One

The train stopped, deep in the middle of nowhere. Grace didn’t stir. She didn’t open her eyes. But after some time (maybe twenty minutes?) of stalling, she began to worry. She looked at her watch: a quarter after three in the morning. She had been almost asleep, thinking-dreaming of Lonny, remembering the (only) time they “made love.” How embarrassing it was! They both knew that Lonny liked men. It was deeply confusing. He was the one to kiss her first and kiss her again and again.

He had tried so hard that night. “We could try it another way, if you like,” he’d said in his effeminate Southern drawl.

Grace was numb. “We don’t have to do this, you know,” she’d said. We don’t need to embarrass ourselves any longer.

            He slithered up her back and slipped inside of her. She lay there wishing it was over and they could go back to being best friends.

The engine shut off. Passengers began to stir. An Indian man with a gold chain and hairy chest peeking out of his dress shirt stood up and stretched, releasing a stomach-wrenching stench. She held her breath hoping the odor would pass. She counted to ten before she breathed again. The smell, though not as strong, still lingered. She looked around to see if she could find a new seat away from the Indian man, but all seats were filled. They had been filled since Chicago. She cupped her hand over her mouth and nose.

The heat was overpowering now that the engine had been off for maybe another twenty minutes. She patted the sweat off of her upper lip.

After an hour, it occurred to her to take off her sweater. She’d had it on since she boarded some eighteen hours ago. The thick, purple, cable knit sweater had been perfect for the bitter Wisconsin air.

She couldn’t believe she was actually leaving home, leaving her mother. She wouldn’t exactly be an independent woman since she was moving in with her aunt and uncle, but she would be more woman than she had been living with her mother, enduring her mood swings and invasion of privacy. Her mother had eavesdropped on her phone conversations with Lonny and secretly read her journal. Grace never confronted her mother about it. It would do no good, leaving the two of them with only something else to argue over. Of course, her mother knew about Lonny, that he and Grace were more than just friends. They were fucking, as her mother would say. Grace couldn’t understand why her mother wanted to know if she wasn’t willing to do anything about it.

Knowing did absolutely no good. Grace sometimes caught her mother looking at her sideways, especially after she’d come home late after being with Lonny. Looking for evidence of fucking, Grace supposed. Since her parents’ divorce, her mother had taught Grace and her three older sisters that fucking was a terrible thing. A man would leave you after he fucked you. You could and likely would get pregnant and in that case her mother had pledged to push a broom up the pussy of the daughter who had the audacity to come home knocked up.

All men were dogs. All men were dogs! Brenda had made them chant once, after she’d come home from a particularly bad date. Even as seven-year-old Grace chanted, she knew without having proof that her mother was wrong. All men were not dogs.

Perhaps Grace was playing an unacknowledged game with her mother. With Lonny, she was not dating a man entirely. Lonny was gay so he didn’t exactly count as a man. And they weren’t officially dating anyway.

The bathroom smelled of piss, shit, and cheap soap. The vanity was wet with soaked paper towel. She reached under her tee-shirt and blotted her underarms with a wet paper towel. The smell, unfortunately, had soaked into her tee-shirt. She splashed water on her face and quickly brushed her teeth.

            Back at her seat, her neighbor, an old white lady was up, nibbling on a cookie.

            “We’re in Kansas. That’s what they said over the intercom while you were in the restroom,” the old lady said.

            “Kansas?” Grace laughed a little to herself. Maybe she was Dorothy.

            “Where are you headed?”

            “LaQuinta.”

“LaQuinta…I haven’t been there before, but it’s near Palm Springs, right? The desert, huh? Is this your first time going?”

            It was. Aunt Beverly and Uncle Pete had moved from Hermosa Beach to LaQuinta a few months ago. Grace didn’t know much about LaQuinta, except that they lived in a gated retirement community on a golf course somewhere in the desert.

The train began moving a quarter after nine. Grace woke up to the sun’s orange hue pulsing through the window. Her foot was numb from being jammed under her backpack. She expected an announcement over the intercom explaining why they had been stuck for so long and when they would arrive at their next stop, but no such thing.

The old woman, who had been staring out the window, began to reach for her sweater lodged in the crack of her seat. She looked as if she might break in the process. Grace grabbed the sweater and handed it to her. “Thank you, young lady. Thank you…You’re a sweet girl. Your mother raised you right.”

            Grace last saw her mother standing on the train platform in her leather trench coat and black knit hat with that drooping red knit flower, waving goodbye for what Grace hoped would be the last time. Her mother’s face was overdone with red lipstick and clownish blush. Grace felt guilty. She was no sweet girl.

Two

Grace’s neck was stiff when she stepped onto the platform. She cracked her neck and looked for Aunty Beverly and Uncle Pete as waves of hot air washed over her. With the heat, her backpack felt twice as heavy. As the crowd thinned out, Grace saw her aunt and uncle standing next to a bench with big, cheesy smiles. Aunty Beverly looked smaller than Grace remembered. It must have been the oversized tennis visor she was wearing and the big shades that reminded Grace of a bug.

“Graaacie!” Aunty Beverly said, peddling her legs in excitement. Her bony outstretched arms looked like toothpicks.

            Grace returned the big, cheesy smile and fell into her aunt’s embrace.

She was in awe of the velvety mountains pushing up against the sky.

            “There’s our girl,” Uncle Pete said. “We thought you’d never get off that train.”

            Aunty Beverly smelled of fresh flowers. Grace was sure her aunt had thought long and hard about how to achieve that effortless, sweet smell. She’d probably seen it in some women’s magazine and ordered a whole case. That was how Aunty Beverly was.

Her clothes were perfect: white linen shorts, pink sleeveless tennis shirt, and a white cable knit sweater tied over her shoulders. Her skin: flawless, smooth. “You finally made it,” she said. Grace noticed her perfect teeth, too perfect to have been born with them that way.

 “Where are your bags? Is this all you brought?” Uncle Pete said. Grace pointed to where passenger bags were being unloaded.

“I have one pink duffel bag.”

“Your old uncle here will get your bags. You two stay here.” He started off for the bag.

Grace turned to Aunty Beverly and smiled.

“You look good, Grace,” Aunty Beverly said, taking off her shades and examining her. “Turn around…You’ve put on a little weight, but it’s not as much as your mother made me think.”

Damn mom, Grace thought. Leave it to her to talk about me and how much weight I’ve gained, as if that’s the most important thing. It was true: she had put on some extra pounds since graduation last June. She hadn’t kept track of her weight so she could say for sure how much she’d gained (maybe five pounds?). She could still fit all her clothes; they were just snug.

Aunty Beverly patted Grace’s locks. “What do you call these?” she said scrunching her nose.

“Locks,” Grace said.

“Dread locks.”

Grace didn’t like the word “dread” because there was nothing to dread about her hair, but she didn’t correct her.

            “They’re cute.” Aunty Beverly gently pulled one letting it bounce back. This was the biggest change (and not the weight again, in Grace’s opinion) since she last visited Aunty Beverly. She had stopped wearing extensions and now wore her hair naturally.

 “You look good too, aunty.”

Aunty Beverly took off her hat revealing a cropped afro. “Thank you, sweetie. But, honestly,” she said pressing her fingers into her hair, “I’ve got to do something with my hair.”

She was right; her hair was the only thing on her that wasn’t perfect. It looked like a matted cotton ball.

“Your hair looks fine,” Grace said. “You just need a trimming.”

            Uncle Pete came back uncharacteristically walking like the eighty-year-old man that he was. “What do you have in this bag?” he said.

            “Just clothes. And books.”

            “Did you bring encyclopedias?”

            Grace laughed.

            “Your uncle has a bad back,” Aunty Beverly said.

Grace stopped laughing, turning her attention to the palm trees off into the distance.

“Are you hungry, Gracie?” Uncle Pete asked. He picked up the bag and started off towards the parking lot.

            “Yes, I’m nearly starving,” Grace said, trying to keep up with him. For an old man with a back problem he walked fast.

In the minivan, Aunty Beverly blasted the air conditioner and let the windows down.

Uncle Pete backed out of the parking space carefully. Aunty Beverly turned to Grace. “So what do you think of your new home so far? Do you like it?”

            Grace hadn’t seen anything beyond the train station, but was eager to show her appreciation. “So far so good. I love the mountains and the palm trees.”

            “Don’t be silly,” Uncle Pete said, looking at Grace in the rearview mirror. “She just got here, honey. She hasn’t had a chance to see anything.”

            Aunty Beverly turned back around and looked out the window. “Yes, the mountains are stunning.”

Uncle Pete pulled past the iron gate. He drove slowly down the blacktop streets. The houses were colorful ranches with Spanish influences. Each manicured lawn had deep green grass. There should be dusty browns and red earth, Grace thought.

            They arrived at a white stucco ranch with red rose bushes in front. It is not very big.

Inside, Aunty Beverly led Grace to the first bedroom. When Aunty Beverly opened the door, stale air pushed out. Grace hoped to God this wasn’t her room. Please God.

Uncle Pete stopped in the middle of the room and looked around with regret in his eyes and then Grace understood: This was his mother’s room before she died. That explained the hospital bed in corner. Grace remembered Aunty Beverly telling her the gory details of Grandma Ruby’s last days: the boils and chaffing on her thighs.

            Grace felt heavy. She wanted to leave.  

            Aunty Beverly opened the closet. Old lady smell – perfume, mints, and mothballs – wafted out. Grace wanted to gag, but she swallowed a few times to quiet the urge. Polyester pants and blouses neatly hung in the closet. “We have got to get rid of these clothes. I can’t wait another week, Pete.”

Uncle Pete looked like he’d just been slapped. “Dear, it’s barely been a month. I’m not ready to get rid of anything yet.”

            Aunty Beverly’s head burrowed deep into the closet. “Well, Pete, I don’t know when will ever be the right time. We can’t keep living like this.”

            “Living like what?...Okay, we’ll get rid of the clothes.”

            “They stink. It’s making me sick.”

His hands went up in surrender.

            Aunty Beverly walked out the room as if everything was okay.

Grace’s room smelled of roses. With the thoughtfulness that had gone into the room—the fresh roses on each night stand, the perfectly made bed with three rows of decorative pillows—it reminded her of a fancy hotel.

 “You have your own bathroom too,” Aunty Beverly said, smiling. Grace peeked into the bathroom as if it was someone else’s.

“Wow.” She’d never had her own bathroom before. She had privacy now.

             “So, what do you think? Do you like it?”

            “I love it,” Grace said, “Everything is so perfect.”

            “Good, good… Have you called your mother?”

            “Not yet. I will, though.”

            “Good, good. Tell her hello for me.” Her mother and Aunty Beverly weren’t talking.

            “I will tell her.” Grace noticed the painting above the bed. A water color of a white lady walking along a riverfront with a parasol. “Did you paint that?” she asked.

            Aunty Beverly looked at the painting. “Oh no, sweetie, I didn’t paint this.” Even though Grace didn’t like the painting, she wanted her aunt to have said yes, she painted that.

            “Do you still paint?”

            “I haven’t painted in years.”

Aunty Beverly used to send hand-painted Christmas cards to Grace and her sisters. The paintings weren’t particularly good or bad; they were of sunsets and other clichés, but Grace had loved receiving them. The cards attracted to her to her mysterious aunt, the one to get away, who left and married a rich, white man. It was only when she was at her aunt’s wedding reception at the top of the Sears tower that Grace finally met her. Aunty Beverly wore a white satin pant suit with peach blush and lipstick. She was as elegant as Grace believed she would be. Grace noticed her aunt smiling at her throughout the evening. Finally, Aunty Beverly beckoned her over. Grace got up from the table feeling like she’d won a coveted prize.

“Look at her, Pete, isn’t she cute?”

“Yes, sure is.” Uncle Pete said.

“Can’t we take her home with us?” Aunty Beverly said, pushing out her bottom lip like a sad little girl. She said to Grace, “How about you come visit us?”

            Grace nodded, too shy to say anything. “Look at those little legs. How old are you?”

            “Fourteen.”

            “We’ve got to have you come visit us in Hermosa. We live in a little beach town. You’d love it.”

            “It’s a lovely painting, though, isn’t it?” Aunty Beverly said.

            “You should paint,” Grace said. She knew from her mother that Aunty Beverly had gone to fine arts school to become a fulltime water colorist. Though Aunty Beverly didn’t graduate, Grace loved that her aunt had done something so bold and off the beaten path, especially for a black woman.

            “I know, I should,” Aunty Beverly said softly, still fixated a on the painting. “I just don’t have the time now that I’m married. Being married is a full-time job, you know.” She looked at Grace as if she should have reason to understand.  “You’ll see when you are married. There is no time for you.” Grace couldn’t tell if Aunty Beverly wanted Grace to feel sorry for her or if she was just looking for someone to understand.

Grace stayed quiet. She had said enough. She didn’t understand how her aunt would have no time for herself in a marriage especially when there were no children running around and she didn’t work.

            Grace heard tiny bells coming closer. Shit. Grace didn’t like cats. They unsettled her with their quiet, sharp movement and penetrating eyes. She had put it out of her mind that she was going to be living with a cat.

The cat came in and stopped. “Princess Bonnie!” Aunty Beverly said as if she hadn’t seen the cat in weeks. She picked up it and began cuddling it. She kissed the cat on the mouth. Grace was disgusted. “That’s a good baby. That’s a good girl,” Aunty Beverly purred. She looked at Grace: “Do you want to hold her?”

            “No, thank you,” Grace said.

             “You’ll love our Princess Bonnie.”

Grace decided to hold the cat. She told herself maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. When Aunt Beverly put the put the cat into Grace’s arms, she was overcome with weakness. Princess Bonnie hissed and clawed at her face and she dropped it.

The cat landed on its feet.

            “Bonnie!” Aunty Beverly yelled. “Bad cat! Bad.”

Grace jumped back, heart racing. That cat tried to kill me.

Aunty Beverly shooed the cat out the door. “I’ve never seen her act this way before,” she said with a horrified look. “She must be jealous that you’re here. She’s very territorial. She’s used to getting all the attention.”

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