Leaving Scarlet

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Calder, Casey, and Colt followed after Mom.

  Once we were inside the barn, Conroy took my hand and flipped on the light, which hummed into existence. In the corner of the barn was an old machine with a saddle.

  I looked up to Conroy.

  “It’s a mechanical bull. Louie was gettin’ rid of it, so he said I could have it. He dropped it off yesterday.”

  “It—it’s for me?” Excitement built as I walked to the machine and smoothed my hand along the saddle.

  “Well, it’s for you and Casey. If you want to protect bull riders, you’ll need to learn how to ride one first.”

  Beaming, I looked up at Conroy and threw my arms around him.

  “I figure I’ll give you a few days with it before I tell Casey.”

  “You’re my favorite big brother, Conroy.” I didn’t let go of him.

  “Okay, okay. I had to give it some grease and change a few things, but it should work all right.”

  Conroy, even at ten years old, could fix anything. He’d even started fixing up an old Jeep for when he turned sixteen and could drive.

  “All right, hop on, and I’ll flip the switch for you.”

  I hiked myself on. He flipped the switch.

  And I rode like hell.

  Every day for the next four days after school, I snuck away to the barn to ride George, the mechanical bull. Conroy never stepped a foot in the barn when I rode, and I preferred it that way. I liked to ride myself. Pretend I was a professional bull rider, like Chris Shivers or Ty Murray. I thought about what my brother had done for me, and it allowed me to forget about Scarlet, even if it was just for a little while.

  After my afternoon ride, I came inside for supper.

  “Guess what came today,” my mom said, dishing me up a plate of food.

  Casey made kissing noises. “A letter from your girlfriend.”

  “Casey, mind your own business and go wash your hands,” Mom said.

  Dad walked inside. We all straightened up and got real quiet.

  “It’s in your room, in your top drawer,” she whispered. “After dinner, okay?”

  My stomach exploded into butterflies, and I tried to play it cool in front of my dad and brothers. “Okay.”

  Dad patted me on the head as he walked past.

  “How’s the fence up on the north side?” Mom asked.

  Dad sighed. “Needs tending. I’ll take Conroy and Calder up this weekend and have them help.”

  “I can help, Daddy,” I said.

  My dad looked down at me as we took our seats at the dinner table. “Not this time, son.”

  As we finished giving praise to the Lord, Mom asked Dad about the contraption in the barn.

  Conroy and I grinned.

  We knew the gig was up and that my alone time with George would be forever over when Casey said, “What is it?” He looked at Dad excitedly.

  “Mechanical bull. Louie gave it to me,” Conroy answered.

  Dad nodded. “Thought that thing didn’t work?”

  “I fixed it,” Conroy said.

  Dad’s eyebrows furrowed. “While you’re wasting time fixing things like that, we have a ranch to keep up.” Dad’s tone was all business.

  We silently finished eating our dinner, and Conroy’s smile disappeared.

  8

  The Ladybugs

  Present Day 2020

  Clyda can’t stop thinking about the list that Mabe mentioned she’d found between Don’s and Erla’s chairs.

  Really, a toxicology test?

  Even if Mabe and Clyda asked the coroner to run one, what would that solve? It wouldn’t make the situation any better. In fact, it would most likely upset a lot of people, and Erla would be fit to be tied behind the pearly gates, knowing people thought she’d taken her own life—if that was what really happened.

  Clyda takes off the wedding ring she still wears on her right ring finger and sets it in a small sage-colored glass bowl on her dresser. She washes her face and brushes her teeth and stares in the mirror. She can’t remember a time when her wrinkles were the focal point of her face, but she’s earned every last one of them. And she certainly earned several when Conroy died. She takes his picture—next to his grandfather, Borges’s, photo—and stares into his deep blue eyes. Eyes full of life and promise and so much like his father. If he’d only made a better choice that night. Whether he was driving or not, he made the choice to get in the vehicle that took his life. Clyda sets the photo back down, turns out the light to the bathroom, and heads to bed.

  Clyda remembers a time when life was full of joy and love and happiness. Not that it isn’t now, but it’s different—much, much different—and nothing like she planned. If she had her way, Borges would still be snoring on his side of the bed. Still give her a kiss in the morning before he did rounds at the ranch. Even when the boys were little, if Clyda had had just enough that day, he’d take the boys on his rounds, so she could have some quiet time. But she didn’t need it often. She loved her family and always enjoyed their company. Not a day passed, that she can remember, when she didn’t feel tired, but equally as important. There wasn’t a day where she didn’t feel joy in her heart.

  Erla’s loss is hard, of course, but when a certain age is reached, it’s expected that death is inevitable. It’s always inevitable, but it seems as the years go by, it becomes more and more of a reality.

  Carl is eighty years old, and Clyda thought he’d never move on, never find someone else after his wife, Millie, passed away. Clyda didn’t plan on being with another after Borges died. He’s still in fact the love of her life, and death hasn’t changed that. But she has found a man she enjoys passing the time with. Going to a Sunday matinee. On a lunch date. A stroll down Main Street.

  A tough old bird she’s been referred as. Callous but empathetic.

  The house phone rings at just after eight in the evening.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Clyda. It’s Mabe.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Clyda just updated her home phone from a push-button cord phone to a cordless one with a screen, which identifies the name of the person calling and the number.

  “How do you know it’s me?”

  “I have a new phone that tells me so.”

  “Caller ID?” Mabe chuckles. “Well, I’ll be darned. Welcome to the new wave of technology, Clyda Atwood.”

  Funny. That was the same thing Dan Rigby told her down at Dillon Drugs when she purchased the phone. Clyda holds back the thought of mentioning the toxicology test that’s been on her mind since she left Mabe’s. Clyda doesn’t want to cause more unease.

  “I’m heading to Erla’s to keep Scarlet company. Would you like to come along?”

  Clyda does want to come, but she thinks better of it, as maybe Mabe and Scarlet just need some time together. Besides, Clyda already brushed her teeth and washed her face.

  “Next time, honey.”

  “Next time,” Mabe says.

  There’s a long silence on the line, as if both Mabe and Clyda are thinking about the big elephant that uncomfortably sits between them.

  “Clyda?”

  “Yes?”

  “Erla will be cremated tomorrow.”

  “I understand.”

  Another pause.

  “Enjoy your time with Scarlet, Mabe.”

  “I will.”

  “Remind her of the person her grandmother was, would you?”

  “I will.”

  An unsaid agreement is reached. Erla’s two oldest friends, one being her relative—Mabe—decide, without words, that it is better for all parties involved not to run the toxicology test. For Scarlet. For Erla. For Dillon Creek. So, the two of them will take the information to the grave—unless of course, the note is found.

  Then, what would they do?

  9

  Scarlet

  Present Day 2020

  I trace my fingertips along the wall, trimmed in begonia wallpaper, like I used to do as a child. The h
ouse is quiet, dark, colder than I remember, but it still smells the same—lemony with cinnamon.

  I smile inwardly at the masses who showed up for Grandmother, just like they had for Granddad, and the only solace I can find in my heart right now is the fact that they are back together again. My mother didn’t show, and that was as expected. She’s hiding behind work, like she’s always done. Just an excuse to live within the walls of her callous heart.

  My old bedroom is just off the kitchen, and the only remnants of it is the pink bedspread. I guess I would have been more concerned if the bedroom were still decorated in frilly pink designs with a dollhouse in the corner, my clothes still in the closet, a toy box with all of my dolls. Grandma made it into a craft room but always kept my bed and dresser, like she’d promised.

  “You will always have a place here, Scarlet Jean. This will always be home.”

  And she kept that promise until the day she died.

  Though it doesn’t feel like home anymore. It feels like a pocket of space and time that no longer exists and without the people I love most in this world.

  You’re here to sell the house, Scar. Sell the house and get the hell out of Dillon Creek, I remind myself. You sold Millennium Tower in Boston’s Financial District for three hundred seventy-four million dollars. You sold Willis Tower in Chicago for one-point-three billion dollars. You can sell a house.

  My phone begins to ring from my purse on the bed.

  It’s so easy in a hustling, bustling city to push grief aside, loss of a career and a marriage, and keep moving forward. What’s harder is coming back to a small town, one you somehow lost connection with, one that was so important to you, because of one event that changed everything all those years ago.

  Frank Manchester is calling again. I hit Ignore and throw my phone on the bed.

  Sell the house and move back to the city. Stay the course.

  The home phone rings—the yellow rotary phone that Grandma could never get rid of.

  “Hello? Brockmeyer residence,” was how I used to answer it.

  The phone continues to ring.

  I walk into the kitchen and rest my shoulder against the wall. “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey. How are you doing?” Mabe says.

  “I’m well, Mabe. And you?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Hello?” I repeat.

  “Yes, I’m here, honey. It’s just, well, your grandmother just died, and I have a hard time believing you’re well.”

  Truth. Am I well?

  “Hello?” she says.

  “Yes, I’m here.” But I don’t know what else to say.

  “Listen, I’ve got a gallon of vanilla ice cream calling our names. I’ll be over in a jiffy.”

  “Mabe, I’m—”

  But the line goes dead. I just want to be alone tonight. Maybe alone for the rest of my life.

  A jiffy comes all too quickly because Mabe is at the door in less than five minutes. She knocks, and I answer.

  Mabe walks in, ice cream in hand, and pinches my cheek. She tells me to go shower and get my pajamas on.

  “Mabe, really, I’m all right. I just need—”

  She turns to me slowly after she puts the ice cream in the freezer. “Your grandmother told me she was fine. Told me she was okay. And she wasn’t. Come hell or high water, Scarlet, I won’t live another day, denying what I feel in my heart to be right. You’re not okay, and that’s okay. You shouldn’t be okay. You lost both grandparents. Your mother isn’t worth a shit, but that’s it. So, I’m here to give you some good orderly direction. Now, get your ass in the shower.”

  Mabe stares me down, and I stare back.

  Several seconds pass before I turn on my heel, go back to my bedroom, and retrieve my toiletries.

  I head to the shower. I undress and stare at my body in the mirror. A runner’s body is how I’d describe me. Small breasts, narrow hips, a long waist, and collarbones that protrude. But if I’m being honest, I’ve lost weight since Granddad died. It’s easy not to eat when all I do is run on adrenaline and coffee. It’s easy not to acknowledge my feelings, my past, my upbringing and just keep moving forward. Keep making money. That is one of the best lessons my mother taught me.

  I turn the water to hot and climb in. I allow myself to indulge in both the pain and relief the hot water brings.

  Once out of the shower, I throw on an oversize sweater and sweatpants and return to Mabe, who’s now in Granddad’s chair with her ice cream.

  “Your bowl is on the counter, honey.”

  I take my bowl, and with a sigh, I sit in Grandma’s chair.

  Mabe has the show Cheers paused. “When this show came to Hulu, I almost died.”

  “Grandma has Hulu?”

  “God, no, honey. I logged in to my account.”

  It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Mabe has a Hulu account. It seems to me she’s always been up with technology.

  Mabe hits Play, and I take a bite of ice cream. The creamy goodness slowly melts in my mouth. “Humboldt Creamery ice cream?” I ask.

  “You know it.”

  We start with the first episode of Cheers.

  “You know this wasn’t actually filmed in Boston? It’s only the outside shot of Cheers. Most all the filming took place in Los Angeles.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Mabe says.

  “Nope.”

  Mabe’s cell phone rings. She pauses the show, sets down her ice cream, and retrieves her phone from her pocket. “Excuse me, honey. It’s Clyda. You know with the accident that Cash and Casey were in, I just need to be there for her. You understand.” And she walks into the kitchen to take Clyda’s call.

  The mention of Cash’s name sends chills through my body. Sensations sear through me that I can’t deny, and it pisses me off all the same.

  Is Cash okay?

  What happened?

  Is Casey all right?

  And, no, I don’t know what it’s like to be there for a friend because I don’t have any. I work, sleep, repeat.

  Mabe returns to the living room, and I try to act casual when I ask, “Is Clyda all right?”

  “She’s a tough old bird. The boys are fine now, but they have some recovering to do.”

  Don’t ask what happened.

  Don’t ask what happened.

  Don’t ask—

  “What happened?” I take a small bite of ice cream and allow the cream to melt against my tongue.

  “Oh! Where is my head? I’m sorry. You probably haven’t heard. Well, Casey and Cash were at the World Finals, and Casey got bucked off. Cash, who wasn’t fighting bulls at the time, jumped in to save him. It was a mess.”

  Don’t allow his noble act to reach your heart, Scar. Don’t, and don’t say something insensitive like, “Well, good for him. Glad it all worked out.”

  “Me too, dear. Me too.”

  I want to tell Mabe she was right about the hot shower and the pajamas, but I don’t. I want to tell her she reminds me of my grandmother in many ways, but I don’t. What I do is sit back and relax and watch the episode when Diane and Sam meet for the very first time. And I can’t help but think that I might be more like Carla, the cranky waitress, than I’d like to think.

  I hear a tune. It’s soft yet melodramatic and warm, all at the same time. It only gets louder and louder as I become more of aware of my surroundings. I open my eyes and jump awake. It’s light outside. I’m still in Grandma’s chair, which is reclined, and there’s an afghan over me.

  Mabe is nowhere to be found.

  I haven’t slept that hard or that sound since … I can’t remember when.

  The tune is still playing, and I realize it’s the alarm on my phone in my bedroom.

  The wet fog hovers over Dillon Creek and looms in the redwood trees like a blanket.

  In the bedroom, I turn off my alarm and see seventeen text messages, fourteen missed calls from Frank, and three missed calls from Hank, my ex-husband.

  We left things in
the divorce wrapped up so airtight; it was so casual, so mutual, and so expected that I almost saw why I’d married him in the first place. His charm. His demeanor. His candor. His intelligence. No strings attached, nothing to weave each other back into one another’s lives. No children—my choice, not his.

  But why was he calling? There’s no need for him to call me.

  I dial him back, knowing there’s a three-hour time difference on the East Coast, so that puts him at eleven in the morning. He’s probably in surgery anyway, which is where he lived most of our marriage.

  He picks up. “Hey.” His tone catches me off guard. It’s softer than usual, not as businesslike.

  “Hey.” I try to keep things normal. But what is normal when you’re talking to your ex-husband on the phone? There’s no guidebook, no How to Speak to Your Ex-Husband for Dummies.

  “Listen, I heard about Erla. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  Hank has always been a nice guy. He’ll always be a nice guy, and no amount of money, no amount of research in his field will change that. He likes to save lives. He likes to help people.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  And I have a way of turning off my emotions like a sink; there are two ways: on and off, but ninety percent of the time the switch is turned off. He knows this about me.

  There’s a long silence between us, and neither of us moves in on it. We don’t dare touch it, but Hank is usually the one to give in first.

  “If there’s anything you need, Scar, don’t hesitate to call me, okay?”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.” I panic, almost needing him to stay on the line, for fear of being alone again.

  I spent years fighting my ability to be alone and not care. But really, did I not care? Or was it a coping mechanism that I’d become skilled at?

  “All right, well, I guess that’s it.”

  How’s work? How’s the new place? How’s Sadie, your new girlfriend?

  Yes, Hank has a new girlfriend. Our marriage fell apart long before either of us could admit it. He moved on, as he should have. But where did that leave me? Not with him—or with anyone in particular.

  “Thanks again for the call, Hank. I appreciate it.”