The Grace Year(100)

A maid clears her throat as she comes in from the parlor.

“Take her,” Michael says, handing me off like an unruly child, before stepping outside.

“Where would you like her, sir?” she asks.

He turns, and his anger, the pure rage burning behind his eyes, sends a chill through me. It’s the first time I’ve felt afraid of him.

“She can wait for me in our bedroom,” he says as he slams the door behind him.

Walking up the plush carpeted stairs, I skim my fingers over the wallpaper, rich swirls of dark burgundy. “Padded shackles, but shackles just the same,” I whisper.

“What’d you say, ma’am?” the maid asks.

Ma’am. How did this happen to me? How did I get here?

At the top of the stairs, there are four closed doors. The gas lamps flicker beneath etched glass. There’s a painting on the wall. A child. A little girl lying in the grass. I wonder what she sees? Maybe it reminds him of me, the way we used to lie in the meadow. But I can’t help wondering if she’s dead. If they left her there to die.

“Mr. Welk would like you to wait in here, ma’am.”

Mr. Welk. That’s his name now. It’s not Michael anymore.

She opens the second door on the right. I step inside. I notice she never turns her back on me. I wonder if that’s a holdover from her grace year … if she thinks of me as her enemy.

Normally, we come back twitching and seething, wailing from our dying violence. But maybe I’m even more unnerving this way.

Backing out of the room, she closes the door and locks it behind her.

I pace the room, counting my steps. There’s a carved mahogany four-poster bed. A small rolltop desk with paper, ink, and quill. There’s a Bible next to the bed. Thick black leather, silky pages with gold edging. The inscription on the first page makes me want to set it on fire. To my son. My most prized possession. And I remember how much Michael hated that. Feeling pressured to follow in his father’s footsteps. Feeling trapped by all of this.

But that was Michael. Mr. Welk seems more than comfortable with all this now.

I’m crouching to look under the bed when something slips under my skin, like an old memory, or maybe it’s déjà vu—something my heart has already leapt into before my mind has had a chance to catch up. It’s the sound of an axe biting into hard wood. Peeking through the lace curtain, I see a man below, chopping timber. Viciously, he swings the blade, over and over and over. His body is a tight wire, the strain showing in his neck. There’s no finesse, no sense of preservation behind his cutting. He’s doing this to let out his rage … or to gather it.

And when he stops and looks up at my window, I realize it’s Michael. Mr. Welk.

I duck back, hoping he didn’t see me, but when I peek out again, he’s gone … and so is the axe.

Hearing the front door slam open, heavy boots inside the foyer, I’m darting around the room looking for anything I can defend myself with, but what would be the point? Here, I am his property. He can do what he likes to me. No questions asked. And besides, everyone would know I had this coming.

Unlocking the door, he shoves it open. He’s standing there, covered in sweat, the axe by his side.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to the bed.

I do as I’m told. I have no idea what he expects of me, what more I can endure, but I try to think back on my instructions. Legs spread, arms limp, eyes to God.

Setting his axe down on the bedside table, he stands before me, the smell of rage spoiling on his skin. I grit my jaw, expecting the worst, but he does something so unexpected that I lose my words, I lose my breath.

Kneeling before me, he unlaces my filthy boots.

As he pries them off of my battered feet, he says, “I didn’t lie. I dreamt that I was with you every single night.”

With tears streaming down my face, he places the key on the bedside table, picks up the axe, and leaves the room.





A few moments later, there’s a light knock on the door. I bolt up expecting him to come back to me, so we can talk, work this out, but it’s only the maid.

I’m surprised by how disappointed I feel.

Drawing a bath, she helps me out of my clothes. She looks away when she sees my swollen belly, and I wonder what she must think of me. What they all must think of me.

I recognize her from the year before Ivy’s grace year. Her name is Bridget. She seems nervous, fidgety, but she doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, she talks nonstop about the goings-on of the county. Not much of it sinks in, but I’m happy for the noise, a sense of normalcy.

Using a fine boar-bristle brush, she scrubs my body clean with a soap made from honey that she buys at the market. She washes my hair with lavender and comfrey. The hot water feels so good that I don’t want to get out, but the lure of broth and tea awaiting me in the other room is a powerful motivator. Helping me into a stiff white cotton nightgown, she sits me down at the dressing table, encouraging me to eat while she brushes out my hair. She doesn’t have the gentlest touch, so most of the broth spills out of the spoon before it reaches my mouth. Eventually, I just pick up the bowl and drink it. It’s warm and salty and rich. She tells me that if I keep it down, I can move on to solids tomorrow, which is lucky for me, because it’s pot roast night. As she braids the black silk ribbon into my hair, she goes on and on about the menu, the wash schedule, the music at church, and when she finally tucks me into bed, I pretend to fall fast asleep, just to get her to leave.