Meg and I shook. Our near-death experience had rattled us to the core. Glancing up, I saw Maw Sue in a mad dash across the front yard. Her face was wildly disturbed. MD 20/20 crossed my mind. She was a streak of vibrant colors. The yellow daisies of her housecoat billowed in the wind like flower petals. Her fuzzy blue house slippers were two charging monsters kicking up the dirt. She whipped the air with the paint stick, petitioning God and other saints. “Jesus, God Almighty! Mary, Martha and Joseph!”
My mother literally dropped from thin air. She was strangling a blue dishrag with her hands in a fast strut. She passed under a tree with low branches. The spindly fingers snatched her coal black beehive wig right off her head. She never missed a step. When people came out of nowhere, Meg and I were in trouble. The wig swayed side to side like a Christmas ornament. I saw Dad coming up behind in an awkward trot so as not to foam his beer. I wasn’t sure which garnered his attention more—his troubled daughters or the wig hanging from a tree. By the look on his face, I’d say the wig won hands down. Neighbors flocked to porches. Mr. and Mrs. Montalongo, who lived directly across from Maw Sue, were front and center, gawking from their perch and documenting our various states of offense to use against us. Papa C was the last to show up, covered in dirt and sweat and dragging a garden hoe. By the time Maw Sue arrived, she had left those saints behind and was possessed of the devil. She swung the car door open and glared without blinking. It was the first time I felt fear from her. One of the fuzzy blue animals smashed the emergency brake and made a loud thwacking noise. She nudged me against the seat and fumbled with the gear shift. My hopes of getting a driver’s license dwindled away.
“Jesus Christ!” Gabby shrilled in a fluster, “Lord have mercy! You could’ve been smashed to bits!” Her hands were like an orchestra conductor, up, down, side to side. As expected, she morphed into an octopus, one arm snatching me and the other Meg, and the rest were swatting the daylights out of us with a wet dishrag. Momentarily she’d grab our chins for a brisk jaw-jacking, which consisted of numerous tilts, left, right, up and down, and sideways. At the same time spewing a considerably large and damning Old Testament list of rights and wrongs. Then, she’d revert to hugging and kissing us on the forehead and telling us how worried she was, then it was hellfire with the dishrag again. Her bizarre behavior was as ambiguous as Flash Fannie. Swat. Hug. Swat. Hug. We didn’t know if we were being punished or praised, or both. I saw Maw Sue in the background like an angry shadow with blue pet monsters at her feet and the rod of God in her hand. Dad was finishing off his beer and Papa C was leaning on his hoe and shaking his head. Gabby yanked us aside while Maw Sue cranked up Flash Fannie. She revved the motor until dust-spiraled tornadoes flew out from underneath. She threw our travel bag out the window, followed by smashed sandwiches, Kool-Aid packets, travel maps and a rudimentary warning from the paddle talk. It landed at my feet like a red-lettered prophet.
YOU IDIOT
Well said, paddle talk. Well said.
“Get to the house.” Mother pointed the blue dishrag. It was a slow walk of shame. Our shoulders slumped, our lips pouted and our ears sealed up to avoid the constant drip, drip, drip. The walk of shame consisted of boring lectures, a long, prehistoric list of rights and wrongs, and what other people think, say or do, namesakes, genetic traits, family curses which may or may not exist, and a whole slew of other jargon I tuned out years ago to avoid going insane. Or in my case, more insane. Before it was over, Dad was in as much trouble as we were. Gabby “Lash” Collard blamed Dad. If the Mad Hatter had not suggested we play in cars in the first place, it wouldn’t have happened.
After dusk, I went to bed early to mourn my loss of ever getting a driver’s license. I lay in bed and listened to the mumble of the television commercials through the wall. I swore some of them called me a cracker jackass. I was lost in a world of foot walking when the door opened. A large shadow entered, crossed its arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Tell me you learned something today.” It was my father.
“Uhm…sure did, Dad.” It was a lame lie and not at all what I wanted to say. I turned inward to the house within me to ponder before I spoke.
“Cass…” I heard his voice in the distance, but I was far away. I wanted to scream out three words and rise up in anarchy like some militant superhero. We’d be one, connected, on the same page. Instead, the words swirled in my mind like a vortex of crazy eights, traveling in circles, unable to locate my vocal cords. I began to think that maybe I didn’t know much at all. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. I didn’t know zilch, Nero the zero, notta, no, not, nothing. I expected to see the world, tour Europe, party with the Romans, meet the whales, swim with dolphins, walk the streets of Italy, hike the mountains, camp in the wild and observe the moon from the highest peak. I wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge and yell into the Grand Canyon and hear my own voice talk them back to me. I wanted to catch a marlin in the Atlantic, stare into the marvel of its eyes, then set him free and watch him swim away. The magnitude of my father’s words weighed heavily on me. Dad had finished talking and I hadn’t heard a word.
“Goodnight,” he said, closing the door.
“Hey, Dad.” I quickly sat up in bed. “Go out knowing!” I smiled. “It’s what I want to do. Just go out knowing.” The words lingered between us. The glint of moon from the window lit up stubble on his face. His brown eyes were nostalgic and held up in the past—somewhere—sometime, as if he waited for his own words to return to him with meaning. He had passed the torch of knowing to me. Now he watched the fire burn as if he didn’t know it was lit by his own hands.
“Well…” He grinned. “At least wait until you turn eighteen. Now…” He paused and winked. “Let me go out knowing—you’ll be more careful next time. Now go to sleep.”
“Okay…night, Dad.” I giggled and slipped under the covers. The events of the day flashed in my mind. Two rebel girls, Seekers searching for namesakes, traveling troubadours discovering treasures and untold adventures. And detours. Red letter days. A paddle talk conversation piece. An epic MD 20/20 thrill ride. Two Southern souls with wild beating hearts who were going to live fully and go out knowing.
16
Maw Sue’s Birth Story 1903
I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.
~Leonardo da Vinci
Meg and I heard Maw Sue’s story so many times, it felt like it was a part of us, tangled up in our thoughts, in our heads while we slept, whispering to us, leading us along until it became one with us. Maw Sue was a fragile child born at 3:13 on March 3, 1903 and named Susannah Josephine Worrell. Her mother, Joseymae, a Seeker by old tradition, knew all too well of the meaning of numbers, how they played a part in our gifts, our curses and the journey we take. She knew preparation was necessary, as her mother Brue had done for her and her six sisters. She performed the birth ceremony, and the baby’s entrance into the spiritual void, the passing over and through and back to the earthly realm, where she would continue to teach her the old ways. The ancient stories of the Seventh Tribe, the blood, the cutting of the hand, the ceremonial fires, the gathering of the brambles, the animals of sacrifice, the rite of passage, the prayer in smoke, the chants of ancient ones long before them. She taught her to recognize the gifts, the curses and the interceptors who come to steal, kill and destroy.
Sweet Susannah was only twelve years old when her mother died. For a time, having troubles and mourning her loss, Susannah obsessed over the mirror bin because it seemed all she had left to remind her of her mother. Her father, a traveling book salesman named Carvin Worrell, became worried about his daughter because she was way too obsessed with the rituals, to a point of harm, praying and chanting constantly while cutting her hand, dripping the blood onto the amulet and staring into the mirror like som
e ghost would return unbound, bringing with it her mother whom she missed with her whole being. It had been one year and seven months since Susannah had lost her mother. The loss was still as brutal as the first day and sent her to a place of violent suppressed weeping, or overstimulated hope. Bouncing from one emotion to another, she clung to the ceremonial journals and the mirror bin her mother had given her. This, along with the stories of the Seventh Tribe, was all she had left. For a time, her father calmed her but after a while, no one could. Susannah would stare into the mirror reflection on the lid of the wooden box and see her mother’s face melt into the pewter and then her voice would echo in her ears. She’d spend hours reading the old ceremony books to try and decipher their meaning. Her fascination with the mirror bin and the epic tales grew more intense each day.
They moved town to town, making their way across many states until they made it to a bank of river called the Trinity, in Eastern Texas. One day she noticed the face of her mother growing dim and faint. An army of unrecognizable voices replaced the soft maternal tones and drove her mad, unstable and displaced. She came undone. The horrible interceptors of which she had heard so much had now claimed her mind, her body and soul. Her eyes appeared wet all the time, her teeth set on edge, and excessive manic energy poured outward. Highs and lows tormented her soul, so much she was unable to sleep, the voices loud and terrible as she grew more tormented by the shadow interceptors.
She was alone and distant from the outside world, and with only her father to tend to her. He did the best a man could do, but he knew Joseymae was best at the raising of children, so most times, he was beside himself with worry, for himself, and his child. Susannah at most times was simply a corpse with breath. Barely able to make ends meet, and not able to care for her at his best, he had to make a decision. What Susannah did not know; was he had been courting a woman nearby. The woman named Earlene Codsworth was quite taken with him. By this time, Susannah came out of her state of neurosis only to be shocked to find a woman had taken the place of her mother. She eyed the woman with a keen clarity, suspicious of her intent with her father.
When she turned thirteen, her father remarried against the wishes of his daughter. But Susannah saw a different woman than her father saw. When he would leave for work, Earlene became controlling, mean and held contempt for her. Earlene had her mind set on one thing. Having her father all to herself. He did not stand up to her, and agreed to contact the only living sister of Joseymae, to help raise Susannah while they went on the road. Susannah was absolutely blindsided with grief and outrage her own father would do such a thing. In a bitter silence, she cried on the ride all the way to her Great-Aunt Raven’s house. A stranger she had never met—only heard about in stories from her mother. Aunt Raven was sister number one and from what she could remember, she was different, strange, and not like any of the others. And furthermore, whatever fractured the great Seventh Tribe started with Aunt Raven, something terrible and awful, yet her mother would never tell her what happened. This made Susannah anxious to stay with her. What if it didn’t work out? What if she was dangerous? Susannah’s mind worked overtime imagining all the ways it could go wrong. After all, her own father was abandoning her.
Though Susannah and Aunt Raven had never met, she knew immediately she was peculiar. From the stories and from her appearance standing in the yard when they arrived. She was a tall, lanky woman with black silky hair she wore in a bun and bulbous ears. Her face seemed unable to show emotion, without a wrinkle, as if she’d never smiled nor frowned, her expression always stoic and glazed. Susannah never forgot her first impression of Raven standing in the yard, as if she had just got off a gypsy bandwagon to live in the forest amongst the animals and herbs. She almost seemed to blend into the very nature of the forest itself, as if she could disappear at any second. Her wardrobe was as limited as her lifestyle. She dressed as a gypsy. She had three black skirts with clattering beads off the hemline signaling her whereabouts like cat bells. She rotated shirts as if they were symbolic of days and seasons. In winter, she wore dirt-colored ponchos and knee-length boots like a pirate. For the summers, skirts like rainbows and Jesus sandals. She wore a strange green scarf she never took off. It was either tied at her waist, around her neck, wrapped on her arm, or in her hair. I later learned this was the same scarf now in Meg’s possession. It freaked me out, but it also made me envious. I think it was because Meg never cared about the stories as much as I did.
Susannah knew little about Aunt Raven except from her mother’s stories. Aunt Raven was as distant as the clouds. Untouchable, moving in and out as she pleased. During her five-year stay, Susannah observed her curiously. Aunt Raven was solitary and secretive and kept to herself. She wasn’t moody, but distant as if she didn’t know what to do with a young girl. She was well in her seventies but looked as if she had found the fountain of youth, her skin plump and firm. She never married. She was content with a hermit lifestyle. If Susannah had not been there, she might have simply talked to birds, wild animals or herself. She rarely left the boundaries of her house, taking refuge in her wild garden, which consisted of five acres of torrential vines, massive cascading trees and an abundance of wild perennials and evergreens. The iron bell at the door never rang. No one visited. The only door knocks came from a delivery boy every two weeks with grocery and household items.
In her own weird way, Aunt Raven warmed up to Susannah over time. She was highly gifted and taught Susannah what she knew. Life skills were of importance to her. So were arts and literature. Because of this, Susannah learned to sew and fell in love with books, and her favorite place in the huge house was the giant library with floor-to-ceiling books in the upstairs loft. She read Fitzgerald, Lewis and Lofting. Faulkner, Hemingway, and Woolf. It was in the library she discovered a tribe of people with similar life issues as herself. She became keenly aware of what it was called to suffer as she did by those who also suffered and wrote about it. Mental illnesses, people stigmatized by society as crazy, unstable, maddened in the mind. Yet with all their faults, their mind troubles, they created genius. Their books, writings and short stories garnered an enormous impact on society and inspired their creative genius. Without the mutated gene, without sufferings, without the curse, none of the masters would have created anything worthwhile. Aunt Raven acquired this conclusion through much study and observation. Susannah and Aunt Raven, along with others before her, knew there’d be no masterpieces of art so popular in novels, in paintings, in sculptures, without the affliction. Their differences made them stand out from the crowd. Their sufferings paved the way for purpose. It set them apart. It inspired their gifts. Susannah marveled. It gave her hope. For herself. For her mind. For her sufferings.
This inspired her to read more and document her findings. Charles Dickens was known to have depression, but look at his novels. Vincent Van Gogh had bipolar disorder, a mind-altering Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde complex, but glory—look at his art. Depression followed Tolstoy and Nash, Churchill and Donizetti, and even our president Abraham Lincoln had his moments of clinical depression and thoughts of ending it all. Each one honed and chiseled their curses and made their suffering into their best work. They channeled the pain. They were willing to touch it without falling into its clutches, and by touching the pain, they created masterpieces.
Susannah wondered how she could convert her mind wanderings to good works. It was unthinkable at times, considering the vast canyon of her pain, her losses. Then one day, Aunt Raven was sitting in the parlor with a box in her lap. Susannah recognized it immediately. It was almost identical to the mirror bin. Susannah ran in a sprint and sat at her feet to touch it. “It’s just like mine.” She burst with emotion.
“Yes,” Aunt Raven said with a hint of contempt, “I reckon it is, but mine was first.” Her chin uplifted as if to push the words upwards, from beneath. “My father crafted it for me, inspired by my birth, my raven hair and the white streak down the side, See? It is the same.” She pointed to the box’s dark black
walnut coloring, with a white streak in the wood identical to her hair color. “I was the beginning of it all, it was for me, all me. My father said a rare white raven flew into the window before I was born, a sign of my coming arrival, and the white streak in my hair proved it to be true. When the bird flew away, it dropped a feather, this one here.” She pulled out a beautiful pure white feather.
“That’s amazing. So, you were the beginning, being number one, and my mother was the ending, being number seven,” Susannah said happily. But Aunt Raven did not look happy. Her eyes changed to a dim glow of garish black. Susannah became frightened.
“Do you want to see my mirror bin?”
THE HOUSE INSIDE ME Page 18
