They Call Me Crazy (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

Cass

M
y oversized green scrub pants and shirt blend perfectly with the table in the visiting room. Sitting there with Lola across from me, I feel as though I’ve fallen in a bucket of pea soup and wonder if I’m even visible in this murky sea of puke green. I trace the number across the chest of my smock with my finger—055432, as if this small jail needs numbers to identify the inmates. There are two cells, and right now, they’re both full.

“Cassandra?” Lola says.

I guess she can see me. “Don’t call me that.” That’s what Momma used to call me, and Lola, of all people, knows I hate to be called by my given name.

“Talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

I stare at her for a minute, really examine her. She has always called me pretty, and I never quite understood why she considered that so important. She’s not ugly, just average looking. But appearance has always been a bit of an obsession for her. Her teeth weren’t straight enough, so she got braces; her skin wasn’t clear enough, so she used fancy creams on her face every night; her boobs weren’t big enough, so she saved her money and bought bolt-ons. I’m sure it’s a lot easier for her now that she’s married to Richard. He’s loaded, and all that plastic work doesn’t come cheap.

I focus on my hands and start picking dirt from under my nails. “I killed Roland and buried him in the yard.” I don’t know how else to say it.

Lola shakes her head. “Gram says you didn’t kill him.”

“Yeah, but she also thinks Jim Morrison is alive and living in Europe somewhere.”

We grew up with Grandma Babe raving on and on about a conspiracy revolving around the lead singer for the Doors. She was obsessed with the man. She had a poster of his skinny, bare-chested body hanging in her bedroom, and she played Doors music every night before bedtime.

Lola and I burst out laughing then remember where we are and stop.

She reaches across the table and holds my hands in hers. Her long red nails are perfectly shaped, and tiny rhinestones catch the light. They are quite a contrast to mine, which are short, chipped, and grimy. “Richard is going to take care of this. He’s going to get you bail, and then he’s going to defend you in court. You just have to remember not to talk to anyone but Richard. Okay?”

“Isn’t he too old to be taking on a case?”

She bites her lower lip and leans back in her chair. I’m sure she’s tired of hearing people talk about her marrying Richard. But he’s at least forty years older than she is and quite a bit different from the broken-down cowboys Lola used to go for. I struggle to believe she married him for love.

“He’s very good at what he does, Cass. He’s a lot better than that bush-league public defender they got down here, and he’s also free.”

The visitation room isn’t much different from a cell, a ten-by-ten hole with one door. I nod and trace a line with my finger on the scratched green table.

“What are you thinking about, Sis?”

Lola obviously wants to talk, but my mind keeps wandering. I can’t focus on any one thing. My thoughts jump around like short clips from a long movie. There’s Grams reading her cards, then Clay getting off a bus, then Roland.
I wonder what my dear husband is doing right now?

I shrug. “I was thinking about how Roland and Momma are meeting for the first time. I wonder if they will sit around and talk about me.”

I never talk about my momma much. Lola was nine years old when our mother hanged herself, and I was five. Daddy had already left us, and then Momma—well, for a kid, it’s the equivalent of saying, “I don’t love you enough to stick around.” That’s a hard pill for anyone to swallow, but for me, it’s difficult to even explain.

Lola learned to cope with Momma’s suicide. She talked to Grams a lot, read some books, talked to teachers, and had friends to help her through. Not that you ever get over it. I, however, felt somehow responsible, and no amount of reasoning could get through to me. Of course, I didn’t wrap the belt around her neck, but maybe if I hadn’t been born, she wouldn’t have lost her mind. People have said now and again that I’m a challenge. Grams and Lola never really understood, though, so eventually, I just quit mentioning it, and they left it alone.

Lola squeezes my hands. “Don’t think about that now. Put her—and him, for that matter—out of your mind. We’re focusing on you right now. You hear me?”

My neck twitches, something it hasn’t done before, and I hope Lola doesn’t notice. I can’t help but squint as it twitches again.

Lola peers at me sideways. “Are you taking your medicine, Cass?” Yes, she noticed.

“Of course.” I’ve never been one to lie, but sometimes, the truth will just get you in a mountain of trouble. I don’t need my medicine. It doesn’t make me better. Everyone else seems to think they know what’s best for me, but they aren’t the ones who have to swallow all that crap.

“Whatever you need, we’re going to be here for you. Richard will take care of this. I promise.”

I really don’t know what Richard is going to do, but Lola doesn’t seem too worried. Maybe murder is no big deal to him. Whatever he plans, I am happy to leave all that in his hands.

I get up and push my chair back. It falls to the floor, the metal clanging against the concrete. “I’m going to go lie down, Lola. Thanks for coming.”

She stands and puts her arms around me. Her blouse is soft and fuzzy. I take a deep breath: expensive vanilla and a hint of wood chips. I let her hold me, but I’m too tired to hug her back.

“Cass…”

I can tell she wants to know. She really wants to know. Her eyes are begging, waiting, but she won’t ask.

“Never mind,” she says. “Sleep well. If you need me, tell the war hero I’m staying at the Travelodge.”

Cracks in the cement ceiling weave a web above me. I wonder how many other people have lain in this same spot, on this same small cot, and watched the web. It stealthily increases without being noticeable to the naked eye. I stare and then shut my eyes tight, trying to burn the image into my mind for later. I’m sure it must crack a tiny bit more each day, and I intend to check back.

“Why, Cassie? Why?” Clay’s words play over and over in my mind. The words don’t distress me as much as the disappointment on his face.

He sat with me in the back of Benny’s cruiser all the way to the police station. I could feel him shaking. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t move.

Clay is my friend. Currently, he’s my only friend.

I haven’t thought much about it until now—I was always so wrapped up in Roland—but thinking back, I realize that Clay has always been my friend. He always took up for me and didn’t seem to mind when I had a bad day. I’ve never asked, but I think he has his own bad days. He was definitely different after he came back from the Army. I hear it doesn’t take much for some.

Maryanne was once my friend. Then she changed, too. She went off to school and came back with a college degree and a baby. We tried to be friends again, but she was different. I hate her for that, and I’m pretty sure she knows it. Clay calls that girl, Shaylene, his, and sure, legally she is. He’s just trying to do the right thing by giving the girl a daddy and making Maryanne seem more respectable than she deserves. Clay’s a decent man, even if he seems to prefer worms over women.

I’m glad Lola came. I’ve always looked up to her, not because she was anything special—she’s really very average—but because she’s always so full of life. Everyone likes Lola. She’s one of those people who can walk into a room and know everyone’s name in less than five minutes. No one hates Lola.

Everyone hates me. Except Clay. And Grams.

I could hear Grams upstairs all night, trying to convince Benny that I hadn’t killed anyone. I think she actually believes that. She says my aura isn’t much different than it has been in the past, and therefore, I couldn’t have done it. She says something that evil would show. But I think I’ve been covered in a gray light for so long that evil can’t even break through.

“Cassandra Adams. Five minutes.” I didn’t hear Benny walk down the stairs, or the large steel door open, or the clanging of the keys that hang from his belt. But here he is, outside my cell, talking to me as if he hasn’t known me all my life.

“Don’t call me Cassandra, asshole.”

Benny is still upset because I pounded him in the fifth grade. He was a schoolyard bully, and I still think that was the one point in his life when his pride had been hurt: getting beat by a girl, and a scrawny one at that.

Now, he’s finally getting his revenge. If his war record doesn’t win the election for him, putting me away surely will. I guess what goes around comes around.

“Your lawyer is here. Five minutes.” He smirks. He’s definitely enjoying this.

My lawyer. Lola’s geriatric case. I hear people talk about a ten-year plan, and I guess Lola’s involves being fondled and pawed by an eighty-year-old man until he keels. Ten years max, at least that’s what Grams says. Then she’ll be set for life. It’s nice that she has money; I’m happy for her. But Richard has manicured hands. I can’t trust a man whose hands are softer than mine. Hell, I’ve never trusted any man but Roland. And maybe Clay.

I hear Benny jawing to the other prisoner—R.T., he calls him. I don’t know what the initials stand for. R.T. told me last night he was in for beating his wife. He said the bitch likes it, and he’ll probably get out tomorrow because she won’t press charges. She never does. I wondered if maybe she would care to borrow my shovel.

“Hey, Benny, shouldn’t you be home soaking your ass?” I call.

He always acts so proud of that medal he got in Kosovo. Considering where he got shot, they should have called it a Purple Butt medal. You’d think he’d saved a burning village.

He ignores me and keeps talking to the wife beater.

I guess I should be worried about what’s going to happen to me, but I’m not. In a way, I wish Roland were here right now, but I know when he comes, he’s going to be mad as hell. I’m not ready for that just yet, but after he settles down, he’ll know what to do.

I really don’t want to deal with Roland right now. I’ll do that later. Besides, as long as I’m not taking my medication, he may not come at all.

No. I know better. He’ll come.

Benny’s keys rattle in the cell door, which creaks open as if it hasn’t been oiled since the jail was first constructed over a hundred years ago. I don’t move, just keep staring at the cracks above me. I imagine Benny standing there, sticking his chest out, one hand on his revolver. He’s most likely hoping I’ll try to rush him and make a break, as if we’re still on the playground.

“Let’s go,” he says.

I snort. “I can’t right now. I haven’t had my medicine yet. You know you have to give me my medicine, right? That’s the law. And you have to pay for it, too. And it’s almost lunchtime. I have to have food with my medicine, Benny, and water, lots of water. And while you’re fetching, bring me a cigarette.”

He mumbles under his breath and swings the cell door shut again. He knows I’m right. I hear him stomping on the stairs. The last thing he wants is for me to go without my medicine. Not that I intend to take any of it. I’d love to be around to see the expression on his face when he finds the stash inside my mattress.

I don’t want to talk to Richard right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. My mind is clearer than it has been in a while, and I’m trying to get reacquainted with my relative sanity. I tried to tell Roland that the medicine was screwing with my brain. Give me a week, and I’ll give him all kinds of hell for that.

I decide to name the cracks in the ceiling: Grams. Lola. Clay. Benny. Each crack has large gashes and barely noticeable hairline flaws. All of the cracks merge at some point, the breaking point, the point at which, someday, pieces will start to fall, and eventually, they’ll bring down the entire ceiling.

I’m going to keep an eye on the cracks. I don’t want to be lying under them when they finally merge and can’t hold the weight of that hundred-year-old cement anymore. But something tells me that, no matter how hard I try, I’m going to be right here when it all falls down.

Chapter Thirteen

Clay

“A
re there worms in it?”

Cassie sits at the small visitation table, picking at a piece of apple-spice cake on a paper plate with a plastic spoon. I figured she needed it more than the VFW bake sale.

“Just a few.” My apple-spice cake is famous, at least by Deacon standards. No one would ever think that the secret ingredient is a few choice residents from my farm. They wouldn’t even sample it if they knew. Cassie has always known, though.

She fills the small plastic spoon with a good-sized piece and puts it in her mouth. She moans as she chews. “Spicier than usual. But good. Real tasty.” She takes another bite before she has swallowed the first.

“I purged them in graham crackers this time. And deep fried them. Like sweet, crunchy nuts, but with more protein.” I have several recipes for my worms, but the apple-spice cake is the only thing I’ve ever let anyone else eat. If they knew, there’s no telling what they would say… or do to me.

She eats the rest in silence then drinks an entire cup of water. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and pushes the plate away. Sitting behind the worn, paint-chipped table in her jail scrubs, she seems very small. I wish I had brought more cake.

I pull two books from my backpack and lay them on the table. “I brought you something to read. Keep your mind busy.”

She picks up the top book and glances at the back cover. “You know this one is about a woman who killed her husband, right?”

“Dolores? How could someone named Dolores kill anyone?”
How could a Cassie?
“I remember you like Stephen King.”

She places it back on the table and picks up the next. “
The Nabateans of Petra
. Thinking of breaking me out of here and smuggling me to the Middle East?” She smiles. It’s nice to see her smile.

“You always liked reading about faraway places.”

The Deacon Public Library has a limited collection, and I had no idea what to get for her. I knew she needed something. Maybe Dolores What’s-Her-Name wasn’t the best idea, but maybe Cass can find some peace in the Nabateans, whoever they are.

“Thanks, Clay. This will beat talking to that fossil of a lawyer. I’m not sure he’s got it all going on up there, but what the hell, right? He’s free, and it’s not that difficult of a case, really.”

Richard Warner may be old, but he’s a good lawyer. At least, a well-respected one, I hear. Cassie’s lucky that Lola snagged him. The family discount on his services is well worth it, especially if you just happened to have killed your husband.

“Cassie?” I thought about this all night. I knew if I asked, she’d tell me. Cassie tells the truth, even when no one wants to hear it. I’m not sure I want to know. But I
need
to know.

When Benny and I got to the house last night, she was sitting on the side of the hill, legs crossed and covered in mud. I didn’t recognize her at first. Her hair was darker and short, really short. Daze stood over her, pointing his flare gun at her. He had shot one off—just to show her, I guess, what kind of damage it would do. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t moving.

She looked Benny dead in the eye and said, “I hit him over the head with a shovel and buried his ass.” She didn’t say she was sorry, and she didn’t seem too upset about it.

Benny started asking questions, and I was sure she would have told him anything right then, so I told her to hush. She turned to me as if she didn’t even realize I was there then put her elbows on her thighs and rested her chin in her upturned palms. She didn’t say another word.

I went to the house and got a blanket from the bedroom. When I got back, Benny already had her hands cuffed behind her. I glared at him, thinking how inhumane it was. He didn’t flinch, just told me to stay there while he went to the dock with Daze. I wrapped the blanket around Cassie and sat on the wet ground next to her.

Benny made a real show of driving back into town, lights flashing and his siren on. It was damn near three o’clock in the morning, but I guess he had to let the town know that something was up, something big. Murders aren’t common around here, so I guess that would classify.

I sat in the back with Cass. She said nothing. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I spoke, either. I didn’t know what to say. “How was your weekend? Do anything special?” That didn’t seem appropriate for the situation. I listened to Benny on his two-way and watched the town go by, bathed in the siren light—blue, white, blue, white.

Afterward, I got a ride out to Fat Tina’s with Jimmy Ray to pick up my truck. I stopped by Babe’s a few minutes after four. She was sitting on the porch because she “had a feeling something wasn’t right.” I told her what had happened on the drive back to the police station.

She kept rubbing the crystals and whatever other totems she had in that worn leather satchel of hers, repeating, “She didn’t kill him.”

But Cass did kill him. And I’ve thought about that all night.

“Cassie?”

This time, she raises her head, those flaming green eyes burning like toxic hellfire.

I want to turn away, but I don’t. “I gotta know why.”

She stares at me for a long time. Then the fire slowly dies, and she sighs. Her lips part slightly, but the words don’t come. Her shoulders slump, and she turns away.

I don’t know who’s hurting more. All I can do is get up and call for Jimmy Ray so I can get out of here. The room is warm, and I can’t breathe. I just want to be away. Jimmy Ray shows up, and I walk out of the room without looking back. I hesitate in the doorway, though, when I hear Cassie speak in a soft voice.

“He wasn’t what everyone thought.”

I stand there and think of my brother. Rolly Adams: the charmer, everyone’s friend. Then I turn back to Cassie: his murderess, his victim. “I know.”

“Tell her I’m sorry. I just need to sleep.” I’m talking to Maryanne.

“But you promised. I need to see you, Clay.”

I promised Shaylene I would come over this evening, but after seeing Cassie, all I really want to do is sleep. I know what Maryanne wants to talk about, and even if she’s pleading, I don’t want to have that conversation. It’s what
she
needs, not what I need or what Shaylene needs. Not what Cassie needs.

When we were younger, Maryanne and I were close friends. That started mostly because she hung around with Cassie and I was usually in charge of Rolly, but I liked her, just never in a romantic way. She was a nice person, what my momma would have called a “good soul,” and I hate to say I missed her while I was in the Army, but I damn sure did. She was always that friend, the one who’s there when you need her but isn’t too demanding of your time. Maybe that’s why, when she came back after college, and I was back from the Army, I was anxious to spend time with her: a warm, caring woman who was just a friend.

But she was different than I remembered her. She had Shaylene, of course, and motherhood changes people in different ways, but she wasn’t always so nice anymore, particularly to Cassie. Once Rolly started bragging to me about Maryanne, I understood. She wanted my brother, and she was willing to sacrifice her childhood friendship for him. As the years have gone by, I’ve realized what a manipulator she is, and so when she talks about being concerned for someone other than herself, I can’t help but be abrasive with her. And tonight, I don’t want to play her games.

“I’m worried about you,” she says.

I know better than that. “I’m fine. I’ve been up all night and all day, and I just need to pass out.”
And to think, without having to talk to you tonight.
I have a lot of thinking to do.

“But Shaylene… you promised her.”

That’s right. Use the kid.
I want to beat the receiver on the table until it breaks in two. Instead, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to control the tone of my voice. “She’ll be fine. Tell her to call me later if she wants to talk, but I’ve got to lie down.”

I hear Maryanne sob into the phone. I hate that, and she knows it. There isn’t much a man can do when a woman starts to cry, and half the time, I think they do it because they know how it makes a guy feel. This isn’t one of those times, though. She’s crying for real.

I take another deep breath. I don’t want her to think I don’t care. “Maryanne, I know how you felt about Rolly. But we all need to get some rest and talk about this tomorrow.”

“You don’t get it. I–”

“You’re right. I don’t. And I won’t tonight. I can’t think straight, and things will be easier to digest in the morning. Go to bed. In the morning, go to work, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
I don’t want to talk to you or think about you right now. Please, just go away.

“Clay, there’s something I need to tell you, though. Before tomorrow. Before…”

This is just what I didn’t want to happen. I’m on the verge of losing my temper. “Don’t, Maryanne. I mean it.”

But she does. “It’s about Roland and—”

And you? And Shaylene?
He was my brother. Does she think he didn’t tell me?

“Tomorrow.” I place the receiver back on the hook. I’m done talking.

Standing in the shower, I close my eyes as the water pours over me, washing away Maryanne. And Rolly. But not Cassie. Nothing could ever wash Cassie away.

“Damn it.” All these years, my little brother had her. I’ve sat back and watched as she put up with his bullshit. I never stepped up. I should have been the man. And no one ever knew. Now, it’s bound to come out. Rolly is gone, and I don’t have to worry about him anymore. She needs me, and I intend to be there for her. I don’t care what anyone thinks. She killed my brother, and I’m glad he’s gone.

No one ever knew how I really felt. Well, Rolly did. He used to laugh at me, make a point of telling me how he made love to her, how he would make her do his bidding. I hated him for it. But I never pushed him away. He was my connection to Cassie, and just hearing her name, at times, was enough.

Rolly liked to talk.
Brag
is a better way to put it. He told me about the young girls at Fat Tina’s and about Maryanne. He was proud of the cut he was taking for paying no mind while the pushers passed out their supplies at the strip joint. I know everything.

But Cassie doesn’t. And even though she killed him, I think she loved him.

The water has gone cold, maybe a while ago. I turn it off and grab the towel from the shower bar. I pad to my bedroom, throw on a pair of boxers, and sit on my bed. From my nightstand, I pull out the picture, the one I take out every night, the one that lets me sleep.

It was taken at my mother’s funeral, after the burial. I’m in my suit, and Cassie—dressed in a dark-blue dress—stands next to me, holding my hand. I don’t know why we would be smiling at a funeral, but we were. We’re looking at each other and smiling. We’re both happy. It’s a picture of how things should have been. How they should be.

I don’t remember Rolly taking the picture. I remember him bringing it to me a week after the funeral and saying he didn’t want Cassie to see it and get any ideas. It was just another way for Roland to tease me, to let me know I would never have the one thing I wanted: his wife.

“Now what are you going to do to stop me?” I say.

Rolly is gone, and he is no longer my concern.

But she killed him. And if she goes to prison for that, I will lose her forever.