State of Grace Read Online Free Page B

weren’t crops he was good at cultivating. Better, he decided, to raise pigs and chickens.
    At first people in Edenbridge were amused. They took pleasure in making jokes at his expense. They stopped laughing, though, when the hot summer winds from the south funneled the heated stenchof Mr. Holmes’ animals into town. Their animosity increased when the farm crisis hit, crop prices hit rock bottom, and everyone began to lose money—everyone, that was, except Mr. Holmes. Because he focused on animals rather than crops, he was faring better than most. Rumor had it that he was even making a profit. Resentment ran high and the townspeople’s treatment of the Holmeses ran from grudging to hostile. My grandfather was one of the worst in this regard.
    A sour man with a hawkish nose and small black eyes, my grandfather stood barely above five feet in height. And, like many men of short stature, he tried to project the bravado of a much larger man by swaggering and bullying anyone around him, swearing like a sailor and gesticulating with a smoldering cigarette to emphasize his point. Regardless of the weather, he wore the same outfit: a short-sleeved white button-down with a pocket at the chest to hold his cigarettes, droopy gray or black polyester pants cinched below his large belly with a turquoise-inlaid, tooled leather belt, and cowboy boots.
    My grandfather’s belligerence scared me—as did his hatred of anyone different. Polacks . . . spics . . . niggers—my grandfather hated them all. That’s why when Natalie mentioned the vandalism to Mr. Holmes’ truck, I immediately thought of the conversation between my grandfather and his cronies the weekend before. I had been down at the station with my father.
    â€œGoddamned stink,” my grandfather had announced as he stepped inside the dirty garage. “Can’t even take a breath of fresh air.”
    My father, who was head and shoulders deep in the engine of an old Chevrolet pickup, looked up warily.
    â€œSomebody oughta go up there and teach that sumbitch a lesson.”
    This comment came from Randy Jenkins, one of the men who worked in the station. He was lying on his back, his legs sticking out from under the front of the pickup. As he spoke, he pushed himself out from under the truck. The caster wheels on the rolling creeper squeaked in protest. His face was dark from the dirt and grease of the old engine. With a huff, he sat up and looked meaningfully atmy grandfather, who pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out, and stuck it between his lips.
    â€œHe better be careful somebody don’t go put him in his place,” he finally agreed. Despite the oil, grease, and gasoline cans, he flicked open the tarnished lighter and held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, and then blew it out both nostrils. No one spoke and finally, my grandfather pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, hawked up a wad of phlegm and spit.
    â€œâ€”you know?”
    Natalie’s question brought me sharply back to the present.
    â€œKnow what?” I asked.
    Natalie sighed in exaggerated exasperation. “You weren’t listening.”
    â€œI was,” I insisted. “Really.”
    â€œI said that my dad told my mom that he got to Mr. Holmes’ place and Mr. Holmes had his shotgun out. He said he was fed up with the way people treated him and his family. He said it wasn’t his fault that people were losing their farms or that his pigs smelled. He even threatened Dad.”
    We were all silent for several moments, no one knowing what to say. Finally, Grace spoke up. “I’m glad my dad isn’t a cop. It sounds too dangerous.”
    Grace’s father was a dentist and, like most of the fathers in town, traveled to Winston to work—or, at least, he had until the year before when he announced to Grace’s mother one