Grace
- 1 -
She moved into the adjacent building about a month ago. My windows look onto hers. You can learn much about a person simply by watching them. Especially if they are unaware that they are being watched. Then they are deliciously un-self-conscious. After weeks of spying on her, I know the intricacies of all her movements.
Her name is Grace. By day her curtains are tightly shut. But after dark she flings them open so I can contemplate her every movement. Rapture! She never leaves the apartment until after dark. Firstly, she comes downstairs and takes out the rubbish. Tidy! I like that. However what strikes me as slightly odd is the amount of rubbish she seems daily to accumulate. Every evening she brings down a huge garbage bag. Still, this is one of the many mysteries of Grace I will yet uncover.
Then, she checks her mailbox. She’s always dressed in very bright colours. Yellows and oranges, reds and purples. I like that. She’s not afraid to stand out. Her skin is the white of November lilies. It took me some time to find a suitable analogy, but I am pleased with my efforts. They will be the only flowers I ever buy for Grace. November lilies.
She is a creature of rigorous habit. I like that. I too am a creature of rigorous habit. But since first laying eyes on Grace, my ordered little life has been wrecked. That is because I am in love. And because I am in love, I am justified in all my actions.
- 2 -
I never realised it was that easy to disappear. One morning I went to work. There was Gracie standing with Daisy in her arms, waving me goodbye as usual. Of course, at the time, I didn’t notice anything different, being the simpleton I am, but now, of course I’d say she looked real sad, or maybe desperate. But then Gracie always looked like that when the sun came up. She was in awe and fear of the sun and given her condition, that was rightfully understandable. It’s all so clear now, but I just didn’t wanna notice a thing.
She musta left ‘round five, just after sundown. She knocked on Emma’s door, our neighbour, and said she had to run down to the store to get some things for dinner and could Emma please look in on Daisy. Then she walked down the road, turned the corner and nobody has seen or heard from her since. That was a month ago now.
She didn’t take anything with her, just her shoulder bag, the red one, the one she always carried. Gracie never needed money because she was on a lifelong payout from the insurance company. ‘Course there’s no real compensation for all she’s been through, but it’s meant she could always be independent, that she’s never needed me to support her.
I’ve known Gracie since she was a little girl. I used to play inside with her when the sun was up and all the other kids were outside and she couldn’t go out. I was the first man she kissed and as far as I know, which isn’t much, the only man she’s ever known.
Gracie has a brilliant mind. Everything she couldn’t do physically she made up for with her mind. She’d read all the time. She could read before any of us kids could and real early on too she started writing. She never showed anyone what she wrote. She’d write and write and write and then she’d lock it all away in a big trunk. She’d wear the key around her neck on a piece of string. Even during lovemaking she’d wear that damn key around her neck. Even when she gave birth to Daisy that key was hanging around, all rusted ‘cause she wore it in the shower too.
- 3 -
I have always despised the countryside, especially the nights. Its silence has consistently conspired to rob me of life. The glacial, impossibly distant stars, the monotony of the black skies, the smallness of rural existence, its asphyxiating, crushing dullness. But I don’t think about that any more, because I no longer choose to remember. The country -and all that it once meant to me- is no longer even a pin prick in my conscience.
I live in the city now. Its geography is as labyrinthine as the human body. Its combinations are endless. Each new street reveals another layer of human experience, another variation to human existence. These worlds yield themselves up to me because I come to seek knowledge, and because I come to seek knowledge, the city is generous. At night, my time, it is alive with all the pent up repressions and disappointments of day. At night in the city the people are free. For a few small hours they behave as if morning and all of its tired responsibilities will never arrive.
At the train station there is a café on the first floor with outdoor seating. From there I watch the crisscrossing narratives unfolding below. The people hurrying in all directions are the intersecting lifelines of the city. Loneliness catapults me into the cavalcade. When I disappear into the crowd it almost feels as if I am part of it. Sometimes when I ride on a crowded train I forget.
Yesterday I met a woman who is cursed as I am cursed. She introduced me to a dozen others like me. It was my first contact with what the city people call support groups. It gave me comfort and at the same time it repelled me to be in their sorry company. It was like sitting alone in a room full of echoing mirrors. I prefer my lonely anonymity, my unfettered ramblings, my random encounters with strangers who know nothing of me.
- 4 -
Today we spoke for the first time. In typical underhanded fashion, I had contrived to meet her. I therefore purloined one of her letters from her mailbox. I can pick a lock faster than you can read this sentence. It’s that easy. If you know. So I bided my time and waited for an important looking letter. A windowed one, or better still, a personal one. Inevitably a windowed letter arrived first.
Yesterday evening, at precisely the time Grace was checking her mailbox I strolled in from the street where I’d been waiting for her. Beautiful timing. “Excuse me, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,” better to be overly polite, at least at first, “but I believe there’s been a slight mix up with the post. Are you Grace Antin?” She didn’t appear willing to admit to this so I hurried on. “Well, because one of your letters was accidentally put into my mailbox and I wanted to return it to you. I’m Rupert, Rupert Holmes,” I said and thrust my hand out, “we’re neighbours.”
She looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and surprise. Her hand was soft but cold, the fingers fleshy. They seemed to belong to someone else’s body, for she was lanky and sinewy. Her eyes were dark green and filled with sleep. The eyes of a Burmese cat, sharply etched diamonds, deeply embedded in her china white face. “Hi,” came her simple reply. She cleared her throat. It seemed that this little syllable had given her much trouble. “Well, thanks for bringing my letter over,” she spoke slowly and I detected a regional accent. She began to move towards the door. “Are you new to the city?” I called after her. She nodded and crossed the road.
I waited until she went into the coffee shop and then I ran across the road. Again I timed it perfectly. Just as she was sitting down, I arrived, slightly out of breath, amiably waving the letter. She looked up at me, a little startled, a little embarrassed. “Oh, the letter,” she said. I smiled down at her, “Would you mind if I joined you for a cup of coffee? This is the best coffee in our neighbourhood,” I said, careful not to over-emphasize our.
- 5 -
Gracie coulda done anything she set her mind to, but she had this condition, this skin condition and she couldn’t function in the world like the rest of us. She used to talk my ear off when I got home from work. She always got real animated after sundown, that was her time. She’d talk about all the stuff she’d been reading and all the things she’d thought about all day long alone in the house. I was real tired after work, but I’d sit and listen and sometimes I understood, sometimes I didn’t, I tried not to let on, but Gracie knew. She was smarter than me, but I loved her, that’s what I could give her and she knew that.
When Daisy was born a year ago, Gracie got really quiet. Post-natal depression the doctors said. But it wasn’t that, it was because Daisy was born like her. Gracie felt guilty about that, like it was her fault.
“I wouldn’t wish this disease on my worst enemy let alone my child,” she said, “it’s a curse, I’ve cursed my baby.” She just couldn’t see it any differently.
So we moved into a bigger house. I thought that would help, a change. Had all the walls painted in her favourite colours. It was really bright. Every room was a different shade of the sun. And there was a special room for Gracie where she could disappear and write and keep all her books and papers and no one ever went in there except her. The key stayed around her neck.
The new house made her lively up a bit, for a while, still, she stayed pretty quiet. But Daisy made up for her mama’s silence. She howled and yelled and screamed and shouted. One day I came home from work and Daisy was yelling her lungs. I called out for Gracie. I called out her name over and over again and still no answer. Eventually I found her in the bedroom on the floor with a blanket pulled over her head.
When Gracie disappeared, I busted into her room, her private room. I felt like a real thief, but I thought there may be some clues as to where she’d gotten to. All of the books were packed away in cardboard boxes and labelled. She’d packed them away by genre. Her desk and chair and lamp were still there. And the trunk she used to keep her writing in. But it was open and the trunk was empty.
- 6 -
I have a lover. I greet him in silk. His name is Rupert. He’s my neighbour. He is transparent and contrived, but he is also a patient teacher and I an eager student. For as long as he intrigues me in bed, I will be his lily. For me it is more a question of curiosity than carnality.
He comes over in the afternoons when I wake up. We spend the daylight hours in bed and so I have befriended the sun. She is no longer my foe and fear, for she brings me my lover. At night I send him away, for the nights belong only to me. I send him away because I do not love him. Sometimes he gets angry at dusk because he doesn’t understand. Only Ed understands, and I’ve forgotten who Ed is.
In retrospect, what happened today was inevitable. The desire has long been there, only the courage lacked. I am surprised then that it was in Rupert’s presence that it all should have happened, for Rupert does not inspire me with courage. On the other hand, he does provoke me. He’d been threatening to open the curtains again if I sent him away at dusk.
“Don’t do that Rupert, we’ll both regret it if you do.”
“Why?” he taunted, “Not frightened to walk the streets alone at night are we, but a little sunshine, no, never that!”
And so I stuck my hand out the window, just to show him. It only took a second before the pain overwhelmed me and I withdrew back into the melancholic comfort of my darkness. But in that infinitesimal moment, for the first time ever, I felt the caress of the sun. First its caress and then its bitter lashing.
Rupert was astounded when he saw the grotesque mutant blister that had welled up on my hand. He did not understand at all. I proceeded to calmly tend to my wound as he hugged his knees to his chest like a little child. I could see that it was I who would have to comfort him.
- 7 -
I had believed until today that Grace was a confirmed eccentric. You see her apartment is shrouded in darkness by day (she has black, heavy curtains that are velcroed shut) and by night drenched in light. She does not strike me as an exhibitionist and yet in some ways she behaves as one. After dark she childishly rejoices in flinging back those curtains, in leaning naked out of the window and deeply inhaling the city smog as if she were in the middle of a forest. The walls of her apartment are each painted a different shade of the sun. There is a shelf entirely lined with bottles of vitamins all of which are called S.A.D. These she takes by the handful. The floors are littered with mounds of books and newspapers and magazines and papers. Her favourite book, which she keeps by her bed, is Huysman’s Against Nature. I’ve almost finished reading it and I can assure you it is a most twisted and cruel story. Beside her desk is an industrial sized metal garbage bin. I hesitate to call it that though, in spite of the fact that it is undeniably a garbage bin. Grace keeps it polished to a glint and padlocked shut. She wears the key on a grotty piece of string around her neck. It’s rusted and heavy, for she showers with that key around her neck and she makes love with that key around her neck.
Now I know that Grace is no eccentric. She is simply unwell, desperately unwell. She suffers, oh how my darling suffers. It’s her skin. Its whiteness is at times eerie, at times magnificent. I can trace each of her veins with my finger. It’s because her skin is so exquisitely delicate that it can bare no form of contact with the sun. She wanted and needed me to understand, poor darling, and so today she courageously stuck her hand through the curtains and out into the sunlight. It was but a fraction of a second but my little angel suffered so. Her hand burnt instantaneously, but she withheld her tears. It was like some form of barbaric black magic. I was frankly overwhelmed but I did not let it show. Grace needs me to be strong for her.
In spite of all that, we argued again at sunset. She will not let me spend the night with her and I am determined to discover why. She swears by all that is sacred that she has no other lover. “But the night belongs to me and only me” she says in this low, emphatic voice. It’s like a threat or a dare for me to defy her. I’m not sure which. I have decided to follow her on her night ramblings.
- 8 -
I’ve found Gracie. I hired a detective shortly after her disappearance and he’s just located her in the city. She’s living in an apartment building downtown. He’s told me some pretty upsetting stuff too, but I don’t wanna think about all that, I just wanna see my baby, I just wanna hold her in my arms and tell her I love her. I’ll forgive anything, ‘cause I’m a fool and I love my Gracie. The question is, what should I do? The detective reckons if she knows we’re onto her, she may disappear again and so he’s advised me to hang back till I’m sure of what I wanna do. I’m sure, but I’m scared she doesn’t wanna see me.
I sent Daisy to stay with my mother the week Gracie disappeared. I just couldn’t work, look after a sick kid and deal with my pain all at once. Now I’ve taken some time off work too, but I wish I hadn’t. It’s worse sitting at home drinking beer and wondering what the hell I should do. I haven’t spoken to my friends about this ‘cause I’m a bad liar and I don’t wanna speak badly about her to no one.
This morning I took a bus to the city. Sun was up so I was sure not to bump into Gracie. I walked around outside her building and I felt all strange. I felt guilty for being there and paranoid that Gracie’d find out, but I just couldn’t feel angry. And then I felt like I wasn’t a man for not being more jealous. It’s not that I’m not jealous -hell, the guy looks like an old pervert - it’s just that the truth is I understand her.
I could tell straight away which windows were Gracie’s.
- 9 -
Here in the city I am haunted by the things that I see. Everywhere I go there are posters advertising the sun. In spite of the fact that I know these to be merely cheap manipulations, my hunger grows daily. My hunger is no different to that of the alcoholic, the nymphomaniac and the gambler.
Yesterday the art museum was open till late, the entry was free and there was scarcely a soul there. I felt like the paintings had been hung for my exclusive pleasure. I spent my time in front of a Turner canvas. The light was primal, or religious, it had this numinous quality to it. It reminded me of pictures from the illustrated bible I used to look at when I was a girl. Where God, or his presence, beams down through the clouds. I don’t know if the sun actually does that or if it’s just an artistic device, I must find out. It wasn’t just the light, it was the ocean in the sunlight that was so intoxicating. It seemed to me that I dived into that canvas over and over again. Through the brushstrokes and into the sunlit waves. The sun caressing me, the water cooling me. It all felt so dangerously tangible.
Ever since the day I burnt my hand I have been dreaming feverishly of the sun. Not since childhood have the fantasies been this intense. For so long now I have only had nightmares about the sun and in a way this is better. It reminds me that what is the most natural for all other people must be anathema to me. The nightmares keep me from being delusional. But the dreams get stronger each day. My hunger becomes my dreams and my dreams deform my mind.
- 10 -
I am quite satisfied that Grace has no other lover. That indeed she loves only me. I have been following her for some time now. Of this she is blissfully unaware. She seems to gravitate towards nocturnal cultural activities. Of the savoury kind, I am pleased to report. Film festivals, theatres, museums, openings, concerts, operas, dance. She seems to have little interest in food for she always eats in the coffee shop where we first met and always orders the same food. Spaghetti bolognaise and a tomato salad, followed by a coffee. Black, no sugar. And wherever she goes she takes copious notes. Her notebook is small and red. Even in darkened theatres the notebook is open on her lap and her pen poised mid-air. It hurts me that she spends all her nights away from me. I cannot understand why she chooses this lonely solitude. I could certainly show her a better time.
- 11 -
I didn’t go back home. I’ve been staying here in the city in a motel. I just had to see Gracie again. Once wasn’t enough. I feel awful, but I’ve started following her at night and I just can’t stop. I’m nervous all the time that Gracie’ll find me out and hate me for it, but it’s the only way I can think of for now of seeing my baby. At the same time, I’m truly amazed at the woman I see. She’s leading the kinda life I could never give her. It just cuts me in two. I think she’s actually happy, or as happy as Gracie ever gets. Maybe she just needs a bit of time alone, it helps me sleep at night to think of this whole damn mess as temporary. If I didn’t love her so much I’d grab her ass and drag her back home where she belongs.
- 12 -
I think I’m being followed! I hope to God I’m not being followed! Please no! I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Ed’s face all pinched with pain. And if he’s brought Daisy with him, I will kill myself, I’ll do it. It is no idle threat. I would sooner put an end to my life than poison my child any more than I have already. On the other hand, if it’s Rupert, well then, that will put a swift end to our liaison!
I am being followed! I’m certain of it now. And not just by Rupert. Ed’s found me and I’m terrified of having to face him and Daisy. Last night I didn’t go out at all.
At dawn, I left the window open and I was careless about attaching the velcro so the curtain was billowing open all day. I huddled in the corner and just watched the play of light on the floorboards all day long.
I cannot go back to my old life and I cannot stay on here in my new life and I know I don’t have the strength to disappear again. Rupert’s been calling and banging on my door but I can’t stand the thought of seeing his stupid, smug face. Ed’s been leaving letters in my mailbox with photos of Daisy. I feel violated and more alone than ever before.
I think only of the sun.
- 13 -
I haven’t seen Grace for a week now. She’s not returning my calls and she refuses to open her door. I am fairly near mad with desire for her. I have decided to break her door down.
- 14 -
Gracie’s disappeared again. She musta found out I was following her. Or else she’s locked herself away in her apartment which means something’s very wrong. In all the time I’ve known Gracie, she’s never stayed in a single night. I’ve gotta go up to her place and see if she’s alright.
- 15 -
Grace Antin, the tenant of Apartment 63, 132 Great Holloway Road has vacated her premises without prior warning. Her possessions were found neatly packed into labelled cardboard boxes. On the desk was a red handbag. In it, the tenant’s wallet and the keys to the apartment were found. The three windows facing the street had all been smashed in from the inside. Blood stains were found on the floorboards. Additionally, the curtains had been cut down, apparently with a pair of scissors. These were found in a large metal garbage bin in which the remains of the curtains had also been thrown. On a piece of string hanging from a hook beside the middle window a rusted key was found. ◊