Cracking Grace

After the death of her mother, young Audrey is left to explore a secret world for answers to her loss. Little does she know, the strange inhabitants of the cemetery she wanders are watching and listening. Aided by her faithful companion, a bluebird named Bluebell, Mary, a seemingly lifeless cemetery statue, sets out on her own mission of discovery--despite chiding from the cemetery's other residents: the cynical statue of Jesus, two wisecracking gargoyles, and the curmudgeonly ghost of Mrs. Grant. Part fable, part dark fantasy, Cracking Grace is the story of loss and of newfound friendships for a wounded girl. It's the story of a father bound to the flesh, unable to accept death. It's the story of a woman trapped in stone, determined to understand her existence.

From the Publisher

The secret lives of cemetery statues...

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Mary had the best view. Even so, the others could only wonder why she never tired of the rolling treeless landscape that plummeted to the river. But to Mary, it didn't matter that her position was unchanging; she was still able to observe constant movement--the constant changes that took place all around her. The leaves changing color across the river--watching them fall season after season; the rainbows; the sunsets; the cloudy, dark, and blue skies; the foggy mists; frozen grass poking through a thin layer of snow; the melting of the edges of the river each spring... All of this gave her a sense of wonderment and intrigue. Even though she was unable to participate--even though she was a mere spectator of the world that surrounded her, she was nonetheless in awe of this ever-changing life. Mary wished more people would visit her. How she loved when children would visit! They came not as often as she desired though. Children were such a pleasant reminder of what was exciting about the world. They reminded her of herself. If she were freed from her platform, like them, she too would have explored the monuments with curiosity. Their playfulness down by the river brightened up the sorrowful thoughts put in her head by the mourners. Unlike the children, she would often dread when they came to see her. They came to cry and pour their misery out to her ears--recalling details of their loved one's life--and unjust demise. Memorable moments shared with parents, sisters, brothers and lovers were told to Mary. "Why?" they would often ask her. "Why Mama... or Joey... or Louise? Why?" But Mary offered no answer. Her unchanging face could only stare back at them in sympathy. She had no answers for the grieving. Rain and wind pelted her figure. She loved the rain because it cleaned her; she never felt the chill of the pulsating water. And she didn't know how hard the wind was blowing (or if it blew at all) unless she noticed movement of the trees and power lines. The mourners, she figured, were like the wind. If she closed her eyes and ears forever, she would never be aware of the sorrow they brought to her... She never had to watch the mourners become old until they too became part of the land. Yet along with the others, she kept her inside eyes open. She took in as much as possible--capturing the events surrounding her because she knew even if she couldn't see or feel it; the wind was still there, affecting her just the same. Bluebell shot out of the trees like a blue dart. He flew past Mary and dodged some of the higher markers in front of her. "You're such a beautiful bluebird, Bluebell," she told him. He would frequently fly for her, entertaining her. "Fly in front of me again so I can see you!" He flew in a circle around her head before landing on her shoulder. There, he sat proud. He would sit there all day if she asked, but most nights were too cold for him; he slept in his home along the wooded path. The rain was chilly, but he promised Mary he'd keep an eye on them. If he didn't, he knew she'd worry all day... Mrs. Grant floated above the stoop until she was eye-level with the creatures. "Some protectors you two are! I feel so safe with you outside my door. Ha! My husband would've crushed you!" "Oh yeah? Well we never asked to guard an old hag's dive in the first place!" Gareth quipped. Mrs. Grant took a deep breath and brought her nose to Gareth's. She looked as if she would explode in anger, but her voice came out instead in a hushed, restrained tone. Through her clenched teeth, she said, "My body may be old, but I want you two to know long after you crumble to dust, I'll still be dancing on grave tops!" With that, she leapt atop the nearest headstone. Gracefully, she jumped from one to the next. She paused occasionally to dip backwards on some--extending her arms elegantly behind her. Atop others, she pointed her heels like a ballerina. She performed swan dives from the highest stones; and as she neared the ground, she sauntered back and forth like a weightless feather before rising once again. All the while she sang, "la dee da da dee la dee dee." "How beautiful, Mrs. Grant," said Mary. Bluebell agreed. "Booo!" shouted Arthur. "I didn't know prunes could dance!" yelled Gareth "Pull her off the stage! Where's the hook?!" Mrs. Grant continued her dance until she faded against the backdrop of the river. Yet within the next instant, she reappeared--hovering again before Arthur and Gareth. The two startled gargoyles let out a shriek. Mary couldn't help but laugh, but then quieted as Mrs. Grant took another long drag from her cigarette. The smoke from her exhale grew into a massive cloud that hovered in front of her crypt, leaving Arthur and Gareth gasping. When the cloud finally dissipated, Mrs. Grant was nowhere to be found; and she did not reappear for the rest of the day... And so Mary's duration had been not unlike that day--with Bluebell on her shoulder; with Jesus sharing his cynical comments, challenging her views; with the gargoyles, Arthur and Gareth, providing embarrassment for Mary and frustration for Mrs. Grant, who thought nothing more of her situation than another blame for her husband to take. In the center of the cemetery--in the center of it all, was Mary. She wasn't sure if she was in heaven. She wasn't sure if she was in hell. She wasn't sure of anything concerning her existence except that she was in the center--in the middle of something.

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