What I Remember Most (25 page)

“Ah, shit,” I muttered into the night sky. What should I do? Quit now? Work only for Tildy? Quit Tildy’s, too? I didn’t think that my being a bartender at Tildy’s would have any impact on her business, but Kade’s, so dependent on an honest and professional reputation?

It could.

I didn’t want to quit. I liked the job. I liked seeing Kade all week long, being near him.

But that was all about me. Me, me, me.

I do not like myself sometimes at all.

Children’s Services Division

Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

Age: 9

Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

Date: April 20, 1985

Goal: Adoption

Employee: Daneesha Houston

Although Grenadine’s third foster care placement since the Berlinskys did not work out as I had hoped due to Mr. and Mrs. LaMears’ divorce, I believe that Grenadine is happy at Mr. Hugh and Mrs. Rose Hutchinson’s home.

Their double-wide trailer is out in the country, which means there are many places for Grenadine to run and play. The Hutchinsons have chickens, a goat, and a horse.

Hugh told me that there was a family rumor that his great-great-great-grandmother was a black woman, like me, so maybe we were related down the “ole bloodlines.” I told him that I think we’re all related, like a big family. Rose and he liked that idea, but we agreed he did not need to call me “sister.”

When I went over Grenadine’s case file with the Hutchinsons, to explain about her past, Hugh and Rose both said, repeatedly,

“Oh, my shoutin’ spittin’ Lord” and “Swing me a cat, that is terrible!” Then Hugh started to cry, and we had to take a long break on the porch while Hugh held the cat and had a beer and got control of himself.

Rose told me privately that Hugh could take down a charging bear with one arm, but he had a “sweet, mother-lovin’ heart” and did not like seeing people hurt.

The Hutchinsons have bought her many new clothes. Grenadine said, “Finally, I get to be cool.”

(I will try to adhere to our department’s new policy of directly quoting the kids.)

She wears overalls and plaid flannel shirts and tie-dye T-shirts. She also wears a red feather in her hair that Mrs. Hutchinson gave her and a red bandana around her forehead.

She wears a raccoon hat. Mr. Hutchinson said it was the first raccoon he shot as a boy, and he was proud of it. Mrs. Hutchinson gave her a pink rabbit foot key chain for “fertility and creativity,” according to Grenadine. I asked Grenadine what fertility meant and she said that it meant you could pop babies out quicker than an upside-down possum.

Grenadine was also given a pair of pink cowboy boots, two snakeskin belts, and silver chains with good-luck charms. She wears a fake tattoo of a scorpion on her upper arm, which Mr. Hutchinson put on her to match his. I told Mr. Hutchinson I didn’t think a young lady should have a scorpion on her arm, and he said he wouldn’t do it again.

Mr. Hutchinson’s nephew, Timmy Hutchinson, brought her a fishing vest. She has filled the pockets with beads, rocks, and a pet lizard named Smock.

I asked about her dietary habits and Grenadine says she is “hungry as a bull on charge” all the time, and the Hutchinsons are keeping her fed—her words.

She did say that she wanted to throw some “dead possums” at the Berlinskys. The Hutchinsons have been taking her to doctor and dental appointments, and to the counselor, but Grenadine said that Hugh told her whenever she was angry at the Berlinskys to think about shooting them and the pain would go away. I reminded Hugh that she is not allowed to shoot guns, and he said no, ma’am, that wouldn’t happen.

As you know, I handpicked this couple, and they truly care about our Grenadine. Although Rose Hutchinson said that she didn’t need no government official like me down her throat or telling her what she should do, she said she would be happy to split some moonshine with me any day.

I am so thrilled about this placement. I brought Grenadine a box of art supplies, and she loved it.

Children’s Services Division

Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

Age: 10

Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

Date: November 22, 1986

Goal: Adoption

Employee: Daneesha Houston

Grenadine said she and the Hutchinsons have barbeques all the time, go duck hunting, camp in the trailer in the winter, and have target practice. I have told the Hutchinsons that Grenadine may not handle a gun. Hugh Hutchinson agreed and said they won’t allow it again.

Grenadine said that Hugh Hutchinson taught her how to wood carve and how to chew tobacco and spit. I talked to the Hutchinsons about it. They denied the tobacco chewing, but I saw Grenadine spit.

Grenadine said Rose taught her how to wring a chicken’s neck, pluck the feathers off, and make a delicious Dead Chicken Chili and Butt Beer Fried Chicken. I am unclear on what that is, but I have told the Hutchinsons that Grenadine cannot wring a chicken’s neck. They said they won’t allow it again.

Grenadine said Rose also taught her how to defend herself against a man who “got too many hands,” and Hugh taught her how to smash a beer can against her forehead. Rose taught her how to karate chop a piece of wood.

The Hutchinsons have agreed that the beer smashing is excessive and won’t allow it again.

It was Rose’s birthday, so Grenadine dried hundreds of flowers between books and hung bunches upside down from hangers. She dried lavender, hydrangea, roses, ferns, and lilies. She then spread them over a canvas that Rose bought her. Grenadine somehow glued the flowers down, then painted stems, leaves, lilies, and a blue sky. It looked like a meadow when she was done. I don’t know how she did it. It’s remarkable. I could see it in a museum.

Rose framed it and said their daughter, Grenadine, is an artist.

Grenadine says that the kids at school make fun of her and call her “white trash,” “stupido Grenado,” and “foster kid white trash.” Her grades in reading, spelling, and writing are poor. I called her teacher, and she says that Grenadine is struggling in those areas and is getting special help in school. Her grades, though, in art, music, and PE are all As. And when there are art projects in class, she always gets an A.

Grenadine is laughing and talking, although she did tell me that “the program,” which means Children’s Services Division, “sucks the big one, like a raccoon with rabies,” and she is not part of the program anymore. She says she still feels angry sometimes, but when she does Hugh takes her shooting outside.

She also said that she learned a new lesson from Rose: “Don’t ya ever get too big for your britches or someone’s gonna bust your britches wide open and then they’ll find out you got a butt like everybody else. Nothing special about it.”

Grenadine said that was something to always remember. And she said it’s important that if you feel too small for your britches, you should still keep your chin up anyhow and your shoulders back. That’s what Hugh told her.

Grenadine hugged me when I left, as usual. I gave her five new canvases, all large, as she had asked for, and a sketch pad.

Hugh and Rose love Grenadine. They were unable to have their own child, and they treat Grenadine like their daughter.

Rose Hutchinson told me that my skin was the color of her coffee with cream and she loved coffee and cream mixed together. We had some coffee together and had a right nice chat. Hugh offered whiskey with it, but I declined. He said he had a relative back in the 1800s who was the best moonshiner in Oregon. Ever. “The family’s damn proud of him, right, Grenadine?” She agreed.

Rose said, “My ass isn’t exactly as tight as a whiskey drum, I’m not so young anymore, but I’m plenty young enough to be Grenadine’s momma. She’s my girl.”

Children’s Services Division

Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

Age: 11

Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

Date: July 26, 1987

Goal: Adoption

Employee: Daneesha Houston

Grenadine looks great. Healthy and strong.

She has learned how to fish with Mr. Hutchinson, and she built a fort with Mrs. Hutchinson using a drill. They recently took her to a family reunion at a lake where she went inner tubing and toasted marshmallows at the campfire.

She sang me the songs she learned. Some of the words were inappropriate. One song was about a woman trucker who was “wild, wild, like shit-ass wild,” and another was about a man who was “lonely for love until I put my hands between my legs and thought about Bonnie Boo.” I explained to Grenadine why those songs are inappropriate and talked to the Hutchinsons about it. They said they won’t allow it again.

The Hutchinsons said that Hugh’s brothers are “red-necked howlers, God-fearing sinners who sin a lot, especially with wine and women,” and taught the kids the songs, one about being stuck in a beer bottle. Now Grenadine says she is “stuck in a beer bottle” whenever she feels like things are confusing or she doesn’t have an answer to something.

She has also learned how to use a BB gun and how to shoot beer cans off a tree stump. She said she had learned it “by shots and by fire.” I have told the Hutchinsons she may not use a BB gun or a real gun. They said they won’t allow it again.

She says she rides bareback, no saddle, and I have told the Hutchinsons that that is not allowed. She needs a saddle. They said they won’t allow it again.

Grenadine put together a collage using newspapers and black paint. The painting is about four feet long and three feet high. The collage is of a .38. The Hutchinsons put it on the wall over the fireplace. Hugh told me it was the best art he’d ever seen and said, “Shit. I love it.” Then he cried and had to hold the cat and have a beer.

It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s spectacular. The gun looks like it could come off the wall and be shot.

Grenadine’s grades are not high, and the Hutchinsons said they try to work with her, but they don’t read or write well—their words, not mine—and the math is too hard. Rose said, “Our Grenadine will be a famous artist. She don’t need all this doggone reading and writing!”

They invited me to a fiddle party they were having on Saturday night. They said since I am black I would have good rhythm and a strong singing voice and I could teach them a thing or two. They said even though I work for the government, which they curse, they don’t think I’m there to spy on them.

They both told me, for the hundredth time, that they love Grenadine more than the whole damn world.

Children’s Services Division

Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

Age: 12

Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

Date: February 1, 1988

Goal: Adoption

Employee: Daneesha Houston

Grenadine took a picture of Hugh and Rose in their leathers on their motorcycles, no helmets, and had them blow it up. Then she put the photo in the middle of a canvas and glued the love letters that Hugh wrote Rose all around it. She placed dried rose petals here and there, too, like the wind was blowing through.

Grenadine gave it to them for their anniversary. They loved it. They framed it and hung it up.

“Look at my home!” Rose told me. “It’s like a museum! A Grenadine museum. People come over to look at our art! Our daughter is an artist.” Rose thinks that Grenadine gets her artistic talent through her line, not Hugh’s, who she says can hardly hold a pencil. Hugh agreed that he could hardly hold a pencil and that the talent had to come through Rose’s family. He said, though, that Grenadine’s skills with a gun are pure Hutchinson and that all his family members can shoot a fly off a fence post.

I told Hugh that Grenadine is not allowed to shoot guns, and he said he won’t allow it again. He asked me to sing a gospel song for him, so he can “get completely right” with the Lord and said he knew because I was black that I would know some good ones. We did sing a few gospel songs together, and I reminded him again that he does not need to call me “sister.”

I also reassured him that I did not know of any personal plots by the government to get in his business.

Grenadine still aches for her parents, but she is happy with the Hutchinsons. I have grown to like the feathers in her hair, and even the scorpion tattoo, but not the two sets of deer antlers on her wall from their last hunting trips.

Eudora and I went to Rozlyn’s sex toy party on Sunday night. There were about twenty women there.

I was familiar with a few things, as Covey liked toys, but not with others.

Rozlyn whispered to me, “I want to be prepared for Leonard. Nothing too out of this world, but fun. I saw him yesterday at the coffee shop, and I said hello and pushed my girls out, like this”—she arched her back—“and he said hello and smiled. He wears glasses. I love his glasses. We talked for a few minutes about the pastries, then I had to leave because I could feel my inner temperature boiling up.” She sighed. “Do you think my night sweats would alarm him? I mean, I do drench the sheets.”

Eudora took a sip of wine and said, “Thank you for not ruining my palette, Rozlyn.” Then she picked up one of the sex toys and said, “If you took this apart, it could be used as a weapon.”

“That’s devious and clever, Eudora,” I said. “Why so violent?”

She shrugged, elegant as always. “I’m not. It’s training.” She coughed.

“Training for what?” I said.

“Training for . . .” She threw a delicate hand in the air. “Self-defense.”

I had never thought of using a sex toy as a weapon and was curious as to why she would think of it.

She said something in French, and I said, “What was that, you sex toy weapons expert?”

“I said, ‘Love, sex, and murder. It can all be intertwined.’ ”

Eudora was right. I had loved Covey. We’d had sex. I would like to murder him. I took the sex toy out of her hand and examined it.

There were a lot of single women at the sex toy party.

The woman who was running the party sold a lot of vibrators.

Kade would be an outstanding vibrator.

He’s your boss, Grenady,
I told myself. Don’t think like that.

I picked up a pink vibrator with a bird on it. Ha.

I needed to add pretty to my new home above the horses in the red barn. Without pretty, I am reminded of a few rooms I don’t want to think about.

I asked Rozlyn if I could paint the inside when she came over with Cleo for a visit. “Have at it. Paint a rainbow. Paint a woman standing on one foot on a motorcycle in leathers. Paint amoebas. Whatever you want.”

Cleo told me, “Paint a picture of a girl who can see her future.”

“Now, that’s an idea. What would a girl who can see her future look like?”

Cleo jumped up and down. “She would have yellow hair in three ponytails and striped tights and a hat with a dog on it and eyes like blueberries.”

“Hmm.” I peered into her blueberry eyes. I tapped her hat with a dog on it. Her pink and green tights were fun. “That sounds like someone I know.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“No. But thank you for the thought.”

“If I could see the future, I would see that we are all going to turn into monkeys,” she said. “We were monkeys, we’re going to be monkeys again.”

“Monkeys are a lot safer than humans.”

“Yep. And they like bananas. Mommy made me banana bread. I had two pieces she gave me, and I snuck two more and added whipping cream.”

“I have a thing for whipping cream, too.”

“I know. You drink it in your coffee. Liddy and I are going to play dress up today.”

“She’ll enjoy that.”

“Yep. I got her a flowered hat.”

The three of us chatted some more, then Cleo scampered off to chase a cat and put the flowered hat on Liddy.

“How are you, Rozlyn?”

“Good.”

I eyed her. She looked white around the edges and tired. “You sure?”

“Yes, yes.” She shrugged her shoulders. “No. My head hurts. Can’t shake this headache. It’s mild most of the time, sometimes it gets worse, then back to mild.”

“You need to go to the doctor.” I pushed my hair back and tried not to feel shaky-sick for her.

“For a headache? Nah. It’s menopause.”

“It’s not menopause. Go get it checked out.”

She said no, I gently pushed, then we talked about a quilt she’d made years ago of a woman riding a bucking bronco in a ball gown. “When life bucks you,” she told me, “get dressed up and buck with it. That’s what I’m doing. Bucking. But I would like to be . . .” She let that trail off, and we laughed.

She asked how I felt working two jobs. I told her it was a busy life.

I trusted Rozlyn, I don’t know why. I rarely trust anyone, but I did her.

On Saturday morning I slept in until ten o’clock. I hadn’t gone to bed until two. I thought about Kade, then made myself stop.

I drank three cups of coffee in bed with whipping cream and sugar, then made scrambled eggs. I thought of Kade again, made myself stop.

I drove to the paint store and stood in awe in front of all the paint colors. It took me an hour, but I eventually bought a yellow the color of sunshine and a banana mixed.

The color was enough to give my family/kitchen area some depth but keep the light. The French doors were white, so the sunshine banana would pop.

I bought a light blue, like central Oregon’s sky, for the bathroom and a pastel pink for my bedroom. Yes, pink. I wanted something pretty and feminine as I would soon be wearing blue scrubs stamped with JAIL, and living in a cell with a silver toilet

When I came home, I fed an apple to Liddy, stroked her sleek, brown hair, then went to work painting the family room and kitchen walls yellow. At 5:15 I went off to make Tequila Sunrises and Scarlett O’Haras.

Although I didn’t get home from the bar until one o’clock in the morning, I woke up at nine and, in my pajamas, finished the yellow in the kitchen and family room and started in on the light blue bathroom. Cleo knocked on my door after I’d finished. She was wearing all purple. “Today is purple day. In celebration of Pluto.” She’d made a purple hat for herself out of construction paper.

We made peanut butter and banana sandwiches. She told me I reminded her of a cowgirl who could shoot a lizard out of the sky. I told her she reminded me of a grape. She likes grapes, so there was no offense.

She put her hands on my hands at one point and turned them over. “Ouch,” she said when she saw the scars. “What happened?”

“I had a bad day when I was a kid.”

“What happened?”

“Fire.”

“Fire hurts. It’s so hot.” She picked up my hands and kissed them four times. It brought tears to my eyes. “Better now, Grenady?”

“Yes.” I sniffled. “I do believe it is.”

Later, after we had cookies, I moved the drop cloths from the bathroom, taped the trim up in my bedroom, pulled an old T-shirt over Cleo’s celebratory purple Pluto outfit, and we painted the bedroom pink.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun, Grenady?”

“Yes.”

“Can you teach me?”

“No. Why?”

“Because when we’re invaded by the bad space aliens, I want to be able to shoot them.”

“I’ll do it. You get behind me.”

She was outraged. “No. I want to fight them! I’m a girl, so duh. I’ll be fighting. Me and Liddy. Ta-da!”

I stood back and admired my pink bedroom, my white comforter with the pink roses, the pink-and-white-striped pillows with lace. I had never had a pink bedroom, but I had always wanted one. Now I had one. It matched with the pink ceramic rose box for my lily bracelet.

I loved it.

It was a scene out of a cheesy chick flick that you would watch in your pajamas while slugging down chocolate mint ice cream.

It was 5:14 and I was at Hendricks’. I had to be at The Spirited Owl in sixteen minutes. I darted into the bathroom by Kade’s office. He wasn’t in the office, and I was desperate.

I
hate
to be late.

I knew that Tildy would be okay with it, but I wouldn’t be. I like to be on time. I like my life as ordered and organized as possible.

I whipped off my silky red and pink scarf and my red sweater. Underneath it I wore a red lace bra. I yanked off my black skirt and tights and kicked off my black cowboy boots. I had on black lacy underwear.

I put my bag on top of the sink and pulled out my black jeans and black T-shirt for The Spirited Owl and shoved my other clothes back in. I gaped at my face in the mirror. My hair was a mess. It had been in a neat and controlled ponytail, but it wasn’t anymore. I pulled out the rubber band, and brushed my hair quick as I could. I ignored the two scars on my hairline, as always.

The door opened.

I stepped back automatically, brush in hand, so the door wouldn’t hit me.

And there I stood.

Hair down.

Red bra pushing up the girls.

Black lacy underwear.

Nothing else.

And there stood Kade, who was not supposed to be here. He was out of the office. At a meeting. Clearly, the meeting had ended.

“Oh, my God,” I choked out. I dropped the brush from my hand. It clattered to the floor.

For a brief second, I saw the surprise in his dark eyes. One does not expect to see an almost nude employee.

I put one arm over my boobs, one hand splayed over my crotch.

His eyes, for the tiniest of seconds traveled down, over cleavage, over hip, over leg, before he turned away. His mouth twitched, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “Might want to use that lock next time, Grenady . . .”

Oh, my shoutin’, spittin’ Lord.

Almost naked. My boss had seen me almost naked.
Kade
had seen me almost naked, and my ass isn’t as tight as a whiskey drum anymore.

Daaaaang but I was glad I wasn’t sitting on the toilet doing my business. It could have stunk like a dead possum.

Now that would have been even worse than this.

I tried to breathe. Couldn’t.

Cheesy, silly chick flick, but it happened in real life. My life. I was late to work by five minutes. I hate being late.

At home that night I grabbed a pint of chocolate chip ice cream.

I thought about Kade.

I thought about the red bra incident.

I wondered what he thought of my cleavage.

I laughed.

I finished the pint.

I tried not to meet Kade’s gaze when he came in the next morning after a meeting with a client.

He said, “Hi, Grenady,” and I said, “Hello, Kade,” and I smiled, but I didn’t meet his eye. I went back to my computer and pretended to be extremely busy and focused and professional. I also dressed that morning to appear completely
dressed.
I was in a white turtleneck and gray sweater and jeans tucked into black boots.

About two hours later I received an e-mail from him asking me to come to his office when I had the time.

I felt myself burn, top to bottom. I felt sweaty. I picked up some papers and fanned myself. Was he going to bring up the red bra and black panty incident? No. He wouldn’t. He was a gentleman.

Had I done something wrong? I couldn’t think of anything . . . oh no.

Did he know about Dina Hamilton? Dina Wild? Covey? I should have told him. I went from hot to cold and back again. I rubbed my neck. “Breathe, Grenady, breathe.”

About fifteen minutes later I took a deep breath and headed down to his office. “Hi, Kade. Did you want to see me?”

“Yes, I did. Thanks for coming. Shut the door. Have a seat.” He waved a hand toward his table by the window with a view of Brothers, Mt. Laurel, and Ragged Top mountains. It was snowing outside.

This did not sound good. Shut the door, sit.

“How are you, Grenady?”

“Fine.” I tried to smile. I think my smile, once again, ended up crooked and creepy. “How are you?”

“Good.” He sat across from me and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in front of him. He always looked like a man ready to spring if he had to spring.

“It’s been a few months. How do you like working here so far?”

I tensed up. This was not going in a positive direction. Was he asking because he thought I had complaints and then he would say something like, “Well, I don’t think this is the right place for you, either. Here’s two weeks’ pay”?

Or was he going to say that in reading my e-mails, he thought that I was
stupid?
Was I making errors? I always triple-checked everything I wrote. I never rushed it.

Or had my nightmare arrived and he was going to say, “You should have told me about being arrested for fraud, theft, money laundering, and embezzlement.”

I decided for honest, and I tried not to sound desperate. “I like working here. It’s a fun job. I like selling the furniture because I love what you make and design. I like seeing how happy the clients are when they come and get their furniture. I like the people here.” I like you, too, Kade.

“Glad to hear it.” His eyes did not betray any remembrance of red bras and black panties. “When I walk in and see the lobby, I’m surprised that I own this place.”

I did not relax. Was he buttering me up?

“It’s so . . .” He stared out the windows while he gathered his thoughts. “Classy. That’s the word for it. I like the trees. That was genius.”

“Thank you.” My heart was thudding and my lips were stuck on my dried teeth. I wanted to peel them off. “Am I getting fired?”

“What?”

“Am I here because you’re going to fire me?” I tried to swallow. I was scared. Trembly scared.

“No, not at all. What makes you think you would be fired?” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. I thought he was going to laugh. “Is there something I should know?”

“No, not at all.” Well. Maybe a tiny something, but I wouldn’t bring that up now. “I thought, since you wanted to talk to me, that there was something wrong . . . maybe a customer complained, or another employee, or I need to change something about how I’m working here. I can do that. Change. Tell me what it is and I’ll fix it. I’d be happy to.”

He shook his head. “Not at all, Grenady. I asked you in here because I was wondering if you would fix my office.”

“Fix your office?”

“Yes, then the employees’ lounge.”

“You mean, paint and decorate them?”

“Yes. Like you did the lobby.”

I sagged with relief. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to pull myself together. My heart was thudding. I exhaled.

“Grenady.” His voice was low and soft. Gravel and honey.