They Call Me Crazy (4 page)

If I’d have known at the age of six the true meaning of crazy, I probably would have steered clear of Cassie. Even in first grade, Cass did things I would never dare attempt, like putting a half-melted ice cream sandwich in Miss Leeper’s desk drawer and cramming an entire mound of sauerkraut in Benny Cloud’s jacket pocket when he was turned the other way. She sure made me laugh.

“She’s definitely a mixed-up broad,” Pet says.

Isn’t that the truth?

Cass’s dad ran off when she was just a baby. He didn’t run far; she and her grandmother knew that he lived in St. Louis. But he never called, and he never once, in all the years I hung out with her, came to visit or even sent a birthday card.

When Cass was five, her mother hanged herself. Cass and her nine-year-old sister, Lola, were left in the care of their grandparents, Babe and Jack Shatner. Jack sat on the porch all day and watched the cars go by. Babe made potions and told fortunes. Crazy runs in that family.

They lived in the same house that her grandmother lives in now. The small four-room house was painted red, yellow, green, and white and had a large pentagram scrawled above the front porch. Filled with herbs and God knows what else, the place was creepy then, and it still is. Babe was always nice to me as a child, but she was one of those people who stared at you too hard and too long, which sometimes made me uncomfortable. She said she was reading my aura, which I guess was usually as it should be because she seemed to approve of me. I doubt that would be the case these days, and I’d rather not get close enough to give her the opportunity.

A dark cloud has come up pretty fast, typical for this time of year. It’s concentrated over the center of town, and I hope it at least holds off until the game is over. Shay is on deck. Rebecca is at the plate. She strikes out. Damn, I didn’t get to watch her try to run.

“You’d think that crazy bitch had a little somethin’, somethin’, the way she walked in Logston’s and looked down that snotty nose at me.” Daze is pretty worked up.

But I know that there’s no telling how Cass acted. She never did know when to stop.

As we got older, her antics became more elaborate, and sometimes not so funny. In fourth grade, she beat up Benny Cloud on the playground for stealing a red rubber ball from her. She pounded him
bad
, too. He cried, but later he said it was because he got gravel in his eyes.

That day, Roland became friends with Cassie and me. Roland was always big for his age, and although he wasn’t fat, he had gotten the nickname Rolly, most likely from Benny. Roland was cute, in a big-kid sort of way, and nice to everyone. I think seeing Benny get his due made Roland’s day, and he was the first to congratulate Cass on winning the fight.

Roland lived outside of town on the old highway in a double-wide Econoline with his mother. She told everyone that his father had been “killed in the war,” but as we got older, we began to think the truth was that he had simply moved on after Roland was born. That was pretty similar to what Cass’s father had done, which may have been her and Roland’s first connection.

“All I can say is thank the Lord those two didn’t breed. Can you imagine what that devil bitch would have spawned?” Pet snickers.

I feel a pang in my stomach
. Actually, a baby might have been good for Cass.
I turn back to the game.

When I came back from college sixteen years ago, Roland and Cass were already married. It was a hard time for me, returning home with a baby but no man and facing the rumors that ran through this silly little town. No one wanted to believe that Shay’s father had been killed in a motorcycle accident. Rumors are much more fun. Roland and Cassie were about the only friends I had. And Clay.

Clay was perfect in every way: tall and muscular, blond hair that he wore long, big baby blues, and a smile that would melt ice. Almost every girl in town was chasing after Clay.

I probably should have never come back, but I had my reasons. I secured a job at Central Elementary, teaching the fifth grade, after Pearl Soper, the oldest living virgin—by her own proclamation—died at the tender age of eighty-six. Dealing with those kids should have done her in decades earlier. Things got better for me after I started working and Clay legally adopted Shay. Once I was considered a respectable member of society, the rumors died down. Roland, Cass, and I maintained some kind of relationship, often double dating—not that what Clay and I did was ever considered a date, at least by my standards. But it was hard, me with a toddler and those two acting as if the world would end if they had to be apart.

Shay’s back is to me. She has her knees bent and her bat back as far as it will go. The pitch is fast and high, but Shay goes for it anyway and sends it to right field. She’s nearing third base before the ball makes it back to the infield. She glances back and, instead of stopping, keeps on going, picking up speed, headed for home.

“I’m pretty pissed at Roland,” Pet says as Shay slides feet first under the catcher. “He promised he’d take that morning shift for me today. No call, no show. I oughta write him up for that shit.”

Pet’s words catch me off guard. I scoot down until I’m right behind the couple and tap him on the shoulder. He turns and eyes me up and down, as if I’m interrupting something important.

“Roland wasn’t at work today?” I try to ask matter-of-factly, but it’s hard to conceal the surprise in my voice. Roland likes money, and it’s unusual for him not to show up for an extra shift.

“No, he wasn’t. And if you see him, tell him he’s on my shit list.”

The umpire yells, “Safe,” and I turn to see Shaylene standing by home plate and wiping the dirt from her pants.

Safe.

Roland didn’t come over for coffee this morning. Cass was driving his truck in town. And he didn’t show up for work. Something’s not adding up here.

Chapter Five

Babe

T
he rain starts just as I see that blue pickup turning the corner at Fourteenth and Chouteau. I know Cass is driving because the vehicle is going too fast and swerving all over the road. She doesn’t drive much. Usually, Roland’s the one who comes to visit. He brings Cass into town on the weekends, and they stop by together sometimes, but Roland comes to see me at least once a month. I think he’s a decent man. He takes care of my girl, or at least, he tries to take care of her. Or he used to… I don’t actually know anymore.

I always tell the girls that they need to be able to see both the good and the bad in people. Of course, the many-colored auras that surround everyone are constantly shifting, so just because someone may have a shade of gray at times doesn’t mean they are necessarily bad. Maybe they’re having a tough day, or they have a lot on their minds. Maybe they need someone’s help to turn the gray to white.

But whatever their colors are, you have to be able to see them. Guessing about people is dangerous.

Yet with Roland, I’ve never been able to see past his eyes. Something about him makes him impossible for me to read. It forces me to focus on his words and his actions, which are unreliable even in the most trustworthy of folks. I do wonder sometimes if I’m seeing him all wrong.

Anyway, once a month, Roland comes to visit. He doesn’t stay long, and we usually talk about Cass. Since she’s out in the middle of nowhere by herself most of the time, maybe he just wants to assure me that she’s okay. But I know she isn’t. I’ve tried to convince him to move her back to town so I can keep an eye on her, but he won’t do it. I’ve seen her acting differently when she comes over, and I wonder if maybe her visions are getting too powerful for her. But Roland doesn’t understand that, and he doesn’t believe it, either. I wish I could see inside of him, so I could find a way to make him believe.

A few weeks ago, he came by while I was out back, crushing up some red chickweed for lotion. His shirt was rumpled, he smelled of beer, and he had a two-day start on a scruffy beard. I know his job at the strip club keeps him out late into the morning at times, but I also think he might be doing other things. I’m not going to jump to conclusions about the man. And he won’t let me read his cards.

“I found a place for Cass,” he said. He talks slowly when he talks to me. He has a filthy mouth, and he tries to control it in my house. I do appreciate that.

“What kind of a place?”

He gave me a knowing nod.

I had an idea. I had her mother in a lot of
places
when she was young. None of them did any good. “Maybe there’s something else you can do,” I said. “I’ll help. I don’t want her to—”

“Ms. Shatner, I can’t take it anymore. Hell, I’m too young to have to deal with this crap.” He walked off the back porch and spit toward my begonias.

“Hold your mouth,” I said.

But he’d already said enough. Sending her away was about him, not her. Even decent men wear out sometimes. I asked him to please give it more time, and he said he would, but I could tell he pretty much had his mind made up. He thinks he’s doing right. I don’t.

That was a few weeks ago. I haven’t seen him since, and today, here is Cass, all by herself. I’m delighted to see her—we don’t get much alone time these days—but I wonder how she came to be out by herself. Maybe Roland decided to give her a bit more freedom to see if it helped. Or maybe she just stole the truck keys while he was sleeping.

I sit on the porch and try to see the raindrops, which isn’t easy on days when the sun is still out. But I can smell a hint of wet earth and hear the rain as it hits the pavement. “A devil’s day,” my grandma used to say. I didn’t notice any clouds earlier, but they do come up pretty fast this time of year. Who knows? Maybe Cass brought her own. Whatever it is, the devil has come out to have some fun today, and Cass is his playmate of choice.

She gets out of the truck and stands still for a minute, turning her face up toward the sun and letting the drops hit her. I have to smile. I love my girls, and I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but Cass has always been the one. I think she sees more than she admits, but every time she lets that out, that doctor of hers gives her more pills. I keep telling her those pills are going to kill her, but Roland says they make her calmer, and I have to trust that he’s doing right by her.

She’s carrying a brown paper bag freckled with raindrops. She walks slowly toward me, staring at her feet. She keeps her head down when she gets on the porch, and I can tell by the way that she curls her legs underneath her as she sits in one of my rickety wicker chairs that something isn’t right. Her colors are darker than usual—not anything I’d call bad, just darker.

“What did you do?” I ask.

One thing about my Cass, she never lies. She even has a habit of telling the truth when she should keep hushed. She’s never had any problem standing that five-foot frame up to the biggest, meanest, burliest brute and telling them just what’s in that head of hers. No one will go toe to toe with her, either. They’re not quite sure what she’s capable of. But I know. That girl can do anything she sets her mind to.

Cass looks up from her bag and considers me for a moment. Only a moment, though. She can’t focus on my eyes, which tells me that something really isn’t right. Not answering me isn’t the same as lying. It just means she isn’t ready to tell me yet. She will, in her own time.

“Where’s Roland?” I find that I can hardly say his name. I don’t have anything against the man, but I don’t hold with what he’s been thinking lately.

She answers a little too quickly. “He’s at home.”

I remind myself to find the good in him. When they were kids, Roland was the first to take up for her when the others called her names. He saw that spark in her and was not going to let some punk take it away. He brought her books because he knew she liked to read. And when she thought she was pregnant, he married her, in a snap.

Some people say that he’s plain mean for moving her out on that hill and taking her away from town. But that house in town was too much for her, and he knew it. And of course, after she couldn’t work anymore, they really couldn’t afford it. Sure, that place they’ve been living in is a dump, but he promised it was temporary. I always thought that meant he was going to build her a fancy house someday, now that he’s working a second job.

But I know differently now. He’s got other plans for Cass. And as much as I hate it, he’s her husband. There isn’t much I can do about it but pray.

And I do know how hard it can be. I lived with her mother, and I remember the night terrors and having to hide the razors and the pills and the shotgun. I know Cass has some of that in her, so I can’t blame Roland. But I sure expected more from him.

The rain is pouring harder. A gentle breeze blows a few drops onto the porch, but Cass doesn’t move when they pepper her arm. She doesn’t even seem to notice.

“What you got in the bag?” I ask.

She’s off somewhere. She does that a lot. I don’t know where she goes. I hope it’s somewhere in the future, but I’m afraid it’s somewhere in the past.

My question seems to remind her that she’s still clutching the bag. She opens it and pulls out a box. Nice ‘n Easy. “Can you help me with this, Grams? I’ve never done it before.”

The dark chestnut brown on the box isn’t exactly the color I would have picked for her. I prefer her natural color, kind of a medium umber, but something lighter would highlight those big green eyes. At least she’s doing something to look good for her man. He’s not hard on the eyes. She’d be pretty, too, if she gave it half a thought.

I stroke her hair. “Sure thing, honey. How about a nice short cut to go with it? Something different.”

She nods.

“What else you got there?”

“Bubble bath.”

“Raspberry?”

“Of course.”

We both smile. Everything I ever taught that girl, she remembers. I hand her back the box and struggle out of my lawn chair. The rain is coming down in sheets now, and the sky is dark. There is one mean storm brewing.

We start toward the door together, then she stops. She turns her face to me, and I see her eyes are wet.

“I killed him, Grams. I killed Roland.”

She seems so serious and sad but still as if she isn’t quite sure what is going on. This isn’t the first time she’s told me she killed someone, so I’m not too concerned. Some strange things happen in that head of hers, I’m sure, especially when it comes to Roland. She loves that man. She wouldn’t hurt him for the world.

I look into her eyes and swear I can see the light of her soul. “Did you take your medicine this morning?”

“Not since yesterday. It makes it hard to think, and it makes me tired. I’m sick of being tired. I’m tired of being sick.”

Maybe she’ll finally start using the herbs I told her about. They’ll do her more good than all those pills. Roland won’t agree, but if we show him how much better she is using my medicine plan than his, he’ll come around.

“And I killed him.” She turns her attention toward the rain, as if daring the devil to keep up his games. A crash of thunder sounds, but she doesn’t flinch.

I lay my hands on either side of her head and press my palms to her temples. I trace her jawline with my thumbs. I feel her skin respond, like tiny bugs waking up, moving, alive. I shut my eyes and feel her senses then run my fingers down her arms and hold her wrists. “No, you didn’t, sweetie. You just think you did.”