Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy

by Susan Vaught

My eyes popped open.

  Dad grinned at me, sort of real and sort of fake, like he was trying really hard to make me feel okay. I didn’t say anything, because if I tried to talk, I’d cry, and that would tick me off, and all of a sudden I was ticked off anyway, and I didn’t even know why.

  Dad gazed at me like he was waiting for me to say something.

  All that came to me was, “Cissy and Doc?”

  “They’re here,” Dad said. “The doctors are checking them out, and Stephanie Bridges is with them. Cissy won’t let go of her. She says you told her Steph would help her, so she doesn’t want to talk to any other DCFS worker.”

  I nodded.

  “Honey, how are you?”

  Leave me alone. It almost came out, but it didn’t. What was wrong with me? Was this some kind of new crazy coming after me now, when I thought everything was finally okay?

  No. I’m not crazy. Not yet, anyway.

  Dad kept looking at me with that weird grin on his face. “How long did you know those kids were in our basement?”

  I thought about my puzzle list, the one I sent Peavine. I had been right about most of them things on it, but about Mom setting the fire and Cissy and Doc being dead I had been so wrong, and I was glad. “I didn’t figure it out until tonight, but I should have known sooner.”

  Dad’s eyebrows came together. “Why?”

  “All the food disappearing. I thought I was eating it in my sleep, but I just should have known I couldn’t pack away that much.”

  Dad kept his eyebrows still this time, but his jaw worked, and I could tell he was surprised and maybe confused. “You thought you were sleepwalking and sleep-eating? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why would I?” My voice came out loud enough to make me twitch, so I clamped my teeth together. “You didn’t even notice all the food getting disappeared.”

  Dad would probably get mad now and lecture me for hollering at him, and ground me. Whatever. I was too mad to care, and I still didn’t know why.

  “Footer—”

  “You think I’m sick, don’t you?” I yelled again, but I couldn’t help it. “Sick like Mom. You think it’s happening to me.”

  Dad raised both hands. “I—no. That’s not it.”

  “You’re lying. You think I’m crazy, and that’s why you didn’t believe me when I tried to tell you about Mom and the fire and everything.”

  Dad’s hands came down, and he gaped at me. A bunch of emotions moved across his face. I saw more surprise and a little bit of mad, then sadness. Each feeling seemed a thousand times bigger because it was Dad and not Mom, and Dad didn’t usually show that much emotion.

  “That’s . . . not it,” he said again, in a quiet voice, almost weak sounding, and I didn’t believe him, and I don’t think he even believed himself.

  “I’m in the hospital like Mom was before she got sent to Memphis.” Not yelling. Better. But not by much. “Are you going to have me sent to some unit like that somewhere, for kids?”

  “What? No. Why would you think that?”

  “The way you’re looking at me right now!” Anger rushed through me, so hot it doubled the sweat running down the back of my neck. “You didn’t believe me when I tried to talk to you, and I’m mad about it and I’m yelling, so you think I’m going crazy and you have to be all careful with me.”

  “No.” And now Dad’s face showed more misery than I had ever seen before in my life, so much that it smushed my anger to nothing and made my heart hurt almost as much as my broken wrist.

  “I don’t get to be mad at Mom because she lied to me and didn’t tell me stuff and almost blew up our lives,” I said, more to the covers than to Dad. “Being mad at her doesn’t help anything, and she won’t even remember half of this mess when she’s better. I don’t have her, sometimes. I don’t have her a lot of the time. What am I going to do if I don’t have you, either?”

  Dad sat on the edge of my bed, on the side with my bad arm. He did it slow and easy so he wouldn’t hurt me. I stared into his face and saw lines around his eyes and his mouth, and he looked older than I remembered. My heart hurt a little worse. Dad had always seemed like Captain Armstrong—big and powerful and indestructible. Right now he seemed as breakable as Mom and me.

  He kept his gaze on the floor for a time, and I let him, even though I didn’t feel mad anymore and I just wanted to cry and hear him make stupid jokes again, and this time try to make jokes back so he wouldn’t be sad anymore.

  “You’re right,” he said in a voice so quiet, I had to lean forward to hear him. “Sometimes I don’t notice things I should. I think I do that because I’m scared, Footer, and I’m sorry.”

  That made my mouth come open. My father was a soldier and a policeman. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He was like my anti-scaredy-cat Superman. “What are you scared of?” I asked him, not even having to try to sound nice now.

  Dad kept right on staring at the floor, and I saw his shoulders shake when he breathed. He stayed quiet so long I thought maybe he wasn’t going to tell me, but then he said, “I’m afraid of losing your mother, just like you are. I’m afraid of losing you—my family, everything I love.”

  Before I could say anything, he raised his head and looked at me. “I want to promise you something. You’ll never lose me, Footer. No matter what, I’ll always be right here. Give me another chance, and I’ll do better about listening to you and believing you—and believing in you.”

  I kept staring at him.

  He really looked like he meant it. Then tears rolled down both of his cheeks, and the hurt in my heart made me cry too.

  Once the tears started, I couldn’t stop them, and I couldn’t stop my mouth, either. “Will I ever get to stop worrying about losing my mind? Because sometimes I worry about it a whole lot, and when you worry about it too I can’t stand it. I get so scared. I’m tired of being scared.”

  “Me too.” He faced me and lifted one hand to stroke my cheek and brush away my tears. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re sick like your mother. I think you’re perfect and smart and pretty and strong, and nothing else matters. Whatever comes down the road later, we’ll deal with it—but for now I think our biggest problem is that busted purple wrist of yours.”

  The agony in my chest eased, and my tears slowed. My busted purple wrist kept right on hurting, though. I moved it just enough to get Dad to look at it. “I don’t know about this wrist being our biggest issue. Have you seen your face lately? Do they make wrinkle cream for guys?”

  “I don’t think it’s called wrinkle cream, but yeah.” Dad’s grin made everything hurt a little bit less.

  “Good, ’cause you look way older than you should.”

  “That’s cold, Footer.”

  I managed a grin of my own. “Truth is hard, Dad.”

  “Keep it up,” he said, wiping away the last of my tears. “One more crack and I’ll feed you walrus sticks for breakfast when we finally get home.”

  The face I made must have been epic, because Dad was still smiling about it when the nurse came to take me to the cast room.

  From the Notebook of Kay Malone

  Because Peavine Let Me Read His Detective Notebook and Angel Let Me Read Her Astronaut Notebook and Doing Interviews Looked Like So Much Fun, Even If I’m Talking to Myself. Hey, It’s Safer Than Hunting Walruses.

  Already Lonely Teacher: How I will miss you next year, Footer Davis. Fifth grade won’t be the same without you. You are braver than five people put together. At least you made it back before the year ended, so you’ll get to come to all the cupcake parties. That makes me happier than all the reporters skulking around. Are you rethinking this journalism thing yet? You did pretty great on the detective part, you know.

  Happy Teacher: I’m glad I got to sign your bright-yellow wrist cast before everybody else did!

  Grateful Teacher: I’m very glad your mom may get to come home next week. The police were right not to charge her with anything when she was just trying to hel
p two abused children. Stephanie Bridges was a plague to you, but she seems to be doing okay by Cissy and Doc, driving them down to Pearl every week to see their dad, getting me to tutor them on all the lessons they missed during the homeschooling that didn’t happen, taking them to counseling, and she got them a foster home right here in town. There might be hope for that girl as she grows into her job.

  Totally Nosy Teacher: Now, if I could just get you talking to Peavine again, the world might start turning like it’s supposed to. Some things take time to heal, I suppose. But come on, Footer. It’s been long enough.

  Critical Thinking: Rewrite of My Last Paper

  Footer Davis

  5th Period

  Ms. Perry

  I am rewriting this paper because Ms. Malone and Stephanie Bridges said I shouldn’t write about serial killers just to upset you. They said I could make my point better by being thorough and forthright, whatever “forthright” means. They also said I was being impolite and sort of mean. I guess they are right, so I’m sorry. Just because you are mean to me and my mother doesn’t make it okay for me to be mean to you. Here is a real critical-thinking paper. I hope.

  I. Hypothesis

  People who are mentally ill are violent and should only live in institutions. Is this always true, sometimes true, partly true, or false?

  II. Evidence Collected

  Only 4 percent of violent crimes are committed by people with mental illness, like my mom. That means 96 out of 100 violent crimes are committed by completely normal people like you, but everyone thinks my mom is the scary one. My mom isn’t scary. When she’s sick, her thoughts move so fast, she can’t even concentrate enough to think or move or make any sense. She can’t plan anything. She doesn’t even remember to eat if somebody doesn’t help her.

  My neighbor Captain Armstrong is right. Television and the movies don’t really tell the truth about stuff like war and death and sickness. On television and in the movies, all the mentally ill patients slaughter people. If there’s a crime show and somebody has a disorder, you can bet that person will turn out to be guilty. That’s why I don’t watch crime shows anymore. They just make me sad. I do read about serial killers, though, because they are truly scary, and I want to know if I run into one, so I can get away fast.

  Walruses scare me too. Walruses weigh 4,000 pounds, and they have big tusks. They can kill polar bears. It is reasonable to be afraid of walruses (and clowns, but that should be another paper). Walruses are a lot more dangerous than people like my mom, but I bet you never see a crime show where a walrus did it.

  III. What I Learned from This Report

  1. The hypothesis that people who have mental illness are violent and should live only in institutions is false.

  2. Nobody should believe television, movies, or stuff people put on the Internet about war or death or sickness. None of that shows life or mental illness or serial killers or even walruses like they really are.

  3. My mother belongs home with us, whenever she is able to be there.

  B+.

  You make some very good points. I hope you will take all of your future assignments this seriously.

  Maybe we can both try harder not to be mean to each other.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Three Weeks Later

  “I can’t believe you invited Peavine.” I steadied the starter slingshot’s wooden frame with my left hand. I could grip with the cast, which would probably come off next week, so I used my good hand to pull the pouch back slowly, slowly, just like Dad had been teaching me to do.

  Dad watched as I let go.

  The slingshot bands snapped, and the stale pink mini-marshmallow shot forward. It hit the target Dad had taped to the outside of the basement door with a soft thwack, then tumbled to the ground, leaving a tiny pink smudge on the paper. It was inside the second circle, but nowhere near the center.

  “Better,” Mom said from the table, underneath the big green umbrella. She turned a page in her Newsweek magazine. I didn’t think there was an article about me or Cissy and Doc in that issue. Stuff seemed to be dying down a little, so we could live without reporters popping out of bushes and trash cans to get a comment.

  “Honey, it’s time to give this thing with the Joneses a rest,” Dad said. “Regina Jones has always been wonderful to you. And Peavine and Angel didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I fished a stale green marshmallow out of the bag. “Says you.”

  “Some secrets shouldn’t be secrets, Footer.” That was Mom.

  I sighed.

  Mom had been home for almost two weeks now and taking her medicine. Her hands trembled as she held the magazine, but only a little bit. Her mind seemed to be hers again, so of course the first thing she did was start running my life. I had been to two therapy appointments to talk about “what happened the night of the fire,” and I hated them completely, but Mom said I’d be going back until. As in, until she said otherwise.

  “I’m not talking to Peavine,” I grumbled as I fired the green marshmallow and missed the door completely.

  Dad shrugged and headed back to the grill, opening the lid and letting out the delicious scent of hamburgers and brats. “Then it’s going to be a long afternoon.”

  A few minutes later, Captain Armstrong showed up dressed in green fatigue pants, a green T-shirt, and an Alabama ball cap to aggravate Dad and me. He brought his famous baked beans, the best ever, steeped in brown sugar and heaped with bacon. When Steph came with Cissy and Doc, they had chips and soft drinks, even though Steph didn’t approve of too much junk food, strictly speaking.

  “Excellent!” Steph chirped when she saw the slingshot and marshmallows. “See? I knew you could find something safe to do with your father.”

  Dad kept his back to her and continued messing around with the meat on the grill. Mom hardly paused in her chattering at Captain Armstrong. I chose a pink marshmallow and loaded it up as Cissy came to stand with me. She watched me shoot the edge of the target. Then she took the slingshot and fired a green marshmallow dead center into the red dot.

  Steph clapped, then turned her attention to the Jones family, who were coming around the far side of the house carrying dishes covered with aluminum foil.

  I looked away before I could pay too much attention to Peavine, then got seriously annoyed when I realized my heart had started to beat faster.

  Cissy looked like a new person in her jeans and yellow sun top. She had her hair back off her neck, tied with a yellow bow. She handed me back my slingshot, then said in a low voice, “I’m figurin’ Steph doesn’t know these come in sniper versions with thirty-five-pound pulls and forty-four-caliber ammo that can kill deer?”

  “Ssshh.” I shot another pink marshmallow and missed the back door totally. The marshmallow bounced on the ground and hit Doc’s white sneaker. He was standing with Angel, looking at one of her megabooks. He actually had it open, like he might be reading the pages.

  “Is Doc talking yet?” I asked Cissy.

  “Some. I think it’s going to be a while. He already met Angel in summer school, and I think she’s helping.”

  I sighed. A conspiracy. That’s what this was. I shot a green mini-marshmallow at the target and managed to hit inside the second circle.

  “Not bad,” Peavine said from over my left shoulder. “Think you could get good enough to kill a snake?”

  My cheeks burned. I tried to look at Cissy instead of acknowledging Peavine, but Cissy walked off fast, like she had it planned all along. There was just enough of a breeze for me to catch the scent of his favorite barbecue potato chips. He probably ate them for breakfast.

  My stupid heart beat even faster . . . and then I just didn’t want to be mad at my best friend anymore. I closed my eyes and imagined myself looking all red-faced and ticked off. Pretty stupid. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I should give it all a rest.

  “I could probably kill a snake,” I said, “but I don’t think I could kill a walrus.”

  Peavine cam
e up beside me then, planting his right pole close to my foot. “What about a creep eating hot dogs and wearing plaid?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll leave that to Dad and his friends at work.” Would my hair look better pulled back like Cissy’s? Jeez, I should at least comb it now and then. When I glanced over at Cissy, she was sitting next to Mom. They were both reading Newsweek.

  Peavine held out his hand for the slingshot. I passed it to him and whispered, “Don’t tell Steph you can use this to fire stuff other than marshmallows, okay?”

  “Okay.” He held on to my hand, our fingers closed around the slingshot’s frame, the bands dangling down and bouncing against our wrists.

  When I looked into Peavine’s blue eyes, they were wide and sweet and sad. “I’m sorry I let Angel get hold of your note, Footer.” His voice came out low, just for me to hear, and I could almost count all the tears he had cried, and all the tears I had cried. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to talk Mom out of giving it to your dad. It’s just—I was so worried about you. I really thought it was the best thing.”

  “I’m sorry I ignored your texts and calls and e-mails,” I said. He nodded and let go of my hand to take the slingshot. My fingers tingled where he had touched me, and emotions I couldn’t name choked me up and made me add, “Peavine, maybe you shouldn’t keep trying to be my friend. Even though I’m not sick now, you know I’ll probably wind up like Mom.”

  He picked out a green marshmallow, propped his elbows on the arm grips of his poles, and fired. The marshmallow bounced off a basement window. “If you get sick, you’ll see the doctor and get medicine, and I’ll still be your friend and so will Angel.”

  Friend. Yeah. That’s what Peavine was. My best friend. He always had been. That’s what he should be. The unnamed emotions swirled faster and harder, and then I felt disappointed, which made no sense at all.

  He handed the slingshot back to me and grinned. “Want to go for a walk later?”