Suddenly, Grace coughs. Is she getting up?
She holds the knife behind her, creeps to the bedroom door and cocks her head. She hears no sounds, so she carefully opens the door and peeks in.
Grace lies on her back, snoring softly. Her perfectly coiffed hair is covered by a pink hairnet, moisturized face gleaming in the moonlight shining through the half-closed blinds. Her tiny, fuzzy house shoes sit on the floor next to the bed, and on the chair is her outfit for tomorrow: sharply creased pearl gray slacks, matching gray cardigan, and a blue silk blouse with a bow at the neck. A pair of miniature Naturalizers, pantyhose draped over them, stand on the floor.
Wanda’s slippery hand grips the paring knife as she creeps to the bed and looks down at Grace. A vein throbs in her thin neck. Up and down. Up and down. She moves closer, watching the throbbing vein and gazing at Grace’s face. In the semi-darkness, she resembles Aunt Hazel.
Wanda moves even closer. Is this woman Grace, or is she Aunt Hazel? The hair on the back of her neck rises, cold chills running up and down her back. She clutches the knife in her perspiring hands, studying Grace’s face from first one angle and then another. She stops for a few seconds, gazing around the room, and then she looks back at Grace. Eyes closed, body still, she looks as innocent and defenseless as a baby.
* * *
Wanda is frying the omelets when Odell comes into the kitchen the next morning. “That sure smells good, Wannie,” he says, “Real good.”
She hums as she takes one omelet out of the skillet, and pours more eggs in, sprinkling them with ham, onions and red bell peppers.
“Wonder why Momma’s not up?” he says, “I’ll shave, and then I’ll check on her. She might be having one of her headaches.”
Wanda sets the table with her best silver and china, laying soft linen napkins next to each plate, and then she pours the coffee.
She opens the back door and takes a deep breath of the fresh, crisp air. “What a beautiful morning,” she says, stepping out onto the dew-covered grass, “Such a beautiful morning.”
She thinks of her favorite religious song, which she has not sung in a long, long time, and she strolls into the yard, her arms high in the air, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” Her gait picks up and she is loping now, her voice loud and piercing, “I once was lost, but now I’m found.” What a beautiful song! By the time she gets near the back of the yard, she is running.
She suddenly stops and squats, and then she plunges her hands into the cold, moist ground and begins digging. She digs faster and faster. She had forgotten how good it felt to put her hands in pure old dirt. Aunt Hazel got fighting mad when she got dirty. Why, she would tan her hide if she caught her!
She stands and wipes her hands on her robe and pulls the paring knife from the pocket, caressing it and turning it this way and that, stroking the smooth, worn handle and touching the thin, tiny tip. She pushes her finger into the thin, sharp blade and watches it carve deep into her forefinger, red droplets oozing out and trickling down her arm. Ripples of pleasure sprint through her body as she grabs the hem of her robe and blots the bright red blood, and then she begins rubbing the blade of the tiny knife, buffing it, polishing it to a high sheen. She plops on the ground, still polishing it. It must be clean; it must be immaculate; there must be nothing on it. Nothing at all. She gazes at the knife again, drops it into the hole, then she rises, lifting her hands high in the air, “Was blind, but now I see.....!”
She kneels, throwing dirt over the knife, more dirt, more, more, more. When it is covered, she squashes the dirt with her feet, looking down at her beat-up house shoes. Old house shoes, nothing like Aunt Hazel’s tiny, fuzzy ones. She pounds first with one foot and then the other, stomping and stomping, packing down each clump, each bump. She slings her house shoes high in the air, bare feet slapping the cool, clammy dirt. It is flat now, but not quite flat enough. She must get it completely flat, nice and smooth. As smooth as can be. Perfectly smooth.
She hears Odell calling her; he’s yelling real loud. He’s probably fighting mad about those omelets. She must get back to them. They are probably cold by now. She will probably have to heat them in the microwave. But that might make them tough. She can’t have that! She will probably have to make more. Yes, that’s what she’ll do! She’ll make fresh ones!
That’s what Grace would do.
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