Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) (11 page)

“But I also remember that kids forget stuff and things can change. So maybe if you just hang in there, everything will start to look better before long. And you’ve only got about six more weeks of school, anyway. Things might look a whole lot different by next fall.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

Suzy took charge of our little shopping expedition, and to my surprise I found myself actually relaxing a little and almost having fun. She reassured me that her in-laws were really good people, just a little stodgy and old-fashioned.

“Maybe that’s what I need,” I said, only partially realizing the truth at the time. “I just hope I don’t let them down.”

“Well, just work hard and don’t act too disrespectful, and everything should be fine.”

And so I did. And somehow I managed to make it until the end of the school year without embarrassing myself too badly. Well, other than being relatively stupid when it came to simple things like caring for and feeding livestock, but the Crowleys (and their animals) were patient with me. When Mr. Crowley read my report card (whether it was the mercy of my new teachers, or being in a smaller school, I had somehow maintained my four-point average) he was so pleased that he took the three of us out for dinner, something they almost never did. And that evening, they invited me to call them Eunice and Roy, and in some ways we were feeling almost like family.

Nine

L
ooking back now my time spent living with the Crowleys, even though it was brief, seems like a much-needed vacation from the troubles of my strange and crooked little life. And it was a complete departure from my wild and wicked ways that could’ve led me who knows where. For the first time ever, I almost felt like a normal girl.

Almost.

Perhaps the only thing that disturbed me much during that era was my unwillingness to pick up my guitar. For some reason, whenever I looked at my poor old Martin guitar, I thought of my daddy and a lifestyle I wanted to put completely behind me. So finally I just tucked the sorry instrument into the darkened back end of my narrow little bedroom closet and spent my free time sketching pictures or reading from the Crowley’s large selection of
Reader’s Digest
condensed books. I don’t know how many books I read “just part of,” but it bothered me some. Maybe it just seemed too much like the way I had lived my life in the past years.

During that summer, one of the happiest of my youth, I went to church gladly and regularly, and surprised myself and everyone else by going forward after the salvation sermon one hot and humid Sunday when I’m sure everyone else would’ve just as soon heard the benediction and gone on home to their cold ham and potato salad. I’m still not sure that I knew exactly what it was I was doing, or even if it really “took” at the time. But the following Sunday, I was baptized down at the river with three other young people, and then we had ourselves a big celebratory picnic.

To this day, I can still recall that wonderful, cleansing feeling as the chilly, albeit muddy, waters washed over my head. When I stood up, I truly felt like a brand-new person—inside and out. And I don’t think it was all my imagination, either—I truly believe that God got ahold of me that day.

After we got home, I briefly considered calling up Joey Divers to tell him the good news. But I didn’t. I think part of me was still enjoying the luxury of leaving all my past back there in Brookdale and everything and everyone right along with it. I had become Cassie of the Crowley farm down High Banks Road—that nice girl who gets the best grades in Snider High’s sophomore class and gladly goes to church every Sunday. Why mess with something that was working?

Eunice and Suzy put together a nice little birthday party for me when I turned sixteen, inviting friends and relatives and young folks from church. I wore a pale blue dress (hand sewn by Eunice) and flat sandals. Eunice and Roy surprised me with a brand-new Bible. They spent a lot of time reading their old, worn, leather one, and they thought I might like one of my own, after being baptized and all. I still have a faded Polaroid photo that Tim took of me at that party, holding a broad pink cake with wobbly blue letters that read:
Happy 16th, Cassie!
It was a happy time indeed.

But all this goodness came to a swift halt one sultry afternoon shortly after my birthday. Roy was out in the west field, preparing the soil for winter wheat, when he ran his tractor just a little too high on the small hill that bordered their farm—the very thing that Tim remembered his daddy had always warned him about when he plowed that field. The old John Deere tractor hit a bump and just rolled over sideways, pinning Roy underneath. Killed him instantly, the doctor reassured us later. We didn’t even know it had happened until suppertime when he hadn’t returned to the house on time.

“Run out and see what’s keeping Daddy,” said Eunice as she set a plate of fried chicken on the table.

I remember the sky was a strange shade of yellow that evening—kind of like tobacco-stained teeth. I figured it had to do with the high humidity and heat plus the dust in the air, but it gave me an eerie feeling just the same. And the closer I got to the west field, the more I began to sense that something was really wrong.

When I saw the overturned green tractor, my eyes filled with tears, and I began to run with all my might through the soft, rich, upturned soil. But as soon as I saw him, lying there lifeless with both eyes still open, I knew I was too late. I can’t really remember all that much after that—how I got back to the house or told Eunice the bad news. The rest of that day just sort of blurs in my memory now. I think God is kind to us in that way—the way our memories mercifully fade into oblivion when something horrendous happens. Sort of like a protective amnesia.

Eunice was never the same after that. The woman I’d thought was the definition of strength itself just went totally to pieces after losing Roy. She’d lost Roy Jr. the year before, and losing her husband was just too much for her. I tried to comfort her as best I could, but it was almost as if she didn’t know me anymore. And I suppose since I was such a recent addition to their family, in her eyes it may have seemed as if I’d never been there at all. I tried not to feel too hurt over that. And I know she meant me no harm.

At first Suzy and Tim talked about having me come live with them, but I worried it was more Suzy’s idea than Tim’s. They were going through a struggle of their own just then, with Tim feeling they should move out and take over the farm and Suzy determined not to give up her sweet little house and life in town. Finally, Mrs. Johnson (the lady from the county) made the decision for us with one short phone call. “Based on your successful adjustment with the Crowleys,” she explained to me, “I’ve found a very nice family back in Brookdale who’d like to take you in.”

Within the same week, Tim sold the farm and Eunice went down to Florida to stay with her sister Louise. And as I packed my bags once again, I wondered whether God was real or not.

I wanted to pray, and I really tried, but the words just wouldn’t come out sounding right. What I really wanted to say was:
Hey, God, how come you let this happen? Why did you have to go and let Roy die just when things were getting good for me?
But I suspected that would be disrespectful and rude, not to mention selfish. And, thinking I was able to intimidate God, I kept my thoughts and my doubts to myself.

As I dragged my dusty guitar out from the back of the closet, I discovered my old paisley canvas bag, the one my grandma had gotten me at the Goodwill. I unzipped it to find it stuffed full of all my old clothes—the ones I’d scavenged from thrift shops and re-designed and decorated and then discarded when I’d come to live my new life with the Crowleys. On top of these strange-looking pieces, I now laid the new Bible that Eunice and Roy had given me for my sixteenth birthday. I felt it might be better off there for the time being.

Suzy took a break from packing up the Crowley’s belongings and sat with me on the front porch as we waited for Mrs. Johnson to pick me up. “Sounds like they’re real nice people,” she said with her ever-positive outlook. “And you’re such a good kid, Cassie. I can’t imagine how things shouldn’t go just great for you from here on out.”

I nodded mutely, not entirely convinced, but wanting to remain strong. “I guess so. I just feel a little worried about going back there—to Brookdale, I mean.”

“But you’re a new person now, Cassie.” She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked right into my eyes. “Why, just look at you—you’re beautiful—on the inside and out. You’re smart. You’re a good girl, Cassie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I nodded again, this time trying to hold back tears as I ran my fingers up and down the dusty frets of my guitar. More than anything else right then, I wanted her and Tim to change their minds about everything. I wanted Suzy to say:
“Don’t worry, Cassie, we’ve decided to keep the farm, after all, and we want you to live out here with us. You’re a part of our family and you always will be.”
But of course those words never came. And I remembered how my grandma used to say that “charity begins at home,” and I guess the Crowleys needed to be taking care of themselves right now, not looking out for someone who wasn’t even kin. But oh, how I wished I were kin.

It wasn’t long before that familiar dusty station wagon pulled into the driveway, and Suzy helped me load my guitar and bags into the back (I now had two suitcases besides the old canvas bag) and then we hugged, with tears. “You just call me if you run into any trouble, Cassie.” She looked me in the eyes again. “I mean it. You hear?”

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered as I climbed into the station wagon.

I know Mrs. Johnson kept a constant chatter going as she drove to Brookdale, but for the life of me I can’t remember a single word she said. Finally, she pulled to a stop, on the
good
side of town, and I looked out my window to see a rather nice-looking, stucco split-level before me, fully fenced and landscaped—respectable. “Is this it?” I asked weakly.

Mrs. Johnson smiled with satisfaction. “Yes. And if I’m not mistaken that’s Mrs. Glenn coming right now.” Just then a white, shiny, late-model Cadillac pulled into the immaculate driveway and a small, neatly dressed woman climbed out.

“Hello, there,” called Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Glenn turned, as if caught by surprise. “Oh yes. I forgot the time. Come on in. I’ve just been at the store.”

We entered the house, and at once I could tell that it was air-conditioned, although I’d never lived anywhere that was air-conditioned before. I looked around the corner of the entry to spy a sunken living room. It looked like something right out of a movie set, with big potted plants and art on the walls, and a long, low, pale three-pieced sofa, connected by blond end tables in the corners, each with a large pottery lamp in its center. Everything looked expensive and new, and matched perfectly. It was beautiful! Almost too beautiful to use, I thought.

Apparently Mrs. Glenn thought so too, since she led us right past this showroom and into a smaller, less formal, but nicely furnished room (what they called a family room, although they never had family over). It was situated near the kitchen with what looked like a real bar toward the back. From the big floor-to-ceiling windows in this room, I could see directly into the Glenn’s backyard, and there, shining like a giant blue gemstone, was a sparkling swimming pool with a wide terra cotta patio all around, and padded lounge chairs clustered here and there!

About then, I thought maybe I’d done died and gone to heaven. I’m sure my jaw was hanging clear down to my chest. Suddenly and unexpectedly cheered, I wondered if this was God’s way of rewarding me for how hard I’d tried to be a good girl while living with the Crowleys.
Well, okay, then,
I thought,
let’s bring it on!

I’m afraid I didn’t listen very well as Mrs. Glenn and Mrs. Johnson conversed over iced tea, or I might’ve started to figure things out a little sooner. But as soon as Mrs. Johnson departed, I was shown to my room (or my “quarters,” as she called it). She took me downstairs to the basement and showed me a small windowless “bedroom” with its own tiny bath and what appeared to be a kitchenette (a card table, chair, old refrigerator, and hot plate). It wasn’t really all that bad, but slightly disappointing after what I’d allowed myself to briefly imagine to be a dream come true. “Naturally, we’ll provide you with groceries,” she was saying, “but I’ll expect you to take care of your own meals as well as the cleaning and laundry and such.”

I nodded dumbly, unsure if she meant my own cleaning and laundry and such, or that of the entire household. I soon figured out it was the latter. As it turned out I had been taken into their home to be something of a live-in maid (only I wasn’t to expect to be paid). Of course I’d get to attend school and have my basic needs provided for, but in exchange I would be expected to do “chores.”

After recovering from my initial disappointment, I listened as Mrs. Glenn went over the house rules, droning on about how I wasn’t to use the pool except during specified times, or to have friends over (which I knew wasn’t a problem) and a whole list of other tawdry details. Trying to stay positive, I convinced myself this situation wasn’t so bad after all. Oh, sure, it wasn’t my fairy-tale dream—that had only lasted a few minutes. But maybe this was a way for me to live in a safe place and still have my independence.