Old Miss Gracing by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 12
Now that he knew he was welcome, Zeke decided that after school he would pay another visit to Miss Gracing. He didn’t have any particular problem to ask her about, but he had a gnawing feeling of some kind of concern for her, after seeing her walking in the junkyard by the river. She answered his knock immediately.
He said; “What were you doing in the junkyard?”
Surprised, she said: “I go there to be alone,” taking a seat and offering him one.
“But, you’re alone here,” he said.
“No, I’m not. Look at Simon,” who was sitting in her lap after eating. “It’s different to be alone outside. Everything is new and you never know what might happen. Happiness could be waiting for you right around the next bend.”
“Or rats. Have you ever seen anything there?”
“Sure, but I’ve never seen any people or animals, if that’s what you mean. The junk that’s there must be dumped in the middle of the night.”
“I think I’m going to go there sometimes.”
“Be careful. There are a lot of things with jagged metal edges. And maybe rats adept at hiding.”
A few days later it was too cold to practice baseball, so Zeke took an early evening walk to the river. During the ten minute sojourn he passed through the busy street where he lived, full of apartments, businesses and all types of people going about or looking for something to fill the evening soon to come.
When he turned the corner he saw a string of two-family houses with a few people in front trimming bushes. Some were idling away the evening, beer in hand, probably laughing about the absurdities they had recently encountered. Crossing the busy street he passed through a development of brick ranch style houses. The narrow alleys through which he meandered afforded a close up look at the immaculately maintained beauties. Everyone must have been inside having dinner. Crossing another somewhat busy street, he entered the playground part of the park, sparsely occupied by teenagers sitting on top of concrete and wood park benches, or generally milling about with one always apparently having something important to tell the group nearby.
He went down a gradual hundred foot drop off and through the middle of the four baseball fields seeing no one. After reaching the river, he soon found the refrigerator graveyard.
He got the feeling that this could be his private spot, as who in their right mind would want to be seen there. After navigating all types of debris he saw someone familiar he considered to be very much in her right mind. Like him, Miss
Gracing had an attraction to this place, but in her case, it was obvious that she didn’t want company. Dragging out the words, she said; “Hi, Zeke,” but obviously really didn’t mean it, irked with the intrusion.
“Hi, Miss Gracing.”
“Want to walk with me a while?” She pointed at some spot up river from them and continued; “We can diverge up there.”
“Sure.”
“Have you been listening to Mrs. Pavlick?”
He laughed; “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have been listening more, but when she’s really uninteresting, I don’t.”
“Zeke!”
“Oh, she doesn’t catch me anymore. I quit staring at the ceiling or out the windows. My eyes are on the book in front of her pockmarked face but my mind is elsewhere.”
She laughed and said; “Where is it?”
“Lots of places. Sometimes nowhere. Sometimes on you.”
“On me? I’m flattered. Why?”
“I wish you were there teaching. Everyone else tells me what I should be thinking and I resist it. You ask questions and when I hear my own answers, I know what I should be thinking.”
“Stubborn little brat, aren’t you?”
“I think everyone is. I just admit it.”
“You sound a lot older than you are.”
“You sound a lot younger than you are. Who were your teachers?”
“I’ve had many. I haven’t thought about them recently. My mind’s been on other things.”
Zeke said; “Like what?”
“Persistent little boys, for one thing.” She pointed at what must have been an invisible path going uphill and said;
“I’m going this way, BY MYSELF, all right?”
Though he would have loved to continue the conversation, he dejectedly said; “All right.”
She silently continued to walk through the hidden path. He watched her back for a few seconds, before turning around. This time he walked right at the river’s edge, noting the black oil stains on the rocks where the river had once been and the red sky at the horizon as the sun neared going out of sight, casting long black shadows over the already dark and murky, ominous water.
He heard a loud bang, turned in Miss Gracing’s direction and saw the luminous shine of the scissors in her hand as a cat screamed and bolted from a door-less refrigerator. He was
impressed that she was prepared for danger, but hoped she would never consider him one.
When she got home Miss Gracing took out her copy of the August 1923 “Boston” magazine and sat at the kitchen table.
She turned to a small article in the back of it titled
“Wild Women Won’t Willfully Wilt.” The succeeding three paragraphs chronicled that there was so much anger at the judge’s light sentencing of the killer wife, Bonadea Marshall, in Corpusbury, that the judge was compelled to make a limited release of photos taken of the murderess the night of her arrest. Apparently, the local head of the Daughters of the American Revolution saw them and her group staged an angry protest at the courthouse, demanding freedom for the widow.
Local cops had difficulty getting the twenty women to disburse, even after contacting their husbands, who attempted to assist.
The townspeople were generally not happy with the group’s tolerance of a killer, though amused that the participants were of Corpusbury’s elite.
It was not yet known that two years later the same group would hold a celebration at the courthouse, when it was learned that “Bonnie” had escaped the mental institution, though this would not appear in any newspaper or magazine.
She remained sitting on the kitchen table chair, moving it to a position accommodating a window view of the increasing
darkness. She could see her own reflection and got fascinated by it. In the minimal illumination she could see the twenty-two year old girl she once was. As the sky darkened the picture became more clear. That twenty-two year old girl was being transported in handcuffs. She was tired and afraid. She saw the armed guard at the entrance gate to the treeless area. A slight improvement to her outlook took place at the main entry door to the five story gray stuccoed building, as when her captors entered by key no greeter was waiting there. They walked twenty feet into the structure before encountering a large desk currently being manned by a forty year old black man, who started looking through his stacks of papers when he saw the intrusion.
“New one for ya,” called out Captor #1.
The deskman replied; “All set for ya. I just have to collect a few papers...”
Captor #1 pulled out a few of his own and dropped them on the desk.
The deskman said; “What did this one do?”
In filling out his papers he answered his own question, raising his voice to say; “Oh, this is Bonadea, the murderess.”
He seemed impressed.
She was exchanged and led down a hall by two armed attendants, getting her first view of the occupants of the iron-
barred cages. A few made loud and rude announcements to her that she couldn’t decipher. She only remembered them for the contorted agony in their faces and their screaming attempts at body sarcasm.
Her journey ended at an eight by eight cell with a toilet and sink in one corner and a wooden bench bolted to the wall.
Her new captors removed her handcuffs, pushing her in, one
“accidentally” grabbing her by the breast. Her dead eyes stared at him. He let go and turned to his partner. Both appeared bewildered.
She sat on the bench and got her first view of what would be her primary window. Right across from her was a fifty year old white guy with a full view of her cage from his. He leered at her, tested to see if he could make his tongue reach his chin and laughingly said; “My friend down the hall is sweet on you.”
Much of the stay was blocked from her memory, so today she was only able to visualize her best two days at the institution.
She was a model inmate, not giving the lazy guards any reason to exert themselves for two years. They started to pay no attention to her in the lunchroom, recreation room or library.
They paid some attention when she was at the shower facility.
Bonnie had noticed that the guards often took cigarette breaks and left the front door unlocked to more easily facilitate their exits. She knew that if she made it through the door there was
still another five hundred foot dash to the road, an iron gate to climb and possibly an armed guard, who also liked to take breaks with his buddies. She considered making her exit when she and others were outside, but that was always in the company of two other armed guards. She knew it was quite a risk, as an unsuccessful attempt would result in a bullet or two in her back. She decided to think things over in her miserable cell one more night. After listening to the banshees, hearing more obscenities, being gawked at by the man speaking for his friend down the hall and just happening to be in the company of patrolling guards whenever she had to use the toilet, she decided there was only one choice available to her.
The next day, during the usual socializing period when the good prisoners were allowed to mingle and walk in the hall, she waited until the deskman and guards went somewhere for one of their cigarette breaks and went for it.
The door seemed very heavy to her and for a second she thought that she might not be able to get it open and wind up shot for trying. A burst of panic strength enabled her to push it. She went out, closing it as gently and soundlessly as she could and ran like hell. The interwoven iron bars at the gate provided ladder steps for her. She easily went over it in her state of desperation and excitement and never physically looked back.