Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) (10 page)

So I sat down on an old willow stump that had already started growing itself back into a tree and watched our house from the tiny, weed-infested patch of grass we called a backyard. Even though it was spring, it was still cool at night, and my skimpy, polyester Dairy Maid uniform was anything but warm. I pulled my school clothes out of my shoulder bag and wrapped them around my legs for insulation as I sat and shivered there, waiting for some sign that it was safe to go in. Part of me still wanted to ponder upon Joey’s words, to consider his claims that Jesus really loved me, but the rest of me was too overwrought and worried about what might lie ahead for me. Not just tonight, because I could wait this one out, but what about the next night? And the next?

I briefly considered walking over to Aunt Myrtle’s place on the other end of town, but I still felt a little guilty about her losing her good bank job as a result of my mouthing off to Sally Roberts last summer. Now Aunt Myrtle worked as a clerk at an automotive store, and the few times I’d walked past and spied her back there, her mouth had been drawn in a tight line, and I didn’t think she enjoyed her work much. For all I knew she might even know that I was the one who blew the whistle on her. I hadn’t actually spoken to her in well over a year now. For that reason and a lifetime of others, I was unwilling to walk halfway across town, knock on her door, and then risk her fiery wrath. Besides, if my daddy were truly drunk, he’d probably pass out before too long anyway. I could just wait him out.

Finally it was well past midnight, and the lights were still burning like a Christmas tree. Suddenly I became worried. What if he’d had an accident or something? For all I knew he could’ve stumbled, fallen, and hit himself in the head—he might be unconscious and bleeding himself to death right there on the kitchen floor. It’s ironic now to think that it was this empathetic sense of concern that made me quietly open our back door and tiptoe into the brightly lit kitchen.

To my relief, he was not bleeding on the floor there, and I silently turned off the lights and made my way back toward my bedroom, deciding to skip using the bathroom (at least for an hour or so) until I could be sure that all was quiet and safe from behind the security of my bolted door. I turned off the hall light and tiptoed in absolute silence.

Just a few feet from my bedroom, I heard my daddy’s drunken voice, and he appeared before me as if out of nowhere. “Wha’sha think yore doin’ sneakin’ round like this until all hours of the night?”

He stepped directly in front of me now and I could see his outline silhouetted by the faint light coming through my bedroom window. Already I was poised to turn and run, but I never even got the chance.

It’s amazing, the strength of a drunkard’s grip sometimes. You expect them to be all sloshy and relaxed—like they couldn’t hurt you even if they tried. And sometimes it’s just like that, too, but not always. And not on that night. I can remember my voice screaming bloody murder the first time he hit me, and then yelling for help again and again and again—I hoped that someone in the neighborhood might hear me and call the police. That’s about all I remember until waking up, once again, in a hospital bed.

The next few days were kind of a blur for me with police taking statements and a lady from the county named Mrs. Johnson interviewing me.
It’s about time,
I was thinking as I answered her inane questions. She informed me that Aunt Myrtle, my only living relation (besides my daddy, who was now incarcerated) was unable and unwilling to take me in. Aunt Myrtle, of course, was not actually related to me by blood, but I kept these thoughts to myself. Then Mrs. Johnson began describing the county’s foster care program to me.

Despite my earlier assumption that, being almost sixteen, I was too mature for a foster home, I now welcomed the idea of having someone—anyone—take care of me. Especially in light of my broken nose, fractured wrist, and concussion. At the end of the week, an older couple came by the hospital to pick me up. Their name was Crowley, and they lived on a small farm near the neighboring town of Snider. Did I mind leaving my old high school? they asked me. I just shrugged and said, “I guess not.”

The Crowleys drove an old pickup, and I remember jostling painfully in the seat between the two of them, each jolt feeling like a fresh blow to my bruised and battered body. But I kept my lips pressed together and my eyes straight ahead. And I tried not to judge this couple by appearance. After all, here they were willing to take a perfect stranger into their home. How bad could they be?

“Just don’t understand a man who’d do that to his own daughter,” said Mr. Crowley as he gripped the big steering wheel with two rough and calloused hands. It wasn’t the type of comment that demanded a response, but I felt, in light of the fact that they were rescuing me, perhaps one was deserved.

“My daddy’s a troubled man, sir.” I spoke quietly, careful to use
sir
since these were older, country folks and probably expected me to act like a mannerly young lady. “And he’s had a drinking problem for quite some time now. But when he’s sober he’s a completely different person—you wouldn’t think he could hurt a fly.”

The woman made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that no more, dear. You’ll be safe with us from now on.”

I turned and looked at her, wondering if what she said was really true. She wore a plain housedress under a faded corduroy car coat and white, cuffed, cotton anklets and sturdy brown shoes with dust around the edges. But her clear blue eyes looked sincere to me, and despite all I’d seen in my life I really wanted to trust her. I needed to trust her. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

Their farm was one of those old-fashioned types where they grew a little of this and that and kept a few hogs, cows, and chickens. About eighty acres, Mrs. Crowley explained as she showed me to my room upstairs. “It belonged to my husband’s father before us, and we’ll most likely pass it on to our son.”

“You have a son?” I asked. For some reason I’d assumed this couple to be childless, kind of like that Kansas couple, Auntie Em and Uncle What’s-His-Name who took care of poor Dorothy before the tornado whisked her away.

“Yes. He lives in town with his wife and baby—works at the feed and seed.”

“Do you have other children?”

“We did. Our oldest boy, Roy Crowley, Jr., was killed in Vietnam about a year ago—just days before he was to have come home for good.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “Yes, dear, so are we.”

Downstairs in the living room, Roy Jr.’s photo and medals were displayed on the mantel as something of a memorial to their son. He wasn’t all that much to look at with his short-cropped dishwater blond hair and somewhat nondescript features, but something in his eyes appealed to me, and sometimes I would find myself standing there in front of the fireplace just staring into his face and wondering what he was thinking about now. Now that he was dead.

The Crowleys were very good to me, and especially patient during those first few days. They treated me kindly but made it clear they expected me to pull my weight around the place as my health returned. After a day or two, Mrs. Crowley wanted to wash my clothes for me. I explained to her that I’d always done my own laundry, but she wouldn’t hear of it, at least not until I was feeling a lot better and she could give me a lesson on how to use her old cantankerous wringer washer. I told her I’d used a wringer washer before, but still she insisted. I remember feeling embarrassed as I handed over my strange-looking and worn items of clothing.

“Goodness,” she said. “It looks to me like you don’t have nothing but rags to wear, child.” She held up a miniskirt and frowned. “And surely there’s nothing here that you could possibly want to be wearing to school.”

I just shrugged. At that point in time, with my nose all swollen and discolored, and a large brown and yellow lump on my forehead, I suppose I no longer cared what I looked like or wore to school—or anywhere else, for that matter.

“Well, we’ll have to do something about this.”

By the following weekend, my bruises had faded considerably, and Mr. and Mrs. Crowley decided to take me into town to do some errands and shopping. It was the first time I’d seen the town of Snider, and I felt surprised that it was much smaller than Brookdale. An agricultural town supported by the local farms, it had about two blocks’ worth of businesses. Mr. Crowley dropped his wife and me at a small JCPenney store on Main Street and said he’d be back to pick us up around noon. I cringed just slightly when I saw the scanty racks of women’s clothes we had to choose from. This store didn’t even have a junior section. But I could see by Mrs. Crowley’s face that this was a real treat for her—a woman who’d never been blessed with a daughter, suddenly buying school clothes for a girl. “How about this one?” she asked as she held up a flowered dress in somber shades of blue and green.

I swallowed hard as I glanced over the rack. “It’s nice,” I said in a flat voice. It didn’t take us long to pick out a few outfits (two dresses and a skirt and blouse) and some underthings and socks and “sensible” shoes, which really weren’t so bad considering that “sensible” shoes were coming back into fashion these days. Then we were picked up by Mr. Crowley and treated to lunch at Stanley’s (the town’s only diner).

I expressed my appreciation to both of them for taking me in and buying me the clothes and everything, at the same time hoping desperately that I’d be able to stick it out with them without freaking out and running away or something equally stupid. And I kept telling myself that I could and should change myself as an act of self-preservation. Somehow I had to make what seemed like a bad movie—or maybe just the opening scene in
The Wizard of Oz
—work. And if I was lucky, I’d someday be able to click my heels together and find my way back home—to a real home and real family—wherever that might be.

“Your social worker tells us that you’re a hard worker and a good student,” said Mr. Crowley as he sipped his coffee.

“Yes, and Mrs. Johnson said you’re a good artist and a good musician, too. And I’ve seen that guitar you’ve got,” said Mrs. Crowley. “But I haven’t heard you play once. Don’t you like to play no more, Cassie?” They’d taken to calling me Cassie, which like everything else felt strange and foreign, but somehow fitting in this new life I’d so recently slipped into.

“I don’t know.” I took a sip of my chocolate shake, surprised that it tasted better than the ones I’d made at the Dairy Maid.

“Well, you’ll be starting school on Monday, and maybe that’ll help cheer you up some,” said Mr. Crowley. “Being round kids your own age, and all.”

Mrs. Crowley laughed. “Yes, I s’pect it ain’t easy being with a couple of old folks like us.”

“No, no,” I said. “You guys are great. I guess it’s just a lot to get used to all at once.”

She gently patted my hand. “Well, just you take your time, then. Get used to things slow and easy-like.”

I wore the navy blue skirt and light blue blouse to church the next day (the least objectionable of yesterday’s clothes purchases). Everyone seemed to know everyone in the little country church, and people came over to greet the Crowleys and meet me when the service was over. And it had been a nice service too, quiet and dignified with no yelling or accusatory finger-pointing from the pulpit going on.

But my mind had difficulty focusing and holding on to the preacher’s words. More and more, it seemed my thoughts were sort of jumbled and scrambled, and I felt seriously worried that my daddy’s recent blows to my head might have permanently damaged my brain some. And since intelligence was still important to me, this possibility concerned me a lot. To think, I’d been so careful to avoid things like alcohol and drugs to preserve my faculties, but more than likely what little sense I’d possessed had been knocked out of me at the tender age of fifteen. Like most things in life, it just didn’t seem fair.

After church, the Crowley’s younger son, Tim, and his wife and baby came over for supper. I liked his wife, Suzy. In fact, she didn’t seem all that much older than me, and she immediately began joking with me about the tragic shopping conditions in Snider, scandalized that her mother-in-law had actually taken me to that “sorry JCPenney store” to get school clothes. “You should’ve called me, Mom,” said Suzy. “I’d have driven Cassie over to Dayville and done some really good shopping there.”

“Well, I s’pose we could take all those things back,” said Mrs. Crowley uncertainly.

“Oh, that’s too much trouble,” I said, feeling sorry for the older woman.

“Well, sure, why not?” said Suzy. “I could leave little Timmy with my mom and go pick Cassie up from school tomorrow and then we could take those old-lady clothes back to Penney’s and get her some new things.” So it was settled, and Mrs. Crowley didn’t even seem to mind—not too much, anyway.

Suzy picked me up after school the next day as promised. “How’d your first day go?” she asked as I climbed into her car.

“Okay, I guess.” I slumped down into the bucket seat, longing to disappear from the planet altogether.

“That bad, huh?”

I glanced over at her. “How’d you know?”

She laughed. “Well, it wasn’t that long ago I was going to school there, and I know how it is with new kids. And I don’t s’pect it helps any that your face looks like you got hit by a truck.”

I reached up to touch my nose, no longer so badly swollen, but still discolored some. “I guess not.”