What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

“I understand. I won’t pester you.”

  I sniffled, then handed him the bag of chocolate chip cookies. “Don’t let me have any more.”

  He held another one out. I took it. Couldn’t help it. I love chocolate chip cookies.

  That night, on my own deck, Liddy neighing below in the barn, I was again killed by guilt.

  Kade had been honest about his past, and I had not. He’d asked a few questions about my childhood and my marriage, over the three days, and I had danced around the answers, then said, “I don’t want to talk about that, so quit asking.” He respected it, and we moved on. But I had not taken the opening to be truthful. There was so much to hide.

  I tapped my fist against my head, then opened my hands. Those light, tiny scars stared up at me, as if asking me to be honest.

  It was all about me. Me, me, me. I wanted a job. I liked the people. I liked Kade.

  What I wanted.

  What Grenady wants.

  I don’t like myself sometimes.

  Not at all.

  I’ve got a moose up my butt and I’ve got to get it out and get moving in a better direction.

  I stared at the forest on the mountain, a few wisps of fog clinging to the tops of the trees. I would not go in there at night for anything. Never. You can get lost in a place like that.

  Like you can get lost in life.

  The first models of the oversized rocking chairs were done. We had an All Hendricks Meeting, as Kade called them, for the unveiling. Tim had put drop cloths over them, three over the largest ones.

  Drum roll . . . Ta-da!

  They were fantastic. The seats were wide, the backs extra tall—one back six feet tall—the scrolling intricate. The rocking chair that looked like it came from Alice in Wonderland with the curving back was super fun. There was a poppa bear, momma bear, and baby bear chair, too.

  We clapped and cheered, and Kade yelled, over the noise, “Nice idea, Grenady.”

  Eudora took photos and put them up on the website the next day. They sold immediately.

  Kade opened a new section on the website for them. The page was titled “Wild Rocking Chairs.”

  I was pretty darn pleased he used my last name.

  Eudora said, “I once sat in a rocking chair at a sheik’s home overlooking the gulf. It didn’t look anything like these. His had gold handles. There was gold all over, in fact. And no kidding, a harem. Teenage girls. Appalling. He wore too much aftershave and thought he was suave. He was so arrogant, he didn’t know how ignorant he was.”

  What? “Why were you there?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Making new friends.”

  “You needed new friends in a harem?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I would never be in a harem.”

  Rozlyn said, “I bet I could put Leonard on that Papa Bear rocking chair, climb on top, and rock him all the way to heaven.”

  “I’m going to hope you get that chance, Rozlyn,” I said.

  “Me too,” Eudora said. “Although the rocking sensation might make you dizzy. It did me.”

  What? With the sheik?

  “Put him to sleep, though, then I did what I needed to do.” Eudora pointed to a brooch on her jacket.

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re hinting at someday?” Was she telling the truth? I looked at those high cheekbones, the elegant beauty, the sleekness and smarts. Swing me a cat, I bet she was.

  “Maybe over tequila.”

  Kade winked at me when I raced out of there to start my shift at Tildy’s.

  On Monday I asked around about doctors. The name Camille Johnson came up several times. I made an appointment for Rozlyn. I wrote down the appointment and gave Rozlyn the information.

  She burst into tears at her desk. She had an ice pack sitting on her head like a hat.

  I gave her a hug. “You have to go. Your headaches are making me feel ill.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I think I will. It’s probably hormones.”

  “Yep.”

  “Or stress.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Or I’m dehydrated.”

  “Sure. Drink up.”

  Alice, My Anxiety, skipped up another raggedy notch.

  That night I started working on the collage with the woman in a ball gown from the late eighteen hundreds. I painted part of the background first, the dark forest and trees, then sketched and painted her. I laid out the trinkets I would use on her dress. The charms, the shiny buttons, the sequins . . .

  I must art, or I don’t exist.

  35

  Children’s Services Division

  Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

  Age: 13

  Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

  Date: January 18, 1990

  Goal: Adoption

  Employee: Angel Hollis

  Grenadine has been removed from Hugh and Rose Hutchinson’s home as the police raided their compound and arrested them for a large marijuana-growing operation last night.

  Grenadine is inconsolable and says she will “run away” and go back to the Hutchinsons. She said she has not been a part of the Children’s Services Division for five years because we “suck the big one” because of what happened to her at the Berlinskys and that Daneesha Houston only came to see her as “a friend.” She said that Hugh called Daneesha “sister,” and they were all part of a big family.

  Grenadine said she is the Hutchinsons’ daughter.

  Children’s Services Division

  Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

  Age: 14

  Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

  Date: March 5, 1990

  Goal: Adoption

  Employee: Angel Hollis

  Grenadine was picked up by the police after her foster parents, Aaron and Shelley Corrinder, reported her missing. This is the fifth time. She was trying to hitchhike to Silverton City to be with Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson, who are out on bail.

  We have returned her to the Corrinders. I explained to Grenadine that she will not be able to live with the Hutchinsons again and that they are going to jail for selling drugs.

  She said, “But they didn’t sell them to me, and they don’t do drugs, and it’s just mowi wowi, so why can’t I live with them?”

  She vows to run away again. She said, “You got a moose up your butt? Get it out and get moving.”

  I told her I didn’t understand what that meant, and she said Rose taught it to her and it means that I need to get the moose out of my butt and help her.

  I am crushed for Grenadine, and I have arranged counseling at her school and privately, but she refuses to go. She is losing what she considers to be her family after five years. I will go and see her in a few days and see how she is doing.

  Children’s Services Division

  Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

  Age: 14

  Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

  Date: March 6, 1990

  Goal: Adoption

  Employee: Angel Hollis

  The Hutchinsons have asked that Rose Hutchinson’s mother, Margaret DeSalle, be allowed to take care of Grenadine. That is not going to be possible, as Margaret’s second husband is an ex-felon, arrested for robbing multiple banks years ago.

  They then asked if Hugh’s mother, Clara Hutchinson, could take custody, but Clara was arrested for assault last year when she pistol-whipped her husband because he was “flirting with a slut.”

  The Hutchinsons then asked if Rose’s sister, Tulip Tenley, could take Grenadine, but Tulip was released from jail only three months ago for running a prostitution ring. You may have seen Tulip’s quote in The Oregon Journal: “I didn’t have any girls working for me, only women over twenty-one and they wanted to do it. Hell, they make $95 an hour, set their own schedules, and can quit anytime. Plus I paid their health insurance. Where’s the abuse?”

  Many other relatives have stepped up to care for
Grenadine, but for various reasons—including criminal records, probation, out on bail—they are not suitable. (It should be noted that none of Rose or Hugh’s relatives have records for any crimes against children or women. It’s bar fights; a war with one of the neighbors, which reminds me of the Hatfield and McCoy feud; assaults against other antigovernment, gun-toting hotheads, etc.)

  The Hutchinsons say they are going to sue like a (expletive) tornado to get Grenadine back, and they have told me that I am (expletive) colder than a cow’s tit in December. How they believe they can sue us from jail they could not explain. They are both livid and swear up a blue moon when I talk to them, and say it’s all been a governmental plot. Then they cry and I can’t get off the phone.

  Grenadine is near hysterical, furious, and says she feels like her second set of parents has died. She told me she feels like “a rabbit flattened under a steamroller.” She also told me she hates CSD, hates me, and that she hadn’t been in the program for years so what was I doing there?

  I have applied for personal counseling myself, as this situation has been tremendously upsetting, with everyone crying, but I have not heard back from the counselor. Who do I talk to?

  Children’s Services Division

  Child’s Name: Grenadine Scotch Wild

  Age: 14

  Parents’ Names: Freedom and Bear Wild (Location unknown)

  Date: March 13, 1990

  Goal: Adoption

  Employee: Angel Hollis

  Hugh and Rose Hutchinson were arrested today for disorderly conduct and harassment when they came here to talk to me and a supervisor about Grenadine. They were accompanied by Rose’s mother and stepfather, Hugh’s parents, Rose’s sister, Tulip, and about ten other assorted relatives whose names I can’t remember.

  Two of them were wearing hunting clothes and three were in camouflage—that’s something I remember clearly. I am not embarrassed to say that I was concerned about guns.

  The Hutchinson family, and company, insisted on getting Grenadine back. We told them that was not possible. Our discussion went on for a long time. They said that they knew the government had been spying on them and they were going to start a revolution.

  Hugh, Rose, Tulip, and their parents cried and became highly emotional and said something about swinging a cat, then Hugh kicked a desk and yelled “by shots and by fire,” which made me nervous. Rose threw a chair. The police were called. Hugh and Rose were shouting and said that we were keeping their daughter hostage and it was all a government plan.

  Hugh said because he was out on bail, he should be able to parent his “princess,” and Rose said that Grenadine was her soul daughter and without her she was missing her soul.

  They were, again, told that they could not parent Grenadine. Hugh protested with a liberal use of the f word while Rose told a police officer to shove it. When the police officer told her to leave, Rose said she wasn’t leaving until she got her daughter back. When a police officer grabbed her elbow, she swung and hit him. The police officer restrained her, Hugh swung at him and told him to get his (f word) hands off his wife, and that was when chaos started.

  All of the relatives engaged the police with verbal threats, arguing, slugging, or pushing. All of the Hutchinsons resisted arrest, and more police officers were called.

  Hugh and Rose were crying. Hugh kept yelling, “I love you, Rose, we’ll get her back from these (f word)!”

  Grenadine is in her new placement. She will not be allowed contact with the Hutchinsons. Her new foster parents, Bill and Sal Golden, say that she was, at first, almost hysterical, then she cried silently, and now she won’t speak at all and has a dead look in her eyes.

  It is my personal opinion that Grenadine should go back with the Hutchinsons while they are out on bail. She was safe and happy there, there is no indication that she was on drugs or even that the Hutchinsons smoked much marijuana, and never in front of Grenadine. (That’s what they told me.)

  Is shipping her from foster home to foster home for the next four years the best idea? I don’t think so. I would like to request a meeting to discuss this situation . . .

  36

  “What’s your favorite color, Kade?”

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. He was packed. Muscle packed.

  “Hmm.”

  He looked right at me across the table in his office. Outside it was beginning to snow. Light, fluffy flakes, swirling around.

  “I think my favorite color is about the color of your hair.”

  “Funny.” We laughed. I was trying to get him to choose a paint color for his walls. “So a burned orange with some brown thrown in?”

  “I’d call it fire. That’s my favorite color.”

  I thought of orange walls. “No can do. Orange won’t work. What other colors?”

  He smiled. “Blue.”

  “Blue? I can work with blue. Okay, here’s what I’m thinking for your office.”

  I had brought paint chips with me. I pulled all the blues. He looked at them, moved them around with his hand for half a minute while I thought carnal and lusty thoughts, and said, “I’m a guy and I’m confused already. I don’t decorate. This is your gig, Grenady.”

  “How about this one?” I held up a light blue-gray. “I call it steel blue. It’s manly, hint of gray.”

  “A manly paint color. I like it.”

  “I was thinking that, in terms of the décor of your office, we could consider the history of your company. What do you think?”

  “I don’t really know where you’re going with this, but I think that’s another good idea.”

  “Tell me about your business. How did you start it? How did it become what it is today?”

  “You might regret asking that question, but I’ll keep it short so as not to bore you to death. I came up here after I was released from prison and got a job in a mill. Nights and weekends, I made furniture. I rented out a back room of Grizz’s house. I know you know Grizz.”

  “Yes, I love that man.”

  “Me too. He’s generous. Helpful. Anyhow, he rented me a room and let me use his garage to make furniture. I even told him about my background, and he said, ‘I’m not here to judge you, son,’ and that was it. I’ve always been grateful for that.”

  “He told me you built him a desk, dresser, and bed.”

  “I did. My gift to him for helping me. The rent he charged was nominal. He deserved it. Anyhow, at first I sold the furniture through a man in town who owned a shop, but he took twenty percent commission, and that didn’t make sense to me to lose that much. I sold three tables in three days through him, then dropped him.

  “I took out ads in the newspaper with photos of my furniture, and the orders started coming in. I was selling tables, chairs, desks, you name it, out of Grizz’s garage and out of the back of my truck. I also bought an old, beat-up trailer and took the furniture to shows.

  “I’d be in and out in three hours. Every piece I made I sold immediately. Soon I had enough money to rent out a heated pole barn. I worked in half of it and lived in the other half. When I had enough customers, savings, the saws and equipment I needed, and I was sick of working seventy-five hours a week, I quit my mill job and made furniture full time.”

  “That must have been one of the best days of your life.”

  “It was. I could never go back to working for anyone else.”

  “You hired people pretty quick, didn’t you?”

  “Within a month of moving into the pole barn. I had done the math and knew that I could make more money if I could hand off part of the construction, then I would do most of the carving. I hired Sam and Angelo first, then Petey. I was selling the furniture to private parties, but I knew I had to expand to businesses, so I did.

  “I cold-called hotels, lodges, other businesses. Sent them my information, photos, met with them, took orders. I hired Eudora to organize everything. She had just arrived in Oregon. I didn’t know much about her when I hired her. She said she work
ed in D.C. for the government but wouldn’t say much about what she did. All I knew was that she was supersmart and quick. Anyhow, it went from there.”

  “And your pole barn?”

  “I kept having to hire. I knew I couldn’t live there much longer—too many people, equipment, saws—so I rented a house nearby. I run a tight ship and I saved money, so when we outgrew the pole barn, I was ready with cash in hand to build this, with little debt, which has since been paid off.”

  “Do you happen to have photos of the pole barn and Grizz’s garage with your saws? Maybe your pickup truck that you used to haul the furniture around?”

  He thought about it. “Maybe. I have a box of photographs somewhere at home. I’ll look.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “It’s a secret, cowboy.”

  “A secret?” He chuckled. “I don’t like secrets.”

  “You’ll live. Buck up.”

  He tapped a pen. “In addition to my office, I want to hire you to make me a painting, too, when you have time. I know you’re busy right now, so no stress.” He held up both hands. “Whenever you can.”

  I sucked in my breath. Art. For Kade. Oh boy.

  “What would you like me to paint?” This would be nerve-racking. What if he hated what I made? “Have any ideas, Smart One?”