Boys in the Valley(28)
And then, something incredible happened.
I met Grace.
Being a single child from a reclusive family, I’d never interacted with a female other than my own mother. And, as an orphan in an all-boys home, the opportunity was even more implausible. But fate intervened, and at the age of twelve years, there I was, meeting my first real girl.
John and Andrew were openly amused by my response to Grace Hill, herself only ten years old at the time. I recall being tongue-tied, and shy at first. But she was kind, and funny, and wasn’t put off by my sullen, confused demeanor. Looking back on it, I wonder if John and Andrew had perhaps discussed it with Grace, meeting one of the orphans, and if John prepped his daughter not to take offense if we acted, well, peculiar.
Or maybe it was just the way Grace was—forthright, open, energized. Blazing.
That first magical afternoon, while Andrew and John discussed matters of no interest to children, Grace took my hand and pulled me, without preamble, toward the farmhouse for a tour. She showed me their neat, modest home, all of which was amazing to my naïve eyes. They had so many things! I wanted to pick up every item and study it! Lamps and vases and painted bowls, a carved wooden pipe, an entire stack of magazines. And toys! It was dizzying. When she led me into her room I gasped, dumbstruck.
“Is this whole room for you?” I asked, beside myself with shock (along with a shameful, painful stab of envy).
She nodded, unaware or unconcerned by my gawping expression. She generously showed each of her toys, done in a way that was the opposite of conceited or snobbish. She proudly presented her colorful drawings, her colored pencils and paints.
Finally, she showed me her books.
I remember staring, with a sort of reverence, at that orderly, purple-painted bookcase, delicately decorated with oil-based white flowers. Shelves packed with rows of bright-colored spines.
“Do you like it?” she said, catching me studying the painted flowers along the sides. “My papa made it himself.”
I thought of John Hill, tall and bearded, broad-shouldered and muscled, gently painting each of the fine petals for his daughter. The thought made me want to weep with bitter resentment and self-pity, but my mind was too overwhelmed to dwell on those raw emotions. My thoughts were racing in a different direction.
I was giddy with curiosity. With blatant wonder.
Obviously, the orphanage had books. Bibles, mostly. And there was a broad selection of volumes on history and grammar, biographies of great men. In other words, schoolbooks.
But this . . . this was something else altogether. Titles I’d never heard of, pages filled with images and stories I couldn’t believe.
“What are they?” I asked, not knowing how else to phrase the question in my eagerness, my wonderment.
“They’re books, obviously,” she answered. Not cruelly, but factually, with a smidge of confusion and a larger dose of pride. “Have you read any of these?”
“I mean, I’ve seen books,” I answered shyly, and somewhat defensively. “Father Francis says I read quite well. For my age, anyway . . .”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” she said, nodding along as I stammered.
“Father Francis, that is, Andrew, has me study many subjects. We’re all taught to read by the priests, of course . . .” I caught my tumble of words, looked once more at the bookcase, bursting with colors, with titles I’d never heard of, each one tugging at my imagination. “But these . . .” I shook my head, awestruck. “I’ve never even heard of them. Of any of them.”
Without preamble, she reached out and pulled one from a shelf, turned it to face me.
“What about this one?”
On the cover was a young girl in a blue dress. In the image, the girl was talking to a large rabbit, one that wore a suit and top hat.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . . .” I said slowly, wanting nothing more in that moment of time than to take the book from her hands, find a well-lit corner, and study each page until my eyes could stay open no more.
“It’s my favorite,” she said, and then her cherubic face lit up. “Hey! Do you want to borrow it? You can bring it back the next time you visit.”
She pushed it into my hands, would hear no argument.
And so, my friendship with Grace Hill began.
On that long-ago day, Andrew had kindly extended our stay to last the entire afternoon. A one-time luxury he has rarely repeated since. But back then, while he and John loaded supplies and spoke of adult, worldly things, Grace and I let our imaginations travel through her purple-cased library, me in amazement and she amused, happily giving me summations of each and every story (while being careful not to spoil the endings). The more she showed me, the more my veneration for the books grew, until it felt as if an entire new realm of existence had opened inside my mind, a million worlds all aching for me to visit, to meet each and every one of their fantastical inhabitants.
After the tour was over, we were finally put to work. John put us to gathering eggs and milking the cows—the bounty of which was all destined for the orphanage—along with sacks of wheat and flour, crates of vegetables, jars of preserves, cans of fruits in sauce, dried meats; plus an entire side of beef and a sleeve of steaks, near frozen after being stored in the Hill’s gas-powered icebox.
After a few hours of work and quick escapes of play, the wagon was full. By the time it came to say our goodbyes, Grace had shown me every inch of the farm—the massive barn, the pigs and goats and cows and horses, and even their two large mastiffs (it was during an ensuing trip she informed me her father purchased the massive dogs from an Englishman selling a recent litter; having bought two because he feared that the man might kill the ones he didn’t sell, wanting to save those he could).