Relatively Crazy

by Ellen Dye

  Maxine slowly blinked, then glanced between the sheet of paper on her desk and Trixie. “And those qualities would be?”

  “Everything about her.”

  “Care to narrow that down a bit?”

  “I’d have to say what I love most about Trixie is how deeply she’s able to love me, just for myself.” Reed looked straight into the camera. “So many women I know are content to simply mouth the words while spending their husband’s hard-earned money.”

  I knew this was directed squarely at me. How could he think such a thing? After twenty years of my devotion to him, to our life together, this is what he thought of me?

  The show continued to drone on in the background as I sat on the corner of our bed with my head resting in my hands. My stomach had fallen clear to the toes of my elegant Manolos. Oh, God. Reed honestly thought the only reason I was with him was for the money he brought in? It wasn’t true. It had never been true. I’d fallen in love with him the moment we’d met. And I loved him still.

  But apparently he didn’t realize it.

  What was I going to do without Reed? What was Olivia going to do without a father? Where would we go? How would we live?

  “Ashton.”

  My attention was jerked back to the screen, now filled with Reed’s face. The close-up shot did not flatter. “I’m not coming back. This is my chance for happiness. You’re on your own now, and your pockets are as empty as they were when we met—I’ve seen to that. Your best option is to head back to those hills where you belong.” Dramatically the screen shifted to black-and-white static.

  “Never,” I hissed above the crackling of the screen. “Not in a million years.”

  Little did I realize it would take only three months and seven days for me to eat those words.

  Chapter Two

  The sign read Welcome to West Virginia—The Mountain State.

  Oh, God. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white from the pressure. It was official. I’d sunk as low as I could go. I was home.

  And to make matters worse, I was also destitute—well, almost. I’d managed to salvage some small household items, our clothes, books, my jewelry, and Reed’s most precious possession—his collection of ceramic horses. All of which I’d shipped ahead of me. And of course, I still had my car.

  But the rest was gone, totally and completely. The investments, stocks, bonds, retirement accounts, savings, and even our home—including the vast majority of its furnishings. Everything Reed and I had spent the past twenty years building had vanished in less than four months, despite my best—and I felt somewhat heroic—actions.

  I’d done everything possible to find a job. At first I’d been full of confidence. So Reed thought I’d only married him for his money? Well, I’d show him. I could do just fine financially on my own. I was an intelligent, attractive woman still in the prime of life. Naturally I could find a job. I’d lived in the San Francisco area for more than two decades. I knew people. I had connections.

  Or so I’d thought. Boy, did I ever find out otherwise—on all counts.

  All those wonderful friends we’d made, the connections I’d counted on, turned out not to exist. As soon as the Reed Trews Midlife Insanity episode aired on Talk! and the news of his make-believe senior citizen tryst became common knowledge, it was as though I’d never existed.

  And the sad truth of it was, I hadn’t. I’d only deluded myself by thinking I was a valued part of our social circle. I had only been seen as an extension of Reed, an accessory he wore for social occasions.

  In the end I accepted that since I had no true job skills, especially in such a technology-necessary city, I wasn’t going to get a job with enough pay to maintain our lifestyle—or actually any lifestyle—in San Francisco.

  Reed had been perfectly correct when he’d announced that my pockets were empty. When I’d tried to access our funds, which I’d thought were all joint, I found out the cold, hard truth. Reed, damn his midlife ego crisis, had managed to either hide or spend everything. I was betting on the former.

  As for Reed himself, it was as though he’d fallen off the face of the earth. There hadn’t been a single message of any kind nor scrap of information to be found. Our former friends and Reed’s colleagues had been polite but firm: they had no idea where he was. And when I’d hit the desperation point they’d firmly, and not so politely, become unavailable to take further calls.

  But still, down though I was at the moment, I wasn’t out. And Reed and I were far from over. He was simply having some sort of weird—actually more like psychotic—midlife crisis. We would get back together. I knew it. I just didn’t know when.

  I risked a sidelong glance at Olivia as she sat in the passenger’s seat engrossed in a novel, just as she had been for the majority of our cross-country trip.

  She seemed to be taking her father’s momentary madness well. When I’d broken the news to her the following morning, she’d immediately flown into action, making assessment lists regarding the situation. She’d stood by while the bulk of our furnishings and household possessions were sold, not batting a lash. Including her cell phone for which I could no longer afford the required service plan. It surprised me. In the space of little more than three months, she’d morphed from an average, although mature for her age, sixteen-year-old girl into a completely rational adult. And she seemed completely comfortable with the transformation.

  But still, I worried. This had to be even tougher for her than it was for me. I’d grown up in poverty and chaos. I’d taken great pains to make sure my little girl had never lacked for anything. She’d attended the Bay area’s finest private schools, worn the best clothing, and never lacked for any sort of material possession.

  Now all of it was gone and likely to remain that way until Reed came to his senses.

  The singularly unpleasant, although not over-powering at this time of year, odor of a poultry processing plant filtered through the air system. “Here we are, honey. This is Buckston County,” I announced in a deliberately cheery voice.

  Olivia glanced up from her book and took a quick peek around. “Oh,” she replied before dropping her gaze back to her reading.

  I noticed the title: The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir. Another one? I briefly wondered just how many books the famous French author had written. This particular literary vein had begun with The Woman Destroyed, a few hours after the sale of our furniture.

  No, taking her current reading into account, it would seem Olivia wasn’t holding up as well as she was putting on. And, knowing Olivia, when she did drop the pretense of capability it was more likely to be thrown with the force of a lightning bolt.

  I could only hope Reed would have gotten over his bout of wounded pride before it happened.

  A wave of doubt crashed over my mind. Oh, God, what if Reed didn’t come after us? No, I squashed the horrible thought. He had to come to his senses; the alternative was much too gruesome to contemplate. I bolstered my sagging confidence with the one firm piece of evidence he would return: there had been no divorce papers.

  And naturally, any man serious about ending his marriage—especially Reed, given that he was a lawyer—would have started divorce proceedings by now.

  He will come after us. He will come after us. I mentally repeated my new mantra. And that’s what moving across the country had really been about. Reed would be so shook up he’d finally realize that he’d jumped to false conclusions about that old book of mine, and he’d come to West Virginia and rescue us.

  And please let it be soon, I thought as we passed the front entrance of Backhill’s Turkey Processing Plant, which marked the entry into the town—I use the term very loosely—proper.

  Nothing much had changed in my absence. A small, two-lane road with one stoplight located at the courthouse intersection formed Main Street, either side of which was flanked with buildings, some with glass fronts and others not, but all carbon copies with the same height, constructed from the same dull gray stone, their
only differences being the irregularities of the terra cotta ornamentation near the tops.

  Driving at the mandatory twenty-five miles an hour, we crawled by all the familiar businesses from my childhood. Miller’s Feed and Seed: everything for your critters inside and out. Taxidermy “R” Us: you snuff it and we stuff it. Marshall’s Tattoos: you think it, we ink it. And there it was, looking only a bit shabbier: The Dew Drop Inn. My stomach did a little flip, one of the very unpleasant variety, as I remembered my burger-and-fries days.

  I flipped on the signal and turned onto the road that would end at my family’s driveway five miles down. There was no denying it. I was more nervous now than I’d ever been. Music, I thought. Just what I need. I gave the radio button a poke. “The place where I belong…” John Denver’s voice crooned the old, familiar tune. “West Virginia—” I slammed the button with considerable more force than necessary.

  “You sick bastard.”

  “Sorry?” Olivia peered up from her book.

  I plastered on my best smile. “Nothing, sweetie.”

  Thankfully Olivia went back to her book without further questions.

  Soon I was going to have to face the consequences of keeping my family, well mostly, a secret from my daughter. At the time, and under the circumstances, it had always seemed to be for the best.

  Okay, there it was. And looking no different than it had twenty-two years ago. A small opening in the woods, marked by a gray, metal, utilitarian mailbox and a graveled trail which passed for a driveway in these parts.

  I was home. Oh, God, help me. Please.

  I sucked in a lungful of air and held it as I depressed the brake pedal and left the paved surface behind. I did my best not to flinch as what sounded like millions of tiny gravels pinged against the underside of my car.

  The breath left my lungs in a whoosh as the house came into view. It was a rambling, two-story Victorian which had been added on to, here and there, by various family members as the house passed from generation to generation. Some houses achieved a grand sort of sprawling look with such treatment, but not this one. Unfortunately, this once-grand Victorian looked more like the sad aftermath of nuclear mutation with T1-11 siding stacked up against the peeling, once-white clapboard.

  I noticed the azaleas lining the drive still looked the same. The one at the very end caught my attention, I could have sworn it jiggled. Oh, no, it couldn’t be. Surely it was impossible now.

  Suddenly the bush jumped in front of the car.

  I slammed on the brakes, sending The Second Sex hurtling against the windshield as I simultaneously pinned Olivia to the seat with my outstretched arm. In the fashion of mothers everywhere, I was protecting my offspring from flying through the windshield by crushing her windpipe while invoking the Maternal Arm.

  “Gurk.” Olivia, eyes both wide and bulging, attempted to speak.

  I hastily lowered my arm. “Are you okay, honey?”

  “Gurk.”

  Olivia’s mouth fell open. She pointed.

  I looked toward the hood and the half-dozen bobbing azalea twigs in front of it. I sat resolved as they rose and were followed by an old pith helmet and a face which looked a bit older than I remembered, although it was hard to tell precisely, given the layers of green and black greasepaint. A body followed, dressed in a set of ancient Army-issued fatigues.

  Ah, yes, he was in his usual rare form today.

  “Gun,” Olivia croaked, one hand still resting on her throat.

  I attempted a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, honey.”

  Olivia stared, open-mouthed.

  I rolled down the window. “They’re headed that way,” I called, pointing to a location in the woods safely away from my new car.

  Uncle Claude gave a single nod followed by a snappy salute before trotting off, his ancient musket at the ready.

  I ignored Olivia’s stammering. Unfortunately, she’d find out soon enough just what was swimming around in the waters of the gene pool from whence she’d sprung.

  I pulled up in front of the house next to the remnants of Aunt Nettie’s still. I noted, thankfully, that it was mostly in pieces. That would lessen the chance of serious explosion during our stay.

  And oh, God, please make it a short stay.

  An odd-looking assortment of people began filing out from the house. I wondered, not for the first time, what cosmic accident had caused me to be related to these people. Surely the only explanation was that I’d been switched at birth.

  Aunt Nettie came first, wearing her old favorites: black velvet pillbox hat with the fluff of tulle tugged over both eyes, cleverly paired with a zebra-print, front-zippered house dress and snazzy red Keds. Actually, it was a very conservative look for Nettie. Uncle Jimmy followed behind, looking much the same as always in his treasured blue Dickies shirt-and-pants set and an embroidered Dew Drop Inn baseball cap on his head.

  Their daughter and my cousin, Jamie Sue, was in the middle. Over the past twenty-two years she’d become the spitting image of my mother. The same stooped shoulders and the same I’ve-Bit-The-Persimmon-Of-Life-And-Can’t-Let-Go expression on her thin face. The only difference was that Jamie Sue had chosen to forgo the white NurseMates and pastel polyester in favor of jeans and a simple T-shirt.

  And there, coming down the stairs and bringing up the rear, was Mama. She was carrying a pie between her hot-mitt-covered hands.

  Clearly nothing had changed. But then I hadn’t expected otherwise. Mama never gave in, never gave up, and she darned well never forgot. Two decades were but a blink of an eye in my mother’s ability to hold a grudge until she could get the last word.

  I plastered my best society-function smile on my numb lips. It would be bad; that went without saying. But at least I had the consolation of knowing no one in these remote hills, least of all my family, could have seen the show. All they knew were the vague details I’d given—and I had every intention of keeping it that way.

  I patted Olivia’s leg. “Let’s go, honey.”

  By the time we’d left the car and reached the bottom of the steps, the whole clan had assembled. Mama, who from her salt-and-pepper, pixie-cut hair right down to her white NurseMates looked just the same, stepped forward. Pie first, naturally.

  “Welcome home, Wanda Jo.” Jamie Sue stepped to the front with a fork and an evil grin. “Have some Humble Pie,” Mama concluded.

  Olivia was insistently yanking on my arm. I looked over at her, maintaining my smile even though it was beginning to hurt my cheeks.

  Her skin was pale, making a striking contrast with her blue eyes and chestnut-colored hair. She pointed toward the woods. “Who…What…” she stammered. I nodded patiently, urging her on. “Who in the hell are these people, and why the hell are they calling you Wanda Jo?” she shrieked.

  I let out a deep breath and just kept smiling.

  ****

  After appeasing Mama, Olivia and I were allowed admittance to the house, and Aunt Nettie, bouncing in her Keds, shooed us toward the kitchen. I stood by the back door, a very dry lump of chicken potpie wedged in my throat, next to my daughter. Olivia had recovered from her outburst admirably but had yet to release my arm.

  I really couldn’t say I blamed her.

  The large kitchen looked much the same as it had while I’d been growing up. The same strawberry-print, ruffled curtains above the large stainless steel sink and the same worn linoleum. The room had the tired, vaguely dingy look of an old home that hadn’t been kept up, despite Mama’s nearly fanatic cleaning.

  The scarred rectangular oak table had been covered with a blue-and-white-check tablecloth and set with Mama’s reproduction—and probably now antique in their own right—Blue Willow dishes.

  Aunt Nettie burbled about filling the matching serving bowls from the stove, while Mama poured tall glasses of iced sweet tea from a frosty pitcher.

  “Can I help you all?” I asked.

  Mama snorted. “Wouldn’t want you to break a nail, Wanda Jo.”


  Yep, it was as though I’d fallen through a hole in the fabric of time. It was a replay, down to the refusal of my help, of every Sunday afternoon dinner I’d ever eaten in this house.

  Uncle Claude, now sans war paint, sat at one end of the table, while Uncle Jimmy took the other. Later, Jamie Sue would sit in the middle, flanked on either side by Nettie and Mama. But for now she was bustling around the table laying pieces of flatware next to each plate. And Olivia and I would take the seats opposite. That would be the whole family, I thought as I quickly counted the place settings.

  And came up with one extra. I wondered if… No, that would be impossible—

  “Welcome home, Wanda Jo.”

  I turned, looking toward the door and the huge man standing in the doorway. I felt the corners of my mouth lift in a genuine smile for the first time in months.

  “Thanks,” I replied to the object of my place setting-musings, who was currently holding a large bouquet of daisies and pink sweetheart roses.

  My closest neighbor, and only family ally, from childhood had changed drastically. Gone was the overly tall, lanky boy of eighteen with the unruly, sandy-brown hair. He had grown even taller. Goodness, he must be nearly six feet six inches. And it looked as though he’d finally put on weight enough to match his exceptional height.

  Sam Branson had changed so completely I wouldn’t have recognized him, except for one thing. His large brown eyes still sparkled with warmth and kindness.

  “For you.” He extended the bouquet.

  I accepted, rising up to the tips of my toes while he bent down, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

  “Thank you, Sam.” I took a sniff. “They’re lovely.”

  He blushed faintly. Maybe he was still the same old Sam after all.

  “This is my daughter, Olivia.” She relinquished her grip, and I draped one arm across her shoulders. “Honey, this is Sam. We grew up together. His daddy used to own the place next door.”

  Sensing an ally in sanity, Olivia smiled for the first time since we’d arrived. “Pleased to meet you, Sam.” She extended her hand. “Do you still live close by?”