The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 26

Grace’s ninth and tenth birthdays were marked by light but tasteless angel food cake and delicious chocolate mint ice cream served on brightly colored paper plates in the ranch’s kitchen.

She knew that Mrs. Stage tried to make a party out of the situation, but each year there were different kids living at the ranch, many too young to understand what was going on, others crying a lot and in no mood to celebrate.

The first time, a week before Grace’s ninth, Ramona asked her what flavor cake she preferred.

She said, “Angel food, please,” because Ramona always baked angel food and even though it didn’t taste like much, Grace knew she could pull it off easily.

“Well, sure, honey, I can do that. How about some special frosting? Chocolate, vanilla? Anything else that tickles your fancy — you tell me piña colada, I’ll sure as heck try to find it.”

Flavors don’t matter. Birthdays don’t matter.

Grace said, “Chocolate is good.”

Fosters moved in and out of the ranch like cars at a shopping center parking lot. Many were whisked away soon, still scared. When new kids asked Grace questions, she made sure to be helpful; when you had knowledge you were considered bigger than you actually were. She also made sure to feed and change the little kids when there were too many for Ramona to handle at one time and she learned how to hum and coo in a way that calmed babies down.

All that was just the job she’d taken on for herself. There was no point getting to know anyone; the more time she had to herself, the better.

Mostly, she read and walked. The desert turned all sorts of colors when the sun began to fade. Her favorite was a light purple that glowed. The color chart in her science curriculum said it was magenta.

The only constant was Bobby Canova. He couldn’t eat cake or ice cream, so during what Mrs. Stage called the “birthday bashes” she propped his chair up against the table and belted him in and fixed one of his nutritional shakes. He’d give one of his hard-to-read smiles and roll his head and make his noises and Mrs. Stage would say, “He loves his parties.”

Birthday girl or not, Grace took charge and fed him through a straw. Because the birthday thing was really for Mrs. Stage, not her.

There was another reason she wanted to help, something she’d noticed between her ninth and tenth birthdays: Mrs. Stage was walking and talking slower, standing kind of bent over and also sleeping more. Some mornings, Grace would come down and find the kitchen empty. Get to sit by herself and enjoy the quiet, drinking milk and juice and waiting.

It was as if Ramona had gotten much older, all of a sudden. Grace hoped if she could stop her from wearing out completely, like a rusty machine, the ranch could stay like it was for a while. She began cleaning rooms other than her own, started helping with laundry. Even calling the new pest man, Jorge, when she saw too many big spiders or beetles or white ants.

Ramona said, “Grace, you don’t need to be such a worker bee. You’re growing up too fast.”

But she never stopped Grace from pitching in.

As her eleventh birthday approached, Grace noticed that her work didn’t seem to be helping as much; Mrs. Stage was slowing even more and sometimes she placed her hand on her chest as if it hurt to breathe.

That made Grace stop thinking of the ranch as her home and more like just another foster.

One day, she knew, some caseworker would show up and tell her to pack her things.

In the meantime, she’d walk and read and learn as much as she could.

During bashes, Ramona made a big show of bringing the cake to the table, studded with blazing candles, announcing that Grace should stand up while everyone sang her “Happy Birthday” because Grace was the “honoree.”

Fosters who were old enough were asked to join in on Ramona’s screechy “Happy Birthday” followed by her call for “Many more!” Mostly there were humming and uncomfortable looks around the table, no meaningful supplement to Ramona’s tone-deaf delivery.

A few days before Grace’s eleventh birthday, Ramona said, “How about lemon frosting instead of chocolate?”

Grace pretended to consider that. “Sure. Thank you.”

Opening a drawer, Ramona held up a box of frosting mix she’d already bought. Mediterranean Lemon. “This year, he might be able to make it — Professor Bluestone. That’d be nice, huh?”

“Yes.”

“He thinks you’re a genius.”

Grace nodded.

“He told you he thought you were smart?” said Ramona.

Many times. “Kind of.”

“Well... I invited him, if he can show up, he will.”

He couldn’t. Didn’t.

Once in a while the caseworker bringing or taking a foster was Wayne Knutsen. When he saw Grace, he’d look away, embarrassed, and Grace wondered why. Then she figured it out: He’d told her he was quitting social services to become a lawyer, hadn’t kept his word, and didn’t want to be reminded of his failure.

That was the thing about knowing people’s secrets: It could make them not like you.

But one evening, after settling in a terrified little black-Asian girl named Saraquina, Wayne headed straight for Grace, who was looking at the desert and pretending not to know he was there.

“Hey, there. Remember me?”

“You brought me.”

“There you go,” he said, smiling. “Wayne. They tell me you’re plowing your way through advanced educational materials. So everything’s working out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get a kick out of hitting the books — out of studying, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, fooling with his ponytail. “Gonna have to start calling you Amazing Grace.” His eyes fluttered and he reached out a hand, as if to pat her head, drew it back quickly. “Well, that’s great. The fact that you love to study, I mean. I could probably use your help.”

“With what?”

Wayne laughed. “Just kidding.”

Grace said, “Law school?”

He faced the desert, turned serious, finally shrugged. “You are a sharp one... yup, law school, getting through is a challenge. I work all day, go to classes at night, the books aren’t interesting like the stuff you’re learning.”

He sighed. “At your age, I was just like you. Got a kick out of gaining new knowledge. But now? I’m forty-seven, Grace. If I could devote full time to my studies, I could probably do better. But being as it’s only part-time, I’m stuck with an unaccredited school. That means not the best school, Grace, so good luck passing the bar — the lawyer’s exam.”

He kept looking at magenta sand. “It’s going to take me a while to finish. If I finish.”

“You will,” said Grace.

He scratched his nose, turned, and gave Grace a long, thoughtful look. “That’s your prediction, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s what you want.”

“Hmm. Well, sometimes I’m not sure about that — anyway, continue to amaze us, Ms. Grace. You’ve sure got the raw material — brains, I mean. That gives you an advantage in this crazy world even though...” He shook his head. “Bottom line, you’re in good shape, kid.”

Grace said nothing.

Wayne said, “That was what we call a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, well... so you really do like it here?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a good person, Ramona. Can’t say no to a kid in need, not many like her. That’s why I thought she’d be good for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I felt you deserved it,” he said. “After everything you went through.”

No such thing as deserve.

Grace said “Thank you” again.

“Anyway,” said Wayne, “I’m glad we could chat... listen, here’s my card, if you ever need something. Not that you’re likely to, Ramona tells me you’re pretty darn self-sufficient — know how to take care of yourself.”

He kept translating phrases Grace already understood like most grown-ups did. The only one who didn’t think she was stupid was Malcolm Bluestone. Except in the beginning, when he also explained too much. But somehow he figured out what Grace understood.

Wayne’s pudgy fingers dangled the card. Grace took it and thanked him a fourth time, hoping that would end the conversation and she could go inside and get back to a book on butterflies and moths.

Danaus plexippus. The monarch. Seeing pictures of them swarming a rooftop, a cloud of orange and black, made Grace look up “monarch” in her dictionary.

A sovereign ruler. A king or queen.

Grace couldn’t see anything kingy or queeny about the butterflies. She’d have called them pumpkin fliers. Or flame bugs, something like that. Maybe the scientist who named them was feeling like a big shot when he—

Wayne was saying, “No need to thank me, just doing my job.”

But he was smiling and looking relaxed.

Make people happy about themselves, they won’t bother you.

Grace smiled back. Winking at her, Wayne turned and trudged to his car.

After he drove away, Grace looked at the card.

The first wastebasket she found was in the corner of the living room and that’s where the card ended up.

Malcolm Bluestone’s appearances were irregular events that Grace looked forward to because he always brought her something interesting: new curriculum materials, books, and best of all, old magazines. Grace found the advertisements the most intriguing features, all those photos and paintings that taught her about the way things used to be.

There were all kinds of magazines. Malcolm was a big reader, too, maybe that’s why he understood her.

Réalités seemed to be for people who wanted to live in France and had a lot of money and ate strange things.

House and Garden was about making your house fancy so people would like you.

Popular Mechanics and Popular Science showed you how to build things you probably wouldn’t use and talked about fantastic things that were supposed to happen but so far hadn’t, like flying cars and movies with smells coming out of holes in the wall of the theater.

Once, after reading four copies of Popular Science cover to cover, Grace had a night of nice dreams imagining herself flying in a car above the desert.

The Saturday Evening Post had bright, colorful paintings of smiling people with shiny hair, and big families, and birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving parties so crowded you could barely fit into the room. Turkey, too, there was always a huge roast turkey about to be cut up by a clean-looking man with a big knife. Sometimes a ham, with black things sticking out of it and pineapple slices on top.

The smiling people seemed like space aliens. Grace enjoyed the paintings the same way she liked reading about astronomy.

Time and Newsweek wrote about sad, angry, and boring things and gave opinions about books and movies. Grace couldn’t see any difference between the two of them and she couldn’t understand why anyone would use someone else’s opinion rather than their own.

The most interesting magazine was Psychology Today. Malcolm began bringing those when Grace turned ten, as if she’d finally earned something. Right away she got interested in experiments you could do with people, things that made them act smart or stupid, hate or like or ignore each other.

She especially enjoyed the ones where people acted differently when they were alone or in groups.

Also, experiments that showed how you could lead people the way you wanted if you made them feel really good or really bad.

Once, after Malcolm hadn’t shown up in a long time, he asked if he could give Grace a few more tests — “nothing time consuming, just more stories about pictures.” She said, “Sure,” but also waved a copy of Psychology Today. “Do you have more of these?”

“I wondered what you’d think. Piqued your interest?”

“Yes.”

“Sure, Grace, you can have any back copies I can scare up — you know, I think there might be some in the car.”

Grace tagged along as they left the house and walked to his brown Buick station wagon. A woman sat in the front passenger seat, thin-faced with what looked like snow-white hair.

Grace had never thought of Malcolm riding around with anyone.

Then she told herself that was stupid. He was a friendly person, probably had all sorts of friends. A whole world outside the ranch and magazines and psychological tests for fosters.

For some reason, that made Grace’s tummy hurt, right under the middle of her rib cage. She looked away from the woman.

The passenger window lowered. A soft, kind of whispery voice said, “Hey, there.”

Grace, forced to turn and face the woman, noticed her eyebrows first. Perfectly shaped little half circles. The mouth smiling at her was coated with purple-red lipstick.

Straight white teeth. Pointy chin. A dimple on the left cheek. A really attractive woman; she looked like someone in Réalités, wearing haute couture, eating escargots, and drinking Bordeaux in Paris or Cannes or in a grand château in the Loire Valley.

Grace said, “Hi,” so softly she barely heard herself. The white-haired woman got out of the station wagon. She was about Malcolm’s age and tall — nothing like Malcolm’s skyscraper height but still one of the tallest women Grace had ever seen — and thin as a crane. She wore a gray sweater, black pants, and flat silver shoes with gold buckles. Her hair wasn’t white; sunlight transformed it to really light blond, kind of gold at the same time it was kind of silver.

What Réalités called “ash blond.”

Bangs that looked as if they’d been cut with the aid of a ruler reached halfway down a smooth, pale forehead. The eyes beneath the bangs were kind of squinty, widely spaced, with tiny lines at the corners. Deep-blue eyes that settled easily on Grace, and even though the woman was still smiling, Grace felt there was sadness in her.

Malcolm said, “Ms. Grace Blades, this is Professor Sophia Muller. Professor, Grace.”

The blond woman held out her hand to Grace. “Ignore all that foofaraw, I’m his wife. Call me Sophie.”

Her fingers were long, smooth, cool, with pearly nails that shone like chrome on a car. She looked like a queen in a picture book. Like a monarch.

Malcolm was big but he wasn’t really monarch-y. More like Little John in Robin Hood. A kindly giant. Not like the one up the beanstalk...

Professor Sophia Muller said, “Grace is a pretty name.” Wider smile. “For a pretty girl.”

Grace felt her face go hot.

Professor Sophia Muller sensed she’d done something wrong because she looked briefly at her husband.

She’s his wife, be nice to her.

Grace said, “Thank you for the compliment. Pleased to meet you, Professor Muller.”

She’s his wife but she doesn’t use his name?

No one talked for a moment then Malcolm said, “Oh, yeah, Psych Today,” and unlatched the station wagon’s rear door, emerging with an armload of magazines.

Professor Sophia Muller said, “So he found a way to unload his collection. Grace, I should pay you for making next spring cleaning easier.”

Grace knew she was expected to smile and did.

Malcolm Bluestone said, “I’ll bring these to your room.”

Grace said, “I can do it.”

“Kind of heavy, Grace.”

Sophia Muller said, “Let’s all do it, three people will make it a snap.”

Dividing the magazines, they beelined to the house with Grace leading, Malcolm and Sophie trailing as they curtailed their strides to avoid trampling Grace’s heels.

Grace had no idea what they were thinking but she was thinking: He introduced us. So she didn’t know my name before.

So he never told her about me.

Was that because he didn’t talk about fosters?

Or Grace wasn’t that important to him?

It was like he’d read her mind because the next time he showed up, a week later, he said, “Enjoying the psych stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Sophie really enjoyed meeting you.”

Grace lied. “I enjoyed meeting her, too.” She had nothing against new people but didn’t think much about them.

When she and Malcolm had settled in the living room to complete the second part of the new picture-story test, he said, “You probably figured this out: I never told Sophie about you because of confidentiality — your privacy. Beyond that, I take what we do seriously, it’s not a topic for casual conversation. Anyway, it’s not about me, you’re the star.”

“Star of what?” said Grace, even though she had a pretty good idea of what he meant. For some reason, she wanted him to talk more.

“Of what we do together, Grace. My goal is to optimize your education.”

Not explaining “optimize.” He was the only person who treated her like she wasn’t stupid.

“I explained — about not discussing you, because I didn’t want you to think you weren’t important. On the contrary, you are, and that’s precisely why I need to guard your privacy. Even though you have no legal right to confidentiality. Know why not?”

“Because I’m a foster?”

Soft brown eyes drooped sadly. “No, but that’s a logical answer. The actual reason is no kids under eighteen have a right to confidentiality, even things they tell psychologists. I think that’s absurd and terribly wrong, Grace. I think we need to respect children a lot more than we do. So I ignore the rules and keep secrets a hundred percent and don’t write things down that kids wouldn’t want written down.”

His words were tumbling out fast. Dots of pink colored his generous cheeks and one hand was a fist the size of a baseball glove.

Grace said, “Respect your elders but also respect your youngers.”

Malcolm stared at her. Broke out laughing. The fist bumped against the tabletop. “That’s brilliant, Grace. May I borrow it so I can sound brilliant?”

“Sure.”

“You’re exactly right. We need to look at all people as if they’re respectable and intelligent. Even infants. There was a psychologist — a famous one named William James, he lived a long time ago, was considered important, anything he said people listened to. He was convinced babies lived in a ‘blooming, buzzing confusion.’ Like they were insects, like there was no pattern to how they felt or thought or acted. In William James’s day, that sounded pretty reasonable. Know why?”

“People didn’t know any better.”

“Precisely, Grace, and the reason they didn’t know any better was because they had no idea how to measure what babies were feeling or thinking. Then psychologists got smarter and developed tests and poof!” — he snapped his fingers — “wouldn’t you know it, babies got smarter. And that trend continues, Grace. It’s what makes psychology exciting, at least to me. We’re learning so much all the time. Not just about human infants. Higher animals, too — whales, dolphins, monkeys, even birds — turns out crows are super clever. The smarter we get about understanding them, the smarter they get. So maybe we should start out assuming everyone’s smart.”

He always liked to talk but even for him this was a lot of words.

Grace said, “Maybe.”

Malcolm crossed a tree-trunk leg. “I’m probably being tedious. Anyway, those are the reasons I didn’t tell Sophie about you. Precisely because you’re important.”

Grace’s tummy began hurting again. The same way it had when Professor Muller told her she was pretty. She covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting something stupid to fall out.

Malcolm said, “Here’s a new magazine you might want to take a look at.”

Out of his briefcase came a volume with an orange paper cover and no pictures, just words. At the top was the title: Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology.

“Thank you.”

He laughed. “Don’t thank me so soon, Grace. See if you like it. This isn’t like Psych Today, which is for people who haven’t studied psychology on a high level. This is for actual psychologists and to be truthful, some of it’s rather hard to understand. I don’t always understand everything. You may find it the essence of dull.”

Grace flipped a page. Lots of words, small letters, a bar graph at the bottom.

He took out the new picture test. “Okay. Let’s get to work. And thanks for your continuing help.”

“With what?”

“The testing.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“I know, Grace. For you tests are mental exercise. But even so, you’ve helped me. I have a new understanding of ultra-gifted kids in a way I didn’t before I met you.”

Again, Grace had no idea what to say.

Malcolm ran a finger under the neckband of his turtleneck sweater. “Hot in here... what I’m trying to get across, Grace, is that while you’re unique, you have much to teach about how extremely bright children cope with challenges.”

The word “challenges” was like a branding iron in one of Steve Stage’s western movies, turning the pain in Grace’s belly to fire. She moved her hand from her mouth but something she couldn’t believe still fell out: “You pity me.”

What was worse than the words was the anger in her voice. A bad girl, a demon, talking through her.

Malcolm held up his hands, as if he had no idea what to do with them.

As if he didn’t want to be hit.

Grace began to cry. “I’m sorry, Professor Bluestone.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For saying that.”

“Grace, you can feel or say anything you want.”

He handed her a tissue. She snatched it and dried her eyes, disgusted with herself for acting like a demonic baby.

Now everything would change.

More tears trickled out. She slapped them away, pleased that she’d made her face sting.

Malcolm waited awhile before speaking. “I think I get why you’re upset. You don’t want me to see you as vulnerable. Am I right, Grace?”

She sniffed, dabbed. Nodded.

“Well, I don’t see you that way, Grace. Just the opposite, I see you as resilient. So I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear.”

He waited some more. Grace remained silent, the tissue compressed in her taut hand.

“I came here originally because Ramona told me how smart you were, she was concerned that the regular curriculum was useless. She also gave me your history. Because I asked her, that’s what I do, it’s part of being thorough. The more I learned about you the more I realized how remarkably you’ve developed. Nevertheless, I’d be dishonest if I pretended you hadn’t faced challenges. We all do. But do I pity you? Absolutely not.”

Grace hung her head. She wished this day would end.

“Oh, boy,” Malcolm said. “I’m digging myself deeper... okay, give me another chance to explain.”

Silence.

“May I?”

Nod.

“I like to think of myself as a caring person but pity is not part of my repertoire because pity lowers people. However” — he cleared his throat — “I am interested in people who deal with tough situations well. How they make sense of their world when things get rough. Because I think psychology needs to be more positive. To learn about strengths as well as weaknesses. Maybe I feel that way because of Sophie, what her parents went through. They endured a terrible experience called the Holocaust — I can’t recall if any of the curriculum materials covered that—”

“History, Module Seventeen,” said Grace. “World War Two and Its Aftermath. Hitler, Himmler, Nazis, storm troopers, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Treb... linko?”

“Treblinka. Sophie’s parents ended up in a camp called Buchenwald. They survived and came to America and were blessed with Sophie and led wonderful lives. When I met them, their joyful approach to life surprised me because when you learn to become a psychologist it’s all about problems and weakness and getting to know Sophie’s parents taught me I’d missed a lot. Then they died — nothing to do with Buchenwald, they got old and sick and passed. That made me even more intent on understanding people who adjust and adapt well. What I call super survivors.”

Grace said, “She uses another name.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re Bluestone, she’s Muller. Is that because she wants to remember her family in a special way?”

Malcolm blinked. “Grace, I am privileged to know you.”

Again, the branding iron. Why couldn’t she accept nice things?

Grace’s eyes shot down to the table, fixed on the orange cover of the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology. The articles inside were listed there and the first title she saw was about randomly truncated variable interval reinforcement in a sample of neurologically enhanced hooded rats.

This was going to be the essence of dull.

“Yeah, I know,” said Malcolm, smiling. “Still, you’ll probably get more out of it than my grad students.”

Two months after Grace’s eleventh-birthday bash, three new fosters arrived at the ranch, in a strange and different way.

The first odd thing was they came at night, when everyone except Ramona and Grace was asleep. Ramona would probably have been sleeping, she’d been going in earlier and earlier, keeping medicine in her apron pocket, muttering about needing to get off her feet. Grace had been studying her intently, trying to figure out when the ranch would close and she’d end up exiled to a place she wouldn’t like.

Grace was up because she tended to wake in the middle of the night, feel alert, and read herself back to sleep. That’s what she was doing when she heard Ramona descend the stairs.

She went to check, found Ramona at the front door, looking nervous and glancing at the big Hamilton man’s watch she always wore, the one Steve Stage had worn when he was alive.

Ramona turned to see Grace. “Got some new ones checking in, Grace. You’d best be heading back to slumber-land.”

“I can help.”

“No, you go to your room.” Speaking more roughly than usual.

Grace obeyed and climbed the stairs. Opening her window, she perched on her bed with a clear view of what was happening down below.

A big dark-green car and a white-and-black police car were parked in front of the house.

Out of the police car stepped two policemen in tan uniforms. Out of the green car stepped a man in a suit with a badge clipped to his breast pocket. All three were big men, with mustaches. They formed a half circle facing Ramona. A conversation Grace couldn’t hear lasted for a while, everyone looking serious. Then one of the uniformed policemen opened the rear door of the police car and made a waving motion.

Out came three kids, two boys and a girl.

The smaller boy was about Grace’s age, the taller one older — thirteen or fourteen. The girl was the youngest, maybe eight or nine, and she stood in a way that made her seem even smaller than she was.

All three were blond, really light blond, just as light as Sophia Muller. Their hair was like straw in the wind, wild and sticking out all over the place.

Long hair, reaching below their waists, even the boys.

Their clothes looked strange: too-large, loose-fitting black shirts with no collars and baggy, too-long black pants whose bottoms collected on the dirt like accordions.

As if the three of them were members of a club that you needed a uniform for but the uniforms hadn’t come out right.

The girl stood close to the younger boy, who was biting his nails and tapping his foot. Those two had round, soft faces and looked almost like twins, if she hadn’t been so much younger. He moved his shoulder so it touched hers and she began sucking her thumb. His foot began tapping faster.

The older boy had a longer face. He stood away from them and seemed relaxed, slouching and bending one leg as his eyes moved all over the place. First he stared straight at the house, then past the house and out to the desert, followed by a quick swing toward Ramona.

Then his face tilted upward. Aiming himself directly at Grace. She realized she’d left her light on, was framed like a picture.

The older boy locked in on her eyes and smiled. He was handsome, with a firm jaw and a crooked smile. His look said he and Grace shared a secret. But there was nothing friendly about the smile.

Just the opposite, a hungry smile. Like he was a coyote and she was food.

Grace backed away from the window and drew her curtains.

She thought, but couldn’t be sure, that she heard laughter from down below.

The following morning, as usual, Grace was the first to get up and Ramona entered the kitchen as she was pouring herself a second glass of juice.

“Morning, Ms. Blades.” Ramona began fiddling with the coffeemaker.

“Who are they?”

Ramona’s hands stilled. “I figured you’d be curious. But trust me, Grace, don’t be.” She kept her back to Grace, as if she and Grace didn’t know each other as well as Grace thought they did.

When she’d loaded coffee into the urn, she said, “I’ll tell you their names because obviously you need to call them something. But that’s it, okay?”

It’s not okay at all, it’s stupid. “Sure.”

“They’ll be gone soon, anyway. It’s a favor I’m doing for social services because they need a...” Head shake. “That’s all you need to know, young lady.”

Walking to the fridge, Ramona pulled out eggs and butter.

Grace said, “Their names...”

“What... oh, yeah. Okay, the big one is Sam, his brother is Ty, the little sister is Lily. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Sam, Ty, Lily,” Ramona repeated. As if Grace needed to memorize a lesson.

Sam. That smile remained in her head, like a bad smell. Ty and Lily had acted like scared babies and she didn’t want to spend time with them, either.

Ramona began frying up a clump of her tasteless eggs. The coffeemaker burbled. She looked at her man’s watch. “Oops, better check on Bobby.”

She went upstairs and returned looking exhausted as she eased Bobby into the kitchen. He was walking on two canes that fit around his elbows, moving slowly, with jerks and starts. In the middle of his trek to the table, he stopped and flashed Grace one of his confusing smiles. Or maybe he wasn’t smiling at Grace, just at... being there. But it was better than Sam’s smile so she smiled back and helped Ramona seat him and strap him in and filled his special cup from one of the cans of nutritional shakes in the fridge.

During Ramona’s absence, bumps had begun sounding from above. The three new fosters were awake but they hadn’t come down.

Grace fed Bobby his shake. He gurgled and rolled his head, worked hard at sucking up liquid, finally succeeded.

Ramona kept frying. Her reaction to Grace being helpful with Bobby had changed over three years. She’d started out insisting Grace didn’t need to work, she was a kid, not a caretaker. When Grace kept up her chores, anyway, Ramona began thanking her.

But that had stopped, too. Nowadays, Ramona said nothing, expecting Grace to be part of the ranch routine.

As she placed a plate of eggs in front of Grace, the bumps from the second floor grew louder and faster and moments later they transformed to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of feet on stairs. Six feet made a lot of noise. To Grace it sounded like stampeding horses in one of Steve Stage’s old movies.

Sam appeared first, swaggering into the kitchen as if he’d always lived there. Sharp eyes took in the room, settled on the fry pan. “Thanks so much, ma’am, but I don’t eat eggs. None of us do. It’s animal matter.”

Ty and Lily hid themselves behind him, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Ty was even softer-looking up close, all boy, no man. Sam, on the other hand, had muscles in his arms and the beginnings of facial hair: oily-looking smudges on his chin and above his upper lip.

All three of them had on the same strange black clothing they’d arrived in. Up close, Grace could see the uniforms were hand-sewn, with clumsy, crooked stitching and loose threads, fashioned of a rough fabric that looked more like a bag for potatoes than for clothes.

Another weird thing she noticed now was that Sam wore an earring, a small gold loop that pierced his left lobe.

Grace ignored them and ate but a cold feeling was spreading on the back of her neck. Glancing up from her plate, she saw Sam looking at her. His lips would’ve been pretty on a girl but on him they looked like... a costume.

Grace returned to her plate. He snorted.

Ramona said, “You’re vegetarians, huh?”

Sam said, “Most vegetarians eat eggs and milk. We’re vegan.”

“Be nice if someone told me. So what’s your usual breakfast?”

“Greens,” said Sam.

“Vegetables?”

“Green vegetables, ma’am. Manna from the earth.”

“Wasn’t manna birds or something?”

“No, ma’am, that was the miraculous quail visited upon the sinful Hebrews. Manna was a heavenly vegetable.”

Ramona grunted. “Greens...” She rummaged in the fridge. “I’ve got lettuce and cucumbers that were supposed to be for dinner but I suppose I can cook something else for dinner. Sit down and I’ll wash you a mess of greens.”

Talking differently than she did to other fosters. Like she didn’t want these kids here.

“Where?” said Sam.

“Where what?”

“Where should we sit, ma’am?”

“Where?” said Ramona. “At the table.”

“I understand that, ma’am, but where at the table? Please assign us positions.”

Ramona put her hands on her hips. Bobby’s head rolled. Sam laughed. At Bobby.

Ty and Lily hadn’t uttered a word, remained pressed together, same as last night.

Ramona said, “Positions, huh? Okay, you — big brother — sit over there.” Pointing to the seat farthest from Bobby. “Then we’ll have your little brother sit next to this gentleman, who is Bobby, and you, cutie — Lily — you’re between Ty and this young lady, who is Grace. She’s very smart and she likes her privacy.”

Aiming the statement at Sam. Maybe she’d seen the hunger, too.

Sam grinned. Usually, Grace didn’t like being protected, but this morning, she didn’t mind it at all.

Sam moved toward her, shifted direction, and followed Ramona’s seating instructions. Telling his siblings, “Go.”

They obeyed.

Once seated, he flicked his earring. “Privacy is an illusion.”

Ramona glared. “Well, then, you go on respecting Ms. Blades’s illusion.”

“Blades,” said Sam, as if he found the name amusing. “Of course, ma’am. We’re here to be respectful. And grateful.” He snickered. “We’re here to be absolutely perfect.”

That day, at ten a.m., Grace experienced a new emotion.

Malcolm Bluestone drove up in his brown station wagon, hauled out what she recognized as testing materials, but when she walked up to him, he said, “Hi, there. I think we’ll have some time in the afternoon.”

Grace looked at the tests.

“Oh, these,” said Malcolm. “I’m going to be spending some time with the new fosters.”

Going to be. Not have to. That made it his decision, he preferred to be with the weirdos in the weird clothes.

Grace turned away.

“Maybe one p.m.?” Malcolm called out. “Love to hear how you liked the anthropology materials.”

Grace didn’t answer. Her eyes were burning and her chest felt tight.

She’d read about this and now she felt it. Jealousy.

She’d make sure to be somewhere else at one p.m.

Malcolm found her at two thirty. She’d been reading, sitting behind a group of old oak trees on the far side of the green slimy pool, her back feeling the roughness of the bark. For part of the time, Bobby had been nearby. Sitting limply on the pool deck and dangling his feet in the water and laughing, as Ramona clutched his elbow to keep him steady.

Grace’s current favorite book was a thick volume on spiders written by a biologist from Oxford University in England. She was concentrating on the wolf spider, with its fangs and its hiding holes from which it killed its food. Wolf spiders also carried their eggs — their babies — on their stomachs. A lot of the killing they did was to stay healthy so they could be good mothers...

When Ramona and Bobby left, Grace was reading about the wolf spider’s breeding habits and didn’t notice.

At two thirty, Grace was thirsty. Figuring Malcolm was gone, she headed back toward the house for some juice. He was just coming out the front door and smiled. “There you are! Got time for anthropology?”

“I’m tired,” she said, and went inside.

The following day, he arrived earlier than ever, when everyone was still in the kitchen. Grace was poking rubbery eggs, Bobby was struggling with his nutritional drink, and the new fosters, still in their strange clothing, were eating huge plates of salad.

Sam had given up smiling hungrily at Grace after she kept ignoring him. Now when their eyes met, he yawned and snickered. Ty and Lily continued to have frightened eyes and stick close to each other. Like they were brother and sister but Sam was outside the circle.

If Sam was Grace’s brother she’d have kept him outside, too.

When Malcolm entered the kitchen, the room got small.

Sam said, “Again?” with a whine in his voice.

“Only if you’re willing,” said Malcolm. “But not now, anyway. I need to confer with Grace.”

“Confer,” said Sam.

“It means—”

Sam laughed. “I know what it means. I just don’t get what you’d confer with her about.”

Malcolm drew himself up even taller. His lips moved, as if he was trying to figure out an answer. Instead, he turned to Grace. “If you’ve got time, Ms. Blades.”

“Ms. Blades,” said Sam.

Lily let out a small whimpering sound. Sam whipped his head toward her. That silenced the little girl. Ty watched, eyes soft and moist, and Grace felt like telling him everything would be okay. Then she told herself, That’s probably a lie, and went back to her eggs.

Malcolm said, “Grace?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you’ve got time...”

“Sure,” she snapped and marched out of the kitchen.

Sam said, “Someone’s got an attitude.” He was the only person laughing.

When they were settled in the living room, Malcolm said, “They’ll be gone, soon.”

Grace said, “Who?”

Malcolm’s smile was faint and not at all happy. “Precisely. Okay, the so-called primitive tribes of Borneo and Sumatra. What did you think of their...”

For the next hour, Grace listened and commented, told him what she figured he wanted to hear. The jealousy she’d experienced had faded but now she found herself bored with his little speeches, just wanting to be alone.

Still, she cooperated. He’d done lots of nice things for her and she figured she’d find him interesting again.

The next morning, she was up extra early at six, spent some time in bed reading before descending to the kitchen. As she passed the door to the room where the new fosters slept, she heard a young voice whining or crying — a girl, obviously Lily — then a deeper voice shushing her to silence.

She poured herself milk and waited for Ramona. When she was still alone at seven, she began to wonder if Ramona was okay, she’d been looking so tired and seemed to be taking more pills. At seven fifteen, she was considering knocking on Ramona’s door. Against the rules, but still...

As she contemplated, a terrible noise from the second floor yanked her out of her chair and she shot to her feet.

More crying. But not Lily.

The door to Bobby’s room was wide open. Ramona stood at the side of his bed, still in her nightclothes, her mouth sunken looking and different and Grace realized she hadn’t put in her teeth. Ramona’s feet were bare. Reading glasses dangled from a chain across her flat chest. Moaning and tearing at her hair, she kept staring at Bobby, eyes wild and frightened.

Bobby lay on his back, mouth open wider than ever, his eyes half shut and filmed as if a snail had slithered across them. Shiny stuff streaked his chin. His face was a strange color, gray with green around the edges. Like mossy rock, not human skin.

Ramona moaned and said, “Oh, no,” and pointed at Bobby. As if Grace needed direction.

Bobby’s pajama top had been ripped open, revealing a sliver of gray skin. No movement from breathing. From anything.

The tube that fed him air at night was on the floor at the side of the bed, still hissing. Lately, Bobby had taken to struggling in his sleep, calling out, making noises that could scare you if you didn’t know about him. He’d never dislodged the tube but Ramona worried he might so she’d begun taping the yellowish rubber to his pajama top. Taping it tight, Grace knew, because sometimes she was the one to untape in the morning and that took effort.

The tape was still attached to the tube as it hissed on the floor, a yellowish snake.

Grace stood there. Ramona ran past her, down the stairs. Grace heard the kitchen door slam.

She stayed up there with Bobby for no reason. Looking at him. Looking at death. She’d seen it before but he looked different than the strangers in the red room. No blood, no frenzied twisting of the body, nothing gross, at all.

Just the opposite, really. He looked... peaceful.

Except for the weird skin color that seemed to be getting greener and greener.

She went back downstairs, passed the room where the three new fosters slept and heard more shushing.

Then: laughter.

Ramona wasn’t in the house and it took a while to find her but Grace did: outside, standing at the far end of the green pool, still tearing at her hair, pacing back and forth.

Grace approached her slowly. When people got their nerves all excited you never knew what could happen.

When Ramona saw her, she began shaking her head. Violently, as if trying to dislodge something painful that had stuck itself in her brain.

Grace stopped.

Ramona barked, “Go!”

Grace didn’t move.

Ramona screamed, “Didn’t you hear me? Go inside!”

Grace turned to leave. Before she completed the arc, movement caught her eye and she swiveled quickly.

Just in time to see Ramona’s face scrunched up in pain, now her color was bad, really pale, and she was clutching her chest and her toothless mouth was an O of pain and fear as she lost balance and stumbled forward.

Eyes rolling back, she fell into the green, murky water.

Grace hurtled toward her.

Ramona was sinking fast but Grace managed to get hold of one of her hands and started pulling. Slime coated both of them and she lost her grip and Ramona began to sink. Throwing herself belly-down on the cement pool deck, Grace regained her hold, added her other hand, yanked hard. Sharp pain cut through her back and her shoulders and her neck.

No matter what, she would not let go.

Panting and growling, she managed to pull Ramona up high enough to draw the old woman’s face out of the water.

The moment she saw Ramona, algae-streaked, mouth wide open, eyes unseeing, just like Bobby’s, she knew she was wasting her time, this was her second look at death in one morning. But she held on to Ramona and managed to raise herself to a crouch and draw Ramona a few more inches out of the pool. After that, things got easier because the parts of Ramona still in the water were floating, her lifeless body cooperating as Grace, still crouching, scuttling awkwardly like a crab, dragged her all the way around the pool to the shallow end where her body floated above the steps and Grace was able to pull her out completely.

Grace stood there, soaked, out of breath. Ramona’s death looked worse than Bobby’s. Her face was twisted, like she’d died upset about something.

But still not as bad as the red room...

Touching Ramona’s chest, then making sure by touching Ramona’s green-slimed neck, Grace knew for sure.

Gone.

Leaving Ramona on the pool deck, an old, tired dead thing soaking up bright morning desert sun, Grace ran to the house and got on the phone.

The 911 operator asked her to stay on the line. While she was waiting, the three new fosters came down the stairs, this time Ty first, then Lily, Sam backing them up.

Ty’s eyes met Grace’s. He shook his head and frowned, as if terribly disappointed. Lily knuckled her eyes and cried silently. Sam had no expression on his face.

But when he turned away to look out the kitchen window, with a clear view of Ramona’s body, Grace saw the beginnings of a smile curving his too-pretty lips.

An ambulance came first and Grace directed the fire department men to Ramona. Moments later, three police cars arrived, then a green car like the one that had been there when the new fosters arrived. Followed by a blue car and a black car. Four men and two women, all wearing badges, looked at Ramona, talked to the fire department men, finally headed for Grace.

She told them, “There’s another dead person, upstairs.”

All four fosters were corralled in the kitchen, under the eye of one of the uniformed policewomen, who stood with her arms folded across her chest.

Soon after, the two woman detectives and two male detectives came in and divided up the children. One detective to a kid.

Grace got a small, thin man who introduced himself as Ray but his badge said R. G. Ballance. He took her to the small butler’s pantry off the kitchen. He was the oldest of the four detectives, with white hair and wrinkles. Grace’s clothes were still damp with spots and shreds of green slime attached.

He pointed to a chair and said, “Sit down, dear,” but remained on his feet. When Grace complied, he went on: “Can I get you some water” — checking his notepad — “Grace?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Need a sweater? You know, maybe you should change into dry clothes first.”

“I’m okay, sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s drying fast.”

“Hmm... all right, then, I don’t want to ask you to do anything that’s hard for you, Grace. But if you could tell me what you saw — if you saw anything — that would be helpful.”

Grace told him.

About Bobby in his bed, the air tube on the floor, Ramona standing there, really upset, then fleeing downstairs.

About Grace waiting, wanting to give her time to calm down. Finally looking for her.

Ramona yelling at her to go inside, which wasn’t like her, she never yelled.

About Grace starting to obey but then Ramona touched her chest and fell.

When she got to the part about grabbing Ramona’s hand and holding on and finally managing to draw her to the shallow end, she told R. G. Ballance a short version.

He said, “Wow, you’re to be commended — that means you did something good.”

“It didn’t work.”

“It... yeah, I guess so, afraid not. But still, you tried your best. How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Almost twelve?”

“My birthday was a month ago.” We had angel food cake and chocolate mint ice cream for the third time and there won’t be a fourth time.

“Just eleven,” said Ray. “Wow. Well, now, this is a terrible thing for a little girl to see. But you did your best and that’s what matters, Grace.”

Grace’s brain filled with lightning-like starbursts and thunder-like noise. A voice inside shrieked: Liar liar liar! That’s not what matters! Everything will change!

She said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Well,” he said, “that probably wraps it up — my guess is Mrs. Stage had a heart attack. Sounds like shock brought it on, seeing that boy in his bed.”

“Bobby,” said Grace. “Robert Canova.”

“Robert Canova... what’s his story?”

“He was born with problems.”

“Looks like it...” R. G. Ballance closed his pad. “Okay, you’re probably wondering what’s going to happen. Obviously, you can’t stay here but we’ll make sure you’re okay, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you.”

“Pleasure, Grace. Is there anything else you feel like telling me?”

Grace thought of three things she could tell him:

1. Bobby’s air tube, taped tightly every night, really tight, loose on the floor, hissing like a yellow snake. That made no sense.

2. The look on Ty’s face when he came down into the kitchen: sad — more like disappointed. But not surprised. Like he’d expected something bad to happen and that had come true.

3. The smile forming on Sam’s lips as he looked out at Ramona’s body.

She said, “No, sir, that’s everything.”

An hour later, the three new fosters had been trundled off in the blue car and Grace was in back of the black car.

At the wheel was one of the woman detectives, brown-haired and freckle-faced. Unlike R. G. Ballance, she didn’t introduce herself and as she gunned the engine she chewed gum really fast.

After she’d been driving for a while, she said, “I’m Nancy and I’m a detective, okay? I’m taking you to a place that might seem a little scary. It’s called juvenile hall and it’s mostly for kids who’ve gotten into trouble. But there’s also a section for kids like you who need to wait until their situation gets clear. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Like I said, it could seem a little — almost like a jail. Okay? But I’ll make sure to put you in a safe part. But still, it’s not the prettiest situation... anyway, before you know it, you’ll be out of there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Really,” said Nancy. “Everything’s going to work out okay.”