Cute little Fluffy’s got feline leukemia?
It is what it is.
You squandered your kid’s college fund at Caesar’s Palace?
It is what it is.
We are our decisions, and sometimes those decisions are really, really crappy. Lean into the shame and let it punish you until you forget, and then do it all over again the next day.
I begin to look for the movies I’ve sent my parents as stocking stuffers each Christmas. First I check the entertainment center—no, the neighbors might see them there. Maybe they’re hidden in the curio with all of Mom’s Christmas village collectibles and Hummel statues—nope, not there either. Finally, I check Mom’s beloved bookshelves Dad made for her—it’s the perfect spot, really, for contraband, if you’re Mary Willow. In her eyes, books were the antidote to all bad things: ignorance, boredom, complacency. Ironically, I feel the same way about film, but for Mom, words on a page were justified in a way scenes in a movie were not.
Sure enough, when I go to the center shelf I see Great Expectations, Gilead, and A Prayer for Owen Meany sticking out a little farther than the rest. Like a literary lightning bolt of clarity, I realize these novels’ story lines are her unspoken dreams for me—allowing love to fuel redemption; finding beauty in the ordinary, even a cornfield in the glow of an Iowa sunset; and getting the ultimate gift of an answered prayer: life and destiny colliding when you least expect it.
I dismantle the mini wall of books, and I am greeted by a stack of familiar friends: The Virgin Suicides, The Usual Suspects, American Psycho, Reservoir Dogs. I grab the one on the top, the first movie I ever sent my parents in the hopes that we could someday discuss its cinematic merits, and I pop it in the VHS player.
It resumes to its last stopping point, and when I see what that stopping point was—subsequently my parents’ breaking point—now blaring at high volume because my parents’ hearing was never great, I begin to laugh, and I cannot stop. A naked serial killer named Buffalo Bill is wearing a blond wig and lipstick and dancing around the creepiest basement ever recorded on film.
This is where the day, the hour, the current tragedy that is my life, catches up with me.
Thoughts of my parents, nestled into their La-Z-Boys on a Saturday night, getting through the majority of Silence of the Lambs, only to call it quits so close to the end. In my grief-induced haze, I can’t decide which is more astounding: that I actually had the audacity to send them such a film, or that they almost finished it for me.
I am still nervously laughing out loud at the extended serial-killer dance sequence and the absurdity of it all when I hear something.
“Janie?” a voice yells over Buffalo Bill’s dance music. Startled, I turn around to see four casserole-holding women looking past me, horrified at the sight on the screen—naked Buffalo Bill writhing about in all his serial-killer glory, now with his man parts tucked neatly out of sight. In a panic, I fumble for the remote, but accidentally hit the volume button instead of pause, just in time for Buffalo Bill, at full volume, to drop a couple of f-words and utter one of the most disturbing lines of dialogue in all of cinematic history.
They are frozen in horror, the mother-women who have come a calling because that’s what small-town neighbors do when tragedy strikes. At the early inklings of death, their very DNA demands first the baking and then the delivering of the perfect casserole that sums up their customized condolences. One of them carrying an oblong Pyrex dish draped in a hand-crocheted dish towel uses her free hand to cover her mouth. Another woman with a fancy zip-up covered casserole-to-go dish stares at the screen wide-eyed like it’s the scene of a bad Highway 71 accident from which she can’t avert her eyes. The other two cling to their green bean and tater tot casseroles, protecting them like they’re children in the presence of unsightly evil.
I finally manage to hit the pause button, and now the silence is deafening.
“The door was open,” Green Bean Casserole says apologetically.
In a schizophrenic series of reactions, I first let out an awkward laugh, accompanied by a defense of my parents. “This is not Mom and Dad’s—they hated this type of thing,” is where I start, but then as the disapproving stares soften into something closer to pity, I am overcome with emotion and begin to tear up. “When I’m stressed, movies comfort me,” I say to the God-fearing bakers of Crocker County. “Movies are like a warm blanket, you know, really comforting,” I add as we all stare at the paused screen image of a serial killer frozen in his naked, maniacal rage.
“Beautiful day,” sings out Tater-tot Casserole, and I’ve never been so happy to hear a weather-related declaration. “Let’s get this food into the deep freezer. We don’t want to be late to the service.”
I sigh. Oh God. Not the deep freezer.
I tell the casserole ladies a heartfelt thank you and tell them I’ll see them at the funeral home. There’s a stop I need to make on the way. After a three-minute drive down the blacktop, and two right turns into True City, they call to me like two giant beacons of hope.
As a kid, I learned the facts behind Jack and Mary, our massive grain silos. The residents of True City decided to name them after Mom and Dad for one reason: in 1973, after Dad had received an Elks award for founding the True City Historical Society (designed to torture grade school children with lessons about True City’s history), Dad had joked, “Hell, gentlemen, if you really want to show your gratitude, name those new behemoth silos after me and my lovely wife.” So they did.
But as I approach them now, all I see are my parents, larger than life, reaching for the sky, commemorated by people who knew them best.
I pull the Aston Martin up as close as I can before getting out and walking toward them.
When I see the expanse of what lies at the base of the two towering silos, my heart feels the weight of them, and I struggle to stay on my feet. I stop to take it in, but there’s so much, I’m forced to rotate my head to see it all.
Love. Everywhere.
Everywhere I look I see love. It’s a temporary graveyard of love. Dozens after dozens after dozens of tributes to my parents. It looks like every member of True City has brought something. I step over a practical offering of a jumbo box of Kleenex. Then a mini shrine of Mom’s favorite: lilacs bundled in recycled ribbon. I make my way farther through the living memorial to see Dad’s famous gavel with a note attached:
Gavel for sale: Never used. Jack Willow liked to yell in his courtroom instead! Miss you already, Jack.
Amid the rocks and gravel there are spots of tenacious blades of grass determined to get through, sprouting up in between offerings of Irish whiskey from the Elks Club and a hand-sewn quilt from the Ladies Auxiliary. Someone has painted a watercolor of our giant willow tree and put it in a homemade frame of twigs and branches. The Boy Scouts have left a rope with some sort of fancy knot tied in it and a note written in crayon, thanking Dad for being the best scout leader in Crocker County. An honorary certificate from the True City Public Library is taped on Mom’s silo, declaring that Mary Willow holds the record for the most books checked out in a lifetime.
Those that couldn’t make it to the house to drop off food have left disposable containers—no sense losing a perfectly good pan—containing True City favorites like Scotcheroos, sheet-cake brownies, chocolate chip cookie bars, and the ultimate sign of despair, Jell-O salad. They all line the base of both silos like a little sidewalk of grief and sustenance. No doubt, a designated member of True City will retrieve them later tonight and bring them to the house. Waste is not an option. Perfectly practical for every occasion. Mom would approve.
Propped up at the base of the silo ladder jutting out of the cement is one of Mom’s wooden spoons, with a note from someone named Martha, saying that even though it’s been five weeks since the church bake sale, she is finally returning it to the best baker in True City.
It’s true. Mom is…was…the b
est baker in True City, and probably in all of Crocker County. She was also a raging perfectionist, so baking wasn’t her only exceptional skill. She sewed better than everyone else, her garden was enviable, she was more well-read, and she was a fabulous dancer. I used to hate how good she was at everything, as if she did it on purpose, and some of the ladies in True City would get frustrated with her irritating perfection too. “Mary Willow, practically perfect,” I heard Mrs. Anderson snicker when Mom brought a four-tier red-white-and-blue cake, sprinkled with rose petals from her garden, to the Fourth of July veterans’ fundraiser.
Dad was certainly not without his faults. “Walking Encyclopedia” they’d call him when Dad would go on some tangent about something he’d recently learned, or when he’d cite evidence for why he was right. Somewhere between Exhibit A and Exhibit B, the men at the coffee shop would lose patience, and sometimes even storm out before pie was served. Problem was, despite their eye rolling and huffing, Dad was almost always right, which was annoying. I knew that from years of firsthand experience.
And both Mom and Dad had a penchant for being blind optimists, which could be tiresome. They each disguised it differently—Mom shrouded her idealism in careful silence and hard work, while Dad buried his underneath gruff, red-herring comments like “Hell, it’ll probably crash and burn,” but every last person in True City knew that if something needed to be done, Jack and Mary would get it done, because they believed anything was possible.
If I didn’t already know this, someone reminded me. Two feet to my left, someone had used various rocks and pebbles to spell out Believe so. Everyone in True City knew this phrase. Dad had used it everywhere: graduation speeches, coffee shop get-togethers, funerals, anywhere he’d sensed the slightest hint of doubt. There was a buffer of space around the words, as if Dad’s mantra deserved the reverence, as if he deserved the reverence.
So here I stand before Jack Know-It-All and Practically-Perfect Mary Willow, stretching to the heavens, holding a million bushels of grain and a million different wishes at the same time, and for me today—and let’s face it, probably forever—their flaws are buried deep beneath the soybeans, deep beneath the corn, immortalized by the power of love. Of all of the emotions I’m supposed to feel—respect for their character, gratitude for their full lives, remorse for my ignorant and selfish teenage ways—I only feel one thing.
I miss my mom and dad.
Chapter Nine
“Jane. How are you?” Sid sounds afraid to ask. The staticky cell reception reminds me how far away he is.
For starters, I am a horrible person, I consider saying. Being here reminds me of everything in my life that I’ve screwed up. And oh yeah, I just witnessed the culmination of my sad, twisted life in the form of dozens of casseroles, frozen in time, stacked up like guilty little corpses in my mother’s deep freezer.
“I’m awesome,” I say, one hand on the wheel. “On my way to my parents’ funeral.” Even my sarcasm sounds defeated, so Sid doesn’t dare comment on it.
“You have fifty-seven messages from Nick.”
I wait a beat, take in some thick, humbling Iowa air until my head feels light. “Is Nick having a Schmidty day? Cuz I’m having a Schmidty day, Sid!” I say, revving up. I know I’m reminiscent of the lunatic version of Clark Griswold when he takes Walley World hostage, and I don’t care. This is what crazy sounds like on a cell phone. In five minutes, I’ll be face-to-face with my past, with people who will want to hug the Before Jane as she says her final goodbye to her parents. I want to vomit.
I begin nodding to nobody. “Yep. A super, super-duper Schmidty day! To be accurate, Sid, I feel like a piece of Schmidt, and as far as I’m concerned, Nick Wrightman can eat Schmidt and die!”
Five long seconds of silence go by before Sid says, “Good talk.”
More silence.
I can’t stand the quiet. “Do you think there’s hope for me, Sid?”
“It is what it is, right?” he says, mocking.
“That’s my line.”
One second, two seconds, three seconds. “Do you think there’s hope for you, Jane?”
No, I don’t. I’m a hopeless mess.
I try not to make the accent too much. “I wish I could quit—”
“You’re going Brokeback Mountain on me right now? You really need to stop doing that, Jane, talking in film dialogue when you don’t want to answer questions. Seriously. You’re an award-winning writer, for God’s sakes. It’s the only thing you do that’s cliché. Makes you sound pedestrian.”
I almost give Sid an obscure line from Midnight Cowboy in response to me being pedestrian, but then I remember I’m on the verge of burying my parents, and suddenly, something in me breaks. I pass the Petersons’ barn, see True City ahead, getting larger, closer. “You still there?” I squeak out, trying to control the ugly cry that’s forming without my consent.
“I’m here, Jane.” He sounds like a father torn between scolding and consoling.
“Sid?” I say, too exhausted to keep my guard up anymore. “I think you might be my only friend.”
“I am.” He sounds confident. “I have access to your Facebook profile. Nobody likes you.”
I laugh, which is his intent, and I am grateful for it. For him.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“No, but you should have.” Now he’s scolding. “You should say thank you to people more often. While you’re at it, live a little. Go on a date, for the love of God.”
I think of how my last date ended in an argument before dessert was even served. (What kind of moron calls Casablanca dumb just because he thinks I’ll be impressed with his putting down a mainstream movie?) I change the subject to an inaccuracy that I need to correct. “I don’t really want Nick Wrightman to die.” I may be a bitch, but I’m not a killer. “And since you gave me some advice, here’s some for you. You should probably tell me to fuck off more often.”
“I like how you’re thinking.” His voice is gentle, careful to find the right tone.
“Thank you,” I say, trying out my new phrase. “I gotta go, Sid.”
“Yes, you do. Hey, Jane?” He takes the kind of well-placed pause that an editor would take, and while striking the perfect balance between shocking distraction and unconditional love, sweetly says, “Fuck off.”
Chapter Ten
Everyone knows I’m here. Already. This is how it is in small midwestern towns. They sense an out-of-towner like they sense an insincere apology or a store-bought cake. I drive down Main Street, past Sweet’s Bakery, Carol’s Diner, and I see passersby looking at me, the car, whispering. Before I reach the post office, a young girl flags me down, motions for me to pull over.
“You’re on your way to Happy, aren’t you?” a little girl says when I roll down the window.
On my way to happy? I’m soon to be on my way to forlorn, shamed, heartbroken, but definitely not happy.
“Happy,” the little girl says to me again, “from Happy Days Funeral Home.”
“Right.” I shake my head. In my haze, I’d forgotten that, against all logic, Happy is the funeral director’s name at Happy Days, True City’s one and only funeral home. I’d talked with him on the phone yesterday when we wrapped up plans for the funeral. When I’d inquired about the ironic name of the funeral home, he’d answered, in a strange, childlike way, “It’s named after my daddy, Happy Senior. Good thing it’s not named after Uncle. His name is Lucky.”
He was right. Lucky’s Funeral Home is just mean. Even by my standards.
“End of Main Street, right?” I ask the girl and point toward my destination.
The girl nods and begins to run away.
“Hey,” I call after the girl, but when she turns around, I can only stare and wonder how she knows me.
The girl glances north at the Jack and Mary grain si
los towering into the heavens. Her eyes widen. “You’re that Corn Queen.” She smiles in awe, then scurries away, and I remember something Mom and Dad told me a few years back. Each year now, before the new Crocker County Corn Queen is crowned, the MC pays tribute to the most famous Corn Queen in the history of the Crocker County Corn Festival: me. It is this version of me, a legend that has gained steam through time and imagination, that the little girls of True City know.
I drive away wearing the girl’s comment like a heavy, awkward crown, and dizziness sets in again. How can I feel both lonely and accepted at the same time? I feel a million miles away from what I know, yet everything here is the kind of familiar found only in a place where people knew you before the world set in.
A family of four waves at me as I pass Déjà Vu, the indoor movie theater that people only go to in the winter when it’s too cold to go to True View, the drive-in on the outskirts of town. The three movies listed on the marquees in black block letters create an unfortunate sentence when strung together—Fantastic Four Knocked Up Nancy Drew—but what makes me really smile is that the movies’ release dates were five years ago. New releases are a big-town luxury, like McDonald’s or higher education.
In between the movie theater and the police station is a new brick building, still under construction. A temporary vinyl banner hangs from the roof, boasts Home of the True City Thespians. Since when did True City have real, live theater? And then another surprise that hits me like the first, deep-bellied note of a big brass band. Coming soon… The Music Man.
My pulse speeds up, flutters at the very thought of it. Mother’s very own Harold Hill right here in True City. But then a hole forms somewhere in my heart, and toxic could’ve beens spill out everywhere, pump through my veins. I sink into my seat, Dad’s meticulous upholstery job holding tight, and I think of all the things they’re going to miss out on.
When I pass Strickner’s Mercantile, a sharp pain announces itself in my core. I feel my small hand in Dad’s. Pick one out, kid; the butterscotch ones are good.
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