There was a note attached to the check. “You’re still fired, Artist Lady. See you tomorrow.”
I was constantly worried about the upcoming meeting with the assistant U.S. attorney, the FBI, the IRS, and any financial or computer whizzes who were there to take me apart and eat me.
I was even afraid of the postal service guy from the fraud department. I never would have imagined myself being afraid of the postal service.
Alice, My Anxiety, was up and shakin’, and it felt like I was stuck in a beer bottle without the relief of a beer.
I had hoped that eventually Covey would cave and tell the truth about me. This hope had no basis in reality, as his ranting phone calls indicated. He had lost it when he was told I’d be talking to The Scary Gang at a meeting, Millie told me. His lawyer screamed at Millie, telling her not to let me talk to them, and Millie screamed back, louder, and threatened to box him in the face if he ever talked like that to her again.
Covey had had a lousy childhood. His mother took off when he was four and he didn’t see her again until he was sixteen. His father had one girlfriend after another. One woman stayed from the time he was five until the time he was ten. When she left, she never contacted him again. He had called her Mom. There were a couple more substitute moms. He would get attached, love ’em, then they would leave when they’d had it with his irresponsible, selfish father, and never contact Covey again.
I cried when he told me that story, and he did, too. He said when his mother left him, he cried for a week. When his next mother left, same thing. His father never made much money, and was stingy with what he had. Covey had paper routes starting when he was ten and worked at least twenty hours a week when he was going to school. He gave half his check to his cheap, neglectful, cold father.
He eventually had a huge falling-out with his father, punches were thrown, and his dad had literally thrown him out of the house. Covey was sixteen. His father died in a car accident five years later when they were still estranged. Covey had been born poor, and that fueled his greed later on. He had had nothing, so he had to have material positions—house, cars, stuff—to make him feel equal or, hopefully, better than others.
He’d had loss after loss after loss as a child, so he tried to control any future personal losses in a twisted, narcissistic, semi-psychopathic way.
I didn’t know how severe his abandonment issues were until we were married. He did not want me to leave him. I was his. His forever. He and I.
And now we were done. I was one more woman who had left him. That could not happen, in his mind. It absolutely, positively could not, and I had to be punished.
I didn’t think he would tell the truth about me and my total lack of involvement in his schemes, as it gave him power over my destiny, and me. If he couldn’t have me, it would be better if I was locked up where no one could have me, like in a jail cell. Especially if he was locked up, too.
Sick.
“I have a tumor in my head.”
“You have a what?” Eudora and I leaned forward across the table in the employees’ lounge.
“A tumor.” Rozlyn tapped her head, left side. “Right there. It’s what’s causing my headaches, my vision problems. Think of it as a plum that’s rotting and shooting out minifireworks.”
Eudora and I leaned back in our seats, stunned into silence. “It’s not good,” Rozlyn said.
“Precisely what does ‘not good’ mean?” Eudora asked, reaching for Rozlyn’s hand.
“I mean . . .” Rozlyn hesitated.
I put my hands to my head as a wave of nausea hit me like a brick.
“I went to Dr. Camille Johnson, who you found, Grenady. She had tests run that day.” Rozlyn waved her hand, as in, I don’t want to pause on the details. “They’re going to use radiation, then chemo. It’s a tricky tumor, I’m told, based on where it is. There’s an experimental procedure, a clinical trial. I might qualify, I might not. It’s still new, risky, probably won’t be covered by insurance anyhow, and it’s in New York.” She took a deep breath. “I have about two years.”
“What?” My voice came out stricken. “What are you talking about?”
“I have about two years to live.”
The room spun, then settled. I grabbed Rozlyn’s other hand.
“How do the doctors know that?” Eudora said, throwing a hand in the air, a diamond ring glittering. “They think they’re geniuses or something? Those blowhards.”
“They know based on how fast it’s grown, where it is, and the life spans of other people who have had the same thing.”
We sat in silence for long minutes, shocked. Utterly shocked. What to say?
“I’m sorry, Rozlyn,” I said. “I am so sorry.”
“At first I thought,” Rozlyn said, “ ‘Why me?’ But then I thought, ‘Why not me?’ Why should it be someone else? Unless they’re ninety. Or a criminal. A bad criminal. I’m not special. I’m Rozlyn, mother of the cutest kid on the planet, a woman with perfect boobs, although a large and packed butt, a woman who sews women’s power–truth quilts, wants to spy on a man who hardly knows she’s alive, and is fanatic about making numbers work, but I’m not special. ”
“You are to me,” Eudora and I said at the same time.
Rozlyn squeezed our hands. “My friends.”
We talked more. We were silent again.
I thought of Cleo. I knew Rozlyn was thinking of Cleo, too.
“Have you told her?” I asked.
“Not yet. Only you two. I’ll tell her when I have to. Soon.”
“She’ll sense something is off.”
“She already does.”
“That kid is too damn smart,” Eudora said. “She could be a spy.”
“That is the truth,” I said.
It wasn’t a fun lunch. Eudora and I cried into our salads.
Rozlyn didn’t cry.
I crawled into bed that night feeling like an old, old woman, weighed down hard by too much life. I pulled my white comforter with the pink roses tight around me, as if I were in a cocoon in a pink room.
I’ve never felt young. People talk about a carefree youth, and I have no idea what they’re talking about. I was never carefree, I never felt . . . youthful. My goal was to survive.
Now, with Rozlyn’s news, I felt old. Worn down and out.
I thought of Cleo. I thought of her having no mother, like me, same age.
I put my hands on my face and let the tears slip through my fingers.
“How are you at planning parties, Artist Lady?” Kade asked me, leaning in the doorway of my office.
“Where and when?”
“We’re having a State of the State of Hendricks’ Furniture in two weeks,” Kade said. “Sunday night, six o’clock, at my house.”
“That soon?” I could feel the old, resentful, pissed-off feelings well to the surface. Covey roped me into planning his parties and dinners almost immediately after we started dating, which were all designed to promote him and his company and to get more clients to bring money into his scheme. They were a ton of work.
I later realized that not only was he trying to make money via his parties, he was trying to get my attention off my art and completely onto him and his work, so that he would be my whole world. When he knew that my mind was distracted by a multitude of paintings, collages, clients, or an upcoming show, that’s when he had to have me plan an urgent dinner or celebration of something.
He once called my art a “charming hobby.” Oh, that fight was rip-roaring.
“Not enough time?” Kade looked so apologetic.
I took a deep breath. This was Kade. This was my boss. I was his employee. He paid me well. There were no other manipulations involved, no mind games, no obsessions. “It’s plenty of time. Dinner and dessert, beer and wine?”
He nodded, so relieved. I could see it on his face: Planning parties is not my thing, Grenady. Please help me.
“I’ll take care of it. You remember to show up.”
“It?
??ll be a Sunday night, Grenady. I’ll be there even if I forget.”
“And I will be calling you that day to remind you.”
“Thank you. If you can’t reach me, I’ll be winter fishing.”
“Winter fishing? And where would I find you then?”
“Somewhere on a river in a drift boat.”
“Now that sounds fun.”
“It is.” He opened his mouth to say more, but then closed it. “Thanks, Grenady.”
“No problem, boss.”
I would miss him when I was in prison.
I thought of Rozlyn, Cleo, Eudora, and Tildy.
I would miss everyone.
After my Spirited Owl shift, my nerves all rattled for some unknown reason, I grabbed my sketch pad and charcoal pencil. I sat on my bed and drew a girl whose toes were being pulled by pliers. I drew her walking up, alone, to another home, the door shut, dragging a black trash bag. I drew her being teased by other kids. I drew her hiding food. I drew her in clothes that didn’t fit.
I drew her lifting up another girl hanging by the neck from a rope.
I hung my head on that one.
I kept drawing with my charcoal pencil until I’d beaten the past back and my nerves smoothed out.
“I want to ask you something,” Rozlyn said. She sat down, gingerly, on her porch swing, and I sat down next to her. She had put Cleo to bed and brought a quilt out for our legs. I held it up. It was a woman, black haired and about Rozlyn’s size, dancing in a meadow, arms up, smile bright, pink dress swirling around her. It spoke of Rozlyn’s love of life.
“Anything, Rozlyn.”
“I don’t want you to answer yet. I want you to think about it, and please know that I’ll understand if you say no.”
“I’ll say yes.” The rain pitter-pattered on the roof, so peaceful, so at odds with a tumor in the head.
“Grenady, you may not.”
“I will say yes, Rozlyn.”
“Cleo loves you.” She started to rock the swing, back and forth. “That kid thinks you’re her personal ice-cream sundae. She loved you from the start when you saved her on the horse. She calls you her ‘Grenady Angel.’ She talks about you. Feels comfortable around you, likes your sarcasm and humor. She has not yet seen the temper, but I’m sure she’d be impressed.”
“Tell her to come to the bar.”
“Sure thing. I’ll do that. She can order a beer.”
“I adore that odd child.”
Rozlyn wiped tears off her cheeks.
“Oh no. Rozlyn, what is it? More bad news?”
“When I die, do you think, could you, I would like you to . . .” She took a ragged breath. “I would like you to be Cleo’s second mom.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I would like you to be Cleo’s mom when I’m not here anymore.” Her voice shook.
“You want me to be her mother? Me?”
“Yes.”
I was shocked.
Rozlyn trusted me, liked me well enough, to be her daughter’s mother? Cleo’s mother.
When Rozlyn was gone. When she was dead. When my new friend was dead. My eyes burned, hot as fire. Me. A mother. “I’ll do it.”
“Grenady, don’t answer yet.” Rozlyn wrapped her arms around herself, her whole body trembling. I put my arm around her. “You have to think about it. You would be her mother forever.”
“I don’t have to think about it. I’ll take her. I’m happy to take her. We have two bizarre personalities that will blend well. I don’t know how I’ll be as a mother, but I’ll give it my best shot and stick with it till I’ve got her grown up, healthy, and safe, and then I’ll look after your grandchildren, too.”
She sniffled and rocked the swing under the pitter-patter of the peaceful rain. “Are you sure? I understand if you’re not sure. I’ll still think you’re an awesome friend. Being a parent will change your whole life.”
“I want it to change.” I so did. “I’ll be her mom if something happens to you, but it won’t. You’ll get better, we’ll get this tumor shrunk and blasted, and we’ll spy on Leonard.”
“And I’ll say hello to him without hot flashing. That’s my goal!” She pointed a finger in the air.
We laughed the type of laugh you laugh when you want to cry and fear has its claws in you and is pulling you down but you’re keeping your chin up and holding it together because if you don’t, you’ll be flat wiped-out.
I tried to put myself in her position. Her parents were dead. She didn’t know who Cleo’s father was. She was told she was dying. She had a young daughter who needed a home. “I will be Cleo’s second mom, and I’m so glad you asked me.”
“Truly, Grenady?” Her voice pitched upward, hope and gratefulness mixed.
“Yes. I’m positive. Never more so in my life.” And that was the truth.
“I’m so relieved. I trust you. I knew it when I met you. It was karma, I know it.” She exhaled. “Thank you, Grenady. You know you’ll have to take Liddy, too, right?”
“Yes, I do, and don’t thank me yet. We’re going to kick some tumor ass first.” I put my hand on her head, where the tumor was. I wanted to reach inside her head and pull that mass out. “I’m so sorry, Rozlyn. I truly am.”
“Yeah, me too. It is what it is, so I have to plan. I have to provide for and protect Cleo, and that’s what I’m doing, and I’m trying not to cry my way through it.”
She cried anyhow. I held her as she sobbed and we rocked, back and forth, the rain pitter-pattering on down, so peaceful, when nothing on the porch swing was peaceful. A mother was giving away her daughter. There is nothing peaceful about that, ever.
In bed that night, the rain pounding down in a torrential downpour, I did the calculations. The doctors thought that Rozlyn had two years. Could be longer, could be shorter. I hoped it would be much, much longer, but being brutally and necessarily practical . . .
I put my hands over my face and rubbed it. I was getting a sympathy headache. Rozlyn’s tumor was hurting my head. “Holy shit.”
If I was found guilty by a jury, I’d spend five years in jail, Millie predicted. I could not parent Cleo if I was in jail.
If I pleaded out, she told me, admitted to being guilty, even though I wasn’t, the U.S. attorney’s office would agree to eighteen months and all my assets and money, including everything I had before I even met Covey.
Eighteen months in jail. Suffocating, dangerous, locked-in, nightmarish, jail. I tilted my head up to the skylight and the rain. Pound, pound, pound.
If I took the eighteen months, I would be here for Rozlyn during the last six months when she would need me most and I could spend time with Cleo. We were in for a lot of trauma, and tragedy, but their world in their light green farmhouse would be better if I were here.
Our conversation had been so surprising and had moved so fast tonight that I hadn’t had time to process it and figure out how to address my secret situation with Rozlyn. Would she even want me to be her daughter’s mother if she knew the truth?
My first answer was no. I’m officially a criminal.
But I would tell Rozlyn the truth. I think she would believe me. I would be humiliated and mortified, but I would tell her immediately so she could choose someone else if she felt it right.
Rozlyn. Tumor. Dying. Cleo.
I wrapped my arms around myself and shook and shook and shook. “Good God,” I breathed. “Good God.”
I wouldn’t even have to worry about this if it weren’t for Covey. Oh, my shoutin’ spittin’ Lord, I wanted that man dead.
The rain continued to pound the skylight of the big, red barn.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
37
Ring around the rosie
A pocket full of posies
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down!
If there was a nursery rhyme he liked the best, it was this one. It was about the bubonic plague in England. The ring was what grew on people’s skin when they were infected with the pl
ague via rats. Rats! He loved rats. Dirty and dangerous, sharp teeth. The ashes referenced all the bodies being burned.
He would change it to make it his. To reflect on a personal memory. His lips puckered, and he twitched. He knew what to do. He was a poet. He giggled.
Ring around the rock
A pocket full of cock
Fog in, fog out
They’re all bones now!
He put his rhyme book over his head and blew into it. It was perfect. Sensual. Rock and cock. Brilliant!
He thought of the Getaway Girl and her red hair. He bit down on the book and groaned. He had wanted to taste her! He remembered her mother. She tasted delicious.
38
Children’s Services Division
Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild
Age: 14
Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)
Date: September 28, 1990
Goal: Adoption
Employee: Angel Hollis
Grenadine has been placed in Jill and Havel Preston’s home. There are ten total children there. This is not an optimal situation. There are five bunk beds in one room for the girls, who range in age from twelve to sixteen.
There are five boys, ranging in age from ten to seventeen. The home is about 3,600 square feet on three levels. We will be moving Grenadine as soon as we can find a new placement.
She is a pretty girl, especially with those bright green eyes and red hair, although she continues to struggle academically in school with reading and writing. She says the kids tease her about being “stupid” and for not having cute clothes (which I have addressed with the Prestons. She has outgrown many of her clothes) but she won the schoolwide art contest, and I am so excited for her!
Children’s Services Division
Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild
Age: 14