Leaving Scarlet

by J. Lynn Bailey

  And Marmie always did this when I asked her what a word meant.

  “Let’s look it up in the dictionary!”

  Later, Marmie took me to get hot chocolate downstairs. Bobbi—who Marmie, again, knew by first name—made our hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. Then, we went ice skating at McCormick, and we were back home at my house just in time to check the turkey.

  Even with the wonderful afternoon, there was something I was still missing. It was my mother, and Marmie noticed when I sat down quietly on the couch and stared out the window.

  She sat down next to me. “Missing your mama, honey?”

  I wanted to tell Marmie that my mother had never left without saying good-bye. She’d never left at Christmastime. I supposed it was easier to miss loved ones during the holidays when things weren’t quite as they should be. But I had September and Marmie, and that should be enough.

  “How about we call your grandparents?” Marmie suggested.

  My eyes lit up, and I nodded.

  Marmie grabbed the cordless phone from the receiver, and she let me dial the numbers—something my mother never let me do.

  “Hi, Granddad! It’s me, Scarlet Brockmeyer.”

  I could hear the joy in his voice when he said, “Oh, Scarlet. Merry Christmas, my sweet girl.”

  Granddad was softer than most men. He blamed it on his age, but my grandmother had said he had a very sensitive heart when it came to his girls.

  When Grandma got on the other phone, I told them about the turkey and the cookies, and the hot chocolate and the ice skating, and Marmie’s wonderful and beautiful house that looked more like a princess’s palace than a home.

  “Marmie?” Grandma asked.

  “The lady who watches me.”

  “Oh!” Grandma laughed. “Yes! Right. Hmm … you know, come to think of it, we took your mother ice skating before, and it looked as though she’d been skating all her life.”

  Granddad laughed. “That was in Chicago in 1984. How’d your mother do on ice skates?”

  I didn’t want my grandparents to feel bad for me or to worry about me or my mother, and this was the first time I learned to lie about my mother’s whereabouts.

  “She did great. You should have seen her. She’s in the shower now.”

  I looked to Marmie, who was tending to the turkey in the kitchen, and I wondered if it was ever okay to tell a lie.

  12

  Cash: Age 6

  Dillon Creek, California

  Colt and I were up at the Lost Hill barn, helping Dad put in the electrical wiring. Conroy, Calder, and Casey were chasing down a few cattle that had wandered onto the Barbetts’ property, and I wondered how they’d gotten out. My hands were frozen, but we just needed to do a few more things. With winter and the cold front moving in tonight, Dad was worried about the snow and the cattle. Not that the cattle couldn’t keep themselves warm, but the barn was just a warmer, safer place to be.

  A big gust of wind blew, and the old barn shimmied, shook, cracked, and groaned.

  I made sure I got the yellow wire and red wire plugged into the right place. I told Dad that we were ready to flip the switch, and he told Colt to do so. When he did, there was a spark and nothing else.

  Dad looked at me. “What happened, Cash? Didn’t you do the wires as I’d asked?” He muttered something under his breath, climbed down the ladder, and went to the wiring.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d let Dad down—or the second time.

  “Just go down to the house and tell Mom we’re going to be later than expected.” And he said this without looking at me.

  Dad had a way of letting you know he was mad without letting you know he was mad—silence.

  “Can I try one more time, Daddy?”

  But he was too lost in his own thoughts to hear me.

  Instead, I took my horse and headed back to the house.

  Was it red over yellow or yellow over red?

  Did I somehow miss the correct socket?

  What is wrong with me?

  Why can’t I get things right the first time?

  I beat myself up the entire way down the hill. My lips were frozen from the cold air.

  I wasn’t like my brothers. I got things backward and mixed up and turned around, and sometimes, I didn’t understand what people were asking me, but I pretended to, so they wouldn’t think I was stupid. But my brothers always toed the line. They knew what Dad was asking of them, and they always got the job done correctly the first time.

  “Where are your brothers?” Mom asked when I came through the back door. She was in the kitchen.

  “They’re adjusting the wiring.” My mistakes, I think to myself. The ones I can’t seem to fix.

  It smelled like turkey, biscuits, and gravy.

  I began to walk to my room to take off my jacket, but before I did, my mom said, “Something came in the mail for you.” She nodded toward the counter.

  When I looked, I saw a bright red envelope. “Who’s it from?”

  “Take a look.”

  I walked to the counter, and the upper-left corner said Scarlet J. Brockmeyer. A lightness spread to my chest, and my mouth grew dry as I quickly took the card on the counter and tore it open.

  Dear Cash Atwood,

  I miss you. It is cold here. School is not the same without. Merry Christmas. Tell Mrs. Atwood that I miss her biscuits and gravy. Tell Mr. Atwood there are no cows in Chicago.

  Write back soon.

  Don’t forget to sweep out the dugout before I come home.

  I love you.

  The End.

  Scarlet Jean Brockmeyer

  My heart swelled with the simple three words strung together—I love you. It wasn’t in a weird way. In a best-friend sorta way.

  I missed Scarlet telling me what to do when I didn’t know what to do. I missed her patience and her ability to tell me things would be okay even if they weren’t going so well, like right now. I even missed her dolls. I’d hated her dolls in the dugout. They were always in the way. But I’d take them any day if it meant I got to see Scarlet.

  The lightness in my chest changed to an ache, and my lungs felt like they were full of lead. The excitement was gone, and I was left with a longing for my best friend. With a bowed spine, I set the card back down on the counter and walked to my bedroom.

  “Cash?” Mom called after me.

  “I’ll be in my room.” My voice broke.

  I just needed time and space and cookies even if it was before dinner. A few minutes later, I was lying on my bed, contemplating the words I’d write back to Scarlet—not the big words, but the easy words because Scarlet was very smart.

  Then, a plate of two cookies was slid under the door, and my mom softly said, “Dinner won’t be ready for another hour, so this should tide you over.”

  I smiled. I retrieved the cookies and opened the door. Mom was gone but a cold glass of milk had been left. I took the milk and quietly shut the door. I tried to remember a time when I hadn’t let my father down. There were some times he’d smile at me after a job well done, and it was usually when I was working with steers. Herding them where they needed to go. Talking to them. Petting them. Something my brothers could never do. I was good with bulls. Maybe not directions I was given, but I could instinctively relate to animals. At least I was good at that.

  So, with a few cookies, a big glass of milk, and a positive thought, I walked to my desk and wrote a letter back to Scarlet.

  Dear Scarlet,

  I miss you too. I try not to think about it. Do you know when you are coming back home?

  Merry Christmas. Another thing, Blakely punched Nathen D in the nose for calling her mother fat. It reminded me of you. She got in trouble but she smiled the whole way down to Ms. Pritchard’s office.

  I love you.

  From: Cash Atwood

  Please write back.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to write. Words that would do her justice. Words she cared about or hung on to, as
I had hung on to hers.

  Instead, I took out an envelope, folded up the letter, and shoved it in. I wrote Scarlet’s name on the front, sealed it, grabbed a dollar from my piggy bank, and walked the letter out to my mom.

  I set the dollar on the kitchen counter and said, “I need to buy a stamp from you, Mom.”

  “Oh, honey. Stamps are only thirty-two cents.”

  I shook my head. I said, “I want to pay for it.”

  Mom smiled. “You have always wanted to pay your way.”

  She turned to the cupboard behind her, grabbed a stamp and some change, and handed them both to me. I put the stamp on the letter and dropped it in our mailbox before my brothers could see.

  I walked back to my room and hid the card she’d sent me in my box of treasures. I put it back under my underwear in the top drawer of my dresser, knowing full well that my brothers would never find it because they’d never touch my underwear.

  Some things are better left hidden.

  In the living room, I threw myself on the couch, and stared at the tall tree in the corner. Who decided that we needed to find a tree, decorate it with lights and ornaments, and put it in our living room once a year?

  As I stared at the Christmas tree, I wondered if Scarlet was doing the same thing right now.

  13

  The Ladybugs

  Present Day 2020

  Clyda calls Carl.

  It’s time, Clyda decides, to introduce Carl to the family.

  With the loss of Erla and Clyda’s experience, life seems to go by awful fast, and there isn’t time to waste.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Carl?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. How are you? Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Yes. Yes. That will be fine, but I was wondering …” She stalls. Doubt moves through her mind like speeding traffic. Say something, Clyda, for God’s sake. “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to join my family for Thanksgiving tomorrow—if, of course, you don’t have to be anywhere else.”

  A long pause hangs on the line. It makes Clyda think of the picture of a kitten hanging on a telephone cord.

  Panic fills Clyda’s chest. Vulnerability isn’t Clyda’s strong suit, and immediately, she’s filled with regret.

  “Sorry, dear, what did you say? I didn’t have my hearing aid in.”

  Clyda rolls her eyes. Second thoughts play through her head. “I was wondering if you … if you would like to go to the movies on Friday.”

  “Oh, that will be fine, dear.”

  Clyda shakes her head at her stubbornness, her inability to open up. Maybe it isn’t so much her vulnerability as it is her ability to love again. To trust another with her heart. And maybe, to some extent, Carl knows this, and he’s accepted that he will take Clyda Atwood just as she is because he loves her. He’s told her this much. And it’s something that Clyda feels awfully uncomfortable with.

  Just ask him to Thanksgiving dinner, for Pete’s sake!

  Before another thought can enter her brain, she says, “Also, I was wondering if you’d like to come to Thanksgiving dinner at Daryl and Laurel’s?”

  She can feel Carl’s smile through the phone; maybe it’s warmth she feels too.

  “I would love to, Clyda. I would love to,” a relieved Carl says.

  “Tomorrow at four then.”

  “Tomorrow at four.”

  Family is very important to Clyda. Bringing home a man are cards Clyda never thought she’d play. And when Carl had said those three mighty little words—I love you—last year at Christmastime, he knew they made her feel uncomfortable because they didn’t talk for a week. Clyda ignored Carl’s calls, his knocks on her door, the flowers he’d left on her porch in an attempt to apologize for his forwardness. Really, he had nothing to apologize for. Clyda was just scared and acting childish. Why couldn’t she let go of Borges or the love they’d had or the memories they’d built together?

  He’d been dead for far too long. Maybe there was something awfully wrong with Clyda’s heart.

  “Good-bye, Clyda,” Carl says.

  “Good-bye.” And with that, Clyda hangs up, her best attempt to get out of the tough spot she put herself in.

  She calls Mabe, just to confirm her presence at Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Yes, of course I’ll be there, but please let me bring something.”

  “You know Laurel, honey. She doesn’t want anyone bringing anything to any holiday. Just yourself.”

  Clyda’s chuckle turns into a full-belly laugh.

  “What is so funny, Clyda?”

  “Do you remember—do you remember when you brought Jell-O salad with cat food in it?” Clyda is wiping tears away from her eyes.

  With a gasp, Mabe, too, is laughing. Quiet at first and then louder.

  And now, they both are laughing; they can’t speak.

  “Do—you—do you remember what Erla said when she tried the salad?” Mabe asks breathlessly.

  They both can’t breathe.

  It’s the first time in a long time they’ve laughed like this. A laugh that reaches into their hearts and allows them to forget the sorrow they feel for themselves, for Scarlet.

  “She said, ‘Well, it’s crunchy and a bit fishy.’ ”

  Tears streaming down their faces, they slowly come to the crescendo.

  “In my defense, I was drinking quite a bit back then.” Mabe chuckles.

  “Well,” Clyda adds, “I’m real grateful I still have you. Even if your Jell-O mold is a bit fishy, old friend.” After a brief pause, Clyda says, “I invited Carl to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “It’s about time you two came out of the damn closet.”

  Clyda smiles. “See you tomorrow, Mabe.”

  “See you tomorrow, Clyda.”

  14

  Scarlet

  Present Day 2020

  I replay Clyda’s message.

  It’s simple really. I’ll just tell her no, thank you and thank her for the extremely sweet gesture.

  I dial Clyda back, but before it starts to ring, another call comes in. I can’t see who’s calling in. But what if it’s Michael, Ike’s son, from the Dillon Creek Echo, calling about the ad I want to place for the house.

  I click over. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Scarlet.”

  When she says my name, I wince.

  Laurel Atwood has always had a way of making me feel at peace. Like all that is wrong with the world is suddenly all right. But not in this moment.

  “Mrs. Atwood, it’s so good to hear from you,” I lie. Not that I don’t want to talk to Laurel, but I have an idea of what she’s about to ask. An empty feeling in the pit of my stomach rises. I am used to being alone for the holidays, and over the years, I have preferred it.

  “So, I won’t take no for an answer. Daryl and I and the boys would love to have you over Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

  I want to run from this moment, flee the scene, and pretend that I never picked up when Laurel rang me. “Oh, tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Thanksgiving. We’re aiming for four o’clock. Can I count on you?”

  When Laurel says it like this—count on you—of course she can count on me. She’s always been able to count on me.

  “Of course,” I say, knowing that going to the Atwood home will bring back unwanted memories, feelings.

  Somehow, I always find pieces of home, pieces of me, pieces of us—me and Cash—strung around Dillon Creek, especially the Atwood Ranch, and now, they’re becoming harder and harder to avoid.

  Laurel sighs and says, “It is so good to have you back home, where you belong, Scarlet.”

  “Back home, where you belong.”

  “Back home, where you belong.”

  “Back home, where you belong.”

  Her words unsettle inside me. I don’t lie and tell her it feels good to be home because if I’m being honest, it doesn’t. All of my insecurities as a young girl, my memories with Cash and my mother are making it harder. I just want to sell the house and get
out of this mess of feelings.

  So, instead, I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow at four.”

  I don’t ask if she wants me to bring anything because Laurel doesn’t want that. But I know I’ll bring her a bouquet of her favorite flowers that I’ll buy at Wilson’s Grocery.

  “See you tomorrow, Scarlet.”

  “Yes, see you tomorrow.”

  We hang up, and I make a call to the Dillon Creek Echo again and get a message.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the Dillon Creek Echo, and we’re unavailable to take your call right now. Please leave your name and number, and we will get back to you as soon as possible.”

  I leave another message. What, do people not work over the holidays anymore?

  In the meantime, I list the house on Zillow and other online sites.

  I know it’s hard to sell a house over the holidays. Nobody is looking to buy, but rather looking to stay warm indoors and enjoy their family—something I know little about.

  I also debate on calling Laurel back and making some excuse to get out of the whole debacle tomorrow.

  Does Cash know I’m coming?

  I lose myself in the work by starting with the living room, going through the wall of bookshelves behind Grandma’s and Granddad’s chairs.

  There are thousands of books, ranging from fiction to nonfiction, from Reagan to Steel. From how-tos to cookbooks. After about an hour, several shelves have been separated into the Donation pile or the Keep pile, which has only a few books.

  It’s easy to let go of the meaningless things. The problem is, Grandma didn’t keep many things that were meaningless. She was a stickler for organization and promptness.

  What I’ve found to be a gift is that Grandma updated her will just days before she passed. The timing of it all made it easier on me, as my mother had been listed as the executor, but after the update, my mother was removed, and I was put in the position. This means, I don’t have to deal with my mother, and although our relationship is hard to explain, hard to understand, I couldn’t help but feel relief when I received the news.