by Pamela Morsi
I squatted down to get a better look.
Beneath the dirt and the hardened expression, the girl had a heart-shaped face. Those flashing eyes were the warm brown of maple syrup. And her chin, held high in the air, had a dimple on one side.
“So, you’re Dirty Shirts’s daughter,” I said.
She gritted her teeth and her words were almost a snarl. “I sure am. And I’m proud to say so. He’s the best daddy in the whole world. Better than yours. Better than all of yours.” She used her arm in a gesture to include the entire motley crew.
That statement had the boys bent over with laughter. It was too ludicrous to be believed. But she obviously believed it.
That’s when I decided to rescue her.
“She’s a raving maniac!” I declared. “The confinement has driven her out of her head. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
She opened her mouth in her own defense. I gave her a conspiratory wink. At first she seemed almost puzzled, but then she eyed me more closely. Slowly I saw understanding dawn on her. She was quick-witted and smart as the dickens.
Suddenly she began running back and forth in the pit. Her hands in the air, yelling like a crazy person.
“My God, what’s she doing?” Orb asked.
“She’s lost her mind,” I answered. “Quick, somebody go get a bucket of water.”
“A bucket of water?”
“That’s what you do when somebody’s having a fit,” I replied. “You throw cold water on them.”
“Who’s got a bucket?”
“We’ll have to get one at Hackshaw’s house.”
“The nearest water is in Murphy’s cistern.”
Within seconds they were all running off just as I knew they would. I turned to the girl.
“Give me your arm, Crazy Girl,” I told her.
I was able to pull her out easily. She weighed little more than a bag of feathers.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You did it,” I assured her. “I’ve never seen anyone act so much like a wild woman.”
She grinned at me.
“I’m Geri,” she said.
“Jerry? That’s a boy’s name.”
“No, it’s short for Geraldine,” she answered. “What’s your name?”
“J. D. Crabtree, but my friends call me Buddy.”
When she smiled, her eyes almost disappeared in the crinkles of her eyes.
“Then I’ll call you Buddy,” she said. “‘Cause you’re the kind of friend I want to have.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I’ll call you Crazy Girl, ‘cause that’s what you are. You’d better get out of here before they get back,” I told her.
“I’m not scared of them,” she said, defiant once more. “I can fight anybody I have to.”
“I’m not worried about fighting,” I told her. “That Piggy is so clumsy, he might trip and fall on us and we’d be squashed like bugs.”
She laughed then. It was the first time I’d ever heard the sound. It was better than music, sweeter somehow.
“I like you, Buddy Crabtree,” she said.
Then she jumped up and took off running. I watched her go with the strange, certain sense that she was important somehow to my life. She turned out to be the most important person I would ever know.
Just thinking about her made me feel better. I felt myself, once again, in the vacant lot beside the church that autumn morning. And from somewhere in the near silence of the place, I could hear the buzzing bees in clover and the distant barking of a dog. I began to hear music. I recognized it immediately, Count Basie’s orchestra playing “Wiggle Woogie.” A smile came to my face. I began tapping my foot. I glanced around. It must be playing on a jukebox somewhere.
That stopped me. There was no jukebox in town in 1933. And Count Basie wouldn’t play “Wiggle Woogie” until years later.
But I wasn’t in Catawah. I was in a hospital.
Was I hearing it here, in the hospital room?
3
Thursday, June 9. Evening
In the kitchen Jack could hear the twins arguing with each other at cyclic volume levels, as Claire cooked dinner. He wasn’t hungry, but he could appreciate the effort to include him in a meal. He was leaving for the airport within the hour and he didn’t know how long he would be gone.
He had his suitcase open on the bed and he stared into his underwear drawer. Jack was a briefs guy, specifically ribbed knit in navy or gray. He owned a million pairs. Tonight, in the drawer, there were only boxers. And novelty boxers at that, decorated with lipstick kisses or leprechauns or reindeer. He wanted to swear, but he didn’t bother. A man ought to be able to have a supply of clean underwear. But sometimes the simplest things were the most impossible.
He knew Claire was busy, but somehow she could never get around to doing his laundry. It shouldn’t be a problem. He was perfectly capable of doing it himself. But that always caused a fight. If he put a load of clothes in the washer, she took it as a criticism.
To Claire it meant that she wasn’t doing her job. Which meant that she was not a good wife. Which meant that he was sorry that he’d married her. Which meant that he wanted out.
Before they reached the rinse cycle the D word would be on the table again. It all just made his head hurt.
If he wanted a divorce, he would get one. All he wanted was clean underwear. That was just not going to happen.
He dug through the boxers until he came up with three that didn’t have lights or bells. One had a giant peanut on the front flap, another looked as if it were made from candy wrappers and the final one had birthday cakes with the directive, EAT ME! The twins had gotten him that pair, thinking it was very funny. Their weird sense of humor didn’t indicate any comprehension of the vulgar suggestion.
He put them in the suitcase. If he needed more, he’d just have to buy some. He wasn’t sure what to pack. His typical wardrobe didn’t seem exactly suited to a place like Catawah. It always seemed to him more like a jeans and T-shirt place. Should he take dress clothes? It would probably be the smart thing to do, but if he did it would seem as if he were planning on going to a funeral. But better to carry it than to not have it, he decided and pulled his most dour dark suit from the back of the closet.
He heard a car pull up into the driveway and walked across the room to peek out through the blinds. He was surprised to see his mother’s car, but was grateful, too. Maybe she could give him a ride to the airport, and Claire wouldn’t have to load up the entire crew in the minivan.
When the passenger door opened his brow furrowed. Both his mother and stepfather were here. Ernst had only been to his house a couple of times and that had been years ago. Jack fought the inexplicable impulse to run out and bar the front door. The midcentury three-bedroom ranch home that they’d managed to buy the year after Zaidi was born was cute and on the far edge of a very good school district. Jack had been very proud when he and Claire had signed their names to the mortgage note. But compared to his parents’ fabulous home and the million-dollar stucco fortresses of his stepbrothers, it was extremely modest. The new house, near his office, would be a showplace. But, to Jack, this home looked like what a guy who didn’t finish college might live in. A guy like himself.
“My parents are here,” he called out to Claire from the hallway.
“Toni!” he heard the twins screech in unison.
They came racing through the living room and actually got the front door open before Jack could get there. His stepfather was standing in the living room before anything could be done to stop him. The man was tall and stiff, with a prominent jaw and a confident stance. He was far from handsome, with thinning blond hair, slightly bulging eyes and glasses. There was a reserve about him that was almost glacial. But he thawed somehow when it came to his grandchildren. To them he was Pops. For Jack, Ernst might be the only father he’d ever known, but still he called him sir.
Toni, Jack’s mother, was slim and chic. She was always in the right place we
aring the right clothes and saying the right things. Rigorous personal grooming, good genetics and an excellent plastic surgeon kept her as fresh and youthful as women a decade younger.
He gave her a loving, but dutiful peck on the cheek.
“We weren’t expecting you,” Jack said, before realizing how unwelcoming it sounded. He doubted if his mother noticed. The kids were all talking a thousand words a minute, competing for her attention. Even Zaidi, who usually allowed herself to be overshadowed by her siblings, had urgent things to say.
Claire came in from the kitchen. She was barefoot and wearing ragged jogging shorts that had seen better days. There was no need to guess about the age of her faded blue T-shirt. Emblazoned across the front of it was KidsFair 2000. Her hair, which was actually a butterscotch blond, appeared mousy brown pulled back from her face in a ponytail.
Ernst hugged her.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said to her, as always. “You get prettier every time I see you.”
It was his standard greeting for females between eighteen and eighty-nine, though it wasn’t insincere. Ernst was a casually congenial guy. He was most comfortable in the company of men, but he liked women and he liked to see them smile. He’d figured out early in life that a nice compliment was the quickest way to accomplish that.
His stepfather turned his attention in Jack’s direction. “What’s the status with your grandfather?” he asked.
Jack knew his stepfather well enough to know this was not a polite inquiry. Dr. Van Brugge expected to be briefed on the old man’s condition. Jack responded as factually as a resident giving a report.
“According to the information that I know now,” he said. “And I’m getting all of that from the family. The doctors believe that his fall was actually due to a stroke. He struck his head as he went down, and that apparently complicates the assessment of how much damage has been done.”
“How old is the fellow?” Ernst asked.
“Eighty-four.”
Ernst shook his head. “It’s not good. But it might be several days before you know anything.”
“Know anything about what?” Peyton asked.
“About the prognosis for your great-grandfather,” Ernst answered.
“What are prog noses? And why does our great-grandfather need one?” Presley asked.
Zaidi made a disparaging snort. “A prognosis is not something on your face,” she told the twins with great superiority. “It’s an idea about what’s going to happen.”
“Very good, Zaidi,” Ernst said. The girl raised her chin, proud and beaming.
“Nobody knows what’s going to happen,” Presley piped in, clearly not pleased with her older sister’s getting the attention. “You’d have to be like a witch or something to see into the future.”
“Or maybe if you had a time machine,” Peyton suggested. “You could go to the future and then come back and tell everybody what happened.”
“Yeah, like when Jimmy Neutron was trying to save the school mascot,” Presley agreed.
“So is Grandpa Crabtree going to die?”
Zaidi’s question was mostly intended to impress Ernst with her toughness and lack of emotion. Jack knew it was a facade. She might not know Grandpa Crabtree very well, but she was a girl who could cry copious tears over road-kill. It was best to keep the kids out of this conversation.
“Why don’t you guys go...ah...set the table or something,” he suggested. “I need to talk to your grandparents privately.”
“Zaidi has already set the table,” Peyton informed him.
“Then find something else useful to do,” Jack suggested.
“Why don’t you go pack up your bags,” his mother said. “You’re going to be staying with Pops and me for a few days.”
That bombshell was met with ecstatic exuberance by the children. They went racing to their bedrooms in celebration. Jack glanced incredulously at Claire. Her expression indicated as much surprise as his own.
“You’re taking the children?”
His mother nodded. “Claire needs to go with you to Oklahoma.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does,” his mother insisted. “You don’t know what you’re going to find up there. You’ll be dealing with all those people that you hardly know, and you’ll be in a strange place all by yourself, struggling with serious family issues. A man needs his wife with him for that. I still feel badly that Claire didn’t go with you to your grandmother’s funeral. Bud is the last tie to your father. That’s important.” Jack was caught off guard by that statement. He felt he had no ties to his father at all. His father was a faded photograph and a name on his birth certificate. His grandparents were distant strangers for whom he was forced to make a dutiful visit every few years. They had nothing to do with his life or his family.
“I’m not planning to stay up there long,” Jack told her. “I’m thinking to get the old man stabilized. If it seems like he’s getting better, I’ll make arrangements for a nursing home. If not, well, I’m taking a suit for the funeral.”
Toni nodded. “And that’s exactly why you need Claire with you. You always think everything is either this or the other, but when it comes to people, it’s always some of both. You’ll need her beside you to keep your head on straight.”
“I can’t just leave the children with you,” Claire piped in. “It’s summer and they have activities.”
“I know what time of year it is,” Toni said. “And we have as many activities in our neighborhood as you do here. I’ve raised children myself. I’m sure I can manage this healthy trio.”
“Mom, it’s really not necessary. I—”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” his mother said. “Claire’s going with you. You need her. Ernst and your brothers are all going to pitch in. That’s what families do for each other. So go get your bags packed. We’ll get you to the airport.”
Claire felt completely un-put-together and was certain that she’d forgotten something essential. That was not particularly surprising since she’d organized her suitcase in about fifteen minutes, during which time her children were constantly interrupting her with packing concerns of their own. They’d arrived at the airport to buy tickets and were told if they could make it to the gate quickly, they’d have fail-safe connections to Tulsa. Running to security and then sprinting for the gate, they managed to get the plane that laid over in Dallas. Unfortunately, their flight to Tulsa was canceled, and they sat at Love Field for hours before being rerouted to Oklahoma City. That meant a two-hour car drive after they landed. And it was already after 10:00 p.m.
Beside her, Jack had been mostly quiet, but as he stared out the plane window, watching the sprinkling of lights on the ground, he spoke to her.
“Welcome to Oklahoma City,” he said with a thoughtful sigh. “It’s the only metropolis in the world with two airports each named after someone killed in a plane crash.”
Claire frowned at him. “That’s not good.”
He took her hand and smiled at her. “Think of the upside,” he teased. “If we’re killed in a fiery crash, then we don’t have to show up in Catawah.”
She shook her head at his sarcastic humor, but she enjoyed having him hold her hand, having him smile at her. It seemed, lately, there wasn’t a whole lot of time for smiling and hand-holding.
“Catawah will be fine,” she assured him. “It’s not so bad, really.”
Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The best thing I can say about the place is that when you’re not there, you never feel like you’re missing out on anything.”
She laughed and shook her head. Claire knew that Jack didn’t care much for Catawah. She’d only visited three times in ten years of marriage. Not enough to really have an opinion. But it seemed like an ordinary, rural place. The Crabtrees always appeared delighted to see him, though maybe a little ill at ease, not certain about how to behave around the grandson they hardly knew. Jack was very different from them. Not in appearance.
He actually favored each of them in some way. But it was difficult to even imagine that they shared genetic material. They were so guileless and uncomplicated. And Jack...Jack was not.
They landed without mishap and taxied into the gate at Will Rogers International.
As they gathered their things and deplaned, Claire thought about the very first time she had been to Oklahoma. It had been just the two of them and only a few weeks after their wedding. Back then an eight-hour interstate car trip had seemed like an adventure. And it had been a relief to be away from the disapproving adults in San Antonio. She hadn’t known what to expect of Jack’s grandparents.
“They’re just country people,” Jack told her. “Not very sophisticated. They’ve lived their whole lives in this dinky, rundown little town and they’re satisfied with that.”
They had also seemed perfectly satisfied with Claire. While Jack’s parents and her own had been furious about their hasty, no-nonsense nuptials at City Hall, the Crabtrees had been delighted. To this day, Claire still vividly remembered meeting the sweet couple.
“If this girl suits you, Jack,” Bud said, grinning at Claire, “then she suits us just perfect.”
The old man’s smile was a lot like Jack’s, the same handsome face with a sun-browned complexion and beautiful white teeth. The two men had a similar long, lean build, as well. Claire realized even then that looking at Bud was in some ways looking into her husband’s future.
“And what about you, Miss Claire?” he asked. “Are you going to be able to make a good provider out of this rapscallion?”
Claire smiled at the use of the ancient descriptor, but replied with complete seriousness. “He’s such a hard worker,” she assured him. “I don’t have any worries about that.”
Bud gave her a wink and a nod. “That’s good,” he said. “You keep him on the straight and narrow.”
