Chapter 12: Crossroads

No smiles from Grace in real life the next day. I'd hoped to talk to her to say, what? Sorry? But she slipped into her seat at the last moment, and spent the entire class making notes or doodling in her journal. She did not look up when I asked questions, she did not follow; no one seemed to be paying attention that day. Finally, when there was no response to a question I threw out about preferred Donne poems, I called on her by name. "Grace," I said, "Which would you choose?" She gave me an accusing, angry look that chilled me, pierced me, and then the bell rang. With an air of triumph, she quickly packed her bags and would have been out of the classroom before I reached her desk if Katie Singer hadn't stopped to ask her something.

I used the chance to remind her of the meeting we had that afternoon with Mrs. Gonzales, had been hoping to use that to transition into a small discussion of what happened, but Katie lingered, and Grace was perfunctorily agreed to meet after eighth period.

Her plea for a Gay/Straight Alliance dance was well presented and convincing; Mrs. Gonzales was obviously impressed. But Grace breezed out of that classroom quickly afterward, ignoring my call, "Grace," as she disappeared down the hall, leaving me standing, alone.

I don't think I fully appreciated, until then, the role Grace had come to play in my life. Would she no longer participate in class, would she no longer want to discuss her writing with me? I couldn't let matters hang as they were, with implications and misunderstandings and cloudy impressions. But what could I do? Call her up? Tell her to stay after school?

While I was putting papers together back in my classroom, getting ready to leave, Mrs. Gonzales stopped by. "August!" she said. "I'm glad you're still here. You can let the Gay/Straight Alliance know the dance has received a green light. Grace Manning really gave quite a presentation, and the board approved the funds."

I was pleased, glad for gay students, glad the school was doing the right thing. I wondered, though, if Grace would even care at this point. It had become obvious to me that she was active in this group not for strong beliefs in the necessity of making high-school life easier for gay students, but for being closer to me. Working with me, a role I was happy to have her play.

As I got into my car, I saw Grace heading out of the parking lot by the buses. Without thinking, I drove to where she was and pulled up beside her. She looked at me through the windshield, her eyes forlorn but resigned. She got in the car. We rode silently. I knew I needed to initiate the conversation, but could not think how until I had pulled up in front of her house.

We both sat there. She made no effort to get out of the car. I cleared my throat and began,  "Thank you for doing such a great job today. You were very persuasive."

Staring straight ahead, she muttered, "I don't even know what I said."

Still trying to, I don't know, flatter her, extend an olive branch, beat around the bush? I continued, "Well, trust me. Thanks to you the Gay/Straight Alliance will get the funding to have that dance."

Grace, on the other hand, went for honesty. She turned and looked at me directly. "I don't care about the stupid dance. I don't care about the Gay/Straight Alliance."

Now I looked away, looked down, said softly, "I know you don't."

I struggled with what to say next when Grace said, her voice fading to a whisper, her eyes turned away," What else do you know?"

I took a breath and faced her, words unplanned came tumbling out, "I know you took my book." Her face froze. "It was stupid of me not to just let you borrow it. The thing is, Grace, we're not friends."

Her eyes full, shining, she said, bravely, "I know that."

"I mean, you can't just drop by my house like that."

She nodded, as if I were setting rules to a game she wanted to play, and if she would agree willingly, we could keep playing, "I know," she promised.

And then all I wanted came out as what could not be between us. "If circumstances were different, I'd like nothing more than to be your friend. I'd want you to drop by my house. I'd lend you my book of poems I wrote when I was in my twenties which I'm now embarrassed by. I'd want you to call me August and not Mr. Dimitri and we would sit and talk for hours, but we can't do that. We. Can't. Be. Friends." There I'd said what needed to be said, hadn't I?

Her voice breaking, eyes starting to spill, she wiped them with her fingers and said, pleadingly, "I know, I know. Just stop saying it. Please." I nodded, said no more. Still, she sat in the car, neither of us made a move for her to get out. And then she said, "So, that was your girlfriend last night?"

I looked at her, annoyed, emphasized, "And you shouldn't be asking me questions like that!"

Her voice broke, her breath caught, and she turned away fully, so I wouldn't see her crying. I could have left things that way, let her believe Chris was my girlfriend. It would mean no more connection, likely no more rapport – though we had gone beyond simple classroom rapport, hadn't we? But if I let her believe what she thought now, nothing more that shouldn't happen between us would happen. That would be it. But her pain was palpable, and the need for honesty with Grace of all people was essential to me, even if there was selfishness involved. But how to explain exactly what Chris was, or had been to me? In a soft voice, I said, "She was my girlfriend, a long time ago…" When? Explain that we lived together until four years ago, children, marriage, not, the odd, rather adult "arrangement" we had until her engagement.... For now, I kept it simple; if there ever was a later, I could tell her the whole story. I continued, "…in college. Now we're just... friends." I smiled at the use of that word, the word I had just denied Grace.

And now she looked at me, tears gone, sniffed, and said, "Oh," looking me directly in the eyes.

And now I looked back, and could not look away, gazing at her face, her lips, her soft lips, her dark eyes, deep eyes, lonely, seeking, beautiful eyes.… And now Grace's eyes flickered to my lips, which felt suddenly full and tingling, back to my eyes again, and a kiss suddenly seemed much more important than anything I had said or was going to say, would say so much more, so precisely. Eyes still locked with hers, instead I said, "You'd better get out of the car now."

Not moving her head, not shifting her gaze, barely moving her lips, Grace said, "Why?"

And I had no answer, could not answer, because that other, more important answer seemed inevitable, as my head seemed drawn to her, and hers to me in an imperceptible, eternal, essential dance, inevitable as rain until a knock on Grace's window made us both jump, and the gaze was broken and it was Lily, Grace's mother, smiling as I quickly pressed the button and rolled the window down. "Hi, Mr. Dimitri!" she exclaimed cheerfully. Grace quickly gathered her belongings together.

I tried to overcome my discomfort, reminded, oddly, of how I had felt when Grace arrived at my house the night before, caught again, as tongue-tied now as I was then. My God, her mother. No explanation was needed, yet I felt compelled to say, "I was just…" What, about to kiss your underage daughter, with whom I am falling in love? Not really… I tried, "It was cold out, and --"

Lily, who seemed genuinely happy to see me with Grace, interrupted, saying, "Oh, I know! Thanks you so much! Grace, would you give me a hand with the groceries?"

Grace immediately answered in the affirmative, getting out of the car (no problem with the door this time), with one half-second inscrutable glance back at me. Mother and daughter were gone, and I rolled up the window. Nothing accomplished here for the good, disgusted with myself, with how I had let things turn. On the plus side, Grace was happy. She knew what I had known, that the object of her affection returned her affection. And that was enough for her. For now. But would we be happy to leave things as they were, unacknowledged on one level, acknowledged but unfulfilled on another? Our connection was still there, but where would it lead us in the near future?

*****

Sunday morning Rose lay in bed. She had given up trying to make breakfast for the kids a month ago. She made everything wrong, according to Bobby, and Charlotte had apparently given up breakfast and was nowhere to be found Sundays. She gave in to thinking of Before, remembering how Mike would freeze the wild blueberries he got in the summer and use them all year long for their Sunday pancakes. How he'd drive up to Michigan for the best maple syrup, buying several gallons he'd keep in a cool corner of the basement. Two gallons remained there still. But she'd taken to buying the supermarket brand from Canada, didn't have the heart to go down and bring up the oversized jug. Just a reminder of what she wasn't doing. Failures.

The bed seemed empty, too big. She thought she ought to start sleeping in the middle, but years of habit kept her to one side, her side. Mike's side remained partially made still, the sheets smooth over the pillows. She knew Amber was not the first woman Mike had slept with during their marriage. She knew that. But others, she'd never actually caught him before that. She also knew Amber would be the last, the last he'd see while married to her. Because she couldn't pretend any more, not to herself at least. She would to the kids, knew how they viewed her, kicking out their poor father, and if they needed to think that to stay happy with Mike, so be it. It's important to love your father, to think he's great.

A smell drifted through the cracks in the door. Vanilla, bread, sweetness? Rose opened her eyes wide and sat up. She listened. A murmur of voices downstairs, the sound of the pan being moved on the burner, a utensil in a glass bowl. She looked at the clock – 9 o'clock already. She'd been sleeping in later on weekends.

She padded downstairs and saw, through the kitchen door, Bobby sitting at the counter, poking at something in a bowl. Charlotte was at the stove, flipping French toast. A plate on the table was already filled with golden-brown slices, and Rose felt suddenly ravenously hungry. She entered the kitchen, putting on her mom smile. "What smells so good?" she asked.

Charlotte looked up and flipped two slices of egg-soaked bread in the pan. The table was set for three, with a pitcher of syrup and another of orange juice. "Have a seat, Mom," Charlotte said. "You're just in time for breakfast."