I later asked my Aunt Myrtle if I could get some lace-trimmed anklets, and she just laughed. Then she told me I better learn to appreciate plain and sensible clothes because it wouldn’t be too long before I would need to take care of the laundry all by myself. Which of course turned out to be exactly true. The following summer, my Aunt Myrtle went off to work as a teller at the very same bank as Sally’s daddy. Naturally she could no longer help me or my daddy with our mundane household chores since she had to get herself really dolled up to go stand in that little caged box and hand money out to important people.
To tell the truth this was something of a mixed blessing. It did get Aunt Myrtle out of my hair, but at the same time it suddenly seemed that my daddy expected me to do all the cooking and cleaning and everything. And that seemed like a whole lot to ask of a seven-year-old girl, although my daddy told me more than once that he did as much when he was a boy (he’d been taken in by a farm family who’d only wanted a slave child). So I tried real hard not to complain, at least not when my daddy had been drinking—I knew better.
It wasn’t long until I got this notion that if I did everything just right, just perfect even, then maybe, just maybe, my daddy wouldn’t drink so much, and maybe he and I could finally be like those happy families that I saw on my grandma’s TV set (Father Knows Best and My Three Sons and Leave It to Beaver). Of course it never worked out that way, but that didn’t stop me from trying and hoping. I even wore one of my mama’s old ruffly aprons tied around my waist (it reached to the floor).
Getting everything done just right became a sort of superstitious game for me. I thought if I got all the dirty dishes washed up and the floor all swept and supper started by five o’clock, then my daddy would come home by six and be sober. Once in a while, it worked. Most of the time it didn’t. After a while I just gave up altogether and learned to do the minimum of work, and then just lie low. That’s when my daddy started calling me lazy and mean and wicked. He could get himself all fired up mad about things not being done just right around the house, but I soon came to realize that he’d get just as mad when things were done perfectly too—if he was drunk, that is. I finally figured if I was going to catch his wrath no matter what, why bother trying to be perfect all the time? And the less I did around the house, the more reason he’d have to get mad anyway. And that always gave me a real good excuse to just clear out of there.
It was during those years that I started my secret club in a shed in the backyard out behind our house. Our house was just a rental (we weren’t the sort of folk who could actually own a home) and I suppose I didn’t have any real legal right to use that old shed, but since nobody said I couldn’t I figured it must be okay. I can still recollect that sweet musty smell of old damp wood mixed with the lawnmower smell of old cut grass and gasoline. And that shed had lots of neat stuff inside it too. I knew they weren’t my daddy’s things, and I guess they belonged to our landlady, but since she was about a hundred years old and confined to her wheelchair I didn’t expect that she minded much that we borrowed them. Besides, it was just me and Joey in the club most of the time anyway, and usually we were real careful with everything. That is until we burnt the whole place down. But that was purely an accident, involving candles and a science experiment that went awry.
When we first started meeting in the shed, we cleaned it up as best we could, sweeping out decades’ worth of dust and thick spider webs. I told Joey that black widows lived in there, and it scared him so badly he wouldn’t come back inside until I swore on an old Bible that we’d found on a shelf that I had lied to him about the spiders. Then we set up an old wooden card table and two rickety chairs in the center of that dark, dank space. And for some reason we even put the Bible on the table. It’s not that we were religious or anything, but it just seemed like a good thing to do. And it looked nice sitting right there next to our dues jar, which was most often empty.
Of course we didn’t know exactly what the purpose of our club was to start with, but we both knew we needed a place to get away from our troubles. It wasn’t that Joey had a truly bad family or anything. In fact, his daddy went to work almost every single day, long hours too, and sometimes even on Sundays, although Mrs. Divers said it was a sin to work on the Lord’s Day. Anyway, Mr. Divers built small houses and additions and fences and such for people in Brookdale, and he hardly ever got drunk—just once in a while like on New Year’s Eve, and Joey said he never got mean-drunk, just goofy-drunk is all. Mr. Divers was a big, barrel-chested kind of man, with muscles that bulged right through his T-shirts. He’d been a Marine in the war and he walked with a swagger, and I’m sure no one in town ever crossed him. And I’m just as sure that he loved Joey in his own way, but I don’t think he ever knew how to show it real well, leastways not back then, when it really counted. I think Mr. Divers felt worried that Joey was such a fragile boy that he might actually break if he was handled too roughly, and so he reserved all his wrestling and roughhousing for Joey’s younger brother, Randy (a healthy child who was born after Dr. Salk invented his famous polio vaccine).
Unfortunately what Joey missed out on in attention from his daddy was more than compensated by Joey’s mama. Mrs. Divers babied and coddled him to the point where Joey said it sometimes actually felt like he couldn’t breathe (which even caused Mrs. Divers to suspect he might have asthma, although he did not). She didn’t want him to go to school, or to play with other children, or even to go outside much. Consequently, Joey started school later than most kids, but at least he’d spent a lot of time reading books and making models of cars and airplanes in his room.
So if our club had given itself a name, it might have been called the Misfits Club. We never called it that, at least not out loud, although I’m sure we both thought it from time to time. I suppose in some ways it was similar to what people these days might call “group therapy,” and in all likelihood it might’ve saved me and Joey from some additional psychoses in our later lives. Not that we sat around and whined about our problems all the time, but if we needed an ear we always found it in each other.
Most of our time was spent pretending and daydreaming. Maybe that’s what misfits do to escape the sad realities of their pitiful little lives. Our favorite dream was that we would one day invent something extraordinarily brilliant and consequently become rich and famous. And then people would point to us and say, “I remember when I used to know them back when they were just nobodies.” And because of my deprived economic state, we also spent a fair amount of time and energy on moneymaking ventures that would increase our club treasury (which we stowed away in an old canning jar that we kept hidden under a loose floorboard in the shed).
We had no pride when it came to making money, and we sold everything from hand-squeezed lemonade to All-American greeting cards. And we quickly learned (due to the stainless steel leg brace and the consequent empathy factor) that Joey made the best salesman by far. Folks would take one look at his limp and quickly shell out money for whatever it was we happened to be peddling that day, whether they wanted it or not.
The funny thing was, we never knew exactly how to use our earnings. Mostly we just squandered them on sweets and movies, and then we’d have to come up with some whole new capitalistic scheme and start all over again. One time we even sold stolen produce door-to-door. We’d sneaked into old Mr. Bernstein’s orchard and picked two of his peach trees clean (actually, I picked while Joey gathered). Somehow my grandma got wind of this, and we had to turn all our earnings over to Mr. Bernstein as well as work in his orchard for several days as restitution. Turned out he was a pretty nice guy, and he invited us to stop by and visit whenever we liked. After that, my grandma began giving us odd jobs in the store to make extra money, and our life of crime was narrowly averted for a while.
All during this time my daddy and me just drifted further and further apart. I stayed away from home as much as possible, slipping in and out like an evening shadow. Once in a while, if my daddy was on a really bad rampag
e, I would sneak out and sleep in the clubhouse, but I didn’t like it because I knew lots of spiders still lived in there. (Despite my promises to Joey, I wasn’t totally sure about my black widow theory. Somehow spiders and bugs just seemed to be everywhere in the darkness and I would imagine them creeping all over my face.) But I’d just pull my blanket tighter around myself and console myself with knowing it was better than facing my daddy’s rage.
For a long time, I never told my grandma about any of this. It seemed she had so much on her mind just trying to keep her store afloat, without any help from Aunt Myrtle anymore, and if I ever hinted at any kind of trouble her face would get all squinched up and anxious-looking. And I just didn’t like to worry her with my troubles.
My daddy was an orphan. He was born right after the big stock market crash in 1929. My grandma thought his folks must’ve come across some awful hard times, what with the Great Depression and all, and probably were so impoverished they had to give him up. She told me how lots of families got split up back then, and some folks were so poor that they just couldn’t keep their kids.
I’m sure that explains some of my daddy’s problems. It’s one thing to have your parents die on you, but it’s something else when they just up and give you away like an old, worn-out piece of furniture. I used to think that if I ever had a baby of my very own it wouldn’t matter how poor I was—even if I had to scrub toilets or sweep the gutters—I wouldn’t give up my baby for nothing. But like my grandma always says, you shouldn’t judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins. (I used to think my grandpa, the Cherokee Indian, made that one up.)
One night when my daddy wasn’t drunk, and we were sitting on the couch together watching Gunsmoke in a nice, congenial fashion, I asked him why he didn’t ever try to find his family.
“What family is that you’re talking about, Cassandra?”
“You know—the family that gave you up for adoption.” That week’s episode happened to feature a little boy who’d been separated from, and then reunited with, his birth family. And when it ended everyone all seemed pleased and happy.
His face darkened with a frown. “I don’t know anything about those people.”
“Well, they might still be alive,” I said hopefully. “Even if they’re pretty old by now. And you know, I wouldn’t mind having an extra grandma or even a grandpa around.” I was thinking it might even mean getting more Christmas and birthday presents, and things were pretty slim pickings most of the time.
“Well, the fact of the matter is, Cassandra, if my parents didn’t care enough to keep me with them, then I sure as spit don’t care enough to go out of my way looking for them after all these years.”
Now I thought that was just a mite ungracious on his part. I mean, what if they had no idea where he was or even if he was alive? But I didn’t venture to say so.
“But what if you have some brothers or sisters?” I persisted, thinking I might have some aunts, uncles, or maybe even a cousin or two out there somewhere.
My daddy just laughed and said, “Well, if they’re anything like me, then who’d want to know them anyway?”
I thought about that for a minute or two and figured he had a point, and yet I still longed for more family and felt a mite curious at what might be out there.
I knew my daddy didn’t like to talk about his childhood. Usually he didn’t like to talk much at all, leastwise not to me, or so it seemed. So sometimes I’d slip behind the long, thick window drapes in the front room and listen while he was talking to someone else. Usually the best eavesdropping times happened when Charlie Fox and my daddy had both downed a couple of drinks but weren’t falling-down drunk yet.
I suppose Charlie was the closest thing my daddy ever had to a best friend, but even old Charlie got fed up with him sometimes. Surprisingly, Charlie was always real nice to me. I think maybe he felt sorry for me, probably ‘cause he knew my daddy better than most. But the older I got, the less I liked Charlie. I figured if he really, truly cared about my daddy he wouldn’t always come over and drink with him. I mean, it wasn’t like everybody in town didn’t already know my daddy had a drinking problem. Seems to me Charlie could’ve done his drinking with someone else. But as Grandma often said, “Birds of a feather flock together.”
It was later on when I realized that Charlie had a troublesome drinking problem himself. It took a little longer for it to catch up with him, but it finally did. When I was in junior high school, Charlie’s wife took his three kids and moved off to Florida. Poor old Charlie never got over it. Just one year later he drove off in one of Mr. Masterson’s brand-new Pontiacs—drove that 1968 Firebird straight into the levy and sunk it clean to the bottom. The town called it a drunken driving accident, but my daddy said that Charlie killed himself on purpose, and we kids didn’t swim in the levy that whole summer.
I always knew Grandma would help me if I ever really needed her. She was like my ace in the hole, my insurance policy. In the meantime I went about life carefully, staying out of the way most of the time, and when I didn’t, I ran fast. Looking back, I suppose I should have gone to Grandma, but I guess I thought that underneath it all, she must’ve known what my life was really like. I figured everybody in town must’ve known how my daddy got all ugly and mean when he drank too much. If only he’d been more like old Charlie or even Mr. Divers—those goofy sort of silly drunks—I think we could have gotten along just fine. In fact, later on in life, I used to wonder why Charlie’s wife had even run off like that in the first place. Sure, Charlie might’ve been an alcoholic and all, but it seemed to me that he never really hurt anybody. Not like my daddy, that is.
Three
Well, the day finally came when I needed my ace in the hole. But it was almost too late. The doctor said that if Joey hadn’t found me when he did and called for help, I would’ve died for sure. At the time, I thought that might have been a good option—then I could be with my mama and the grandpa who was the Cherokee Indian. But later on I was thankful for Joey’s loyal intervention.
It was the summer of 1964, just before my tenth birthday, and my daddy hadn’t sold a car in weeks. Our rent was two months overdue, and the landlady, even from her wheelchair, was threatening to throw us out on the street. Just the same, my daddy could still afford a cheap jug of wine.
It had been one of those hot, lazy days in August. Joey and I had been out on his front porch, drinking homemade root beer and playing Monopoly until almost nine o’clock at night, but then his mama came out and fretted over whether Joey might catch a chill out there (although it must’ve been eighty degrees!). Since those were the days when I was still in the good graces of Mrs. Divers (she knew I provided a handy diversion for her poor lame child, and friends were in short supply just then) I wisely decided not to wear out my welcome. I thanked them for their hospitality, and after promising to meet Joey the next morning at eight, I left.
I remember that night as if it were yesterday, standing out in the shadows of their boxwood hedge, watching their little two-story house with the darkness all around me. From where I stood, their windows glowed just like amber, with white curtains moving ever so slightly in the evening air. I could hear the sound of The Ed Sullivan Show playing inside, and I wished, not for the first time, that my daddy hadn’t bashed in our worn-out TV. Sure, its picture tube might’ve been a little fuzzy, but if you sat far enough across the room it didn’t look too bad, and the sound worked just fine. Anyway, I fought back feelings of envy as I watched Mrs. Divers through the kitchen window, her aproned back to me as she stood before the stove making what I felt certain, by her fast jiggling arm, must be popcorn. My stomach rumbled with hunger. I had been careful not to come over to Joey’s house until after their dinner hour had passed that evening. Just a few days earlier, I’d overheard Mr. Divers say, “Doesn’t that child ever eat at her own home?”
It was well after dark when I slipped quietly into my house. I wasn’t overly worried that my daddy would be in a drunken state si
nce his bottle of cheap wine had been nearly empty that morning, but out of habit I was still cautious to catch the kitchen screen door before it slammed loudly behind me. From the streetlight outside I could see a shiny object on the table and thought with dismay that it was an empty bottle of booze. But upon closer examination, I discovered it was a canning jar… and then I recognized the long jute string around the neck, tied there so we could pull it up from its hiding spot beneath the loose floorboard. It was our club treasury jar—and it was empty!
Just a few days ago Joey and I had counted our accumulation of wealth, and it had been well over twelve dollars, all honestly come by, mostly from working at my grandma’s store. We had planned to sell Kool-Aid and earn eight more dollars in time for the Porter County fair next week, which would make ten dollars apiece to spend just as we liked on rides and cotton candy and maybe even some of those spin-art pictures where you squirt on the paint as the card twirls round and round.
Now the jar was empty. I suddenly noticed my daddy looming in the darkened doorway that led to the front room. Just a few feet away from me, swaying back and forth with a bottle dangling from his hand. Not a wine bottle this time, but the long-necked, square-shaped kind of bottle, suggesting something strong like bourbon or rye.
“You been holdin’ out on your ol’ man,” he said in a slurred voice, unsteadily shaking his forefinger at me.
I knew this meant trouble, and I shook my head in silent denial as I slowly started to back away, but not quickly enough. With amazing speed—for a drunk that is—he lunged forward and grabbed me by my sleeveless cotton shirt, pulling it so hard I heard the buttons snap off in sharp, angry pops.
Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) Page 2