They Call Me Crazy (3 page)

When we were growing up, Momma used to say we were ice and steam: made of the same stuff but totally different. I was always quiet. I saw myself as the man of the house, the one trying to take care of things, the stable one. Rolly was unpredictable, hotheaded, and always goofing off. I guess that makes him the steam. His behavior was okay for a kid and even as a teenager, but once a guy grows up, he’s supposed to be a man. Of course, Rolly would say he’s more of a man than I am. Obviously, our definitions of that are different.

I used to have people come into the store once in a while expecting me to pay off a bet Rolly had made with them. Settling up never amounted to a lot of money, but just the idea that he’d send them to me, without even asking, pissed me off. When he and Cassie lived in town, he shot out his neighbor’s security light twice with a BB pistol and said it must have been the neighborhood kids. To Rolly, that was much more fun than simply asking the guy to adjust the light so it wasn’t shining in his bedroom window at all hours. He rarely has a nice word to say about anyone, but to their faces, he flashes those dimples and turns on the charm. One of his favorite targets is Babe Shatner. She’s a different kind of woman—sees things, they say—but the way Rolly talks about her is downright cruel.

I asked him once why he goes to visit her so much. “Aren’t you afraid of what she might… you know,
see
about you?”

“She can’t see shit,” he said. “If she could, she’d have been able to keep Crazy Number One from hanging herself. And she damn sure wouldn’t be feeding me poison-free cobbler.” So he chats her up for cobbler and talks about her behind her back.
Class-A ass.

And then there are the women.

In high school, even though he and Cassie were a pair, he’d steal off once in a while and take advantage of one of the girls willing to give up a taste. I knew it, but I never said anything. I was too amazed that so many wanted him. Sure, by a female’s standards, he’s always been a handsome guy, and I guess for some that’s all they want. Others thought they could take him away from Cassie, but Rolly wasn’t ever going to let that go. I couldn’t figure that one out for the longest time. If he wanted to jump everything that moved, why did he bother getting married? Once you say “I do,” you’re playing with a gasoline-soaked rag and a pack of matches.

But I know why he married her now. At least I think I do.

Sure enough, once he and Cassie got hitched, he kept on. He had a great thing going, at least for him. He could do what he wanted with the ladies, usually when Cassie was out working, then go back home, eat his dinner, wear the clothes she washed for him, and sleep with her, too.

I called him on it once, trying to be the big brother that I was supposed to be, and he shut me right down. “These bitches will do anything I want. Anything. It’s pretty fucking amazing if you ask me.”
What an ass.

Once Cassie had to stop working, things changed. She was around during the day and expected him to be, too. That wasn’t going to happen. So his solution was to move her outside of town. He wanted to keep her locked up, in my opinion. And he continued doing his thing. I hear things, and I know he’s got more pie than Murphy’s.

So how does a man that’s sleeping with every soft leg in town keep that undercover? That’s where being married to Cassie comes in. He doesn’t want to be responsible for any of those women; he doesn’t want them to be his “next wife.” He’s already got one, he tells them, as if they don’t already know. And none of them want her on their asses because they all know she’s unpredictable, to say the least, and he’s convinced everyone she’s dangerous. He pretty much keeps his girls in line by telling them that Cass is over-the-edge crazy and she’ll kill them in a heartbeat. They believe it, and he gets everything he wants.

I glance at my watch and realize I’ve been sitting here beyond my break time. Mr. Logston won’t mind, since there aren’t any customers in the store right now, but I still don’t want to take advantage. I get up and flex my hands, wishing I had a big pile of worms to squeeze. They may be dirty and dumb, but I do prefer their company to thoughts of my brother.

Chapter Three

Cass

I
drive down Military, cruising the main drag like Roland and I used to do when we were teenagers. A storm is brewing. I can always tell, and the cool air rushing in through the open windows of the truck raises tiny goose bumps on my arms. I’ve got the radio on KIX Country 102.5, and I’m singing along, ignoring the crackle coming from one of the speakers. I’m not sure if I should feel this good less than a day after killing my husband.

Roland and I made a decent go of our first thirteen years together. We never had children. I think my infertility was God’s way of making me pay for lying to Roland about being pregnant in the first place. I really thought I was; I just didn’t tell him any different when I found out it wasn’t true. I loved him and wanted to keep him forever.

Early in our marriage, I worked at Café Sixty-Six, which was right off the highway where the Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma state lines meet. It was more of a truck stop than a cafe, and I took orders from the drivers waiting to drop their loads at their destination. Not that they didn’t drop their loads at times in the sleeper leapers that hung out in the parking lot, but I never got involved in any of that. One man is enough for any woman, and I had mine at home.

Roland worked at the mop factory. His job was to string the mop heads before they were attached to their wooden handles. He didn’t actually do that by hand. He sat in front of a machine all day and watched it do all the work. He was very good at that.

He worked the evening shift most of the time, while I worked nights. On his way home from work, Roland would stop in the cafe and head straight for me, no matter whether I was taking an order or sitting on my behind. Sometimes he’d have flowers or chocolate, but always something for “his girl.” He’d wrap me in his strong arms and kiss me hard on the lips. My supervisor wasn’t too happy about it, but Roland didn’t seem to care. And I definitely didn’t.

The other waitresses were jealous, even if they didn’t say anything. A lot of the older customers would smile, and the truck drivers would sometimes catcall, but we always got a response. Roland liked the attention. I just liked being kissed.

We were a mismatch, at least by Deacon standards. Roland was tall, handsome, and super friendly. He talked to everyone. I, on the other hand, had a hard time finding the right words. I just didn’t care for many of those people—and still don’t—and I never had a problem letting them know how I felt. Roland used to laugh about that and tell me I was funny. That’s kind of how it was with us. He thought my craziness was amusing, and he didn’t mind at all.

People talk about the good old days, and I guess for Roland and me, those first thirteen years were just that. We had a nice two-bedroom house in town, complete with a white picket fence. I used to sit on the porch and watch the hummingbirds pick at the honeysuckle-covered trestles and think about how lucky I was.

But five years ago, my luck ran out. I had forgotten to take my medicine, and I just wasn’t in the mood to be at work that night, getting crotched by every truck driver in the four-state area. After one ass grab too many, I smashed a glass in some guy’s face. I just wanted him to stop. Anyway, that’s when Doc Kenney said I shouldn’t be working anymore, and I started getting a monthly check to stay home—$758.32, not even half of what I made slinging waffles and eggs but a decent chunk for doing nothing.

Roland wasn’t too happy about it. With only one of us employed, we had to move out of our cottage in town. He found the shack out on Booker Hill and bought it outright for a thousand dollars. I tried to make the best of it; at least I still had Roland. But he had other hobbies, none of which involved me.

I bang on the dashboard, trying to shake the bad speaker back into play. “Shame one of those hobbies wasn’t working on this damn truck.”

I let out a scream. The driver of the car next to me honks his horn. I flip him the middle finger.

Roland went out a lot with the boys. I could always smell liquor on him when he came home. At first it was a few times a week; then it became almost every night.

“You’re crazy,” he would say, waking me up.

I would just lie there, not wanting to argue. Not that I could debate that one, anyway.

Sometimes he’d shake me, as if he wanted a fight. “And you’re lazy as hell. This place is a sty!” He said that one a lot.

I let him say his piece until he passed out and I could go back to sleep. I knew he was sick. Alcoholism is an illness, and doctors say it will eventually kill you. In Roland’s case, they were right.

Two years ago, he started working a night job at Fat Tina’s strip club out on the highway. I wasn’t too thrilled about him being around all those half-naked women, but I trusted him. Besides, I thought that maybe working would keep him from drinking so much. About that same time, though, I found a box of condoms in the truck. They say the last straw isn’t always the heaviest, just the one that can’t be endured. Whoever
they
are, I think they’re probably right.

The thought of Roland with another woman made me realize that I had to find a way out. I couldn’t do much on my own. There was no telling what Roland would have done if I up and left him. So I started praying. I know it sounds bad, but I didn’t pray that Roland would get better. I prayed that he would die.

“Lord forgive me,” I whisper now. I cross myself, even though I’m not Catholic.

I hit a pothole big enough to bury a body in. The radio blares crystal clear, the Eli Young Band singing about skeletons. I turn it up and hope the speaker lasts through the song. Skeletons. Yes, I have plenty of those.

On days when I forgot to take my medicine, I would imagine Roland’s death. In one scenario, he would be out with one of his hussies in his truck, and a train would hit them both. I didn’t care for that one so much, because I really liked the truck. In another, he’d be digging in the yard, maybe in that big hole he always said would someday be a Japanese fish pond, and the hand of God would just reach down from the sky, snatch that shovel from him, and whack him upside the head with it. That was my favorite.

I knew my prayers would be answered one day, but I got tired of waiting.

I probably should have told Clay the truth. Some secrets are too heavy to carry around alone. But I couldn’t figure out how to say it. “Hey, I need a new shovel, and by the way, I whacked your brother and buried him in the yard.” That wouldn’t have gone over too well.

I come to 14th Street and get in the turn lane. I know Grams is the only one I can tell. Someone else honks at me, and I flip them off, too.

One part of me wants to forget he ever existed and not tell a soul, just go on with my life as if he wasn’t ever part of it. I could burn his clothes and his clock. I think that wish is from the part that has been living in the shack for the past five years.

But another part of me, the one that used to get kissed every day at the cafe, wants to cry and to tell someone. I know
that
Roland left a long time ago, and he wasn’t ever coming back, but that’s the one I’d like to remember.

I hit myself on the side of the head with my palm, trying to shake the two parts together. I wonder if I’ll miss him. Probably. But right now, I’m feeling pretty happy about the whole thing. No more drinking, no more calling me names, no more condoms in the truck. Grams always said I’d be happier if I took up gardening, but I’m not sure she meant for me to start planting bodies.

It starts to rain as I pull up in front of Grams’s house. “She also says ‘You reap what you sow.’” I barely hear my own voice over the radio. I turn off the truck, roll up the windows, and sit for a minute, watching the rain.

Roland sowed money. And I sowed Roland. Something tells me the reaping part isn’t going to be nearly as satisfying.

Chapter Four

Maryanne

“M
om, are you awake?”

“I am now.” Sitting up, I reach for her hand. Shaylene’s usual smile has been replaced by a frown. “What’s wrong, Shay?”

“I can’t find my baseball socks. They won’t let me play if I don’t have those stupid socks on.”

That’s my girl. Her life revolves around school, friends, and sports. “I folded them and put them in your sock drawer, where they belong. Didn’t check there, did you?”

She smiles, her entire face washed of concern. Leaning down, she kisses me on the forehead. “Thanks, Mom. I gotta get going. See you at the field.”

“Did you call your dad to tell him the game time was moved up?” Clay is about the best dad a girl could ask for. He loves Shaylene, even more than he loves his worms, and never misses a game unless he’s working.

“His phone was off. I left a message,” she says over her shoulder as she leaves my room.

The aroma of Costa Rican dark roast—Roland’s favorite—hangs in the air. I rarely drink coffee alone, but I set the timer on the pot every night so there will be a fresh pot waiting if he decides to drop by in the morning. My bedside clock reads 7:45.

With another fifteen minutes to enjoy the comfort of my Tempur-Pedic, I tuck the blanket around me and lie back on the pillows. Outside the window, two hummingbirds flit around one of the feeders that I hung from the giant oak growing a little too close to the house. I love watching them, always moving, always with a purpose. With my left hand, I absentmindedly brush the other side of my bed—cold and empty. But I’m not going to think about that. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I intend to enjoy it.

At one minute before eight, I turn off the alarm to avoid the shrill buzzer interrupting the serenity of the morning. I slowly climb from my bed to begin my morning routine: stretches followed by a set of twenty jumping jacks. I’ve done the same thing every morning for the past eighteen years. People say once you get in the habit, it’s easy, but there are still days, like today, when I would prefer the extra few minutes in bed.

I wash my face, throw on a pair of running pants, and turn off the coffee pot on my way out the door. Saturday morning. Shopping and Shay’s ball game. Tonight, if Shay stays with a friend, maybe I’ll take a trip to Springfield.

The Safeway is packed, as usual. I swear, shopping has become a social hour for several of the women in Deacon, and Saturday morning seems to be the designated time. Several even dress for the occasion, casual but far from grungy, made up and perfumed, as if they were heading out to the rodeo. I walk past Beth Harper and a gaggle of others who have taken up residence in the frozen foods section. I wave but don’t allow myself to get sucked into their conversations. Not that I don’t like to hear a little gossip, but I just don’t care much for them.

Holding my breath, I jog past the meat counter. The smell of raw meat turns my stomach even worse than the sight of it. Although I prefer chicken, I do like meat. Actually, I love meat, just not the animal kind.

I run dead into Benny Cloud as he rounds the aisle from the dairy products.

He reaches out to steady me. “Whoa. Where’s the fire?” He’s in uniform, even though he usually works the evening shift. Unless he had a late night and had to stay over, he’s just wearing it for show, which is most likely the case. Running for sheriff in the fall is reason enough for him to remind everyone that he has been a worthy chief of police, and there’s no better way to do that than to be seen on a Saturday morning. Small-town politics are still politics.

“Sorry, the meat stinks.” I crinkle my nose.

Benny smiles wide enough that I can see a few silver crowns. “How’s that girl of yours?” He smiles a lot lately, at everyone, and likes to chat. I know it’s his way of demonstrating his concern for the townsfolk, as in possible voters. It’s still, after all these years, hard for me to fully accept this new Benny. He was such a jerk in school, but after he came back from the Army, he was different, softer in a way. I guess getting shot can do that to you, or maybe it’s from being around all those dolls his wife has in their house. He can still be tough when he has to, but he knows now when to use honey and when to use vinegar. People can change. Benny is proof of that.

“Fine. How’s Grace?”

“Doing just fine. Thanks for asking.”

I’ve said my few sentences, and I want to get moving before I’m stopped by any of my students’ parents. I hate impromptu parent conferences. It’s Saturday, and I don’t want to think about work. I glance at my watch. Benny notices and moves to the side, giving me free passage.

I start to walk away then stop and say, “Benny, you look really nice in your uniform. You’ll make a great sheriff.” It can’t hurt to be on the right side of the chief of police.

His face lights up like one of those slot machines at the Downstream. I smile, knowing I’ve done my good deed for the day, and continue down the aisle to load food in my basket so I can get out of there.

The parking lot is beginning to fill, and I’m thankful I didn’t take those extra minutes in bed. Packages loaded, I start my Honda and back out of my space, barely missing Beth Harper as she waddles behind me. She’s still talking on her cell phone, not paying any attention to the cars in the lot. She shoots me a stare that would freeze fire. I smile and wave.
Kill them with kindness
.

I start to turn right onto Military Avenue but change my mind and head left when I spot Roland’s blue pickup heading in the direction of my house. The clock on my dashboard reads 9 a.m. Maybe he was just running late. He has a second job he works on the weekends and most weeknights. Fat Tina’s stays busy until the early morning hours, but if there’s trouble, Roland will stick around and help out.

“Damn.” I should have left the coffee on, just in case.

I follow the familiar truck with its gun rack in the back window and the red, white, and blue sticker on the tailgate that boldly proclaims “These Colors Don’t Run.” As the truck pulls into the center lane to turn down Fourteenth Street, I pass, toot my horn, and wave, throwing my best smile toward the driver. My smile fades when I see that it isn’t Roland driving at all. It’s
her
.

Cass flips her middle finger without even turning to see who honked. I grip the steering wheel with both hands as I continue down Military, wondering how Roland has put up with her for all these years.

Cass was in the seventh grade when she decided she would one day marry Roland. We were sitting at Grandma Babe’s kitchen table, waiting for a peach cobbler to cool. Cass had wanted cherry, but Grandma made peach, saying it would help our concentration while we did our homework.

“Cherry’s for love,” Grandma Babe said.

Cass shrugged. “I’m almost thirteen. I’m going to be needing some cherry sooner or later.” She looked down at herself. Her hand-me-down clothes from Lola hung on her childlike frame. She pulled the top of her shirt out and eyed her chest. “Probably quite a bit.”

Grandma Babe gave her a playful nudge. “You worried about love, girl? I can tell you all about that.” She went to her bedroom and came back with a worn deck of Tarot cards. She laid them out on the table and had Cass cut the deck.

Grandma Babe flipped the top card over: a man standing between two women. “See? The Lovers. You are meant to be in love.”

Cass pointed to the second woman. “Who’s that, Grams?”

She winked at her. “That’s the matchmaker. Probably me.”

Cass giggled. “Well, who is he, Grams? Tell me.”

I don’t remember how they eventually concluded that it was Roland, but after flipping several more cards, they did. I was too interested in that first one to pay any more attention. A man dressed in green stood between two women who were holding hands in front of him. Above, a mischievous cupid was readying to pierce him with an arrow. I didn’t know why it mesmerized me then, but I think I have it figured out now.

Cass told everyone at school about her Tarot reading. They all laughed at her gullibility.

But Roland only shrugged and said, “It could be worse.” From then on, she stuck to him like paint on clapboard.

I turn into my driveway and hit the button on the garage-door opener. I pull in, shut the door, and sit in the dark.

Cass used to say that she had Grandma Babe’s power of sight. That used to scare me, but now I know for sure that she doesn’t. I wouldn’t be here if she did.

I haven’t visited Grandma Babe in nineteen years, since the day before I went back to college that first summer break. It’s not because I’m above the dotty relic of a woman. On the contrary, I feel a real connection to her and would probably appreciate her readings more as an adult than I ever did as a child. The problem is that I
do
believe Babe has a gift. I realized it the last time I saw her. She told me my aura was horribly tinged and that she wanted to do a reading or two to find out what was wrong. I wouldn’t let her.

I know why my aura is tinged, and the last thing I need is for her or Cass to know.

Cass and I have been friends since the first grade—close friends,
best
friends. But with any relationship, years of good experiences can be washed away with one mistake. Although Babe, Lola, and Cass have been a second family to me, they aren’t blood, and I never would want to cross them. Not in a big way. Everyone knows Babe is a psychic or healer or mystic or whatever they call people like her, but nobody knows Lola and Cass have some inherent weirdness, too. And while Babe and Lola are both carefree and not very intimidating, Cass scares me.

Not many people know it—I’m sure it never made it beyond Babe Shatner’s psychedelic walls—but Cass cut herself when she was thirteen. I don’t mean by accident. I mean she took a straight razor that she found in her Grandpa Jack’s bathroom and made a slice across her wrist while I sat there and watched.

“It’s not a big deal, Maryanne,” Cass said, looking me straight in the eye. “If I get dizzy or start to pass out, I’ll wrap it in a towel and stop the bleeding. I won’t die or anything. I just want to see how it feels.” She raised and lowered her eyebrows.

Maybe she was kidding, but I wasn’t sure. She had joked about killing herself before, and although it made me uncomfortable, I never thought she would really do it. But that time, she really did slice her wrist, kind of deep, and if I hadn’t tied the towel around her arm and yelled for Grandma Babe, she probably would have died. And there would have been another suicide to add to the family list.

The scariest part about the whole episode wasn’t the blood but the way she reacted. She
laughed
.

“Oh, you are so uptight,” she said. “I wasn’t going to die. If I wanted to die, I would have cut this way”—she drew a finger down her wrist to demonstrate—“really deep, not straight across.”

The fact that she knew how to effectively cut her wrists at the age of thirteen was bad enough. But laughing about it? That was when I knew she was mentally unstable.

And if she’s capable of hurting herself, she might hurt someone else, especially someone who had made a mistake that could destroy what little happiness Cass has in her otherwise troubled life.

Yes, I’m scared of her. Terrified.

But I still refuse to call what Roland and I did a mistake. Our relationship was beautiful. It was how things should have been. And Cass can never know.

Shay’s ballgame is out west of town, at what the townsfolk call the Mickey Mantle field. I sit on the bleachers, smiling as people say hello but trying to avoid any long conversations. I just want to watch my girl play ball. Not everything needs to be a social event, regardless of what the people of this town think.

Pet and Daze Harper are sitting two rows below me. They’ve come to watch Pet’s girl, Rebecca. Not much to watch, if you ask me. The girl can’t hit, and she runs as if she’s got a pumpkin between her knees. Shay’s a cleanup hitter, and the opposing team knows to back up when she comes to the plate. Long-legged and left-handed, she’s also a natural at first base. Rebecca is usually picking flowers in the outfield.

I’m trying to focus on the game, but I can’t help hearing Daze and Pet’s conversation.

“I don’t know why Roland even lets her out in public,” Daze says. “She looked like she’d been in a cat fight and lost.”

I try to picture Cass wrestling with a wild cat, but that would have to be one tough kitty.

When we were kids, I lived on East Avenue, not far from Main Street, and Cass lived a few blocks away down by Washington High School. We both went to Central and were always assigned to sit together because of our last names: Shatner and Spencer.