by Cathy Lamb
Peter was wearing a pin-striped suit, which she thought was tacky. He was also wearing gold rings and a gold bracelet, which she thought were gaudy and probably fake. His dark hair was slicked back with grease, which made him look like he belonged to the mob. He hadn’t smiled at her, but his black, raisin-like eyes had traveled grossly down the length of her body, stopping at her breasts and hips. She felt dirty. She felt evaluated and judged.
There are men who want to, who must, control women. When they can’t control them, they become dangerous and violent. They think women are good for serving them and sex. Nothing more. Inside, they hate women.
Peter was exactly like her own father. He was a shady used car salesman. Her father pretended to be a man of God. What were the chances that two people would meet up, fall in love, and have the same type of father lurking and looming in their backgrounds? But maybe that was part of it: They saw the fear and pain in each other’s eyes and reached out a hand.
But Betsy couldn’t have known the truth about what Peter had done then.
There was something that Johnny didn’t tell her about his father. Not for a while. He hadn’t realized the truth until recently. He had blocked it out. It hurt him to even speak of it. It brought rage bubbling to the surface like hot lava, next to the insidious fear that rose up whenever he was around Peter.
Johnny was scared of his father. He had every right to be.
* * *
Seated together, in court, Johnny’s and Betsy’s eyes locked and their desperate love was the same as it had always been.
“I love you,” she mouthed to Johnny.
“I love you, too,” he mouthed back.
They were young, they were in love, they were soul mates, they were supposed to be together.
The law thought differently.
Chapter 15
I deliberately stayed out of my mother and aunts’ “medical” marijuana business, but I did remind them yet again, like a parrot, that it was illegal. They pooh-poohed.
“What will they do? Lock us up?” my mother said.
For some reason my aunts and mother thought this notion was hilarious, and they bent over cackling, their matching blue-flowered garden hats tipping back and forth. We were wandering through their mother’s garden, cutting flowers for Hat Night. Hat Night is on the first Tuesday of the month when they each make the most “beaudacious” hat they can.
They put the photos of each hat on their website—Flowers, Lotions, and Potions—and the site gets a zillion hits, as usual, from all over the globe as people vote for their favorite. They post a goofy, funny photo of the three of them, taken by me, wearing each other’s hats, so as not to “improperly influence the voting.”
“Yes, they might lock you up,” I said.
“Why so prim and proper?” my mother asked, then sighed, her white bell-shaped hair swinging.
“Why so fearful and afflicted by doom? I think you’ll get in touch with your inner self if you smoke a joint, sweetheart,” Aunt Camellia said, linking an arm around my waist. “It’ll release your worries into the universe.”
“Why so strict and rigid?” Aunt Iris asked. “You have to let go a little, Evie. Get wild and crazy. Do something off the wall. Derange yourself.”
“Derange myself?”
“Yes, do something so out of the ordinary that you feel deranged,” Aunt Iris said. “In a fun yet sensible manner.”
“I am already half-deranged,” I said. “My brain is a churning gray mass in my head with inexplicable tendencies to see the future. You think that’s not deranged enough? By the way, when did you all start smoking pot?”
“We hardly ever do, dearie,” Aunt Camellia said. “In fact, I think I’ve done it less than five or six or seven times.” She paused. “Or eight.”
My mother and Aunt Iris nodded.
“But it was fun,” my mother said. “We did it before we led our friends in drunken sailor songs at Milton’s birthday party last week.”
I rolled my eyes. That was a noisy party. I left early. “It won’t be fun if Chief Allroy comes on your property with a warrant, looks in that greenhouse, and then you’re in trouble.”
“Chief Allroy?” my mother squealed as if I’d made a joke, then burst into laughter, her hands flying in the air, both filled with bouquets of sunflowers.
“Chief Bick Allroy? You think he’s coming on our property to arrest us? Let me envision that!” My aunt Camellia bent over as she laughed, pink Anne Boleyn roses on her knees. She then crossed her legs, and my mother saw her, whooped, and crossed her legs as they cackled.
“Hang on,” Aunt Iris said, shaking her hydrangeas at me. “I have an image of Chief Allroy coming here with his handcuffs.” Her laughter boomed. “Handcuffs!”
This image was, apparently, also hilarious.
“He’ll get a warrant, come on your property, go into your greenhouse,” I drawled, knowing that the harder they laughed, the more problems they’d have in the bladder department. “He’ll read you your rights, tell you to get an attorney—”
“Stop, Evie, stop. You know I don’t have a strong bladder!” my mother howled.
“Me either!” Aunt Iris gasped. “Evie, quick. Say something serious! Oh, do it, now! Something about politics, mathematics, scientific explorations, and discoveries.”
I was not amused by their cackling. “Chief Allroy will put your hands behind your back,” I drawled.
They shrieked again, then waddled their screeching selves back toward Rose Bloom Cottage’s toilets.
“He’s coming to get you now!” I shouted after them.
I don’t know why this was so funny to them, but they howled.
“He’s going to turn on the sirens when you’re in the back of his police car!”
They could barely stand it.
“And then you’ll go to town and be put in a holding cell in jail!”
More fun!
“I squirted!” my mother howled.
“Need fresh panties!” Aunt Camellia said.
“Dang getting old and my wrinkled bladder!” Aunt Iris said as her blue hat tumbled off her head.
* * *
Watching my aunts and mother waddle on into the house from the greenhouse, I thought of Jules and myself.
We could end up like them. We would be one sister short, but still.
It made me happy thinking of growing old with Jules. It brought me peace.
But we would not be growing pot in the greenhouse, that was for sure.
* * *
Aunt Camellia won for best hat later that week. She did create hat art. She started with a white straw hat, then piled on white roses, faux white birds, and white feathers sprayed with silver glitter. It was about two feet tall.
Aunt Iris used sunflowers, blue delphinium, and blue hydrangeas to make a mixed bouquet. She used a huge gold bow and plopped them on a dark blue hat that resembled a giant donut. She earned second place.
My mother made a bouquet of burgundy peonies, attached them to a purple felt hat that covered one eye, added burgundy netting that stuck out six inches on either side, and wrapped it with burgundy ribbons.
“Oh, pish. I hate losing,” my mother said. “Let’s drink some wine, ladies!”
* * *
Mr. Jamon came in for his weekly books.
“What are you thinking about today?” I asked him.
“I’m thinking I need a biography on Albert Einstein.”
“Got it.” I had one. He bought it.
“Also”—he leaned in close—“I need another romance. A love story.”
I thought. “How about a book by Debbie Macomber?”
“Who’s that?”
“She’s a romance writer. Sweet romances. Happy endings.”
“I’ll take it. I still believe in love, you know.” He winked.
* * *
Mr. Jamon came back in the next day. He garumphed.
“I’ll take another book by Mrs. Macomber.” He garumphed again, tapp
ed his cane. “Maybe two more.”
I have many of her books, so it took us a few minutes to figure out which would be best for Mr. Jamon. He was pleased with his choices. “An old man can still be romantic, Evie.”
“Never said you couldn’t.”
He winked at me. “See you next Friday.”
* * *
“Mr. Bob and Trixie Goat are here to visit you again,” Tiala said, smiling.
“What?”
“Your goats. They came to visit you again. I thought you fixed that problem so they couldn’t come to town anymore.”
“They’re out again?” I groaned and stepped out of Evie’s Books, Cake, and Tea and spied my stubborn goats, Mr. Bob and Trixie, right up the street.
When they saw me, their ears perked up and they ran straight toward me with that lanky gait that goats have. The escapees were happy to see me, I could tell.
“I can’t even believe this,” I said. But I could.
How do Mr. Bob and Trixie get out of their pen? How do they know where I work? The only explanation is that I have come by here a few times with them on the way to Marco’s and I’ve gotten out of the car to jet into the bookstore for a minute. But I have no idea how they know how to get to my bookstore. We are close to town, but not that close.
Their goat home is a mini-house. It has a blue roof and sides and an opening. It is very cute and welcoming. I make sure they have fresh hay. I make sure they also get carrots, sunflower seeds, and pumpkin seeds, which they love. When I am at home I often let them out to wander our property and peek in the pond and prance over my grandma Lucy’s wooden bridge, because I know they won’t leave and they like to visit Virginia Alpaca and Alpaca Joe. Plus, they are fascinated by Sundance and Butch and Cassidy, and the five of them will play around like best friends. So why leave home?
But there they were, heading down the street to my bookstore, with that odd gallop-skip. I put my hands on my hips as I watched, people laughing, moving out of the way, kids pointing. Their bells jangled.
They stopped right in front of me. Trixie Goat got on her hind legs to give me a hug. I hugged her because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Mr. Bob made a grunting sound.
“Get in the truck,” I told them, pointing at the truck.
They turned to get in the truck.
“Tiala,” I called. “I’ll be right back.”
She laughed. “Okay, goat lady.”
I opened the front door of the cab and helped them in. Then I drove home, Mr. Bob’s and Trixie’s heads out the window, the wind running through their fur.
I swear they were smiling.
People waved at them as we drove by.
“You’re naughty goats,” I said.
They did not seem daunted.
* * *
Each day I walk from Rose Bloom Cottage to my own home through the flowers as they bloom during the spring, summer, and fall: Daisies. Tulips. Irises. Columbine. Lavender. Lilacs. Rows of marigolds. Jupiter’s-beard. Foxgloves. Roses.
I find peace in the flowers. Who knew that my grandmother, a woman who was kind and filled with love and also filled with mental illness, would create something that I, two generations later, would wander through to calm my mind, soothe my nerves, and rest my almost ever-present anxiety as I await the next premonition?
There are painted Adirondack chairs all over. Purple. Blue. Green. Red. My mother says that chairs belong in gardens so that people can “find their own splendor amidst the petals.” So I will often sit in one chair, then another, then a different one the following night, or sit in the gazebo.
I have never had a premonition while in the garden. It’s as if the delicate colors, the petals themselves, block it out. I don’t know how, or why, that would happen, but it does. How could our willow trees, or the roses that bloom all over the trellises and verandas, or the purple wisteria vine that winds up the gazebo, or the lily pads in the pond, or the secret garden room with the oak tree in the middle of it, stand in the way of premonitions that can hit me at any other time, in any way?
Maybe it’s the tranquility. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s being alone. Maybe it’s my grandmother’s loving spirit, still here, surrounding me like a protective hug.
At the end of the season, when the flowers are dying, I’ll still sit in those Adirondack chairs or drink coffee on the bridge or lie on the yellow bench overlooking the meadow. Even in November, December, January, and February, somehow the garden protects me. It’s as if the memory of the flowers, or maybe the bulbs that lie under the ground, the perennials that will pop up again, have filled the air with protection. But just in case, in the winter my mother always fills two huge barrels on my deck with purple pansies.
Lining the walkway between her house and mine, she’ll plant more pansies. My mother, aunts, and I have also planted tons of crocuses. Purple. White. Yellow. Those are the first flowers up, and when I see those flowers, I always heave a sigh of relief.
They know me, my mother and aunts, and they know the sweet, inexplicable umbrella of safety that their garden offers me, via their mother, a woman of French and Greek descent, a woman of innate kindness who jumped off a cliff, her own demons chasing her into the air.
* * *
Marco came in a week later, on a Wednesday, to buy books.
“Hi, Marco.” I smiled on automatic, so happy to see him. Then I was struck by the premonition I’d had of him, and me, and that cooled me way down. I shivered. I actually felt that shiver wind its way down my spine.
“Hi, Evie.” He came to stand in front of me in his full masculine, healthy, manly way and smiled. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” I was so glad I’d washed my hair that morning. Plus, I’d put on my best jeans and a tighter blue shirt with white roses embroidered in lines down the front. It was a tad low cut, thank heavens. Maybe my lacy pink bra would show! “Can I help you find a book?”
“Yes. Please. I need a few books. I’m thinking history, a biography, and something funny.”
“So let’s start with history. Here’s our history section.” I turned. I hoped my butt didn’t look too big, but it is what it is, my butt. Who am I to deprive myself of pie? Boring that would be. Plus, it’s what I look forward to every night as I am alone, again, with my books: Pie. What is that saying? The more the cushion, the better the pushin’?
“What time period are you most interested in today?”
He liked World War II, but he also liked learning about the Depression era and how families and individuals survived.
We had a professional book conversation, which I loved because of my obsession with books and all things nerdy. I probably told him way more than he wanted to know. I could not seem to close my mouth and stop my stupid talking.
We then went over to biographies and he picked up one on Ernest Shackleton, the Antarctic explorer, after a long discussion we both enjoyed. At least I hope he enjoyed it. He was smiling at me. I probably droned on too long then, too. Then we headed to the humor section. I read a lot of humor because it helps me calm down.
We pulled a couple. He bought five books. I gave him a discount, but he refused. “Look, Evie, you bring your animals to me, I buy my books from you.”
He asked about my animals and we chatted, and I insisted that he have a piece of marionberry pie, and I had one, too, and we ate in the café and drank blackberry tea. I hoped he would try to look down my low-cut embroidered shirt, but he didn’t.
I told myself that this pie would not replace my evening pie, as pie is a fruit, therefore, nutritious, and I don’t like to upset my nightly routines. Then he left and I went to my office overlooking the bay, knowing my employees could handle everything. I sank into my seat at my desk, pulled my arms over my head, and moaned.
I wanted that man, I did.
No, I told myself. You may not have him.
* * *
When I was ten years old I had a premonition about a morbidly obese woman on our street in the suburbs of
DC who was always screaming at her husband and six kids. Three times I saw Gloria Yateman slap her kids across the face. I told my parents, and they called the police and Children’s Services. The police and Children’s Services did nothing, despite repeated calls from other neighbors/teachers who saw her hitting her kids, chasing them, wielding a belt like a lasso, and observing the obvious neglect when the kids were at school.
One time I saw Gloria try to run over her husband with their old clunky car. He was a beaten-down, exhausted man. I saw her slug him in the gut, and he bent over, not moving.
I knew the kids. The second oldest was named Coraline. She was in my class. She would come to school with bruises on her face. I heard her tell the teacher that she fell on the sidewalk or she crashed on her bike or she fell out of a wagon her brother was pulling.
They were all lies. The kids didn’t have bikes. They didn’t have wagons. They were all pale, unsmiling, scared, bruised kids. Especially Toby. He was in kindergarten and he still didn’t speak. He had a dazed expression and clung to Coraline and her older brother, Rhett. Rhett was a super nice kid. One time someone was bullying Coraline, calling her “skin and bones” and “dumb dumb dumb!” and “retarded,” and Rhett shoved him straight into the brick wall of the school and calmly told him he would beat his brains out if he picked on his sister again, and the bullying stopped. Rhett was a gentle but angry kid because of what was going on at home.
Their yard wasn’t taken care of, and the gray paint was peeling off the house. I had been inside the house only one time, when Coraline said her mother wasn’t home because she was shopping for new clothes. The house was a pit. There was stuff all over, in piles, you could hardly walk. Nowadays, we call that hoarding. Then, there was no label.
When we heard Gloria’s car in the driveway, Coraline cried, “Oh no! Get out, Evie. Go out the back! Don’t let our mom see you,” and she and Rhett pushed me out a window and begged me to stay hidden as I left their property. I didn’t leave, though. I watched through the back window. The mother came lumbering in, heavy, plodding, her hair all over like a porcupine’s, drunk.
