Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger Read Free Book Online Page A

he said, is that I need to be able to trust you. I can’t watch you every moment of every day nor can your mother. We need to know that you’re responsible and won’t do dangerous things.
    The tracks aren’t dangerous, I said.
Bobby Cole was killed on those tracks, he said.
Bobby was different. How many other kids have been killed playing on the tracks? Heck, streets are more dangerous. Me and Jake could be killed a whole lot easier just crossing the street in town. I’m not going to argue, Frank.
I’m just saying that anything can be dangerous if you’re not careful. Me and Jake, we’re careful. That dead guy today wasn’t because we weren’t careful.
    Okay, then this is the issue. I need to know that when I ask something of you you’ll give it. If I ask you to stay away from those tracks, I need to know that you will. Do you understand?
    Yes, sir.
Trust is the issue, Frank. He looked at Jake. Do you understand? Jake said, Yes s-s-s-sir.
This is what’s going to happen in order that you remember. For
one week, you won’t leave the yard without my permission or your mother’s. Am I clear?
    All things considered I didn’t think it was such a bad deal so I nodded to show that I understood and I accepted. Jake did the same.
I thought that was it but my father made no move to leave. He looked beyond us toward the dark at the back of the garage and was silent as if deep in thought. Then he turned and stared through the open door of the garage toward the church. He seemed to come to some decision.
He said, The first man I ever saw dead outside a coffin was on a battlefield, and I have never spoken of it until now.
My father sat on the rear bumper of the Packard so that his eyes were level with ours.
I was scared, he said, and I was curious and although I knew it was a dangerous thing to do, I stopped and considered this dead soldier. He was German. Not much more than a boy. Only a few years older than you, Frank. And as I stood looking down at this dead young man, a soldier who’d seen a lot of battle stopped and he said to me, You’ll get used to it, son. Son, he called me, even though he was younger than I. My father shook his head and took a deep breath. He was wrong, boys. I never got used to it.
My father leaned his arms on his thighs and folded his hands in the way he sometimes did when he sat alone in a pew and prayed.
I had to go to war, he said. Or felt that I had to. I thought I knew more or less what to expect. But death surprised me.
My father looked at each of us. His eyes were hard brown but they were also gentle and sad.
You’ve seen something I would like to have kept from you. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.
I glanced toward Jake who was staring at the dirt floor of the old garage. I held my tongue though in truth there was much I wanted to know.
My father waited patiently and gave no sign that he was disappointed in our silence. All right, he said and stood. Let’s go inside. I’m sure your mother is wondering what’s become of us.
My mother was in a tizzy. She gathered us to her bosom and made a fuss over us and swung between chastisement for our actions and delirium over our safety. My mother was a woman of deep emotion and also of drama and in the middle of the kitchen she poured out both on Jake and me. She stroked our hair as if we were pets and she dug her fingers into our shoulders and gave us each a stern little shake to set us straight and in the end she kissed the tops of our heads. My father had gone to the sink to run himself a glass of water and when my mother asked him about what had gone on at the police station he said, Go on upstairs, boys. Your mother and I need to talk.
We trudged up to our bedroom and lay down on our beds in the heat that lingered from the day.
Why didn’t you tell them about the Indian? I said.
Jake took his time answering. He had an old baseball that he’d grabbed off the bedroom floor and he tossed it and caught it as he lay. He said, The