They Call Me Crazy (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Maryanne

I
n the end, we all just want to be loved. That summer after Roland died, I had a lot of things to rearrange in my life, and I knew they had to start with me. I still think he loved me. But I’m also starting to realize that some people show their love in different ways, and Roland’s way wasn’t healthy for any of us.

Cass was charged with mishandling a body and failure to report a death. The house fire was deemed an accident. Without an insurance company investigation, it was nothing but Cass and Clay’s word against suspicion. Richard and Dr. Button came to her defense. They managed to keep Cass out of jail and out of the hospital. She was sentenced to Dr. Button’s couch three times a week, which suited her just fine.

I found a therapist of my own. Telling a total stranger the secrets I’d kept for almost twenty years was hard, but I knew I had to do it. It was a relief to let it out, as if I’d been holding my breath underwater and finally breached the surface. We have a long way to go, but after three months, she has convinced me that there are some things I must do to appreciate
me
. Whoever
me
may be.

Cass and I have slowly worked our way back to some sort of a friendship, this time born from the love, hate, and loss of one man. It hasn’t been easy, and at times, we still have to keep our distance. We’re both trying to understand each other a little bit more. We are, after all, blood sisters, that bond forged many years ago on a summer day on the Trolley Car Bridge.

Babe has me drinking some strange tea every day, saying it will cure me of my demons. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m starting to appreciate the taste of it, along with the promise of no more darkness in my life. I still go out, but there’s this one guy, tall, blue-eyed, with curly black hair, that I kind of think I would sleep with more than once. That’s got to be some sort of improvement. Even my shrink thinks so.

I was the talk of the town for about a month. A sex scandal is always welcome in Deacon. It was attention I really didn’t want, and I needed to save my job. Then, about mid-July, Benny Cloud broke up a meth ring three states wide and based right here in Deacon. That took all the attention from me. He really is a hero now and a shoo-in for sheriff.

Last night, Clay, Cass, and I took Shaylene out for a going-away party. She leaves for college today. I was so reluctant to let her go, but according to my therapist, maybe it’s because I considered her my best friend. She’s my daughter and a grown woman. I’m trying to accept that for both of our sakes. But I will miss her. We had to go across the state line to a beer-only bar because she’s only eighteen. Clay’s not much use on the dance floor, but he was there for a reason: to watch over us. I guess he always has been.

At the bar, Cass nudged me, and I followed her gaze to see Shaylene laughing in the corner with one of the girls from her volleyball team. I grinned. Cass is convinced Shaylene’s a lesbian, and I’m okay with that. I’m not saying men are nothing but trouble and she’s better off. There are troubles in any relationship. I’m just saying you have to do what’s going to make you happy in the end. And if Shay brings home a daughter-in-law instead of a son-in-law, then so be it.

Cass and Clay: now that’s a story. She moved in with him the day after the funeral. Roland’s ashes weren’t even in the ground yet, and she took up residence with his brother. Cass tells me she sleeps in the extra room. She may have for a while, but I’m pretty sure the arrangements have changed.

As I say, we all have to do what makes us happy, and in the end, all we really want is to be loved. But sometimes you have to look outside the window, beyond the hummingbirds. Sometimes that happiness, that love, comes from a place you don’t expect.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Cass

A
single yellow leaf falls in front of the kitchen window as I finish washing the coffee cups from this morning. Fall is coming, my favorite time of year. I always thought of it as the death of summer, but a beautiful, glorious death making way for the cleansing of the winter snow and the rebirth that spring brings. Yes, the dying part is my favorite. Call me crazy.

I change my mind about putting the cups in the drainer to air-dry and grab a dish towel instead. Clay and I will be gone for a week, and there’s no use in coming back to chores.

Keeping house is easier these days. Of course, Clay helps, and he’s not a real slob to begin with. I’m not much into the deep-cleaning thing, but I do make sure the place isn’t a health hazard. And it always smells of one of the candles that I’ve started making with Babe. The cinnamon is my favorite.

When I first moved in with Clay, I found several of Babe’s favorite bushes growing right here on the two acres of land his mama left them. I needed something to keep me busy, and Clay saw a candle-making kit at the hardware store and brought it home. I put a pinch of dandelion root in my first candle and gave it to Babe. She suggested we start making candles with various herbs and roots and selling them at the Farmer’s Market.

Deacon has been very receptive to the candles. Mr. Logston even has some at his hardware store, each labeled with the ingredients and what magic they’re supposed to emit when lit. Babe says it takes more than just lighting a candle, but she hasn’t been opposed to the extra folding money they bring in. We’re planning to plant an entire garden of bushes and plants come spring.

Maryanne said she’ll make us a website, so we can start selling our candles on the Internet. She’s also working on a website so Clay can expand his worm farm and start selling them online, too. After some research, I found out that his little hobby is actually very prosperous. Maybe he’ll want to just work with his worms full time one day. He does like to go to the hardware store and talk to the people, and I enjoy the quiet time to myself. Sometimes, Babe comes over, and we make candles. Sometimes, I read, which reminds me of talking to a childhood friend.

The countertop radio is set to KIX Country 102.5, and I turn it up when I hear Mike Eli’s gritty voice singing “Crazy Girl.” It’s Clay’s favorite song. “Our song,” he says. It’s perfect.

Maryanne and I have talked about Roland once. It was after one of her psycho sessions. That lady doctor had convinced her that she needed to tell me she was sorry in order for her to free herself of the guilt so she could move on. She wasn’t sorry; I could tell. But I didn’t say anything. I let her say her piece, and I felt good that it made her feel good.

And why should she be sorry? She has a beautiful daughter to show, one she shares with me now. I’m Auntie Cass, and that means I’m sure as hell not sorry she slept with Roland. She could have had him every night if it meant we would get another Shaylene out of the deal. And besides, she did love Roland. Not in the same way I did, but maybe he needed more than I could give, or more than she could give, and just decided to take from us both. But juggling the love of two women is dangerous business, and it usually doesn’t work out too well for the juggler.

With Clay, things are different. At first, we were slightly uncomfortable with the living arrangements but comfortable with each other, nonetheless. Once I moved into the spare bedroom, I guess it hit us both that we were really going to be living together, me with my husband’s brother, the day before we buried him. Oh, the town talked, but they never stopped talking.

Deep down, Clay had his own issues with Roland. I haven’t gotten to them yet. I don’t want to pry. I figure one day he’ll just open up and tell me all about it. That’s the way he is. He keeps things to himself until he needs to let go. That day will come.

The first time we slept in the same bed was easy. It seemed we both had a lot to give and wanted nothing more than to give rather than to take. It’s very different from sleeping with Roland. With Roland, I just had sex. I actually make love to Clay. I prefer the making-love thing.

But of course, we had to get a few things out on the table before we could really relax with each other. He promised to always wash up outside after playing with his worms. In return, I promised not to kill him. I think we’ll be together forever.

Shaylene’s been at college for a month now, and Clay and I promised that our first stop on our road trip would be at Lawrence, Kansas, to visit our Jayhawk. She calls at least once a week to tell us all about school and the people she’s meeting. I ask if she has any girlfriends she wants to talk about, and she knows what I really mean. She hasn’t opened up to me yet, but last time we talked, she did say, “Thanks, Auntie, for understanding.”
Auntie.
I really love when she calls me that.

After a day with Shaylene, we’re going to cut across the 71 toward St. Louis. First, there’s a fishing tournament at Overton Bottoms, which Clay intends to win with his special breed of red worms, then we go on to St. Louis. Neither of us have ever been to a professional baseball game, and we figure it’s about time we do that.

On the way back, we’re going to cut down the 44 and stop at Meramec Caverns. I’ve never been in a big cave, and this one is supposed to be haunted. We’ll see. And of course, we’ll stop in Springfield to see Lola and Richard on the way back. Grams wants me to watch them and see if they kiss or act any closer than they did before. I’m not sure what that’s about, but I promised I would report back to her.

“Everything’s in and ready. You about done?” Clay asks.

I didn’t hear him come in. I’m standing at the window, waiting for another leaf to fall. I still have a cup in my hand, absently rubbing it with the cloth. He’s been loading our rented Winnebago for our trip. I turn to him and smile. “All done here. Did you turn off the water yet?”

Clay takes the cup from me and puts it in the cupboard. Then he grabs the rag, folds it, and lays it on the drying rack. “Everything’s done. I talked to Daze, and he’s going to come out and tend the worms. It’s just you and me for a week.”

“What exactly does it take to tend the worms?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Not really. And we need to go say goodbye to Mama Adams and Roland before we go. A week is a long time.”

We’ve gotten into the habit of going out to the family graveyard once a week, laying flowers or herbs on Roland’s and Mama Adams’s small plots, and saying a quick hello. It may seem strange, but it somehow always makes us both feel better.

Clay makes sure all the lights are out and locks the front door. We go out the back and make our trek toward the family plot. It’s a lot flatter here than on the hill, of course, but the trees and bushes are overgrown, and to me, it’s a magical forest just waiting to be explored. I walk back here often to see what kind of new plants and bushes I can find. I gather leaves and twigs and bring them back, then Grams identifies them for me. She’s trying to teach me everything she can about them because she knows her sight is going, in more ways than one.

I still go out to the hill once in a while, usually at night when I know no one else will be around. I go there to visit with Old Man Booker. And Roland. The garden has managed to survive, probably because of all the rain we’ve been getting, but I don’t expect it will make it past winter. Some things have to die to make way for the new blooms in spring. The place is up for sale, but no one wants to buy it since I planted Roland there. That’s okay with me.

But Clay’s land, our land, is different. He has a path to the graveyard that he’s worn over the years, and he even lined it with smooth river rocks. Everything about it smells woodsy, homey. It’s much better than the hill.

We get to the graveyard, and I lay the wildflowers I picked along the way on Mama Adams’s grave, and I put a few on Roland’s, too. I don’t think he appreciates them as much as she does, but nevertheless, it’s the respectful thing to do. We both say our words silently.

The five small headstones stand in a row. Two mark the spots where Mama Adams and Roland lie, and three more are on either side: one for me, one for Clay, and one we don’t talk about. The boys are to lie next to their mother. Mine is next to Roland.

“Clay, how hard would it be to move one of those liners?”

“Why would you want to move one?”

“I think I’d rather be on your side than Roland’s.”

He smiles. Then he takes my hand, and we turn away from the tiny graveyard and begin walking toward the Winnebago.

I love Clay in a way I never loved his brother. And I don’t think it’s right for Roland to have to lie next to his murderess for all of eternity, even if it is just our ashes. And I did kill him, as I always said I did.

Sure, he had a heart attack, but I really should have dragged his big ass to the truck and taken him to the hospital, or at least called 9-1-1.

Instead, I just piled dirt on him in that koi pond hole where he fell.

After all, he
was
still breathing.

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They Call Me Crazy
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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my family: my husband, Joe; my sons, Dillon and Theron Tatum; and DeeDee, for just letting me go off into my world whenever I need to.

Rebecca Mahoney and Michelle Rever helped me take my characters and my story to a new level, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Beth Garland and Charlie Stella read every word—twice—and were key in applying the critical eye to my crazy little manuscript in the early stages. They also gave me the encouragement to keep going. I like to think that was because they loved the story, but I also think it’s because they love me. Back at you both.

In my times of technical frustration, Jason Korolenko was there for me. I can’t thank him enough. But most of all, Jason, thanks for going first.

Having a support group when writing is important. I have several. Thank you to my sub-groupies for their endless crocks of pork, to the Kitties for all of their advice, to my Red Adept family for all of their hard work and attention, to the UberSnarks and my SNHU MFA alumni group for putting up with me, particularly during my days in the dark hole. I know I’m not always easy to love, but thank you for doing it anyway.

I have been lucky enough to be a part of a community that lives by a “Once on the team, always on the team” motto. Thank you, Merle Drown, Richard Carey, Robert Begiebing, and Craig Childs for being my mentors until the end. Yes, you are stuck with me.

The fictional town of Deacon, Kansas, is loosely based on my hometown of Baxter Springs, Kansas. I want to thank the people of Baxter for claiming me as one of their own. A special thanks to the Baxter Springs Police Department for their help with developing my Deacon chief of police, to Carrie Rago for reminding me about Murphy’s pies, and to Kenneth Sharp for making sure my fisherman had the right boat, the right beer, and the right bait.

Thank you, Scott Phillips, for telling me to “quit your bitching” when I needed to do just that and focus on the work.

And to Troy Bushey, whose fingerprints are all over this book, but most importantly, for helping me make a certain worm farmer a lovable guy.