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  The Edge of Grace

  Christa Allan's sophomore book, The Edge of Grace, is a powerful work of art, delving into waters not often stirred in fiction. It made me squirm and it challenged me to consider how I offered grace. The only thing it did not do was leave me unchanged.

  —ANE MULLIGAN, editor Novel Journey

  Edge of Grace needs to be required reading for every church book club out there. Once again Christa Allan tackles a difficult subject, this time homosexuality, with grace, laughter, love, and intelligence. With sometimes chuckle-out-loud humor annd heart-breaking pathos, Allan walks the reader through a horrific hate crime against her lead character, Caryn's gay brother. With winsome words and honesty, Allan brings the reader into a world of prejudice and pain as Caryn must confront her own misconceptions. In the end, Caryn is able to "woman up" and dig deep down where she finds love and God waiting. Allan reminds us that love does indeed conquer all and we all live lives on the edge of grace.

  —JOYCE MAGNIN, Award-winning author of the Bright's Pond novels

  THE EDGE OF GRACE

  Christa Allan

  Nashville, Tennessee

  The Edge of Grace

  Copyright © 2011 by Christa Allan

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-1311-8

  Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

  www.abingdonpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,

  stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,

  or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,

  electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without

  written permission from the publisher, except for brief

  quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction

  are the creations of the author, and any resemblance

  to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in association with WordServe Literary Group, Ltd.,

  10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130

  Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Allan, Christa.

  The edge of grace / Christa Allan.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4267-1311-8 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

  I. Title.

  PS3601.L4125E34 2011

  813'.6—dc22

  2011016133

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 16 15 14 13 12 11

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  for Johnny Bassil and Ricky Johnson

  who taught me that grace is truly amazing

  Acknowledgements

  The first chapter of this novel made its debut at an Abingdon authors' retreat in 2009. It grew from there to what you're holding today because of the encouragement of those writers and the unwavering support of Barbara Scott, then the fiction editor at Abingdon Press, and Rachelle Gardner, agent at WordServe Literary. They championed this story, never doubting that one day Caryn and David would be as real to readers as they were to me.

  Along the way, when my arms wearied from paddling to keep myself afloat in the sea of doubt, I was rescued by the faith of friends. Jenny B. Jones challenged me to writing sprints that kept my hands out of the chocolate, and Joyce Magnin provided free laughter therapy. The Truby-adorers Bonnie Grove and Allison Ariel Lawhon prodded and poked and persisted, always believing a truer story awaited. Shelley Easterling Gay continued to answer my frantic messages and won my heart as the weekend on-call reader of all things messy.

  I'm grateful for my straight friends who came out of the closet to share their stories of gay siblings and spouses and parents, the courage of the student who asked me to sponsor the Gay-Straight Alliance at school, and the monthly Girls' Night Out posse that kept me sane and fed.

  My children braced themselves for round two of novel writing, refusing to listen to me whine (I think they may have enjoyed the payback). And bless my husband, Ken, who often came home to uncooked dinners, unwashed clothes, and undone me, and managed to take care of all of us. He also kept the cats corralled and off my laptop keyboard.

  Without the support of the team at Abingdon Press, this novel would still be in my computer: Tammy Gaines (who first heard the idea over a New Orleans lunch), Fiction Editor Ramona Richards, Sales Director Mark Yeh, Brian Williams, Nancy Hall, Meagan Roper, and Marketing Manager Julie Dowd.

  My agent Sandra Bishop of MacGregor Literary has been a lifesaver, mostly saving me from myself. She seems to have an endless supply of floaties.

  Like my debut novel, Walking on Broken Glass, which dealt with alcoholism and recovery, this one too is rooted in my own life experiences. My brother and his partner of over fifteen years loved me through the fog of confusion and, when it cleared, opened their arms to welcome me home.

  God truly brought me to the edge of grace and waited patiently for me to walk across the border.

  1

  The last two words I said to my brother David that Saturday were "oh" and "no," and not in the same sentence—though they should have been.

  On an otherwise ordinary, cartoon-filled morning, my son Ben sat at the kitchen table spiraling a limp bacon slice around his finger. His last ditch effort to forestall doing his chores. I was having a domestic bonding experience with the vacuum cleaner. My last ditch effort to forestall the house being overtaken by microscopic bugs, dead skin, and petrified crumbs. I'd just summoned the courage to attempt a pre-emptive strike on the intruders under the sofa cushions when the phone rang.

  I walked into the kitchen, gave Ben the "don't you dare touch that phone with your greasy bacon hands" stare, and grabbed the handset.

  It was David. "I wanted you to hear this from me," he said.

  An all-too familiar sensation—that breath-sucking, plummeting roller-coaster feeling—I'm thinking he's been fired, in a car wreck, diagnosed with cancer, six months to live, but, no, it wasn't as simple as that.

  He told me he was leaving in a few days for a vacation. With a man. Leaving with a man. Crossing state lines from Louisiana to Mexico to share sun, sand, and sheets with a person of the same sex.

  My universe shifted.

  He came out of the closet, and I went into it. For perhaps only the second time in my life, I was mute. Not even sputtering, not even spewing senseless syllables. Speec
hless.

  "Caryn, are you still there?"

  No. I'm not still here. I'm miles away and I'm stomping my feet and holding my breath in front of the God Who Makes All Monsters Disappear.

  I think I hear God. He's telling me I'm the monster.

  Wisps of sounds. They belonged to David. "Did you hear what I said? That I'm going away?"

  I hung up. I didn't ask "Why?" because he'd tell me the truth my heart already knew.

  "What did Uncle David want?" Ben asked.

  I spun around and made eye contact with my unsuspecting innocent. "Get that bacon off your finger right now, mister. Wash your hands, and go do whatever it is you're supposed to be doing."

  He shoved the bacon in his mouth, his face the solemn reflection of my emotional slap. From the den television, the Nickelodeon Gummy Bears filled the stillness with their ". . . bouncing here, there, and everrrrrywherre . . ." song.

  "And turn that television off on the way back to your room."

  "Okay, Mom," said Ben, his words a white flag of surrender as he left the room.

  Now what? I decided to abandon the vacuuming. Really, was I supposed to fret about Multi-Grain Wheat Thin crumbs and popcorn seeds when my only sibling was leaving for Mexico with a man?

  The phone rang. Again.

  "You hung up on me," David said.

  "I don't know what to say." I opened the refrigerator. The burp of stale air cooled my face as I stalked the shelves of meals past and future. I'd find solace in one of those containers. Maybe more than one. I'd solace myself until the voice on the phone went away.

  David reminded me there were alternatives to hanging up.

  Alternatives? You want to talk alternatives? How about I'm hung up on your alternative lifestyle?

  Between the sour cream and a stalk of tired celery, I found an abandoned crusty cinnamon roll in a ball of crinkled foil. I unwrapped it and plowed my finger through the glop of shiny, pasty icing smeared inside and said, "But you and Lori just finished wallpapering your bathroom. You remember her, right? Your fiancée?"

  "Lori knows," he said.

  I grabbed the two fudge brownies with cavities where Ben already had picked out the walnuts.

  "Uh huh." I fought the urge to hang up again.

  "Is that all you're going to say?"

  No, that wasn't all I could say. I was going to say I was ever so sorry for answering the phone. I wanted to say that I hate you. I wanted to say that of all that things you could have been, gay was not what I would've chosen. I wanted to say that I didn't want to imagine you in bed with a man. I didn't want to know that what we had in common was that we both slept with men. I wanted to say that if our mother hadn't already died of cancer, she would've keeled over with this news.

  "Lori and I are working this out," he said.

  I fumbled for words like keys in the black hole of my purse. My brain rummaged for syllables and sounds, buried under a clever adage, a witty phrase. But all I could choke out was an "Oh."

  "Don't you even want to know who I'm going with?" He sounded small, like he was the one being left behind.

  "No."

  Then, with a level of intimacy I reserved for nighttime marketers of exterior siding, I told him good-bye.

  I walked to where I'd left the vacuum handle propped against the den wall, flipped the switch, and pushed the vacuum back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I pictured the unwary bugs caught in the vortex. I knew just how they felt. I'd been in this wind tunnel before, when Harrison died and without my permission.

  Sometimes husbands could be so maddening.

  And, once again, Harrison, where are you when I need you? Who am I supposed to talk to about this? Not Ben. Not my father. Don't give me that condescending "life isn't fair" mantra. You're right. It's not.

  I yanked the cord out of the wall, pressed the button that zipped it into the belly of the beast and steered the machine toward Ben's room.

  My almost seven-year-old sat on the floor of his bedroom tying his navy Sketchers when he saw me at the door. "Hey, Mom. I washed my hands." He held them up, wiggled them in front of his face as proof. "See?"

  "Where are your socks, Ben?"

  Harrison again. Caryn, the world's not going to stop spinning because the kid's not wearing socks.

  Ben doubled the knot, pulled the laces, and looked up at me. His sprinkle of freckles and his cleft chin, totally stolen from his dad, weakened me. How could there be anything wrong in the universe when his precious face slips into that soft spot in my heart?

  "I couldn't find two socks that matched. Besides," he stood and stomped his sneakers on the floor, "these are almost too small. My feet get all squinchy when I'm wearing socks." He pulled the elastic band on his basketball shorts up past his waist. We both knew the shorts would slide right back down in minutes. A battle he always lost. "So, can I go play Wii with Nick now?"

  My only child wore shoes that crushed his toes. How did I miss that? "Why didn't you tell me your shoes were too small?"

  "No big deal, Mom. Anyway, remember you said we'd go shopping with Uncle David before school started." Ben grabbed his frayed purple L.S.U. cap off his desk lamp. "Can I go now?"

  "Sure. Just be home for lunch." I hugged him, and when I felt his arms lock around my waist, I wondered how I still deserved him.

  I must have latched on a bit too long because he started to squirm away. "Mom. You okay?" Ben stepped out of my arms, turned his baseball cap backward over his sand-colored hair, raised his arms, plopped his hands on the top of his cap, and waited.

  "Of course," I said, tweaking his nose, hoping he heard the lie in my voice and didn't see the truth in my eyes. "Plug that cord in for me on your way out, okay?"

  "Got it. See ya." The front door slammed. It opened again. "Oops, sorry about that," he called out, and then the door closed solidly.

  Well, Harrison. Door closing. That's one lesson learned.

  I moved Ben's lamp to the back of his desk and straightened the framed picture that the lamp had slid into when he'd grabbed his hat. Bacchus, his first Mardi Gras parade captured in the photograph. I'd always called it the "man" picture. Ben's crescent moon smile as Harrison hoisted him on his shoulders, my father and David flanking Harrison, both grinning at Ben and not the camera.

  One man already gone. Now David. At least the David I thought I knew. Wasn't that the David that just last week sat next to me in church? The church he'd invited me to for the first time a month ago? How could he have done that? He's certifiably crazy if he thinks I'm going to church tomorrow. That's not going to happen.

  I mashed the vacuum cleaner switch on and returned to the sucking up of dirt. It seemed all too appropriate for my life.

  2

  Ben told Nick you looked sad. And you didn't ask if he'd brushed his teeth after breakfast, and he warned me not to ask about his Uncle David." Julie stepped in the foyer and closed the front door. "Figured code orange. I zipped right over."

  Neighbors for years, Julie and I color-coded our traumas; Julie called it our Homeland Sanity Advisory. Below yellow, phone calls would be sufficient. Yellow or above, always a face-to-face.

  Standing in the den, the bug-sucking beast still at my side, I must have looked like Martha Stewart, the prison months. But Julie looked me over and didn't say anything about my stupor or my morning bed-hair, which probably poked out from my scalp like clusters of brown twigs.

  "Drop the handle," she said and marched right past me,

  looking all the more stern with her copper hair pulled into a

  neat ponytail at the nape of her long neck. A woman on a mission.

  I plodded behind her and hoped her trail of lemony-rose

  fragrance would settle itself on me and maybe compensate for

  the shower I needed.

  Julie grabbed two glasses from the dish rack by the sink, filled them with iced tea, handed me one and walked over to the sofa with hers.

  "Come. Sit." Julie patted the suede sofa cush
ion next to her. Its original pewter shade had been softened by the patina of lazy weekend movie watching, shuffling visits of family and friends, and the bouncing of a round-faced toddler.

  I sunk into the sofa as she wedged an over-sized throw pillow behind her back. Julie kicked off her beaded flip-flops and plopped her toenail-polished feet on the glass coffee table between a chipped stoneware vase and a wicker basket holding an assortment of pine cones.

  "Okay. Give it up. And don't give me the microwave version," Julie demanded. "You're still wandering around in your jammies, so I know it's gotta be big."

  Julie and I gave up boundaries years ago. She was the sister my parents never gave me, and the only person allowed in the dressing room when I shopped for bathing suits. Once someone charted every dimple in your thighs, it wasn't a long way to knowing every dimple in your life.

  "It's . . ." Deep breath . . . "Well, it's David." I set my glass on the July issue of Good Housekeeping, right over the picture of the Year's Best Banana Pudding. The room felt as steamy as asphalt after a hard August rain. I leaned against the back cushions, closed my eyes, and flipped through the memories of my life that'd unfolded on this sofa, in this room, with Julie by my side. Gain seemed outscored by loss. But, no matter what, we'd always depended on faith and friendship to buoy us as we navigated life's rivers. Like today, when an undertow threatened to yank me away.

  She leaned toward me. "What happened? Is he okay?"

  I opened my eyes. Gazed out the den window. Fingerprint smudges and splattered lovebugs almost blocked the view of the weeds that had overtaken what was supposed to have been a vegetable garden. I waited for the tidal wave of sorrow that would deplete itself in my sobs. Nothing. Maybe empty's the new full. Like orange is the new pink or something.

  The words tumbled out of my mouth like marbles dropped from a jar. "David called this morning. He's gay. He called to tell me he's gay. Well, not that he said he's gay. No, I guess he didn't have to say that because he said he was going to Mexico with a man, by himself, and why would he being doing that if he wasn't, right?" I rubbed my temples with my fingertips. Was I massaging reality in or out? "My brother's gay."