Just then, I heard brakes. I looked up just in time to see my mom pull up. She rolled down the passenger window from the driver’s side.
“Hey, Cash.” Her look was remorseful.
She knows.
I did what any boy who’d just found out his best friend had moved away would do—I swallowed my tears, grabbed my snacks, and climbed in the truck.
Erla must have called my mom. I thought she had known I would need her.
“She didn’t even say good-bye, Mom.” I shut the truck door. It was then that it dawned on me that I’d forgotten something on the Brockmeyers’ porch. I winced.
“What?”
“I forgot my bullfrog at the Brockmeyers’.”
“Hopefully, it wasn’t inside the house.” My mom smiled. Winked. “I’m sure you’ll find another one. You always do.”
The low hum of the truck on Waddington almost put me to sleep before my mom said, “I’m really sorry to hear about Scarlet. I know how much you care about her.”
“It doesn’t even matter,” I muttered under my breath. “She didn’t even say good-bye.”
My mother sighed. “Some good-byes never come, unfortunately. And oftentimes, kids don’t get to be part of the decision-making process. I guess what I’m trying to say is, it might not be her fault that she didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“Do you think Scarlet will be okay?”
My mom’s eyes were on the road, and there was a long pause before she answered. She did this when she was in deep thought. But a lot like Scarlet, my mom never lied to me. She always gave me the honest truth, even when it was hard. Just like the time my dad had taken Gus, a bull I’d grown quite fond of, away in a truck.
“Where’s Dad taking Gus?” I asked my mom.
Again, the long pause. “To Dillon Creek Meat Company.”
That had just been last year. That was a hard thing to stomach. But nobody ever argued with Dad. He knew what was best for the ranch, for our family, but that was also another time that I hadn’t gotten to say good-bye.
I had been sick about it and stayed in my room for two whole days, mad at the whole goddamn world, until Scarlet showed up on the third day.
“You want to talk about it?” she asked.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Then, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Gus isn’t coming back, and he’s in a far better place now.”
“Yeah, on our table for dinner.”
“The way I see it is that heaven is far better than this world. He’s probably eating apples and sitting under a redwood tree right now.”
That thought made me feel a little less sad and a lot less queasy. “I’m still not going to eat him.”
“You might want to check with your mom, but I don’t think they took him to the butcher shop, so you guys could eat him.”
The bump in the road brought me back to my surroundings.
“I think Scarlet is a tough young lady, and she will make it through, no matter what happens,” was my mom’s answer.
I nodded. She was right about one thing: no matter what, Scarlet could make it through anything.
When we arrived home at the Atwood Ranch, the king snake was back on the porch.
“Mom! He’s back!” I squealed.
I rounded the truck and headed for the front door. He was a beauty. He liked the sun on our porch best, and he usually showed up when no one was home. Maybe all the activity on the ranch kept him out in the wild, but every now and then, he’d slither over to the porch, and we’d get the rare sighting.
Grandma Clyda and Grandpa Borges pulled in behind us.
I wheeled back around and pointed to the big guy on the porch as I tried to quietly yell, “He’s back, Gramps and Grams! See!”
They both smiled and shook their heads.
Gramps hiked up his pants as he walked to the passenger door to open Grandma’s door. “If that boy isn’t trying to play with bulls, he’s catching reptiles.”
“Don’t I know it, Borges.” My mom laughed as I picked up the king snake.
He didn’t twist or turn or flip; he just settled into my steady hands. He was heavy and long, but I managed to carefully move him off the porch and into the tall grass behind the house. His tongue flickered back and forth, as if he was confused as to why he wasn’t in the warm afternoon sun anymore.
“It’s safer here, buddy, away from the road.”
King snakes kept the rattlesnakes away, and Dad was happy with that. As I leaned on the fence and peered through, the snake’s long, lean body moved through the tall grass like a slow, steady stream of water—with ease and consistency and bravery. He wasn’t worried about what was to come of the future, of being stepped on by a bull or a horse or, scarier yet, being swooped up by an eagle. He was just an in-the-moment kind of guy.
Maybe that’s how I ought to live my life, I thought. Maybe loss wouldn’t feel so heavy then.
I thought about Scarlet one more time before I let her memory go. It was something I just couldn’t think about anymore because it hurt too much. And if this was what life was all about, I didn’t want anything to do with it.
The snake stopped, slithered around to look back at me, his tongue dancing in and out of his mouth, and then continued on his way back to where he’d come from. Or maybe not. Maybe he was moving toward a destination he didn’t know.
Maybe that was the case for me too.
3
The Ladybugs
Present Day 2020
Dying is part of a life. If anyone understands this, Clyda Atwood absolutely does. She lost her mother and father in a car accident when she was barely an adult; lost her husband, Borges, many years ago; her grandson Conroy, and this year, one of her very best friends, Erla, has died—albeit not young, but certainly unexpectedly.
Clyda rubs the soft skin between her thumb and pointer finger and looks out upon Mabe’s award-winning roses.
Mabe returns to the porch with a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses.
None of them are thirsty; however, they’ve learned one thing through death, and that is to carry on.
Mabe Muldoon lost her husband, John, first and her daughter, Francine in 2012.
Patty, a good friend of Mabe’s and a fellow AA’er—not to be confused with American Airlines, but instead Alcoholics Anonymous—leans on the banister of the porch, looking out.
But little does Clyda know that Patty was the one driving the Jeep that killed her grandson that awful night in Dillon Creek when all hell broke loose and the seas parted and most everyone took sides—the Atwoods side or the Morgans side. Sure, there were some in-between, but it didn’t change the fact that there were two dead bodies of two young boys.
“Scarlet said she’d call me when she got to Erla’s,” Mabe says, looking down at her phone.
“What about Erla’s daughter, Devon?” Patty asks.
“Probably in a different country, taking photographs,” is all Mabe says, too tired, too drained to say anything else on the matter.
Patty says, “But her mother just died.”
Clyda says, “She’s also an angry, bitter, complicated woman.”
Patty didn’t dare ask why. Not today. Not the day that Clyda and Mabe buried their best friend. She’d ask when things didn’t seem so final, so definite.
Clyda rocks in the old rocking chair and reflects on a time when Devon wasn’t so angry, wasn’t so bitter, and it all took place before Scarlet was born. Nobody knows what set her off, and bless Erla and Don for loving her through it; however, Clyda knows why they did—it was all for Scarlet. They didn’t want to lose their only granddaughter. Devon was the type to write you out of her life if she didn’t like the way you spoke to her. So, they played Devon’s game for as long as she would allow it.
But sometimes, people are born bitter, angry at life, scorned. Nothing though took the cake like when Don died, how Devon treated her mother afterward.
Had Don
and Erla lied to Devon about who her father actually was? Yes. But it was all for her own good.
Toby Lemon would never be the type to hold down a job or do anything else but drink away the night the love of his life had died in a fire as he tried to save her.
Toby Lemon might be a lost cause, but everyone takes care of him.
The three women sit and stare out into Mabe’s yard as the birds call in the cool November day.
The truth is, Clyda doesn’t want to go home. She doesn’t want to hurt and remember her old friend alone. She’d rather stay here with Mabe and Patty even if she doesn’t know Patty very well.
Clyda lives in town. Daryl feels more comfortable with her being closer to Dr. Cain’s office, just in case of an emergency. Like she’d up and die just like Erla. Well, even if she did, a doctor’s office surely couldn’t save the dead.
Clyda’s phone lights up. It’s Carl, or, as the kids like to call him, Cranky Carl.
She answers. “Hello, Carl.”
“I was just calling to check on you, dear.”
“I’m here at Mabe’s, sitting on the porch.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Make you dinner?” Carl asks.
Clyda glances over at Mabe, worried for her friend who just lost her cousin, her only living relative. And with the episode she had last year with the pills, Clyda is terrified of losing her friend. “That is very sweet, Carl, but I’ll call you when I get home.”
“As you wish, dear. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Carl.”
Mabe grins, and it catches Clyda off guard as she sets her phone down on the small table that sits between them.
“What?” Clyda asks.
Mabe grins again. “I don’t know why you and Carl act like there’s nothing between you two. Everyone knows, and”—Mabe reaches over and places a hand on her friend’s leg—“everyone loves you both for it. Nobody wants to die alone, Clyda. Not even the toughest woman I know. You should really tell the world what’s going on with you and Carl—or at least your best friend.”
But the heavy layer of grief returns to Clyda, knowing Erla was one of their best friends. Knowing they won’t be able to tell her about Carl.
“Well, I’d better get home to my family,” Patty says and walks over to Mabe, kissing her on the top of her head. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be by tomorrow.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mabe says. “Thanks for coming to the service.”
Patty touches Clyda’s shoulder with condolences and then walks down the stairs. She turns back. “And I’m so sorry for my tears, ladies. I just—I just was so moved by all the people who showed up for Erla.”
Clyda says, “Don’t we know it.”
Patty walks down the path to her car.
Mabe wonders if she should tell Clyda about the Jeep that night. Who was driving. It was proven it wasn’t Patty’s fault, but Mabe feels as though she’s keeping something from one of her oldest friends, and it doesn’t sit well with her.
“She is a sweet young lady,” Clyda says. Mabe can hear the sadness in Clyda’s tone.
“I miss her something awful, Clyda.”
“Me too.” Clyda holds out her hand, and Mabe takes it.
“You know, it’s a shitty thing for your friend to die, but when you find her body, well, that’s just a shitty hand dealt, in my opinion,” Mabe says, and they both erupt with laughter and then tears. Tears they haven’t really shed in planning Erla’s service. Tears that just might help them heal.
“If Erla could see us now.” Clyda wipes her eyes.
“She’d be fit to be tied, knowing we haven’t touched our iced tea,” Mabe agrees.
“I’m thinking of selling the house.”
“Really?” Mabe says.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “I think it’s time to move on. Get something smaller. Downsize.”
Mabe looks up at her old Victorian. The house she can’t let go of because it keeps the lasting memories of her husband, her daughter in her mind. And sometimes, when she’s tired and it’s late at night, she’ll see them. She’ll see her daughter, Francine, as a child, eating cereal at the dining room table, or she’ll see John, her husband, sitting in his chair in the living room, reading the evening newspaper.
“Do you ever think about what happens when we die, Clyda?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you scared to die?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I know I’m going to a far better place, and so are you. Don’t you pay attention in church, Mabe Muldoon?”
“But how do you know? How do you know you’re a shoo-in to heaven?”
“I guess I don’t. However, I believe that if we do good in this world, make a difference, be kind, and love our neighbor, then God will save us a seat in heaven. Hell, Mabe, you got sober in your seventies—that’s saying a lot.”
“What, God’s got a special place for me?”
Clyda laughs. “Yeah, something like that.” She picks up her watered-down iced tea.
“To Erla,” Mabe says.
They both hold up their glasses and cheer for their friend.
Mabe wants to say something about the list she found next to Erla’s chair. Something that hasn’t been sitting well with her since Erla passed away. Like she is a secret keeper of the truth and holds the keys. It was the before accidental drowning that made Mabe feel uneasy.
To do before accidental drowning in Eel River.
—Find car that no one can trace back to me.
—Cement blocks.
—A rope.
—Pay up all bills to the first of the month.
—Update will with Twila.
—Donate all junk to Tabitha’s.
But Erla didn’t accidentally drown. Her body didn’t disappear. There was nothing found from the house thus far that matched the list in her own handwriting.
Mabe’s heart begins to race. Mabe has learned one thing for certain: we are as sick as our secrets. And she is not willing to take this one to the grave if it kills her.
“Listen, Clyda. Before Erla passed, between two chairs at her house, I found a list.” Mabe describes what she saw and remembers word for word of what it said. And then she asks the question, “You don’t think Erla … you know, killed herself, do you?”
Clyda’s caught off guard. “You found the list in her house?”
Mabe nods.
Clyda thinks. “Between her and Don’s chairs?”
“Yes.”
Clyda thinks more. “Well”—she sighs, clasping her hands together on her lap—“she didn’t drown, and there hasn’t been anything recovered at her house so far that Scarlet’s mentioned. And the coroner didn’t say anything about unusual circumstances.”
Mabe doesn’t want to say it, but she can’t think these thoughts alone. “Did they do a toxicology test?”
Clyda stops rocking and stares at her friend, deep in thought. “I don’t think so.”
Now, both of them know, and Mabe doesn’t have to hold the burden.
“Did you find the list?” Clyda asks Mabe.
“No, it was gone. I checked before anyone got to the house.”
“So, Scarlet won’t find it?”
“I pray to God she doesn’t.”
Mabe and Clyda sit and quietly contemplate whether or not their friend took her own life.
4
Scarlet
Present Day 2020
I remember it all so clearly as I sit alone at my grandparents’ dining room table.
I looked out the wall of windows from our skyline headquarters office of Manchester Enterprises. This will all be mine. A twill of excitement filled my insides. This is what I’ve worked for my entire career.
Fall had begun to weave its fingers through Boston with its flecks of oranges, reds, and yellows. A crispy nip—a fair warning from Mother Nature—told us she’d be beginning her descent of long wintery nights soon. And to think, all those years ago, t
his company had started with Frank, my boss, and me, working on our portfolios, developing our robust clientele, building a fortune on commercial real estate, and adding ourselves to the Boston skyline.
Frank had made a verbal agreement years ago, though I held him to it, checking in every now and then. I’d tried to get him to sign a contract—something to protect my interests, that it would be me who bought him out one day when he was ready to move on—but I trusted Frank. We’d been business partners for years, built this company together, for what it was, and now, it was my turn to be the reigning leader with Frank’s departure—or so I’d thought.
Manchester Enterprises wasn’t Frank’s only business venture; he had several, so retirement—or whatever he decided to do at fifty with golf-filled afternoons and trips around the world—seems far better than negotiating contracts, showing properties, and sitting in stuffy boardrooms with often stuffy people. Frank’s son, Branson, who is my age, never had a vested interest in commercial real estate. An attorney, he preferred courtrooms and litigation, so that was why I found it odd when he walked into Frank’s office, his nose carrying him, his short, stubby legs moving quickly.
“What are you doing here, Branson?” I turned from the window. My eyes narrowed, and my skin crawled.
He was a little man with an ego that could fill a room. I’d handled little men like him before. I ate them up, spit them out, and tucked their egos so far up their own rear end that they had no choice but to disappear.
Branson and I had never seen eye to eye on anything.
He’d pop into our meetings, shake things up, piss everyone off, and then leave at my request.
“Waiting for my father,” he said as he took a seat at the conference table, poured himself a glass of water, smiled back at me, and relished in my confusion at his presence.
The hair on my neck stood at attention. “You know, for such a little man, I’m curious how you tow all that ego around.”
Leaving Scarlet Page 2