All About Evie (ARC)

by Cathy Lamb

  “I’m not going home with you.”

  “Yes, you are.” Her father’s hands were clenched at his sides.

  She knew he was trying not to grab her, shove her against a wall, and tell her to “begin reciting Luke. . . . Name the books of

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  the Bible. . . . Tell me the story of the woman by the well, you devil whore. . . .”

  Her mother told her to “obey her father” in her spindly, frail voice, her eyes filling with tears. “Please, Betsy. Come home.

  We’ll pray about this together. Right, Hansen?”

  “Shut up, Mary,” her father said to her mother, and her mother’s head dropped. It made Betsy sick. It made her furious.

  “You will never defend me, will you, Mom?” Tears rushed to Betsy’s eyes, every tear a hundred cries she had never let herself have. Every tear a sign of the continuous betrayal of her mother.

  “You let him hurt me. You never tried to protect me.”

  “Betsy,” she said, barely above a whisper, wringing her hands, her gold eyes anguished, the same eyes as her daughter. “Come with us. We’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I am safer here than with him, and you know it, Mom. You know what he’s done to me. You know how he’s hurt me. Why do you want me to live with that again?”

  Her mother’s expression showed all her guilt, her fear, her fearful selfishness, her powerlessness.

  “You are an ungrateful, Godless woman who has embraced the blackness of this world,” her father’s voice boomed. “You will burn for this, but not until I have put you back on God’s righteous path.”

  “I said I am not coming home. I will never live with you and Mom again. Why don’t you try being nice to Mom? Then you’ll have at least one woman who won’t leave you.”

  Her father’s face became even darker, his fat fists clenched and unclenched, his eyes narrowed. How dare she say no to him! How dare she defy him! How dare she disrespect him! She was only a girl. His daughter. He owned her. “You are a dis-grace—”

  She turned and walked back down the hallway. She would enter her apartment later, after they left. Tears spilled out of her eyes. When she had lived with them, she endured. But after leaving, after coming here, to college, to her job, where people were nice to her, gentle, funny, she was able to start seeing her life with her parents for what it was: Abusive. Lonely. Freezing cold.

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  Her father thundered up behind her, whipped her around, and smacked her in the face, her head twisting about before she crumpled onto the floor. Before she could struggle up and cover her head with her arms, two young men who lived down the hall shouted and intervened. They shoved Hansen away from her and slammed him up against the wall, his bald head crashing into the plaster. He was stunned, dropping heavily to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  One of the young men, who was studying biology in hopes of going to medical school, said, “How do you like being hit, dick?” He hauled Hansen back up and punched him in the face.

  “How do you like it now?” The bio student hit him again, Hansen’s head snapping back, and dropped him.

  The other young man, who was studying to become a nuclear physicist, said, “You sucker punched a woman!” His face was outraged, sickened. “What the hell is wrong with you?” The physics student hauled him up and shoved him back into the wall, Hansen’s head again slamming into it.

  Her father, on the ground, his head wobbling, stared up at the furious young men standing protectively in front of his daughter and was shocked. What had happened? How dare they hit him! His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, like a gaping fish. His wife was peering down at him. What was in her eyes? Was it . . . triumph? Was it vindictiveness? Joy?

  “Get out of here,” Betsy said quietly, but the rage was evident. “Go. I never, ever want to see either of you again. I’m not taking this anymore. If you don’t leave right now, I will call the police.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that. Even though her face was aching, her neck already knotting up, she was proud of herself.

  Her father, trying to recover, trying to stand up, his stiff cheap suit rumpled, croaked out, “You are a girl and we will make you come home with us! Call the police and I will tell them the truth about your rebellious, slutty nature, your lies and your crimes. God will strike you down. He will punish you for your disobedience to your father.”

  To which one of the young men said, “No, dude. He’s going

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  to strike you down because you hit your own daughter, and I’ll bet you’ve been hitting her for a long time. That’s called abuse, asshole. Didn’t you know that?”

  And the other young man said, “I was raised a Christian, and this isn’t the way a father treats his daughter. My dad never treated me and my sisters like this. Anyone tell you that you’re supposed to act with love if you think you’re a Christian?”

  Her father cursed them then, his “faith” completely leaving him as he used the f-word, her mother huddled against the wall.

  The kid who was going to medical school said, “I don’t like the f-word,” and punched her father in the gut. He doubled over.

  “Get out,” Betsy said again. She could feel her face swelling.

  “Get out.”

  They left, her father hobbling, her mother crying. Her mother turned to hug Betsy, but Betsy held up her hands as in “Stop.”

  “You never helped me, Mom. If you wanted to live with a man like him, fine. But you never should have let me live with him.” Something sharp and pained flashed in her mother’s eyes, and Betsy knew what her mother knew: She was a terrible mother. She should have left her husband to protect her daughter. “You have premonitions, Mom. You chose to cower. You chose not to act, not to help people. You chose not to help me.”

  That her mother knew what she should have done, and didn’t, made Betsy more angry, and sadder than before. She had been repeatedly abused by her father, and even now her mother chose her father over her. Hard to know who she hated more.

  Her father turned, unsteady on his feet with his head all messed up. “Mary!” he boomed, spittle and blood flying out of his mouth. “Come! Now!”

  Her mother shot one last look at Betsy, shame in her eyes, defeat in her body, grief on her face, and left to go to her father.

  Betsy hugged the two boys who protected her, and they later became friends with both her and Johnny.

  She told Johnny about how she had gotten herself declared an emancipated minor, though her father shouted and railed in court against it. His uncontrolled temper tantrum, his citing of

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  the Bible and his “legal control” over her, his “God-given role as the man, the leader of this family, all in it shall follow my rules,”

  had the judge signing the emancipation papers lightning quit.

  The judge said, “I can see why you can’t live with this anymore, Betsy. Are there more children at home? No? Good. Or I would have Children’s Services on you, Hansen, in a heartbeat.

  You should not have children in the home. You are free to live your life, Betsy, as you see fit. Sit down, Hansen! I said sit the hell down! Now! Bailiff, remove him from the courtroom immediately. You are in contempt!”

  So Betsy told Johnny the truth about her childhood, and Johnny told her the truth about his own father: He hated him.

  Peter, Johnny’s father, came in to the café one time when she was working, when Johnny was there having a burger.

  Peter was wearing a pin-striped suit, which she thought was tacky. He was also wearing gold rings and a gold bracelet, which she thought were gaudy and probably fake. His dark hair was slicked back with grease, which made him look like he belonged to the mob. He hadn’t smiled at her, but his black, raisin-like eyes had traveled grossly down the length of her body, stopping at her breasts and hips. She felt dirty. She felt evaluated and judged.

  There are men who want to, who must, control wome
n. When they can’t control them, they become dangerous and violent.

  They think women are good for serving them and sex. Nothing more. Inside, they hate women.

  Peter was exactly like her own father. He was a shady used car salesman. Her father pretended to be a man of God. What were the chances that two people would meet up, fall in love, and have the same type of father lurking and looming in their backgrounds? But maybe that was part of it: They saw the fear and pain in each other’s eyes and reached out a hand.

  But Betsy couldn’t have known the truth about what Peter had done then.

  There was something that Johnny didn’t tell her about his father. Not for a while. He hadn’t realized the truth until recently.

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  He had blocked it out. It hurt him to even speak of it. It brought rage bubbling to the surface like hot lava, next to the insidious fear that rose up whenever he was around Peter.

  Johnny was scared of his father. He had every right to be.

  Seated together, in court, Johnny’s and Betsy’s eyes locked and their desperate love was the same as it had always been.

  “I love you,” she mouthed to Johnny.

  “I love you, too,” he mouthed back.

  They were young, they were in love, they were soul mates, they were supposed to be together.

  The law thought differently.

  C h a p t e r 1 5

  I deliberately stayed out of my mother and aunts’ “medical”

  marijuana business, but I did remind them yet again, like a par-rot, that it was illegal. They pooh-poohed.

  “What will they do? Lock us up?” my mother said.

  For some reason my aunts and mother thought this notion was hilarious, and they bent over cackling, their matching blue-flowered garden hats tipping back and forth. We were wandering through their mother’s garden, cutting flowers for Hat Night. Hat Night is on the first Tuesday of the month when they each make the most “beaudacious” hat they can.

  They put the photos of each hat on their website—Flowers, Lotions, and Potions—and the site gets a zillion hits, as usual, from all over the globe as people vote for their favorite. They post a goofy, funny photo of the three of them, taken by me, wearing each other’s hats, so as not to “improperly influence the voting.”

  “Yes, they might lock you up,” I said.

  “Why so prim and proper?” my mother asked, then sighed, her white bell-shaped hair swinging.

  “Why so fearful and afflicted by doom? I think you’ll get in touch with your inner self if you smoke a joint, sweetheart,”

  Aunt Camellia said, linking an arm around my waist. “It’ll release your worries into the universe.”

  “Why so strict and rigid?” Aunt Iris asked. “You have to let

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  go a little, Evie. Get wild and crazy. Do something off the wall.

  Derange yourself.”

  “Derange myself?”

  “Yes, do something so out of the ordinary that you feel deranged,” Aunt Iris said. “In a fun yet sensible manner.”

  “I am already half-deranged,” I said. “My brain is a churning gray mass in my head with inexplicable tendencies to see the future. You think that’s not deranged enough? By the way, when did you all start smoking pot?”

  “We hardly ever do, dearie,” Aunt Camellia said. “In fact, I think I’ve done it less than five or six or seven times.” She paused. “Or eight.”

  My mother and Aunt Iris nodded.

  “But it was fun,” my mother said. “We did it before we led our friends in drunken sailor songs at Milton’s birthday party last week.”

  I rolled my eyes. That was a noisy party. I left early. “It won’t be fun if Chief Allroy comes on your property with a warrant, looks in that greenhouse, and then you’re in trouble.”

  “Chief Allroy?” my mother squealed as if I’d made a joke, then burst into laughter, her hands flying in the air, both filled with bouquets of sunflowers.

  “Chief Bick Allroy? You think he’s coming on our property to arrest us? Let me envision that!” My aunt Camellia bent over as she laughed, pink Anne Boleyn roses on her knees. She then crossed her legs, and my mother saw her, whooped, and crossed her legs as they cackled.

  “Hang on,” Aunt Iris said, shaking her hydrangeas at me. “I have an image of Chief Allroy coming here with his handcuffs.”

  Her laughter boomed. “Handcuffs!”

  This image was, apparently, also hilarious.

  “He’ll get a warrant, come on your property, go into your greenhouse,” I drawled, knowing that the harder they laughed, the more problems they’d have in the bladder department. “He’ll read you your rights, tell you to get an attorney—”

  “Stop, Evie, stop. You know I don’t have a strong bladder!”

  my mother howled.

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  “Me either!” Aunt Iris gasped. “Evie, quick. Say something serious! Oh, do it, now! Something about politics, mathematics, scientific explorations, and discoveries.”

  I was not amused by their cackling. “Chief Allroy will put your hands behind your back,” I drawled.

  They shrieked again, then waddled their screeching selves back toward Rose Bloom Cottage’s toilets.

  “He’s coming to get you now!” I shouted after them.

  I don’t know why this was so funny to them, but they howled.

  “He’s going to turn on the sirens when you’re in the back of his police car!”

  They could barely stand it.

  “And then you’ll go to town and be put in a holding cell in jail!”

  More fun!

  “I squirted!” my mother howled.

  “Need fresh panties!” Aunt Camellia said.

  “Dang getting old and my wrinkled bladder!” Aunt Iris said as her blue hat tumbled off her head.

  Watching my aunts and mother waddle on into the house from the greenhouse, I thought of Jules and myself.

  We could end up like them. We would be one sister short, but still.

  It made me happy thinking of growing old with Jules. It brought me peace.

  But we would not be growing pot in the greenhouse, that was for sure.

  Aunt Camellia won for best hat later that week. She did create hat art. She started with a white straw hat, then piled on white roses, faux white birds, and white feathers sprayed with silver glitter. It was about two feet tall.

  Aunt Iris used sunflowers, blue delphinium, and blue hydrangeas to make a mixed bouquet. She used a huge gold bow and plopped them on a dark blue hat that resembled a giant donut. She earned second place.

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  My mother made a bouquet of burgundy peonies, attached them to a purple felt hat that covered one eye, added burgundy netting that stuck out six inches on either side, and wrapped it with burgundy ribbons.

  “Oh, pish. I hate losing,” my mother said. “Let’s drink some wine, ladies!”

  Mr. Jamon came in for his weekly books.

  “What are you thinking about today?” I asked him.

  “I’m thinking I need a biography on Albert Einstein.”

  “Got it.” I had one. He bought it.

  “Also”—he leaned in close—“I need another romance. A love story.”

  I thought. “How about a book by Debbie Macomber?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She’s a romance writer. Sweet romances. Happy endings.”

  “I’ll take it. I still believe in love, you know.” He winked.

  Mr. Jamon came back in the next day. He garumphed.

  “I’ll take another book by Mrs. Macomber.” He garumphed again, tapped his cane. “Maybe two more.”

  I have many of her books, so it took us a few minutes to figure out which would be best for Mr. Jamon. He was pleased with his choices. “An old man can still be romantic, Evie.”

  “Never said you couldn’t.”

  He winked at me. “See you next Friday.”


  “Mr. Bob and Trixie Goat are here to visit you again,” Tiala said, smiling.

  “What?”

  “Your goats. They came to visit you again. I thought you fixed that problem so they couldn’t come to town anymore.”

  “They’re out again?” I groaned and stepped out of Evie’s Books, Cake, and Tea and spied my stubborn goats, Mr. Bob and Trixie, right up the street.

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  When they saw me, their ears perked up and they ran straight toward me with that lanky gait that goats have. The escapees were happy to see me, I could tell.

  “I can’t even believe this,” I said. But I could.

  How do Mr. Bob and Trixie get out of their pen? How do they know where I work? The only explanation is that I have come by here a few times with them on the way to Marco’s and I’ve gotten out of the car to jet into the bookstore for a minute.

  But I have no idea how they know how to get to my bookstore.

  We are close to town, but not that close.

  Their goat home is a mini-house. It has a blue roof and sides and an opening. It is very cute and welcoming. I make sure they have fresh hay. I make sure they also get carrots, sunflower seeds, and pumpkin seeds, which they love. When I am at home I often let them out to wander our property and peek in the pond and prance over my grandma Lucy’s wooden bridge, because I know they won’t leave and they like to visit Virginia Alpaca and Alpaca Joe. Plus, they are fascinated by Sundance and Butch and Cassidy, and the five of them will play around like best friends. So why leave home?

  But there they were, heading down the street to my bookstore, with that odd gallop-skip. I put my hands on my hips as I watched, people laughing, moving out of the way, kids pointing.

  Their bells jangled.

  They stopped right in front of me. Trixie Goat got on her hind legs to give me a hug. I hugged her because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Mr. Bob made a grunting sound.