Five years ago, Jude and I (and that person whose name starts with a D and ends in an aniel) were helping Dad clean up the sanctuary when Don Mooney stumbled through the chapel doors for the first time. Dad greeted him nicely despite his dirty clothes and sour stench, but Don grabbed my father and pulled a tarnished knife to his throat, demanding money.
I was so scared I almost broke my cardinal “Grace does not cry” rule. But Dad never faltered—even when blood started to roll down his neck. He pointed up at the big stained-glass balcony windows that depicted Christ knocking on a wooden door. “Ask and ye shall receive,” he said, and promised to help Don get what he really needed: a job and a place to live.
It wasn’t long before Don became Dad’s most devoted parishioner. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten the way we met him. But I couldn’t.
Did that make me the only Divinovich in a family full of Divines?
EVENING
“I don’t know what to tell you, Grace.” Pete lowered the hood of my father’s decade-and-a-half-old, teal-green Toyota Corolla. “I think we’re stranded.”
I wasn’t at all surprised when the car didn’t start up again. Charity and I regularly lobbied for my parents to get rid of the Corolla and buy a new Highlander, but Dad always shook his head and said, “How would it look if we got a new car when this one runs fine?” Of course, Dad meant “runs” in a relative sort of way. As in, if you said a heartfelt prayer and promised the Lord to use the car to help the needy, it usually started on the third or fourth turn of the ignition. But this time I wasn’t sure if even divine intervention could get the car moving.
“I think I saw a gas station a couple of blocks back,” Pete said. “Maybe I should walk there and get some help.”
“That gas station is closed.” I breathed on my frozen hands. “It’s been abandoned for a while.”
Pete looked back and forth down the street. Nothing much was visible outside the veil of orange light cast from the streetlamp. The night’s sky was completely blotted out by clouds, and a frigid wind tousled Pete’s rusty hair. “Of all the nights to forget to charge my cell phone.”
“At least you have one,” I said. “My parents are seriously stuck in the twentieth century.”
Pete only half smiled. “Well, I guess I’ll go find a pay phone,” he grumbled.
Suddenly, I felt like all of this was my fault. Only a few minutes before, Pete and I had been joking about Brett Johnson’s hiccupping fit during the chem test. Pete looked at me when we laughed at the same time, and our eyes met in that cosmic sort of way. Then the car made this horrible clunking noise and lurched to a stop in an alley on our way to the shelter.
“I’ll come with you.” I flinched at the sound of shattering glass in the not-so-far distance. “It’ll be an adventure.”
“No. Someone needs to stay with this stuff.”
The Corolla was packed full of the boxes that didn’t fit in the truck. But I wasn’t sure I was the one who should stay behind to protect it. “I’ll go. You’ve done enough already.”
“No way, Grace. Pastor or not, your dad would kill me if I let you walk by yourself in this part of town.” Pete opened the car door and pushed me inside. “You’ll be safer—and warmer—in here.”
“But …”
“No.” Pete pointed to the squatty building across the street. I could hear a couple of guys shouting at each other from one of the broken windows. “I’ll just go knock on the door of one of those apartments.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Your best bet is the shelter. It’s a mile or so that way.” I pointed down the dark street. We were parked under the only working lamp on the block. “There are mostly apartments along the way, and a couple of bars. But stay away from those unless you want to get your teeth kicked in.”
Pete smirked. “You spend a lot of time on the mean streets?”
“Something like that.” I frowned. “Hurry … and be careful, okay?”
Pete leaned in through the doorway with one of his triple-threat grins. “This is some date, huh?” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.
My face prickled with heat. “So this is a date?”
Pete chuckled and rocked back on his heels. “Lock the car.” He shut the door and shoved his hands into the pockets of his letterman’s jacket.
I clicked the door lock and watched him kick an empty beer can as he walked away. I couldn’t see him once he left the light of the streetlamp. I scrunched down in my coat for warmth and sighed. It might be going badly, but at least I was on a date with Pete Bradshaw, sort of.
Sc-rape.
I shot straight up. Was that the shuffle of gravel on the pavement? Was Pete back already? I looked around. Nothing. I checked the passenger’s-side door. It was locked. I sat back and rested my hand on Pete’s hockey stick, which lay in between the front seats.
I had almost died when Don Mooney asked if he could ride along with Pete and me in the Corolla. I couldn’t tell if he was clueless or if he thought we needed a chaperone. Luckily, Jude had saved me by plunking down a box of women’s coats on the backseat of the car. “No room here,” he said, and convinced Don to squeeze into the truck with Dad and him. They pulled out first and Pete and I followed, but I had to drop off a bag from the pharmacy to Maryanne Duke on the way. Even though she looked tired, she invited us in for some rhubarb pie—she makes the best ever. But I knew she’d give Pete the third degree worse than my real grandmother, so I promised to stay longer the next time I came. Then, to make up time, when we got into the city, I took the shortcut down Markham Street, a decision I totally regretted at the moment.
Things had been quieter for the past few years, but this area of the city had once been infamous for strange happenings and disappearances. And then, on a monthly basis, dead bodies had started turning up like daisies. The police and the newspapers speculated about a serial killer—but others talked about a hairy beast that stalked the city by night. They called it the Markham Street Monster.
Nonsense, right?
Like I said, it had been years since something truly weird had happened around here, but I still found myself wondering if I’d be better off now if Don had come with us. Would I feel more or less uneasy if Don were alone in this alley with me?
More!
That thought was followed by an instant surge of guilt. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander, trying to stay calm. For some reason, I thought about the time I’d asked my father why he’d helped someone who’d hurt him.
“You know the meaning of your name, don’t you, Grace?”
“Yes. It means heavenly help, guidance, or mercy,” I’d said, repeating what my father had always told me.
“No one can make it in this life without grace. We all need help,” he’d said. “There’s a difference between people who do hurtful things because they’re evil and people who do bad things because of their circumstances. Some people are desperate because they don’t know how to ask for His grace.”
“But how do you know if someone is bad or if they just need help?”
“God is the ultimate judge of what is truly in our souls. But we are required to forgive everyone.”
My father left the conversation at that. To be honest, I was more confused than ever. What if the person who hurt you didn’t deserve to be forgiven? What if what they’d done was so terrible—?
Sc-rape. Sc-rape.
It was the shifting of gravel again. On both sides of the car now? I gripped the hockey stick. “Pete?” No response.
Rattle. Rattle.
The door handle?! Electricity shot up my spine and surged through my arms. My heart hammered in my chest, and my lungs ached with heavy breaths. I peered out the window. Why couldn’t I see anything? Rattle, rattle, rattle.
The car shook. I screamed. A high, piercing noise echoed outside the car. The windows moaned and shrieked like they were about to shatter. I smashed my hands over my ears and screamed louder. The noise died. Something clanked on the asphalt outside my door. My pulse
pounded in my ears—it sounded like running footsteps.
Silence.
Every nerve seared under my skin. I shifted and heard the rattling again. It was just my shaking knee against the dangling keys in the ignition. I let out a short laugh and closed my eyes. I waited, listening to the silence, for as long as I could hold my breath. I let it out in a long sigh and eased my grip on the hockey stick.
Tap, tap, tap.
My eyes popped open. My arm flew up. I whacked my head with the hockey stick.
A shadowed face stared at me through the fogged window.
“Pop the hood,” a muffled voice said. It wasn’t Pete.
“Get lost!” I shouted, trying to make my voice sound huskier.
“Do it,” he said. “It’ll be okay, Gracie. I promise.” I put my hand to my mouth. I knew that voice. I knew that face. Before I could stop myself, I said, “Okay,” and pulled the hood release.
His footsteps scraped against the frozen pavement as he walked around to the front of the car. I opened the door and saw a crowbar lying at my feet. My spine tingled as I stepped over it and followed Daniel. His head and shoulders disappeared under the hood, but I could see he wore the same ratty jeans and T-shirt from yesterday. Did he even own another set of clothes?
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Daniel twisted off the cap to something in the engine and pulled up an oily metal stick. “You dating that Bradshaw guy?” He screwed the cap back on.
He was being so matter-of-fact I wondered if I’d dreamed all that commotion. Could I have fallen asleep while waiting for Pete? But that crowbar wasn’t there before. “What just happened?” I asked. “Were you watching me?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You aren’t answering mine.” I took a step toward him. “Did you see what happened?” Did you stop what almost happened?
“Maybe.”
I ducked under the hood so I could see him better.
“Tell me.”
Daniel wiped his greasy hands on his pants. “Just some kids playing around.”
“With a crowbar?”
“Yeah, they’re all the rage these days.”
“And you expect me to just believe that?”
Daniel shrugged. “You can believe whatever want, but that’s all I saw.” Daniel fiddled with something else in the engine. “Your turn,” he said. “You going out with Bradshaw?”
“Maybe.”
“You picked a real prince,” he said sarcastically. “Pete’s a nice guy.”
Daniel snorted. “I’d watch out for that prick if I were you.”
“Shut up!” I grabbed one of his bare arms. His skin was like ice. “How dare you say things like that about my friends. How dare you come back here and try to weasel your way into my life! Stop following me around.” I yanked him away from my father’s car. “Get lost and leave me alone.”
Daniel chuckled. “Same old Gracie,” he said. “You’re just as bossy as ever. Always ordering people around. ‘Tell me.’ ‘Get lost.’ ‘Give it back.’ ‘Shut up.’ Does your daddy know you talk like that?” He wrenched his arm out of my grasp and turned back to the engine. “Just let me get you moving, and then you’ll never have to see my filthy face again.”
I stood back and watched his movements. Daniel had that way about him that could shut me down in an instant. I rubbed my hands together and jumped up and down to generate some heat. Most Minnesotans have thick blood, but how could Daniel even stand to be outside in only short sleeves? I kicked the gravel a couple of times and worked up my courage again. “Tell me … I mean … why did you come back? Why now, after all this time?”
Daniel looked up at me. His dark eyes searched my face. There was something different about those too-familiar eyes. Maybe it was the way the orange light from the streetlamp illuminated his pupils. Maybe it was the way he stared without blinking. His eyes made him look … hungry.
He dropped his gaze. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I folded my arms. “Wouldn’t I?”
Daniel turned to the engine, hesitated, and then looked back at me. “You ever been to the MoMA?” he asked.
“The Museum of Modern Art? No. I’ve never been to New York.”
“I ended up there a while back. You know they have cell phones, and iPods, and even vacuums in the MoMA? I mean, they’re everyday things, but at the same time they’re art.” His voice seemed softer and less raspy. “The way the lines curve and the pieces fit together. It’s functional art that you can hold in your hand, and it changes the way you live your life.”
“So?”
“So?” He came up real close to me. “Somebody designed those things. Somebody does that for a living.”
He stepped even closer, his face only inches from mine. My breath caught.
“That’s what I want to do,” he said.
The passion in his voice made my heart beat faster. But his hungry stare made me step farther away.
Daniel slumped back to the engine and yanked something loose. “Only that’s never going to happen now.” He leaned forward, and his black stone pendant dangled from his neck over the open engine block.
“Why?”
“You know the Trenton Art Institute?”
I nodded. Almost every senior in my AP art class was shooting for admission into Trenton. Usually only one student made it per year.
“They have the best industrial design department in the country. I took some of my paintings and designs there. This woman, Ms. French, looked them over. She said I have promise”—his voice skirted around the word like it was bitter to the taste—“but I need more training. She said if I get my diploma and graduate from a respectable art program, she’d give me another chance for admission.”
“That’s great, isn’t it?” I shuffled closer. How did he always do that—make me completely forget I was mad at him so easily?
“The problem is, Holy Trinity has one of the few art departments that Trenton even deems worthy as a prerequisite. That’s why I came back.” He glanced at me. It seemed like there was something else he wanted to say, something more to the story. He brushed the pendant that rested against his chest. It was a smooth black stone shaped like a flattened oval. “Only that Barlow guy kicked me out the first day.”
“What?” I knew Barlow was mad at Daniel, but I didn’t think he’d actually kick him out. “That’s so not fair.”
Daniel grinned in that mocking way of his. “That’s one of the things I always loved about you, Grace. You’ve got this overriding sense that everything in life should be fair.”
“I do not. That’s so not …” I cringed. “Justified.”
Daniel laughed and scratched behind his ear. “You remember that time we went to the MacArthurs’ farm to see their puppies, and one of the pups only had three legs and Rick MacArthur said they were going to put it down because nobody wanted it? And you said, ‘That’s so not fair!’ and took that puppy home without even asking.”
“Daisy,” I said. “I loved that dog.”
“I know. And she loved you so much she barked her head off whenever you left the house.”
“Yeah. One of the neighbors called the sheriff so many times my parents said I’d have to give her away if it happened again. I knew no one else would want her, so I kept her in my bedroom whenever we were gone.” I sniffed my running nose. “Then she got out of the house one day … and something killed her. Ripped her throat right out.” My own throat ached with the memory of it. “I had nightmares every night for a month.”
“It was my dad,” Daniel said quietly.
“What?”
“The one who called the police all those times.” Daniel wiped his nose with his shoulder. “He’d wake up in the middle of the day in one of his moods and …” He reached under the hood and jiggled something into place. “Start the car.”
I backed away and got in the driver’s seat. I said a small prayer and turned t
he key in the ignition. The engine chugged a couple of times and then made this sound like an asthmatic cough. I tried the key one more time and it started. I clapped my hands together and thanked the Lord.
Daniel dropped the hood. “You should get out of here.” He rubbed his hands on his arms, leaving black, greasy tracks on his skin. “Have a good life.” He kicked one of the tires and walked away.
As he slipped out of the light of the streetlamp, I jumped out of the car. “That’s it?” I shouted. “You’re just going to take off again?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I don’t, I mean, aren’t you coming back to school?”
He shrugged, his back to me. “What’s the point? Without that art class …” He took another step into the darkness.
“Daniel!” My frustration fired like a pottery kiln. I knew I should thank him for fixing the car—for coming along when he did. I knew I should at least say goodbye, but I couldn’t make the words come.
He turned and looked at me, his body almost lost in the shadows.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere? I could drop you at the shelter so you can get some clothes and something to eat, maybe.”
“I’m not the shelter type,” Daniel said. “Besides, I’m staying with some guys over there.” He thumbed in the direction of the squatty building across the street.
“Oh.” I looked at my hands. I’d actually thought he’d been following me, but he was probably just walking down the street when he saw me with Pete. “Wait there.” I went to the car and tore open one of the boxes in the backseat. I dug around and pulled out a red-and-black coat. I took it to Daniel and handed it to him.
He held it for a moment, fingering the embroidered North Face logo on the front. “I can’t take this,” he said, and tried to hand it back.
I waved it away. “It’s not charity. I mean, you used to be my brother.”
He flinched. “It’s too nice.”
“I’d give you another one, but the others in this car are women’s. Jude has the rest, so unless you want to come to the shelter?”
“No.”
Shouts echoed in the background. A pair of headlights appeared around a corner.