“I am soooo MAD!” I screamed loudly and sudden. A voice that wasn’t familiar took over. I was captured, overruled, dominated. “I could kill somebody! I could literally scream for hours!” Doc looked concerned and followed me with her eyes. I grabbed the pillow off the couch and pressed it to my face and screamed. A strange, dark bellowing howl leaked from me, intolerable, beastly and awful. Something that died long ago, resurrected itself and it was angry. “Whyyyyy?” I howled. I sat on the couch, threw the pillow across the room, hit my legs with a fury then got back up, panicky and trotting, unable to sit still. “Why do I feel so damn responsible for everyone?” My desperate glaze fell across docs face. She replied in her calmer-than-calm tone.
“Why do you think you feel responsible for others Willodean?”
“I asked you first.” I snapped back. Why was I so mad?
“It’s okay to feel anger Willodean. It’s a healthy emotion if channeled.”
“Oh really?” I spat. “Well it doesn’t feel healthy to me. Why can’t I just take care of me, not worry about what everybody says or does? I mean, shit. I have no idea who I am. I don't feel anything but pain, pain and more pain. Am I just made of pain?” I moaned and grabbed my head, fumbled with my hair, wrapped my arms across my chest, paced across the rug. A restlessness took over my body. I sat down on the couch, got up from the couch, walked back to the window, and then back to the couch.
“I feel like I need to ask someone to tell me how I’m supposed to feel because I really don’t know what I feel anymore. Or if I ever did. Or…if it’s even normal to feel in the first place. Am I normal?” I glared at Doc, my eyes on fire.
“What is normal?” Doc says shrugging her shoulders. I hate her answering my questions with a question, psyche babble protocol.
“I’ve never been normal Doc. I don't know what normal is. I’ve always felt different. I hated it. Just hated it and I hate feeling that I hate it. I hate feeling period. And then I feel guilty for hating it. What kind of crap is that? All I do is feel. I’m sick of it. Dammnit!” I flew across the room stomping and pretending I was on top of wallpaper Branson. The idea of hurting him gave me satisfaction, if only temporary. “You know, instead of feeling, I'd rather be nuts. At least being nuts you don't feel.”
I glared at Doc until her she won the stare off and I had to blink. She wasn't going to speak until I answered my own questions. I felt helpless and slumped to the floor, in front of the couch, my arms flaying across the cushions. I screamed into the pillow again, my madness muffled into the fabric seams. I will probably have to buy this pillow from her. We have become to close. What the hell is wrong with me? I feel like a kid, a lost goddamned kid. After my insidious screams and the office rampage, I was exhausted. I was so empty I could barely lift my head. I had never felt that much anger and actually let it express itself in me and out of me. I felt exposed and vulnerable as if someone stabbed hot poker holes in me. The Willow tree was damaged and leaked. It cried and wept and flowed with southern sap. A multitude of redeeming tears spilled out from the rooms, inside the house. Loud wailing cries could be heard in my gifted ears. I could hear the little girl crying with me.
“I have all these things in my head that make me crazy.” I said making little motions with my hands as if my words didn’t make sense, so I was air drawing it like a child. I grabbed three tissues out of the Kleenex box in front of me, blew my nose fiercely, and waved them like a white flag of surrender while babbling on and on. Doc was more attentive that ever. And then I realized why. I was talking about myself. Not Branson. No one else. Just me. Me. Me. Me.
“I have things in my head I’ve always felt but never told anyone.” I said tasting the salty bitterness of my tears on my lips, their salvation giving me room to breathe, to be. “Words stuck inside me, deep inside me and held down by something, never validated by a voice, stuffed down, put there, unwelcome. It’s like they’ve been there forever, just waiting on me to spell them out, speak them, acknowledge them, talk about them, and make them exist.” I noticed my speech getting faster. “Each word is like a piece of me, a puzzle of who I was, who I am, who I lost, somewhere, long ago. Chapters, big chapters, books and more books, whole damn libraries, I think…” Doc’s face was lit up like fireworks. She nodded at me, and continued writing.
“Every time I get closer to me …the real me, these demons are set loose waiting for their moment to be known. And that scares me, so I shut down. In a strange way, they protect me from myself. I don’t understand it exactly, I can’t put my finger on it.”
A wall had been broken down. For so long, I shut off my needs, my thoughts, my wants, my desires, and my plans for life. Me. Willodean Hart. I lost me, I shut me out. I locked me out. I denied me. I rejected me. People didn’t have to reject me. I did a fine job of that, all by myself.
Holy Smokes. I had to sit and soak on that one thought. It was a revelation. I did not like who I had become. But why? How did I get here? Why are there so many blanks? Why can’t I remember?
“Willodean.” Doc said in her slow, petite calm voice. “Do you know why you were so hard on yourself? Do you remember where it started?”
I didn’t even think about it. I could feel it climbing up my throat and clawing its way out of me from the rejection room. The looming Lena room spewed and spurted down the hall. The words exploded in my own voice before I could decipher them.
“Do the right thing Willodean. You don’t want people talking, ya know. They’ll judge you, talk bad about you and reject you. Don’t do that. Don’t say that. Don’t be that. You’re not good enough. Be more. Do more. Be Better. You’ll never live up to your name. Try harder. Be more. Do more. Make your bed. Live the lie—and my mother…she…” I stopped suddenly, my air cut off. I sank back against the cushion.
“What about your mother?” Doc said looking up. “You’ve haven’t said much about her?”
“And I’m not going to start now.” I said matter of fact.
“But…”
Ding! The timer that ended my session rang out. Saved by the bell.
Liberators and Dirt Dancers
We call ourselves the loggerhead liberators. We scan roadways for suicidal turtles, those daredevil ones, who have a tempt-fate, stare-death-in-the-face mindset. We’ve saved countless from total annihilation, I’d dare say, even extinction. Well, okay, except for that one time.
Dad couldn’t function without a cigarette. Brutus was having an overhaul in the tinker shop, so he had no choice but to drive Miss even with Lena's bent eyebrow melting him to a puddle of water. Dad’s life in the fast lane was a little too rough for Lena’s forty-mile an hour pace. After all, he named his first born after James Dean, which ought to give hints to his loyalties. For Mag and I, a store run meant two things, candy and soda pop. Dad was driving the tread off Miss when he turned on a dime, skidded the corner on two wheels and slung Mag and I, every which way but yonder. Lena Hart would be all kinds of pissed off if she knew Miss was being treated like a demolition racetrack piece of trash. Dad said what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her, plus his tootsie roll bribe sealed our lips shut. Dad was in a nicotine fit and taking it out on Miss when Mag spotted him. He was creeping along in the middle of the road.
“Stopppp! It’s a turtle!” Mag screamed. The radio blared so loud dad didn’t hear her and passed the turtle.
“Daaadddddd!” Mag screamed a conniption but it was hard to hear anything because dad had the radio full blast with M-m-m-Mel Tillis as dad called him. Finally he slowed and turned the radio down.
“What is it?”
“TURRRTLE.” Mag said pointing behind us.
“Ohhhh hell.” Dad said sighing. “Is that all. A turtle rescue, huh? Now?” He agreed but the nicotine withdrawal said it better be quick. Dad always turned into a kid when we did a rescue. Lena Hart said men never grow up. That always bothered me. Why not women? Why did we get the raw end of the deal? I don’t want to grow up either. Life wasn’t fair and I didn’t like it
one bit. Since then I’ve wondered why females are cursed with adulthood.
Dan spun the wheel, slammed the gear in reverse, thronged the gas and skidded backwards stirring up rocks and dust clouds. Mag and I soared left and right and all over the car. Riding with dad meant several things but none of them involved staying in one place. Dad stops and throws Miss into park. Mag was all dramatic making sound effects and bouncing up and down. I climbed over the seat to get a better look.
“You aren’t even close, dad.” I said giving him the cracker jackass look. “It’s like a thousand feet away.” I was exaggerating but questioning his driving always got him to pedaling.
“We gotta save him Dad.” Mag said whining. “Hurry.”
“Well, alright then.” He threw the Mercury in reverse again. Dad gets moody without his cigs but a steering wheel is a good substitute. The Mercury prissy pot Goodyear tires squeal and boil smoke until we lose sight of the turtle, the road, trees, buildings, signs, surroundings, everything. Dad has to make a Dukes of Hazzard show of everything. Mag and I brace while Dad pitches the radio back up and floors it. Merle Haggard blares out the perfect lyrics. Mama tried to raise me better but her pleading, I denied. That leaves only me to blame 'cause mama tried. This motivates him to dirt track mode. He’s into the ditch, zigzags back to road, back to ditch, spins out, and revs motor up, screeches tires. Mag and I are holding on for dear life.
“Dad!” I shout over Merle’s voice.
“Eeekkk…don’t smash it.” Mag screams and cups her hands over her face. Dad slams on the brakes. Mag and I ricochet until we have to peel our faces off the plastic seat covers. The music fades, the gears lock down and dad turns around.
“See…” he says. “It takes skill. I didn’t smash the turtle.” Dad thinks every situation should test your driving skills. Turtle rescues included. “Now hop to it.” He said snapping his fingers. “Let’s get this done and over with.” His voice was snippy which meant if he didn’t get a cigarette in approximately five minutes—we were toast and the turtle would be left behind to defend for himself.
“LIBERATOR!” Mag and I screamed and raised our hands at the same time.
“You did it last time.” I said. My cheeks swelled like a bull frog. Mag doesn’t remember fairness when it involves her not getting a turn.
“No I didn’t.” She spat. Her tongue sparked venomous saliva until I thought my skin might fall off from the burn.
“Yes YOU did.” I yelped. I was not giving in to her poisonous spit. Mag’s knows darn well she liberated a turtle rescue two weeks ago. “You can’t liberate all the time, right dad?” I looked to him for a resolution.
“Just calm down girls. Stop arguing. By the time you two finish hem hawing the turtle will be long gone. I don’t give a damn who gets the turtle but somebody better get it quick or we’re outta here.”
Mag and I stare and make ugly faces at each other. Dad points to his watch. He was a stickler on the democracy of debate, plus he was out of cigarettes. Bad combination. Dad made us work out all our disagreements. He didn’t care if we disagreed till we turned ten shades of purple, but by damned, before bedtime, a decision better have been made, or it would end in a red ass. His decision. Dad liked personal choices, resolution, and a thick belt, if needed to enforce his policy.
“Times up. What’s it gonna be?”
“Fine.” Mag said sighing. “I’ll be lookout.” I couldn’t believe it. Finally. Democracy in my favor. I liked being the liberator, because it gave me a sense of heroism. The lookouts job is to look for approaching vehicles and give warning to the liberator. In Mag’s case, the warning is a piercing scream that makes one deaf and scares warts off frogs. The esteemed job of a liberator is to risk life and limb to rescue the turtle from peril. It’s a dangerous job but someone’s got to do it.
“Go!” Mag yells. I make a mad dash for the middle of the road. I’m barefoot and the pavement is scorching hot. The sun is beating down so bright I can barely see. By the time I got to the suicidal tortoise, I felt like I'd just walked on hot coals and the sun made my eyes leaky and blurry. A liberator has to do what a liberator has to do, despite peril, foes, blinding light, hot pavement. The rescue must go on.
“Have no fear, the liberator is here.” I said. He was in bad shape and I feared it may be too late. I squinted to get a clear view but the sun pierced my vision in a blinded whiteness. “We will help you on your journey.” I wipe my eyes and reach down to pick it up and my shoulders overshadow the pavement and I saw the imposter for who he was. I gasped at the atrocity before me. A jagged piece of paper hung limp off the flat side of the not—a—turtle shell, and on it was a picture of the Jolly Green Giant. Jesus Christ, I had just liberated a can of green beans. I was mortified. My reputation would be ruined. No, maybe not. I had to think this out. It was an easy mistake to make. It did look by all accounts to be a turtle from a distance, and Mag spotted it first. It was her fault, not mine. I could not believe it. The can was crushed, rusted and ran over so many times, it had formed a tortoise shell shape so tarnished it looked like a turtle shell. “Impersonator.” I said gritting my teeth.
“Caarrrrrrrrr!” Mag’s yell stabs my ears. It was followed by loud, insistent horn blowing. When we started this club, we appointed dad as our backup man. Sometimes, he exceeds his authority, like today. Beep-beep-beeep—beep-beep-beep. I dropped the imposter like hot coals and run. An old pick up whizzed by a few seconds after I made it safely across.
“Is he dead.” Mag said following close behind me. I didn’t know what to say. I climbed in the front seat and slammed the door. Mag got in and lurched over the seat waiting on answers. She had the same look she gets when a death occurs in the animal kingdom. Altogether, we’ve only lost one turtle in five years and it devastated her to know end. I wasn’t sure she could handle another. Dad started up MISS and sped off. Mag stared a hole in me. I could tell a lie. Save myself a lot of embarrassment. Save all of us from Mag’s dramatic waterworks. If she ever started crying—you’d be hard pressed to get her to stop and I know she has a few welling up right now. I could let her cry and save face, keep my reputation as a liberator in tack. I could do that, right? Mag's cheeks shook and her lips trembled. I couldn’t take it. I caved.
“It’s not dead.” I said. Dang democracy makes a girl too honest for her own good. “It’s a can of green beans, okay? There.” I shoved my back against the seat. “Now you know. So shut up.”
Dad let off the gas and slowed. He looked at me as if he was trying to comprehend what I said. “A can of GREEN BEANS!” He said smirking. MISS puttered in Lena speed and the inside of the car was silent. The car exploded into laughter, bust a gut, roaring, belly hurting laughter.
“Was it snap beans?” Dad said. His face was giggle red. Giggle red is when you’ve laughed so hard your stomach hurts and your skin turns color. Dad used to turn us giggle red when he tickles us.
“The jolly green giant thanks you Willodean.” Mag said joining in the fun. She was a little bit overly dramatic for my taste, rolling around in the back seat like an idiot. I was suspicious she knew all along. You just never know about Mag.
“Ho-ho-ho!” Dad said thumping me on the arm. Before it was over, we were all giggle red. Dad spun off in Miss and the rest of the way, we poked fun at the imposter. On the ride back, dad was relaxed, smoking one after another. My thighs were icy from the cold orange crush between them. Mag guzzled on a Nehi grape and we each of us had two packs of Now—or—Laters and a stash of tootsie rolls. From the speakers, Conway Twitty sang Linda on my Mind and the world was good. Dad suddenly slowed down to Lena speed and lowered the volume on the radio. We were near my humiliation point. I felt my eyes roll. I would never leave this down. Dad never drives at a slow pace but Miss was at a crawl. “Hey girls.” He said pointing out the window, a cigarette rolled between his fingers. “It’s a turtle.”
“Ho-ho-ho, green giant!” Mag said. She leaned forward to make sure I heard her.
“Hahaha�
��real funny. You’re the one who saw it first Mag.” She gave me a careless look and shoved a tootsie roll in her mouth. Dad turned the radio back up, floored it and we left the imposter in smoke and burnt rubber. To this day, I refuse to eat green beans and literally hate the jolly green giant.
***
When we weren’t saving turtles we were on the lookout for dirt dancers. Our first encounter was one I’d never forget. Maw Sue was sewing a quilt on the front porch. Mag and I were dueling it out with a grueling round of Hopscotch. I was winning and she was one hair away from the perfect storm. Suddenly, everything shifted. The atmosphere around us stilled abruptly, almost instant, the kind that makes you stop, look and listen, where all details, senses and central awareness is astute. Maw Sue stopped sewing. We glanced at her for answers. She stood unmoved. We followed her eyes and saw it swooping up the ditch towards us. It dipped, dived and spun. It licked the ground snatching up dirt in its twirling vortex of turbo charged wind. Leaves, twigs, and dust debris swirled in its grip. Sand sifted between the leaves, crispy and crunchy. It was wind sweeping beautiful, a dance of nature, unseen before.
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 37
