When Granddad pulled into the driveway, Cash and I were already halfway out the car to grab a few things and then headed to the dugout.
“Be home by dark, Scarlet Jean!” my grandma called as we dashed from the house, across the street, and to the dugout.
When I walked into the dugout, carrying May, June, July, August, September, and October, I noticed the pink tablecloth already laid out over the old wooden table. The plastic silverware was already set on the table—knife and spoon on the right side and fork on the left side. He still remembered.
I set the dolls down, and that was when I noticed the string of lights.
“Conroy helped me with those.” Cash motioned to the lights. “Do you like it?”
“I really do, Cash. Thank you.” I thought about all the trouble Cash had gone through to decorate the dugout for me.
“The only thing I could find at Dillon Drugs was this sign.” He pointed to a Happy Birthday sign he’d strung from one side of the dugout to the other.
“It’s all perfect,” I whispered.
“Scarlet? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he asked.
Marmie had said that, sometimes, we got so happy that we cried because we didn’t know how else to show what we felt in our hearts.
“Everything just feels right in the world.”
Cash smiled and then frowned. “That’s good, right?”
A smile spread across my face. “Yeah, that’s good.”
“Well, can you start telling me what to do and what we’re playing first? Because your tears make me feel weird.”
I giggled. “Take out the trash and then feed September,” I said, pretending.
He smiled and assumed his role.
Yeah, everything just feels right in the world, like my heart will explode with happiness because I’m in the right town with the right people.
It was dark when we made our way back across the street, all of my dolls in hand, our faces filthy with the silky sand. Laurel was inside when we walked in.
“Well, I don’t believe my eyes. Is that the most beautiful redheaded six-year-old I know?” Laurel bent at her waist, and I fell into her arms.
I wish my mother were more like Laurel Atwood.
“It’s so good to see you, Scarlet,” she whispered against my head. She kissed my hair and released me. “By the appearance of you, looks like you two had a wonderful time.”
The house smelled like Grandma’s potato soup, and my stomach growled.
Cash handed me December and October. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Scarlet?”
“Of course you will.”
Cash hesitated at first. Something in his eyes told me he didn’t believe me.
He threw his arms around me and whispered, “You promise? Please don’t leave me again without saying good-bye.”
His words made something get lodged somewhere in my throat, and I was unable to speak, so I nodded instead as he pulled away.
Laurel and Cash walked to the door, and I blurted out, “I promise.”
Cash looked back, his mother’s hand on his back, and he smiled.
Is this what distrust feels like? Does Cash not trust me anymore?
I trusted that Grandma would have dinner on the table when the sun had almost hidden itself behind the layer of redwood trees.
I trusted that Grandma would read me a book before bed.
I trusted that Granddad would have pancakes ready for me in the morning.
I trusted that Marmie would be in Chicago when I got back.
I trusted that Cash would always be in the dugout, ready to play.
But it wasn’t the actions I trusted. It was the people behind the actions that I trusted.
Did Cash know I’d have said good-bye in person a million times if I could have?
“Scarlet?” I felt Grandma’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I looked up to find her eyes, seeing the concern they always carried for me. Not for me, I guessed, but for my well-being. She knew that my mother provided for me, but I thought she got concerned about all the other stuff, like my happiness.
I nodded at her question. But mainly, I nodded because I was back where I was supposed to be, and I didn’t have to worry about going back to Chicago until the end of the summer. So, for now, I’d just soak up all the good moments, so I could carry them with me throughout the long year until summer returned again.
17
Cash: Age 7
Dillon Creek, California
“You’re awfully quiet, Cash. Everything okay?” my mom asked.
“Thinking.”
My mom kept her eye on the road. “That looks like a lot of thinking for a seven-year-old.”
I shrugged as we weaved around the cow pastures on Waddington Road.
“It will be fine, Laurel. I have it all taken care of,” was what my dad told my mom when she got worried.
And it always was. Everything was always fine. No matter what they were talking about, which I never knew anyway. Our lives were good. They were real good. We had food on the table, clothes to wear, a ranch to run, school to attend. We wore smiles most of the time. On holidays, our house was full of people and laughter.
So, instead of telling my mom what was on my mind—the worry I felt that Scarlet would just leave again without saying good-bye—I told myself, It will be fine.
I supposed it had to be. No matter what. If she left again, I would live. It would hurt, but I would live.
“Hey,” Mom whispered before I hopped out of the truck. “If you want to talk, you know I’m always here.”
“I know, Mom.”
“And,” she said, “you need to release those frogs and salamanders you found yesterday.”
I grumbled, “I will.”
“Tonight.”
“Dang it.”
Conroy was walking out of the barn when I walked to the ten containers that lined the fence. “Mom making you release your pets?”
“Yeah.” I unscrewed a container, and the frog hopped out. “Good-bye, Leo.”
Conroy bent down and opened the next container. “Good-bye, Ron.”
“How do you know their names?” I asked.
“I guess it’s the same way I know yours.” He ruffled my hair. The corners of his mouth turned upward. “I hear it all the time.”
I smiled and released Nick.
“Can I ask you a question, Conroy?”
“Shoot.”
“What about girl stuff?”
“What do you mean?” Conroy released Barry and Danny.
A little embarrassed and knowing I needed the right answer from someone I trusted, I continued as I released the last reptile—my favorite frog, Mr. Longbottom. I smiled, remembering how I’d named him—he had a long bottom. The Mr. was just extra.
I sat down against the fence and looked around for my other brothers, reassuring myself that it was just Conroy and me. “I’m really happy when Scarlet is around—and not like … not like how I’m happy during the Christmas parties we have, when we get presents and stuff. Like, I feel it inside me, something I’ve never, ever felt before.”
Conroy sat down next to me. “As far as girl stuff goes, you don’t need to worry about that just yet. But between you and Scarlet, I see two best friends just trying to survive a cross-country move. And whatever you feel inside, well, I don’t know, but I guess that’s love. But I wouldn’t know because I’ve never felt that way for a girl. Hell, I’m still trying to figure out armpit hair.”
My face shot up. “What?”
He laughed.
“You’re getting hair in your armpits? Like Dad?” I covered my face in disbelief.
Conroy leaned back and let out a hoot of laughter, and I laughed too.
“Kid, whatever it is, you and Scarlet have something special. And if I’m being truthful, I’d say it’s a lot like Mom and Dad.”
“Great. So, we’re going to have to kiss and have a baby now?”
“Slow down there,
kiddo. No, I’m just saying that I wouldn’t be surprised if you and Scarlet grew up and, you know, got married and stuff.”
The one thing my brother always did was make my feelings normal. The uncomfortable butterflies I was feeling and the shortness of breath weren’t from a tumor growing in my body, but maybe it was love.
“She’s going to leave again,” I said, “at the end of the summer.”
He pulled me in for a headlock/hug. “Yeah, the good ones always do.”
Night settled in the sky. The moon rose above the tree line, and the stars took their rightful spots in the world.
I didn’t know what it was like to be in love, but I supposed it was different than how I loved Mom and Dad and my brothers—even Casey when he was being a jerk. Everything was always a little different with Scarlet.
I looked up at the stars and asked God to look over her, to keep her safe, but I also asked that he never let me feel like I had when she left last year. Because I’d rather stick those feelings in a jar of gas and set it on fire than feel the ache I had for her.
If that was what love felt like, I didn’t want any part of it.
18
The Ladybugs
Present Day 2020
Emergency Meeting of the Dillon Creek Ladybugs, Club Number 227
Clyda calls the meeting to order. A sullen Delveen, Pearl, and Mabe try to perk up, but it’s no use.
“We could take a break, just until after the new year, and figure out our next steps?” Delveen suggests.
“I just don’t know how we’ll continue,” Pearl says. “Erla was a staple of The Ladybugs.”
Junie comes to the table. “Hey, ladies.” Her voice is not nearly as perky as it always is. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, I think we’re all right, Junie.” Clyda speaks for the group, and they all nod.
What The Ladybugs didn’t anticipate was one group member dying. In their seventies, the women know death is inevitable, but it never occurred to any of them that grief might not allow them to foresee the future of a group they’d worked so hard to keep alive. A group that supports its community with toy drives and scholarships. Giving back has somehow become fractured and broken, and none of them knows how to save it or themselves.
Junie retreats back to the register up front.
The Lunch Guys play their dice.
And all four women at the table wear the heartache like a cloak of armor, a warning—please do not disturb.
“I just don’t know how we can go on right now,” Pearl says again.
“Mabe?” Clyda asks.
Mabe is deep in thought. “Yes?”
“The Ladybugs? Do we take a break?” Clyda asks.
“I guess that’s most appropriate, just until we can get our minds right.”
Clyda nods. “Then, it’s decided. The Ladybugs, Club Number 227, is taking a hiatus until further notice.”
It’s when the women go to leave that Mabe looks back at Dillon Creek Pizza and wonders where the time has gone, when they grew to be old women with special diets and allergies, when their time on earth was displayed by the wrinkles in their skin. When death somehow became expected rather than something foreign and unexpected.
Clyda comes up behind Mabe. “Did you speak with Junie?”
“Yes. She understood and wore the weight of our decision well.”
“That’s good.”
They two-stepped their way into Dillon Creek Pizza all those years ago with flair and pizzazz and goodwill and tight schedules on the first Tuesday of the month.
And now, they shuffle in twos with root-white hair and absolutely nothing but time and memories of lives lived, sunsets, and sorrow.
Maybe one day, The Ladybugs will return to Dillon Creek Pizza on the first Tuesday of the month at noon sharp. But maybe Mabe and Clyda know better—they won’t. Maybe they are too tired, too sad. Maybe it is time for a new generation.
Clyda and Carl are at dinner at The Whiskey Barrel when Clyda’s cell phone rings.
“Sorry, Carl. It’s Mabe.”
“No trouble at all, dear,” Carl says and slurps his soup—something that drives Clyda bananas. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mabe.”
“Hi, Clyda.”
The line is silent.
“What do you need?” Clyda asks. “I’m at dinner with Carl.”
“How the hell do I know? You called me.”
“What?”
“You called me. Earlier. About three o’clock.”
Clyda has forgotten why she called earlier. “I don’t remember.”
“All right then. See you.”
“See you.” Clyda shoves her phone back in her purse.
She wonders why Daryl and Laurel insist on her carrying a cell phone anyway.
“It’s for emergencies, Mom,” Daryl said when they gave it to her for Christmas one year.
“An emergency? Son, isn’t that why we have landlines?” Clyda thought it was ridiculous but agreed to carry it.
While she’ll admit that it is convenient, it’s also a distraction.
“Who was that?” Carl asks.
“Mabe.” She shakes her head. She just told him that. “She was returning my call from three o’clock today. Like I’d remember why I called,” Clyda murmurs impatiently.
“Didn’t you call her to ask about her roses in the winter?” Carl stares blankly across the table.
Oh, yes. That’s right.
With winter upon them, she wondered if there was anything special she should do with her rosebushes to keep them intact for their next bloom cycle.
“That’s right. I remember now.”
“You can call her back now, if you’d like, dear.”
That is what Clyda loves most about Carl. His ease with life. As long as he is with Clyda, nothing else matters. None of it does. With his daughter taking over the Blacksmith Shop, he seems carefree. A bit looser, less uptight.
Not Cranky Carl, like the young kids call him.
More like Cool Carl, Clyda observes.
“No, I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow then. How’s your soup?”
“Cold.” But Clyda eats it anyway.
She wouldn’t dare offer it to Carl. He’d slurp and sip until the very last bite and drive her absolutely batty. She compares Carl to Borges. She can’t help it, and it makes her crazy that she does it. She knows she’ll spend the rest of her life comparing other men to her late husband. Borges was a great father and an even better lover. It wasn’t his work ethic, but it was his dedication to his family, his boys, his wife. Clyda didn’t get over the loss; she keeps her grief quiet and only allows herself moments of weakness in her home in the late hours of the night. She permits herself to cry. During the day, she’s stoic and hardened. A moving on mentality.
“How was the emergency meeting this afternoon?” Carl asks.
“We’ve put The Ladybugs on a hiatus for the time being.” Clyda takes the last bite of her soup and pushes her bowl to the side.
“Time being?”
“Yes, a break.”
Carl eyes Clyda. “A break?”
Growing frustrated, Clyda says, “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“No,” he simply says. “But mark my words, Clyda: once you take a break, it’s hard to go back. Do you know how much good The Ladybugs have done for our community?”
“I do hope your question is rhetorical, Carl.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Yes, I know how much The Ladybugs have done for this community. I’m well aware.”
“You did just lose a dear friend,” Carl says.
“I did just lose a dear friend,” Clyda says.
The waitress, Libby, brings their meals.
“Thank you, Libby,” Clyda says.
“Yes, thank you, Libby,” Carl says.
“Can I get you two lovebirds anything else?”
“We’re not lovebirds.” Clyda blinks up at Libby, who’s stand
ing over them. “We’re friends, having dinner.”
Carl smiles.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Atwood.”
“It’s quite all right, dear.”
“Don’t worry, Libby; we’re just friends who have dinner every single night together,” Carl says.
Carl is hurt by Clyda’s inability to admit they’re dating.
“Dating is such a progressive term,” Clyda said in the past.
And lovebirds … Carl knows that word just put Clyda into overload.
Libby nods and moves on to her next table.
Quiet falls upon them.
“I-I didn’t mean it like it sounded, Carl.”
“It’s fine, dear.” Carl cuts his rare steak.
Is it fine? Is it ever okay to treat a man like she does, minimizing what they have together to others, when she knows he loves her?
Clyda Atwood is no dummy. By Carl’s cool tone with Libby, she knows when she’s hurt someone—someone she cares for.
Clyda doesn’t say what’s on her mind. Instead, she changes the subject. “Did you see that Scarlet is selling the house?”
“I did. Will she move back to Boston?”
Clyda shrugs. “She says that’s the plan.”
Carl knows how plans work. After all, Carl loved Clyda first. Before Borges did. Sure, they were both ten. Carl was in love with Clyda, so he told her every single day between ages ten and eleven. But Clyda didn’t reciprocate his feelings. She thought Carl was a good friend with a goofy smile.
So, they both married different people and had different lives and different children.
Carl knows what Clyda had with Borges was true love.
“Boston is a beautiful city,” Carl says. “I can see why she’d want to move back.”
“I think Scarlet would benefit from being home with the people who care about her and love her.”
Leaving Scarlet Page 9