeply engaging way of finding there a place of her own."
-Michael Malone, author of Handling Sin

After the death of her grandmother, Vicky Finley is left to create a place for herself in a houseful of men and becomes consumed by the notion of finding Grace, the mother who abandoned the family when Vicky was just a baby. Vicky's devoted and protective older brother Kevin does his best to look after her while fighting to keep their land and spare their farming community from a ruthless developer who threatens to forever change the world they know.

The Finleys learn firsthand how memories can betray us, how secrets of the past can burden the present, and how tragedy can test our resolve. And as Vicky ambitiously pursues her passion for cooking, honors a promise to her brother, and manages to bring a struggling community together, she discovers what really makes a family.

Without Grace is a heartening portrait of small-town life and a tender and triumphant coming-of-age tale about the complexities and comforts of family and the healing that comes with letting go of the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 21, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595814404

Carol Hoenig

Carol Hoenig was a national event specialist for one of America?s largest book chains for many years and is the author of the award-winning novel Without Grace. She is a writers' conference committee member, as well as a member of the advisory council for The New York Center for Independent Publishing. She is a full-time freelance writer and publishing consultant.

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Copyright © 2005, 2006, 2007 by Carol Hoenig

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-1-58348-036-6 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-81440-4 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 1-58348-036-6 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-81440-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgment

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

To Jason, Corrie and Natasha, all who know first hand what it’s like to live with a writer.

Acknowledgment

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If you encouraged my endeavors, if you support my passion, if you believed in my writing, then know that this heartfelt thank you is for you.

CHAPTER 1

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The first time I began to understand that the words gone and dead have different meanings I was about six years old. The year was 1961. It was a cold winter day in February, which wasn’t unusual for Churubusco, a speck of a town in Upstate New York. I was immersed in making hearts out of construction paper along with the rest of the kindergarten class when Mr. Baxter, the elementary school principal, summoned Mrs. Gadway into the hallway. Mrs. Gadway had taught us at the very beginning of the school year that principal ended with the word pal and that we should always think of Mr. Baxter as our pal. But by the serious way he motioned for her, he seemed more a threat. We all stopped our cutting, gluing, and glittering and watched wide eyed. I wondered what kind of trouble kindly Mrs. Gadway could possibly have gotten into to be taken out in the hallway.

Bet Brenda’s in trouble, Mike said. She’s using crayons to color her fingernails.

My gaze went to Brenda Hannigan, the skinny little girl with a mess of frizzy red hair. She dropped the crayon, pulled a tissue from her pocket, spat on it, and began working furiously to wipe off the red crayon from her fingernails. She’d finished only three fingers when the door opened; however, it was my name spoken.

May I see you out in the hallway? Mrs. Gadway said.

I looked at Brenda before standing, hoping Mrs. Gadway would see the colored fingernails and change her mind about calling me out.

Come on, Vicky.

My classmates watched in silence as I left the room. Mr. Baxter was nowhere in sight. In the hallway, Mrs. Gadway bent down to talk to me face to face. She brought me close to her. I could smell her breath and tried to back away, but she pulled me closer.

Your daddy called the school, honey. He’s coming to pick you and your brother up.

Can I finish my Valentine? It was a surprise for Kevin. I hadn’t yet drawn the birds on it; glitter would be their feathers.

I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you bring it home with you and you can finish it there? You see, your grandma is…is gone.

Where’d she go?

Before I even saw Kevin, I heard the thumping of his feet as he came running toward me. He was coming from the wing of the junior high school.

No running in the halls, young man. Mrs. Gadway stood to show her authority.

Don’t tell her! he yelled, wiping his drippy nose with the sleeve of his opened coat. She’s my sister. I’ll tell her. He reached me and pulled me next to him.

Where’d Grandma go? I said.

Glaring at Mrs. Gadway, he said, You told her?

This should be handled by an adult.

I’m her brother.

Do not raise your voice with me, Kevin Finley.

I watched the power struggle, knowing I had something to do with it.

Vicky, she said, why don’t you go get your things?

Yeah, Dad’s on his way, Kevin said. I’ll help you.

Amid whispers, I gathered my things, eyeing the bottle of glitter. Kevin collected my papers, scooping up the Valentine and putting it in my schoolbag. So much for surprises.

Got your lunchbox? he said, helping me slip on my boots, coat, hat and gloves.

I nodded.

You have to go to the main office to wait for your father, Mrs. Gadway said. She bent down again and took my face in her hands, gazing into my eyes. Honey, I’m so sorry. Okay?

Another nod, but I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing. When I shuffled by Brenda, I saw that she had repainted her fingernails fire-engine red.

Daddy said very little in the car as I sat alone in the back seat. Kevin asked how Grandpa was doing.

Shell shocked.

I didn’t know what that meant.

I called up to the front, Is she coming back?

No one answered, so I asked again. Kevin turned and looked at me. I see that his eyes are filled with tears. No, she’s not.

I suddenly had worries: Who was going to put out my clothes in the morning? Who was going to run a comb through my hair to search for knots? Who was going to tell me to brush my teeth?

These had become big concerns the night before I was to start the first day of school. Until then, I had selected my own pants and shirt for days filled with playing with paper dolls, watching cartoons, and swinging on the tire hanging from the maple tree in the front yard. As for the brushing of my hair and teeth, I accomplished both with little effort and no follow up from Grandma. Kindergarten was to change all that.

The night before I was to start school, Grandma came into my bedroom with a bag from Woolworths and took out a couple of dresses, one plain, the other frilly—three pairs of pants—all the same style but in different col-ors—and three matching polo shirts. Striped. I hated stripes. She then took out a package of white underpants and put them in my drawer, except for one pair, which she placed on the end of my bed along with the frilly dress.

Now, these are your school clothes, she said. I won’t have you looking like little Orphan Annie to give people more to talk about. Come on, let’s get you in the tub.

Kindergarten also meant cleanliness, I soon realized. Grandma scrubbed my neck and behind my ears, the skin on her arms wobbly, her sagging breasts grazing my face. I’m too old for this, she muttered.

Wincing, I said, I don’t wanna go to school.

Well, it’s not about what little girls want. Grandma rinsed the washcloth and handed it to me. Wash good down there. She pointed to the gap between my legs.

Long after she had sent me to bed, I tiptoed into Kevin’s room. He was propped on his elbow, an opened book lying next to him.

What’s wrong? he said.

I don’t wanna go to school.

Sure you do. You’ll have fun. We’ll be on the bus together.

I hate that dress.

He scrunched up his mouth. Grandma’s pretty much got her heart set on it.

Are you scared?

Nah, he said, but seventh grade’s gonna be a lot harder.

Just then, Grandma yelled from the bottom of the stairs, What’s that chattering I hear? Vicky, go to bed.

Kevin called back, She’s just worried, Grandma. I’m talking to her for a minute.

To no one in particular and loud enough to be heard, she said, If your mother was here then maybe she could deal with this nonsense. I go out and buy her daughter clothes—

Kevin got up and shut his door. He rolled his eyes and went back to his bed. He patted it and said, You can sleep in here tonight. He took one of his pillows then pulled a sleeping bag from under the bed and shook it out. I’ll sleep down here.

I crawled under the covers. The only other time Kevin had ever let me sleep in his bed was during a thunderstorm. Was school as scary as repeated streaks of lightning cutting through a blackened sky, followed by wall-shaking claps of thunder?

I hope my teacher’s nice, I mumbled. Kevin didn’t answer, and I looked over the side of the bed to see that he was deep into his book. I can’t wait to read.

He glanced up at me. Want me to read it out loud?

Not too loud, so Grandma won’t get mad.

He smiled and then began, and before I knew it, he was waking me up for school the following morning. Soon, Kevin and I were waiting in front of the house. The bus eventually turned the corner. I used to watch from the porch window as it pulled up to our farmhouse and took my brother away for the day, then wait endless hours until it brought him back. Now it was my turn to be carried into that same world.

The bus came to a squawking stop and gave a loud sigh, the doors opening. Kevin helped me up the steps and guided me to a seat. He sat beside me. I noticed there were other boys his age who shot him sidelong glances and snickered. He didn’t seem to notice. I also noticed a scattering of redheads in various sizes. I tugged on Kevin’s sleeve.

What’s wrong with their hair? I whispered, never having seen so much shocking red hair on a single head before. And now there were several in my midst alone.

They’re the Hannigans, he said. They live in that big farmhouse off Whalen Road.

I nodded, having little idea where Whalen Road was. Peering at me over the seat was the smallest of the Hannigans. We stared at each other without speaking, and later that morning I found we were in the same classroom.

My fears about Mrs. Gadway were put to rest immediately after I met her. She told me my dress was very pretty but that she would send a note home to my mother telling her I should come to school in play clothes.

I don’t have a mother, I said, causing a couple of the children to look at me as if I had said something in a different language.

Well, then, I’ll send the note to your father. You do have a father, don’t you?

I nodded.

School wasn’t so bad, and it had the biggest playground I’d ever seen. I was eager to climb the monkey bars, but when I did, swinging upside down, my dress went over my head, causing all the kids to tease me. Brenda started the commotion by singing, I see London, I see France, I see Vicky’s underpants.

Grandma read the note. It was the first thing I handed her from my schoolbag, even though Mrs. Gadway had told me to give it to my father. She breathed hard and tossed the note in the garbage. So, besides being told how to dress, what else did you learn today?

I stared at the crumpled letter resting on top of the garbage, wondering how I could get it without Grandma seeing me. I learned a new song.

Really? she said, pouring water in a pan then carrying it to the stove, indicating it was going to be macaroni-and-cheese night. Let’s hear it then.

Five little monkeys jumpin’ on the bed. One fell off and bumped his head. Mommy called the doctor and the doctor said, ‘No more monkeys jumpin’ on the bed.

I was about to go to four little monkeys, but Grandma stopped me. "Mommy calls the doctor, my eye. Where was Mommy when you needed your diaper changed? Where was Mommy when you needed your nose wiped? Where was Mommy when you’d wake up in the middle of the night cryin’ hysterical from a bad dream?" She pulled a box of elbow macaroni from the cabinet, going on about how her son should have never married that girl. You tell Mrs. Gadway your mommy is gone.

Like Kevin had done the night before, I shut her off by slipping away to the living room, where I turned on the television and watched Batman and Robin fight evil. Later, when she was drying me from my bath that night, she started singing the song, except she sang, "Grandma called the doctor."

Apparently, when my grandmother keeled over on that cold February day and the ambulance arrived, it was too late to call any doctor. By this time, I’d adjusted to kindergarten. Now I had to adjust being in a household down to four little monkeys.

Turns out Grandma wasn’t gone at all. There she was lying in that strange but comfortable-looking box. Kevin held my hand and walked me up to it, instructing me to kneel next to her. Kevin knows things about religion, so I followed his lead as he made the sign of the cross. Under my breath, I said, One, two, three, four then bowed my head. I pretended to pray but didn’t know what to say. Besides, I kept trying to see if her eyes were going to open. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching and saw Dad standing in a corner with a small gathering of people. He motioned for me to come to him, and I did. He lifted me, cradling me in his arms. We’ll be okay, he said, not once but several times. I looked around the room and spotted Grandpa sitting in the front row. I hardly recognized him in his suit.

Grandpa’s sad, I said.

Why don’t you go make him smile, Dad said, putting me back on my feet.

I went to Grandpa and rested my hand on his knee. He looked down at me and without any effort on my part, gave me a crinkly-faced smile.

There’s my angel, he said, taking off his glasses and wiping the lenses. He pulled me up onto his lap and I stayed there, resting against his sunken chest while groups of people came in, their voices hushed as they told us how sorry they were. Grandpa kept a tight grip on me while saying, Never got to tell her goodbye. My father remained standing in the corner, shaking hands and talking to each person who went to him. Kevin kept looking at the doorway every few minutes, as if he expected someone important to walk in.

Most people who came in I didn’t recognize, until the flock of redheads appeared. Brenda Hannigan was steered in my direction by her robust-looking mother, then prodded to speak.

Sorry your grandma died, Brenda said.

That’s okay, I said, noticing a hint of red in her cuticles.

We both began to giggle, though I wasn’t sure why. Mrs. Hannigan expressed her condolences to Grandpa then led Brenda away. Two of the Hannigan boys were scuffling their feet and fidgeting with their suits as they stood near Kevin, but his eyes kept darting toward the doorway.

At the cemetery, the priest said some prayers, tossed some water on the closed box, and then left us to say our goodbyes. Grandma was gone. Gone. This was how my mother’s disappearance had been explained to me. I began noticing the many gravestones surrounding us. Kevin said that Grandma would also have one soon.

See, he said, pointing to one nearby. It’s going to have her name on it, just like—he crouched down to get a better look. —like Ross Soucia.

I went next to him and reached out, touching the letters. What does this say?

He was born on July 6, 1908, and he died on November 19, 1952.

‘Oh, I said, reminded of the prayer all the old people had said during mass. Something about beginnings and ends. It got me to thinking, and I said, Where’s Mommy’s stone?"

It was a question that turned Grandpa and my father’s red, moist eyes in my direction. Kevin cleared his throat, stood, and walked back over to Grandma’s box.

What you talkin’ about? my father said.

Where’s Mommy’s stone? I stood tall, realizing it was probably the first time I had asked a question about the woman I couldn’t testify actually having existed. There was no memory of her for me.

We’re here for Grandma, my father said. She’s the one we’re mourning.

Instead of standing in the cold any longer, my father walked over to me and grabbed my hand to lead me out of the cemetery. We trudged through the few inches of snow toward the car, no one speaking.

I climbed into the back seat along with Kevin and scrambled up to my knees so I could gaze out the back window as we drove away. I began to think about this woman, wondering what she’d looked like. Then I began to miss her, to miss a woman I had never known, more than I missed my grandmother.

CHAPTER 2

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The relatives, most of whom I’d never seen before and would never see again, left to go back to the daily routine of their lives. The only thing they left behind was their stale smell or the overwhelming aroma of the cheap perfume they used to cover up their staleness. Grandma was still around, as far as I was concerned. I’d make sure not to run down the stairs in fear of her shouting at me to quiet down. I’d keep the volume on the television low so not to disturb her. It didn’t matter what she was doing; I always managed to disturb her. The freezer was filled with home-baked bread that I’d watched her knead. Her dirty handkerchiefs were still balled up and stuck between the cushions of the couch. Yes, Grandma was still very present.

It was my mother whom I needed to know about.

When he wasn’t too tired from working all day and seemed to be willing to talk to me, I’d ask my father about her, but all he’d say was that she was gone.

Did she die like grandma? I’d ask.

Vicky, he’d say, warning me with his tone, that’s enough. She’s gone, and you’ll be better off if you just forget about her.

I wanted to ask Grandpa, but he was having a hard time forgetting about Grandma. All he seemed to do anymore was shuffle a little slower while getting ready to go out to the barn, his cheerful whistling stifled. When he ate his supper, he would chew his food the same way a cow chewed its cud, leaving me to wonder if he was ever going to swallow. Kevin said that he was still sad Grandma was dead and that I should be sad, too.

I wasn’t sad, though, about Grandma. I didn’t have time, because my thoughts were always on the woman no one wanted to talk about. Even Kevin, who had always liked teaching me things, whispered that we weren’t allowed to talk about her, which made me all the more curious.

Maybe she was a witch, Brenda said, sitting across from me at lunch time, chomping on her peanut butter sandwich. I was attempting to eat a ham sandwich, the ham so thick I could barely sink my teeth into it. My father would make the sandwiches for all of us the night before, and I suppose the men found them easy to swallow, but I was forced to clamp down on the sandwich, the bread and meat too much for my small mouth and baby teeth, until I had to give up.

"Or maybe she had cancer. My grandma died of cancer," Brenda said.

I smashed the sandwich in my napkin, leaving it on my tray. Maybe, I said, resting my chin in my cupped hands. Everybody I knew had a mother. Except me.

Mrs. Gadway had told us that it was the first day of spring. We made pictures of flowers and trees replenished with vibrant green leaves. The school bus was filled with chatter, which Brenda and I added to by singing I’ve Been Working on the Railroad until the bus came to a stop. I watched the entire lot of redheads climb down the steps, greeted by Mrs. Hannigan. She ruffled Brenda’s brother’s hair as they all made their way up the long driveway toward the farmhouse. The bus door closed and we roared away. Kevin had to stay after school for an FFA meeting—whatever that was—so I was left alone with my thoughts.

The bus was still abuzz with chatter, but I gazed out the window as we rolled along. Each day I waited and watched until we came up to where the cemetery was. The bus would stop at the corner and let some kids off, giving me time to try to see the gravestones, time to will my mother’s spirit to show itself somehow. So, when the bus approached the cemetery, and having no brother to stop me, I simply followed the kids down the steps. I didn’t look back at the driver, hoping he wouldn’t spy me. The kids crossed to the other side of the road and I ran away from the direction the bus was heading as it rumbled away. I stood there for a moment, swallowing hard, and then raced into the midst of the gravestones, not knowing at all what I was looking for.

I dragged my schoolbag along the damp ground and passed the headstones one by one. Each day, when we passed the cemetery, I would ask Kevin if Grandma’s stone was there yet, and each day he would say it wasn’t. But then I began to remember what other kids on the bus would say about ghosts coming up out of the ground at night, and I stood frozen. Everything had an eerie stillness to it. I began to feel more alone than I could recall. Just then, I wanted my mother more than I ever had before. I would have even settled for my cranky grandmother.

I began to cry. Then I slumped down onto the ground, immediately feeling the dampness seep in through my corduroy pants, and cried some more.

When I opened my eyes, the sun had disappeared. The statues and stones loomed large all around me. Out on the road, two cars and a truck thundered by. I stood there shivering uncontrollably. I wanted to be home, but knew I wasn’t allowed to go near the road. Headlights came from where I should have been going all those hours ago, and more headlights came from where I’d been. The cars slowed then came to a stop. I heard voices shouting back to each other.

A pink jacket and red lunchbox, yelled one of the voices.

My lunchbox was red and tucked safely in my schoolbag. I huddled in my pink jacket.

Damn bus driver says he has no idea where she got off!

Just then, I saw flashing lights approach and realized it was a policeman. He pulled up behind the car, stopping directly in front of the cemetery. He got out of his car, the lights still flashing. He walked over and stood between the two stopped cars. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I realized that I might be in trouble and would go to jail. I began to bawl.

An hour or so later, I was in my IbegantothinkthatmaybeMrs. flannel pajamas and eating chicken-noodle soup while my father held me on his lap, rocking me back and forth, swiping tears from his eyes. My escapade had not only gotten me some harsh words, but, more importantly, it had gotten me information I could hardly believe: my mother wasn’t gone the same way Grandma was. She wasn’t in a box, buried deep in the ground, but was out in the world somewhere. Just where, no one knew for sure, but she was breathing and walking.

My father told me all this because he wanted me to finally stop my foolishness. He figured my curiosity would at last be satisfied. However, I now understood why Kevin kept staring at that doorway in the funeral home: He was waiting for her return, something I would learn to do.

CHAPTER 3

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Her name was Grace Finley. Is Grace Finley. Kevin told me on the night that I caused mayhem, having let me sleep in his bed again without the excuse of school jitters or threatening thunderstorms.

Grace Finley, I whispered. That’s a pretty name. I leaned over the side of Kevin’s bed and looked down at him.

She was pretty. Beautiful. Kevin was tucked in his sleeping bag, lying on his back, his arms akimbo under his head. There was a faraway look in his eyes. She made Dad cry.

She did? I’d only seen my father cry real tears once, which had been on the night when the policeman brought me back home. He’d snatched me out of the officer’s arms and hugged me so tight that I thought my breath was being stolen. Grandma always boasted that her son had been a state champion wrestler in high school, and I could still feel the strength in his arms.

Yup. When she left.

It was the last memory Kevin had of our mother. It was one filled with silence. He didn’t recall any fights between Mom and Dad; there was no screaming, no tossing of dishes or hand against flesh. She had brushed her lips against Kevin’s forehead, one hand gripping a suitcase, the other her guitar case. Dad was in the garage tinkering with some old jalopy, a part-time hobby then that now filled his empty hours.

Kevin’s voice cracked as he went on, "I begged her to stay, yelled at Dad to make