They Call Me Crazy (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cass

D
r. Button is a funny man. He has to be about Richard’s age, but he isn’t as tall. He’s really not much bigger than me. Grams likes him because he’s Native American, which in her opinion means that he would understand the spiritual powers that our family harnesses more than others. I like him because he seems to care about me as a person instead of just being fascinated with me as a specimen. Doc Kenney acted as if I were a newly discovered bug.

We decide to sit on the back porch for our meeting. It’s a beautiful spring day, and a slight breeze keeps us comfortable and fills the air with the scents of honeysuckle and dill.

I’m sure he wonders why I killed Roland, but he doesn’t ask. He seems more interested in the things I see, the things I hear. He doesn’t stick up his nose the way Doc Kenney usually does, and instead of giving me more medication—Doc Kenney’s go-to solution—he tells me to quit taking my pills… well, most of them, anyway.
I’m way ahead of you, Dr. Button.

We talk about sex, too. It’s hard not to laugh, at first, when I’m telling this little elderly man about Roland and me in bed. But he’s kindly, and it doesn’t seem to be interesting to him in that way it would be to some men. So I open up, something I don’t usually do, and give it to him straight.

“Sex was good.” I don’t know any other way to say it. But of course, that isn’t enough of an explanation.

“What is good?” he asks.

I know what he means. For Lola,
no
sex is good. For some people,
any
sex is good.

“Having sex with Roland was wonderful. He would stroke my body as if he’d never felt my skin before. He took his time, and he was always gentle, kind, as if the entire world would stop if I wasn’t pleased. He said his own pleasure came from seeing mine. We had sex at least three times a week, and it was always… good.”

I feel my face flush. I’ve never talked about this before. Not with Lola. Definitely not with Grams. Not even with Maryanne when we were younger. It’s a weight off my chest to say it. “That is, until we moved out of town. Then he started drinking, and he wasn’t so gentle. He went out in the evenings, so it wasn’t as frequent. And he started getting angry, so it wasn’t always pleasant.”

I guess saying Roland was good in bed, then he got worse isn’t much of an explanation, but that really is the best I can do.

Dr. Button accepts my word and moves on. I’m glad about that. “You lost your job. Tell me about that.”

I knew this was coming. This is one of the things against me. I have a documented violent past. “I never quite understood why what I did was wrong. I mean, I was a waitress, but that doesn’t mean I was on the menu. I took a lot of grabs from those guys at the truck stop, and one day, I’d had enough. My tank was filling up with every grope, pinch, stare, and dirty joke, and that day, I overflowed. Or snapped. I wasn’t thinking, and I smashed that glass into his face without any regard for what would happen. I didn’t care that I would lose my job. I was tired of being around all those people every day. I just wanted to sit on my porch and take care of my home and my husband. That’s all. But of course, things didn’t work out that way.”

I wait for Dr. Button to ask another question, but he doesn’t. So I keep talking. “Roland bought the shack on the hill and moved me out there. It was a punishment. I had embarrassed him. At first, I was sad. I missed my house. But I still had Roland, so I did my best to keep that shack in order, to pretend it could be a home. Then I got worse, and he started drinking, and I got worse again. I hated that shack and got to where I wouldn’t do much of anything to make it nice, which made Roland even madder.

“He was mad more often than not. I would cook dinner, though, every night, always something I knew was one of his favorites. But he wasn’t there to eat it half the time, and the food mostly ended up feeding the garbage.”

And this is how it went, for four hours. We took a few breaks, but we kept on talking. I was glad to get some of it out.

“Cass, when this is all over, I think you should come and see me in Springfield. I know it’s a drive, but maybe you and I can work through some things that Dr. Kenney may have missed. Would that be possible?”

I wouldn’t mind that. “I have a feeling I’ll be in the nuthouse at Osawatomie for a while. Maybe forever.”

Dr. Button smiles, a thin, curved line across his face as if drawn on with a pencil. “Don’t underestimate Richard’s abilities as a lawyer. He’s been around a bit and knows a few tricks. You worry about how we’re going to keep you off the drugs but still seeing things the way you have been the past five years.”

That surprises me. The past five years have been a hell I never want to experience again. My reality, my joy, my happiness disappeared, and I fell into a world that I never wanted. “You mean, getting better. The way I used to be, right?”

He lowers his chin and peers over his tiny glasses at me. “Cass, I’m going to give you something to think about. Everything you’ve told me indicates that you have a social problem. You don’t necessarily feel comfortable around a lot of people. You were happiest when it was just you and Roland, or you and Lola and your grandmother, or you and your childhood friend. Not ever in a crowd, such as at work. I know you consider the move a punishment, and in Roland’s eyes, it may very well have been. But I don’t think the isolation made you worse. In fact, I think it may have made you better.”

I try to take that in, but it doesn’t make sense. “If I was getting better, why was I getting worse?” I don’t understand, but I want to.

He continues to look at me over his glasses. And like all the therapists I’ve seen on TV, he answers my question with a question of his own. “Did you get worse, or were you just finally starting to see things as they really were?”

The aroma of Grams’s baking coffee cake fills the house, sweet cinnamon with a hint of crushed cloves and fennel seeds, Those extra ingredients give Grams’s coffee cake its own uniqueness. Every ingredient has a purpose. The cinnamon is for personal cleansing, which Grams thinks we all do too infrequently. The crushed cloves are to keep people from gossiping about us. And the fennel seeds, which Grams says have always been important in this house, are to strengthen a woman’s courage. I don’t know that the combination has ever increased our protection, but if it does work, I hope she used extra of everything this time.

The scent alone is enough to make my mouth water. That, mixed with the faint sound of “Riders on the Storm” coming from Grams’s room, comforts me. I’m on my second piece of coffee cake, savoring the rich dessert. I am thinking about all the things Dr. Button and I talked about. Yes, I hope to meet with him again.

Lola and Richard are back, and it’s getting dark. I know it hasn’t taken them all day at the mop factory, so I figure they’ve done some other snooping. Richard sits at the table with me while Lola busies herself in the kitchen. I can tell by their actions that something isn’t right.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Let’s have an attorney–client talk first, shall we? Cass, you don’t have to tell me anything, but if you do, you need to make sure it’s the truth. If I ask, don’t lie to me. You understand?”

I swallow hard and barely tip my chin in a motion that Richard takes as a yes.

“Do you want to tell me about that day? About anything? Again, you don’t have to.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Lola shaking her head. I tell Richard, “No, I don’t really want to right now.”

He smiles and seems relieved. “Okay, now for some truth. Do you know about your bank accounts? Roland’s bank accounts?”

I shrug. I’m not sure where this is going.

“What about his life insurance at work?”

Again, I haven’t thought about that. I guess it makes sense he would have life insurance. He’s been at the mop factory for a lot of years. “He never said anything about it.”

“How about his part-time job?”

“I know he worked out at that strip club. I don’t know what he did there, or why he would want to work there. I don’t even know how often he worked there, just that he did.”

Richard motions for Lola to join us at the table. She pulls her chair close to me and puts her arm around my shoulder.

“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

Richard lays it all out for me. I have to make him repeat it, because I can’t quite understand. Roland’s account, the one with my name on it, has a little over a hundred dollars in it. But he also had another account, jointly with Maryanne Spencer, that contains thirty-two thousand dollars.

I can’t grasp what he’s saying. I have no way to respond to this.

Richard says, “He’s been paying extra on his life insurance policy at work so he could get the maximum benefit. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

I don’t say anything. I can tell there’s more, so I wait.

“It shows two beneficiaries. You and Shaylene Spencer.”

And then I know.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Clay

T
he phone rings as I reach to turn off the bedside lamp. I glance at the clock: 11:23. It’s been a long day, but it isn’t over yet.

The first person I suspect would be on the line is Maryanne. I figure Shaylene would be in bed by now, and Maryanne will be wallowing in self-pity and seeking my approval. I almost don’t answer because I’m so sure it’s her. But there’s also a slim chance that it’s Shaylene, and I will always be there for her, so I pick up the phone

“Clay, will you do something for me?” Cass asks. No “Hello” or “Were you sleeping?” or “Are you alone?” Well, she knew I would be alone. Her tone is not desperate, so the words themselves don’t strike me as being a call for help, but I never know with her.

“Of course.” I recognize my problem. I didn’t ask “Where are you?” or “What’s wrong?” or “Are you in trouble?” I just agree.

After she explains, I hang up and get dressed, trying to convince myself that this will be a lot like high school, with Cassie sneaking out at night and me picking her up down the block. I would rather just drive around for a few hours and talk. But we won’t be talking. We have work to do.

The night is humid, and even in the dark, I can see that clouds have formed. Another storm is brewing and will possibly come in by morning. The hill is covered with yellow police tape, and a large sign proclaims that this is a crime scene and to keep out.

“I don’t think so,” Cassie says. “This is still my house, and I want what’s mine.”

We agree not to go near the koi pond or the dock. That’s easy.

Cassie gets a flashlight from the shed, but the batteries are low, and it only gives off a faint yellow glow. In the barn, she finds a kerosene lantern then gets matches from the house. The lantern blazes against the darkness, and she sets it beside a pink rose bush.

Cassie’s shovels were taken by the police as evidence. She wants to dig, but I tell her that maybe shovels are bad luck for her, and she agrees. Fortunately, I brought my own. The ground around the shack is still soft from the last rain, which makes digging easier.

Even though Cassie told me that Roland had been planting money in the yard, I’m still surprised to see a wad of green bills in that first Mason jar I pull from the ground. Planting money in the yard? Who does that? Maybe he had a solid reason. Or maybe he just had a few screws loose himself. I tend to think the latter, but we’ll never know.

I dig, careful not to kill the flowers and plants. She collects the Mason jars, then I replace the plants so that no one will be able to tell they’ve been disturbed. A heavy rain will help with that, and for once, I feel maybe something is going to go right for us.

Cassie’s voice suddenly disturbs the quiet. “Did you know?”

I know she’s talking about Shaylene, even if I can’t explain exactly how I know. I knew she would ask sooner rather than later, so I’m prepared. “Yes.”

She sits on the ground a few feet from me, cross-legged, watching me work. I stick my shovel in the dirt, denting the ground in a circle around a large begonia bush to draw a pattern that I intend to dig.

“Thanks for not telling me.”

I’m glad she feels this way. I debated, but I kept quiet all those years. I knew it would eventually come out, but sixteen years ago, Cassie was so happy. I couldn’t imagine being the one to destroy that. I knew it would all crash down in its own time, as marriages built on secrets tend to do. And I promised myself that I would be there when it did. My biggest sin was keeping the truth from her, but I can live with that.

She starts to tell me about the bank accounts her lawyer found. I tell her I already knew. I don’t say it was Maryanne who told me. I didn’t know about the insurance policy, though.

I sit on the ground next to her and wrap my arms around my knees. I look toward the sky, and as I do, the moon slips behind a dark cloud. I want to say something to make her feel better. I want to hold her and tell her it’s all going to be okay. But I don’t.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do about the bank account,” I say. “It was listed under either him or Maryanne, so I guess that belongs to Maryanne now.”

“No, that money is Shaylene’s. That’s the least he could do for his own kid. Maybe she’ll use it to go to college, or at least to get the hell outta here.”

“Still, there’s the insurance. You killed him, so I doubt anyone wants to hand you a fistful of cash for doing the deed, at least not officially. Maybe it goes to Babe, since she’s your next of kin. Maybe Shaylene gets it all, or maybe it just goes back to the insurance company. I don’t know.”

She’s silent for a moment. I can always tell when she’s thinking hard; I can almost feel it. “What if I didn’t kill him?” Her face is passive, blank in the light of the kerosene lamp.

“Are you claiming you didn’t?”

“Oh, no. I killed him all right. But Richard seems to think if I keep my mouth shut, he can take care of it somehow. I don’t know what that means. Probably the padded Hilton for a while.”

I don’t always understand a lot about the law, but I know what’s right, and I try not to stray outside of that. I never doubt what a good lawyer can do. And Richard is good, not some local flunky who can’t get a job with a real firm.

I shrug and search for something positive to say. “What about the hill? This is still your land.”

She laughs. “I’d rather move in with Grams than come back here to live.”

“You know, Roland owned half the land my house sits on. I guess that half is yours now.”

Her eyes widen, reminding me of the teenager I knew so many years ago. I want to tell her right then how I feel, how I’ve felt for all these years. But the words won’t come.

“There’s plenty of room for a nice trailer.” I turn toward the river, avoiding her eyes. I swallow hard. “Or you could stay with me. In Shaylene’s room.” And that’s all I’ve got.

She puts her hand on mine and squeezes. Then she stands up, stretches, and points at the begonia bush. “This is the last one. We better get done and get out of here. Roosters all over Cherokee County will start crowing in a few more hours, and I don’t want to be caught out here when they do.”

While I was digging and replanting, Cassie was taking all the money out of the jars and counting it up. Now, the bed of my pickup has thirty-six dirty Mason jars, all empty. My glove box contains almost twenty thousand dollars. I’m happy to keep it safe for her. She deserves it, and a whole lot more.

The clouds are thick, and I can smell the storm in the air. I throw the shovel in the bed and pick up the kerosene lantern to return it to the shed.

Cassie stops me and takes the lantern. “Wait, I want to get something from the house.”

I lean back against my truck and watch her walk away. She never said anything about moving in with me, but at least she didn’t say no. I hate to be such a chickenshit, but I’m so afraid she’ll push me away, reject me, and I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. She goes up the stairs and across the porch. Even in the dark, the shack looks lopsided.

She comes back out, carrying the black cat clock that my mother used to have on her wall. When I was a boy, I would sit and watch the tail go back and forth, the eyes moving around the room as if weighing everything, and wait for the meow at the top of the hour.

She hands the clock to me. “I thought you might want this.”

I smile as I hold it, the hard black plastic cool against my hands. “Where’s the lantern?”

“I left it for Old Man Booker. He’ll know what to do.” She climbs into the passenger seat. I go around, get in, and start the truck. I don’t want to know what she means by that, but I think I already do. It’s time to get the hell out of here.