“I promise I wasn’t reading it. Your teacher’s name just caught my eye. Well, how’d you do?”
“Not well.” I pulled out a dining room chair and fell into it. “I don’t know why I have to learn place value when we have calculators. And also, if I’m going to be a bullfighter when I’m older, I won’t be doing place value, and I’ll make sure to own a calculator. See, problem fixed.”
“What did you get on the test?”
“D.”
My mom’s shoulders dropped. She was let down. I saw it in her body language. She was at the stove, cooking some sort of sauce. But it wasn’t my mom’s reaction I was scared of. I knew my dad would be let down again when he found out my grade. Math had always come easy for my brothers.
“Where’s the test?”
I smiled. “I burned it.”
“Cash Atwood!”
“I’m kidding. It’s in my backpack.”
“Go get it. We’re going to go over the problems you missed. And I’m calling Mrs. Stemple tomorrow afternoon to discuss your math grade.”
Shit. Well, there goes any hope for a computer anytime soon. “Are you going to tell Dad?”
My mom’s eyebrows furrowed, and when they furrowed, it meant she was deep in thought. “Just go get your math test, Cash.” She sighed.
The statement was a sign of hope—that I wouldn’t have to look at my dad’s disappointment, that he wouldn’t know that I’d screwed up once again.
It was later in the evening when I went out to the pasture to meet Ithica. He’d been pulling grass from the soil and eating on his finds. I put out my hand, and when he took in my scent, instead of backing away, he let out a loud breath through his nose, making a vibrating noise. He extended his tongue out of his mouth, and I slowly moved toward him until my fingertips grazed his side.
“Hey, boy. You sticking your tongue out at me?”
Ithica put his tongue back in his mouth and continued to chew his cud.
“Dad says you’re an ornery bastard. But I don’t see it. Says you won’t be bull riding material. Guess you and I have a lot in common, huh? He doesn’t say it, but he looks at me with disappointment. Like, What’d he do this time? I’m always letting him down from schoolwork to ranch work. I hate school, by the way. You’re lucky you don’t have to go. I’d love to stay in a field all day and eat.”
Ithica jerked his head up when he heard a sound—the breaking of sticks. It was slow and stealthy and in the tree line. And that was when I heard the low growl.
“Mountain lion is back,” I whispered breathlessly. My eyes darted from tree to tree, trying to find the big cat.
My heart began to rattle my insides. Without a gun, there was nothing I could do. There were several herds of cattle grazing, but now, they were on alert and ready to move.
“Go, Ithica!” I pushed him away from me and tried to gauge where the cattle were beginning to move.
I should have known. I kicked myself. I should have known not to get close to the cattle so far away from the house.
Slowly, I crept backward toward the house, kept an eye on the tree line and the cattle that were quickly starting to gather.
If the mountain lion moved from the tree line, it would move the cattle toward me—which wouldn’t be good.
Like pooling water, the cattle gathered, and I spotted the mountain lion.
I turned around and sprinted toward the house as fast as I could, but it was no use. I felt the thunderous hooves of cattle gaining on me.
Closer and closer.
I didn’t dare look back to see where the mountain lion was because it didn’t matter.
The cattle would get me first, and if that happened, he’d get a cow or a bull before he got me.
Terror ripped through me as the cattle nipped at my heels.
A gunshot ricocheted against the tree line, and I fell to the ground. The cattle dispersed and separated and diverted from the beating my body had been about to take.
Breathless, I pulled my head up from the dirt and saw my brother Conroy at the fence with a rifle.
I dropped my head and tried to catch my breath, thinking, If Dad saw, he’d lash out at me about safety with cattle, how I should know by now. Your brothers don’t do this. Why do you? And then he’d simply walk away and give me the silent treatment for a few days.
Those days were the worst days.
So, seeing Conroy, I felt relief, but it was only short-lived when I pulled myself up from the dirt just in time to see Dad coming up behind Conroy. Though I couldn’t hear what was being said, I saw my dad shake his head, and I knew it was with disgust over my stupidity.
Conroy and Mom had always been the buffers between Dad and me.
But there was no buffering or getting away with this one.
I had been caught, and there was nowhere to run. I stood and dusted myself off.
Conroy met me between the fence and the place I had fallen.
“Come on,” he said and took me by the shoulder.
In silence, we walked.
“You could have gotten yourself killed, Cash. It was reckless.”
I didn’t make any excuses because he was right. I almost had gotten myself killed.
“You know better, and that’s all I’m going to say about that. Just lay low for a few days, okay?”
Conroy had dropped the mountain lion with a shot square between the eyes.
“If the cattle hadn’t run you over, the mountain lion would have taken you out.”
I should have felt fear, but I didn’t. I’d escaped death, and when I had, I hadn’t felt my dad’s disapproving eyes. I’d felt powerful, all-knowing. I didn’t give a shit what Dad thought or how I had done on my math test, and that place value hadn’t saved my life. And I couldn’t wait to do it again.
Later in bed that night, the adrenaline surged through my whole body. Like I’d outrun the cattle and a mountain lion even though it was my own stupidity that had put me in that situation in the first place. The danger I had run from earlier tonight sat in my bones, waiting for me to do it again. My body began to tingle, and I knew I’d escaped death and lived to tell about it.
23
Scarlet
Present Day 2020
It’s Monday when a potential buyer’s agent gets back to me, and once I disclosed that not one, but two people had died in this home, the buyer pulled the offer.
“Is there any way I can persuade them?”
“I’m sorry, Scarlet. They’re pretty adamant they don’t want to buy a house in that … condition.”
Now, I’m offended, as if I were selling them a lemon of a house and my grandparents were some disease. “Condition? There’s no condition. There were occurrences, yes, but there is no condition, Nancy. The house is in immaculate shape. Well taken care of.”
There’s no room for discussion when Nancy says, “The offer has been pulled.”
Most of the morning is spent on the phone with other potential buyers’ agents. And the same thing happens when I disclose the information—they pull out. Now, I’m back to square one.
Mabe’s words play in my head. “It’s about time and memories. I wish I had taken more time.”
With selling strategies mulling around in my head, I pull down the ladder to the attic with a loud clunking sound.
Carefully, I climb up the stairs and peek in and see a thick layer of dust blanketing the attic floorboards. “Guess it’s been a while.” I climb the few more steps to the top and stand in the open attic.
Boxes, lamps, two mannequins—which piques my interest—luggage, more boxes, photo albums, an old computer, a projector, a rocking chair, and the attic is full … but organized.
Leave it to Erla Brockmeyer to die with an organized attic.
Each and every box is labeled—Devon’s Keepsakes, Family Photos, Old Receipts, Family Heirlooms, Recipes and Cookbooks, Scarlet’s Keepsakes, Don, Quilts, Don’s Baseball Cards, Gardening Books, VHS Tapes, The Ladybugs, Scarlet’s Dolls, Wedding
Dress, Dillon Creek Yearbooks.
There’s also a twin bed, a nightstand, an old grandfather clock.
I start with the boxes that I know I’ll end up getting rid of and set them to the side—VHS Tapes, Don’s Baseball Cards, Gardening Books.
Then, I begin the process of sifting through the boxes with our names, starting with my granddad.
His accounting license, his birth certificate, pictures of him as a child, his high school diploma, and his college degree from Humboldt State University, his wallet. I open it up, feeling uncomfortable, as if I were searching through someone’s medicine cabinet without their permission. Grandma must have taken out the essentials, but inside, where the cash is usually kept, an old piece of notebook paper is folded up and set to one side.
My heart swells when I see that it’s one of my first letters I sent from Chicago when I was no older than six. I unfold the piece of paper:
Dear Grandad,
I got your letter. The only thing I want for Christmas is for you and Grandma not to worry. Please. We will be fine.
I love you and miss you very much.
Love,
Scarlet
I push my fingers to my lips and think about that young six-year-old girl, trying to hold all the pieces of life together. Trying to reassure everyone that everything would be okay, when they both knew it wasn’t and they couldn’t do anything about it. Carefully, I fold the letter and put it back into Granddad’s wallet, and then I set the wallet in the Keep pile.
Also in the box are pictures of Granddad’s high school graduation at Dillon Creek High School with Grandma Cora—Granddad’s mother. As a child, I loved her. She had flaming bright pink hair, and she spoke in a British accent even though she was from Dillon Creek. She drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and told unsuitable stories for a six-year-old. She owned the Pink Lady house in Eureka, just twenty minutes north of Dillon Creek. The home had been passed down from generation to generation, and when it came to Cora’s ownership, unfortunately, she couldn’t take care of herself, let alone a big, beautiful, expensive home. The house was foreclosed on and sold to someone else. That’s the story Granddad told anyway.
Next, I scan through the Old Receipts box. Though my granddad was an engineer he was also a diligent record keeper, so he saved all of his receipts—all of them. Some dating back to 1972 and 1980.
I go through the Family Heirlooms box and find old handkerchiefs in a jewelry box from my great-grandma Cora. A tea set. I add these to the Keep pile. A family tree, which piques my interest. I unfold it, and when I get to my name and slide my finger up, I only find my mother’s name.
Did my grandparents not even know who my biological father was? Sure, I could spend more time investigating, but the fear I keep deep down looms around the word Dad and stops me from searching.
What if I’m disappointed?
What if he doesn’t fit the image I’ve created for him?
What if he’s not Granddad—which are hard shoes to fill.
What if I don’t have the ability to manage my own expectations?
I see my mother’s position in the family tree from Don and Erla, and there’s no mention of Toby Lemon. I can also see both sides to the story.
Does my mom feel like she repeated history with me not knowing my biological father?
I can also see how my grandparents kept the information from my mom. Don was a great father and an exceptional grandfather. And Toby Lemon, well, he’s still the town drunk.
After several moments, I fold the family tree back up and put it back in the box.
I look through more photos. My grandparents’ wedding photo at First Christian Church with Pearl, Delveen, Mabe, and Clyda in their dresses, standing next to her. On my granddad’s side are Borges, John, and two other men I don’t know.
Next, I pull out another photo of my grandparents when they bought this place. They stand next to a For Sale sign, grinning from ear to ear, young and in love, arms entangled with one another. This makes me think of Hank. Not because of what we had as lovers, as partners, as friends, but because of what we didn’t have.
Hank was my safe harbor during a rocky part in my life. He was solid. He was strong. I knew that as long as I wanted him there, he’d be there. I guess part of me wanted to believe that love could grow. I loved—love—Hank but not in the way he deserved.
As I run my fingers along the edge of the photo, I remember what this type of love feels like. I’ve been there before. Once. A love you’re terrified of losing, a love that will never go away, a connection so deep that a lifetime together simply isn’t long enough. A type of love that lives, sits, and waits. A love that can withstand the test of time.
I closed the door on that type of love forever when I walked away from Cash that day. Too scared to revisit those feelings, I put the picture back in the box as my nerve endings stir and tingle. I become aware of my own heartbeat.
That time is over, Scar. You’re better off this way.
My phone sounds from the counter. It’s another text from Frank.
Just get it over with. Call him.
With a huff, I do.
“Hey, Frank. What can I help you with?” I keep my tone professional. Cool.
“Scarlet! I’m so glad you called me back,” he sighs. “I want you to come back and buy the company.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. No apology. No I messed up big time.
My granddad always said that trust is a two-way street, especially in business, and never trust a person whose eye contact is minimal. And I’ve always followed this advice. I trusted Frank Manchester for a long time. He always looked me in the eyes. I thought he always told the truth.
“You know, Frank, I made you a lot of money. I made you a lot of money because I trusted you and I always trusted you’d do right by me. I should have known. I should have known that you not wanting to enter into a contract with me to ensure you’d sell the company to me was a ploy to keep me on board until you didn’t need me anymore.
“Unlike you, Frank, I’m honest—I will never work for a person I can’t trust. I’ve got another business opportunity that I’m pursuing. Also, I’m fucking really good at what I do, and when you look back on this when you’re old and you can’t wipe your own ass and your son won’t help you, I hope you think of me. Have a great day, Frank. Lose my number.”
And with that, I hit End.
My muscles begin to tremble as a throaty laughter escapes my throat. “What did I just do?”
And when I set my phone back down on the counter, I grow a little freer.
The truth is, I don’t have a backup plan.
I don’t have another business opportunity.
The truth is, I’m not so sure I want to work holidays and weekends anymore.
And I don’t know what my next move will be.
But what I do know for certain is that I don’t have to work for someone who makes decisions for the betterment of himself, his family.
I do have a choice in the matter, and it’s the first time in a long, long time that I’ve realized that.
My phone starts to ring again, and I’m prepared to give Frank another earful. But when I look down, it isn’t Frank. It’s Anna Atwood. Secretly, in my heart, I was hoping it was Cash, and this scares the shit out of me.
“Hi, Anna. How are you?” I push the thoughts of Cash from my head.
“Hey, Scarlet. I’m well. Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner or something tonight. Quite honestly, I need someone to talk to, and Tess is out of town. It needs to be someone I can trust.”
“Absolutely,” slips out of my mouth and through the phone, and I wince. Not that I don’t want to spend time with Anna. It could be a nice change of pace. A girlfriend, a woman I can talk to is unfamiliar territory to me.
“The Whiskey Barrel at six?” she asks.
“That sounds good.”
“All right then. See you at six.”
I drive Grandma’s car to Th
e Whiskey Barrel and notice all of the Christmas lights on Main Street. All the memories come flooding back. The world’s largest living Christmas tree decorated to the nines with lights. Seeing the tree from top of Lost Hill on a clear night. The nights Cash and I would talk and kiss and talk and kiss when he got his driver’s license.
Stifled memories, I suppose, come back to me. I’ve forgotten how much I love Christmas in Dillon Creek. What I do remember—and what sits vividly in the forefront of my mind—are the lonely Christmases in Chicago, when my mother left to do shoots in faraway places. But Marmie always showed up. She always made up for what my mother lacked.
As I drive down Main Street, I take in the storefronts, each window decorated with their own style of Christmas decor. From Book Ends to Tipple Motors to Curl Up and Dye to The Flowerpot to The Rusty Nail.
Feelings of nostalgia and safeness and joy fill me, albeit momentarily, but I feel it down to my toes.
I park, button my wool coat up, and make my way into The Whiskey Barrel.
“Well, I think I’ve seen a ghost,” Dave, the bartender, says.
“It’s been a while, Dave. It’s nice to see you.” I smile. “The place is decorated so beautifully.” I forgot about Mavis Morgan’s impeccable style.
“Yeah, I’m not one much for Christmas, but it is kind of neat. Anyhow, Anna is waiting for you at the corner table by the window.”
Caught off guard, I wonder how Dave knows I’m here to meet Anna, and when I turn back to him, he shrugs.
“Small town.”
“Right.” And I begin to remember all the reasons I left Dillon Creek. I’ll try not to allow the sour taste in my mouth to bleed across my dinner with Anna.
Anna stands as I approach the table, and we exchange hugs.
“How are you holding up?” she asks, touching my shoulder before we sit down.
“I’m fine.”
Anna peers across the table from me. “No, how are you really?”
“I’m … I’m good.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not fine. You’re not good. Scarlet, you might have moved away from home all those years ago, but I know you. I’ve known you since we were kids.”
Leaving Scarlet Page 12