They Call Me Crazy (2 page)

Chapter Two

Clay

“T
he red wigglers are probably your best bet, especially if you want to catch trout.” I hold up one of my finest: a two-inch, plumped-up squirmer. Its cold body twists and curls around my thumb, making my whole hand tingle. I think it’s a shame he’ll be fish food one day; he’s a fighter.

“I don’t know, Clay,” Daze says. “Those crawlers are a lot bigger. Easier to put on the hook.”

I shrug. “Tell you what, why don’t you take them both then come back on Monday and tell me what you caught with each one?” I put my little red friend back in his Styrofoam home and watch as he wriggles deep into the moistened dirt, commingling with the other worms. “My money’s on the wiggler.”

“I got twenty on the crawlers,” Daze says.

I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. When Daze Harper isn’t driving his truck, he’s either down on Spring River trying to catch Old Henry or spending his money at the Downstream Casino at the state line. A chance to combine fishing and a bet was all it took to get him to buy two of my cups of home-growns. Not to mention the extra twenty I’d get come Monday. I do know my worms.

As I ring up the bait, Daze says under his breath, “Oh, shit.”

I look up and see my sister-in-law, Cassie, heading our way. Her hair is long and straight and tends to blend into the tan plaid of her wrinkled shirt. She has missed a button, and her faded denim shorts, frayed at the hemline, have been cut up the outer seams, exposing just a bit too much of her upper thigh. She totters on cheap wedge sandals.

Daze snickers. “Where the hell does she shop? Homeless ‘R’ Us?”

“Leave her be.” I put the worms in a brown paper bag then turn toward Cassie and give her my best smile.

She stops at the end of the aisle next to a display of O-Cedar mops, gives Daze the evil eye, and spreads her legs as if bracing for a fight. With her hands on her hips, she says, “Well, if it isn’t Little Miss Daisy. How does your garden grow?” She laughs that cackling laugh that always seems to set most everyone on edge.

Daze and his brother, Pet, had the misfortune of having a mother who loved her boys almost as much as she loved her small nursery out north of town. In my opinion, the nutty broad took her hankering for flowers too far when she named her two sons Daisy and Petunia. I like worms, but I sure as hell wouldn’t name a kid Looper.

When they were younger, they took a lot of ribbing for their feminine names from the likes of Benny Cloud and his friends, but they fought through it. Now, no one thinks much about it, or maybe they do and just don’t want to have to deal with the ass-kicking they’d get if they mentioned it. Cassie is the only one brave enough to call them by their given names.

“Fuck off, bitch,” Daze says, grabbing the sack of worms. He shoots me a glare as he stomps down the plumbing fixtures aisle.

Cassie watches him go, then turns back to me and winks. “No one around here has any sense of humor.”

I like Cassie a lot better when she isn’t with my brother. When Roland’s around, she acts like one of those battered wives you see in Lifetime movies—eyes turned down and jumping at his every command. I know Rolly would never hit a woman; he enjoys them too much. I do know him that well.

Cassie loves my brother, has since they were kids. I’ve never quite figured out why. But since they moved out of town, she acts different when they’re together. It’s as if she is in a box, one that he totes around. When she’s away from him, which isn’t very often, she’s just good old Cassie, not afraid to speak her mind. But she is crazy. Crazy as hell.

I lean over the counter and smile at her. “You know, one of these days…”

She waves a dismissive hand in the direction of the door. “Oh, come on. Who names their two boys after cheap garden flowers? And they call
me
crazy.”

“Where’s Rolly?”

She drops her eyes and shrugs. “He’s in his garden.”

Of course he’d be out in that damn yard of his on a Saturday morning, planting flowers and bushes around that dump. She continues to focus on the floor, and her smile is gone. I guess the thought of all those flowers he spends so much time with makes her pull back, as if the roses and begonias are her competition.

“Well, fine place for him then. What can I do for you?”

Cassie rummages through a box of lures on the counter then settles on a shad dart. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she twists it around, watching the yellow nylon threads as the light reflects off of them. She rubs the lure on her face, keeping the hook pointed outward.

I resist the urge to reach for it, knowing that fast motions and Cassie don’t mix too well. “Be careful. A hook in your cheek ain’t a lot of fun.”

She lays it back in the box amongst the other lures. “I need a new shovel.”

Cassie never uses a shovel. Cassie never does much of anything, and if she needs a shovel, it’s most likely so she can haul crap out of that shack they call home. When they lived in town, she was a decent housekeeper—a little too good, in my opinion. I’ve seen her scrub those linoleum floors so hard that I thought the pattern would wear off, and the entire house reeked of Pine-Sol and lemon Pledge. But since they moved, she doesn’t seem to care. Rolly told me she’s taking a lot more medication these days, so maybe that has something to do with it. Their place isn’t much more than a tarpaper lean-to anyhow, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

I lead her over to the implements section. “You still read as much as you used to?”

She slows and stares over my shoulder, not into my eyes. “Sure. Of course I do.” I can tell she’s lying, but I let it go. “You still got that worm farm?” she asks.

“Getting bigger every day. Shoot, I’ve got wigglers and crawlers running out my ass.”

She scrunches her nose and gives me a hint of a smile. “That sounds painful.”

One thing about Cassie, she may have a smart-ass mouth on her, but she never uses it much on me. That’s probably because I’m family, although I do think she likes me more than she does most people. I don’t make fun, and I don’t call her names. I would never do that to her.

“I don’t see why so many people would buy that much bait.” She picks up a heavy-duty coal shovel and bangs the curved edge on the tile floor. She returns it to its bin and reaches for a deep barn shovel instead.

“It ain’t the bait. It’s the compost. That’s where the money is.”

She shrugs. “They don’t bother me. The worms. I think they’re kinda cute.”

She settles on a medium-sized shovel with a red handle and walks back to the counter with it. She picks up another shad dart, a blue one this time, and lightly grazes the countertop with it as if it is a paintbrush, moving it in a large figure eight.

I ring up the shovel and put it on Rolly’s tab. “That it for you today, Sis?”

She nods and starts for the door, then turns back. “You don’t sell cigarettes here, do you?”

In all the years I’ve known Cassie, I’ve never seen her actually smoke a cigarette. When she and Roland lived in town, I always saw a pack lying around the house, on the coffee table, in the kitchen, but I never once saw an ashtray. For that matter, I don’t think I ever saw a lighter. I asked Rolly about it once, and he shrugged. Maybe it was none of my business. Maybe he didn’t know himself. “At a hardware store? You’ll have to go next door for cigarettes.”

She stares at the lures again. She hesitates, and I hope it is because she wants to hang around me for a bit longer. Most likely, however, she isn’t used to being in town on her own.

I can understand that. I take off my work belt and walk from behind the counter. “Come on. It’s my break time. I need a few things from Archie’s myself.”

Archie’s Discount Liquor opened the day I got back from the Army, which would be sixteen years ago this coming November. The ninth. Hell, I’m not sure Archie could tell you the exact date of his opening, but I won’t ever forget it. His beginning was, in a way, mine, too.

The Greyhound bus stop was across the street, in front of what used to be Shouse’s Gas Station. Archie was having a party in the parking lot. A big Grand Opening sign hung over the front door, and half the town milled around the lot holding red, white, and blue balloons and eating hot dogs. The band kicked in as I stepped off the bus. I turned, but the bus driver had already shut the door.

Unlike a lot of guys that go into the military, I had planned to make a career out it. From the minute they cut off all my hair, I knew the Army was the place for me. No longer was I Rolly’s big brother, or a football jock, or some pretty boy that all the girls wanted to lift their skirts for. Not that any of that was so bad, but that standard-issue buzz cut made me Private Adams. I became part of a bigger team, a band of brothers. And the girls still lifted their skirts. I was proud of who I was. I loved the Army. Loved the job. Loved the life.

So when I got off the Greyhound that November sixteen years ago, I wasn’t looking for a homecoming celebration. The sounds of the band and the happy voices of the partygoers across the street felt like a shot in the back. I sat on the bench in front of Shouse’s, staring across the highway and wondering what the hell I had done to deserve such a thing.

Rolly and Cassie picked me up. The day was unseasonably sunny—even the weather wasn’t cooperating with my mood. Cassie jumped out of the cab of their truck—a different one than the beat-up blue Ford they have now—and threw her arms around me as if I were a returning hero. She didn’t care why I was home. And never once in the last sixteen years has she asked why I got out early.

My brother, on the other hand, asked quite a bit. He knew the basics, but for some reason, he wanted me to tell him the story over and over. I don’t know if he was entertained by the details or the fact that I had failed, but the interrogations got old. Fast.

Even though Archie’s is right next door to the hardware store, I don’t go there very often. Seeing the place every day is bad enough, but going in reminds me of the remorse of that day and why I came home.

Cassie stands in front of the double glass doors, hands on her hips, staring at me with impatient eyes. “You okay?”

I shake my head. “Fine. Sorry, I…”

She turns toward the entrance, not caring if I complete the sentence or not. That’s fine, because I don’t know what comes after “I.” I follow her in and hear the soft music playing over the PA system—
White Christmas
… in May.

When they first opened, Archie’s was nothing but a discount liquor store. Over time, it became more like a general store, selling everything from bread to hygiene products. He doesn’t sell bait, though. I’ve got the corner on that business.

Cassie takes off down the aisle toward hair care, and I trail after her. I hope she isn’t going for female products. I don’t care to watch her shop for that stuff, but I really don’t want to just browse, either.

She stops in front of a long line of hair dye displays, picks up a box, and holds it up beside her head. “How is this color?”

The model has hair as red as a cock’s comb, and I don’t like it at all. “Why are you dyeing your hair?”

Cassie is what I hear girls refer to as a dishwater blonde. Her hair reminds me of wet sand, and I like it just the way it is.

She shrugs and chooses another box—white silver. I don’t like that, either.

She picks up a third and moves on down the aisle. I swear, she doesn’t even look at the color. I follow her to another aisle, where she grabs a huge red jug of bubble bath.

I wonder if Rolly follows her around the store like a pet, nodding as she picks up different items for show. I doubt it. Knowing my brother, he probably sits in the truck and gives her a time limit. Everyone in town thinks he’s a great guy, but that’s because they don’t know him as well as I do. Maybe that’s the connection I’ve always had with Cassie. We never talk about it, though. Both of us just put on that mask, the one that is meant to hide us, or Rolly, from the rest of the town.

Oh, I’ve got secrets, but I’ve also got reasons to keep them to myself. And if I’ve got them, I’m sure Cassie’s packing a few, too. Sometimes, when I mention Rolly or the house in town or that shack they live in now, she squints and stares off into the distance, as if she’s seeing some faraway place that she can’t quite reach. That’s when I know that she’s keeping something inside, burying it, trying to forget—or maybe just accept, as I do. My little brother has a way of making you do things his way, whether you want to or not.

“Don’t forget your cigarettes,” I say when we’re standing at the counter.

She digs in her pocket and pulls out some crumpled bills. Behind me in line, a young woman with an armful of Sudafed and coffee filters bounces from side to side. Archie’s son, Walter, is running the cash register. He’s a respectful kid, keeps his nose clean, and if it wasn’t for an accident he had with his daddy’s bow a few years back, he’d be in the Army right now. I hope Cassie doesn’t say anything about his tangle eye.

She points to a pack of Camels. “I never could figure out what the hell a camel has to do with smoking, but the camel is cute.”

Walter turns the pack over in his hand before he hands it to her. “It’s a dromedary. One humper.”

Cassie shrugs and thrusts the pack into her sack with the other products. The bouncing woman cackles, displaying black teeth.

As we leave Archie’s, I take in a deep breath of spring air and let it out slowly. I walk Cassie to her truck and watch her climb in behind the wheel. She rolls down the window, and I stand there, wishing she’d stay and talk a while longer.

“Thanks, Clay. I don’t care to shop much.” She’s a small woman and seems even tinier behind the wheel of the truck.

“Say hello to Rolly for me.”

She tilts her head and squints. Then she looks beyond me, beyond Deacon, to a place she can’t quite get to.

After Cassie drives away, I sit on the bench outside of Logston’s instead of going back early from my break. It’s a nice spring day, at least by my standards. Clouds are coming in, moving fast, and I appreciate a strong storm. I’m thinking about Cassie and Rolly and worms. They all kind of go together in my mind.

First, there’s Cassie. I’m not going to think about her much today. I do too much of that already. Rolly tells me she’s getting worse. He complains about it all the time, but she doesn’t seem any different to me than she did when we were teenagers. Sure, she’s got some problems, pretty serious ones, but she’s fine by me.

Maybe her biggest problem is my brother. Rolly is a class-A ass, always has been. And I guess now that we’re getting close to forty, he always will be. They say old dogs can’t learn, and I’m pretty sure he’s not only a dog but a dumb one at that.