More and more I wondered where God and Jesus were in all this. Our original spiritual direction had changed drastically. Oh, sure, we might hear those names mentioned here and there, along with a bunch of others. But somewhere, somehow, things had definitely changed. And I found it hard to believe that I was the only one disillusioned by all this. And yet, no one questioned these changes. Everyone seemed pretty laid-back and happy, and I suspect this was a result of the influence of the marijuana. It’s as if pot and Star had cast a spell over the entire farm. I think that’s when I began to think of “The Promised Land” as the Funny Farm.
I’d been disturbed to see first the brothers, but then later on, the sisters as well, using and then growing marijuana. One of Mountain’s friends brought in a big truck with a bunch of plants, and presto, we were in business. And while I’ll admit that I never observed anyone becoming violent or mean-spirited while under its influence, it troubled me deeply just the same.
Somehow it reminded me of my daddy—and everything else I’d tried to escape from since the earliest memories of my life. Not only that, it seemed to strip away everyone’s initiative and creativity. They just didn’t seem to have an ounce of “spizzerrinktum” as my grandma used to call it. It’s as if their motivation had just gotten up and walked right out the door. Now it seemed all anyone cared about was growing, protecting, and eventually selling more marijuana plants—and then of course, getting high.
But as if pot and Star weren’t enough, it had also become more widely known and accepted (though never openly discussed) that Sky was in fact sleeping with all the other sisters. In fact, other than me and Breeze (because for some reason, she and River had some sort of exemption) I’m sure Sky slept with every sister there. And so it seemed quite obvious now that poor Sunshine had been exactly right about her accusation last fall. Why hadn’t I believed her?
Breeze and I carried the bulk of the household chores, and that bulk was increasing with each new resident. My roommate, Cloud, only lasted for a few weeks, until she got married to one of the brothers. After that it seemed my roommates changed with the regularity of “weddings.”
Surprisingly, Sky still hadn’t attempted to match me up for a marriage. I couldn’t quite figure this out, but I didn’t really care since I didn’t want a loveless marriage anyway and I couldn’t bear the idea of watching my stomach swell into the full moon I’d seen on Moonlight before she gave birth. In fact, as time passed, I felt fairly certain, and somewhat hopeful, that Sky had forgotten all about me. I was just that girl who worked in the kitchen.
And yet, despite all my isolation and misery and hopelessness, I still loved the farm. I can’t fully explain or understand it—maybe it was a love-hate sort of thing. But I did love that clean smell of the sweet dewy earth in the morning, and seeing the small tender seedlings beginning to sprout in the vegetable garden in the spring, and the fruit trees in full blossom. And even though I no longer believed in “The Promised Land” per se, I knew it would be hard for me to leave this place. Not that leaving was an option anymore.
With the progression from simply smoking marijuana to selling it, our farm had turned into a very tight security establishment. Under the management of Mountain, much of the profits from the high-quality marijuana were quickly reinvested into tall chain-link fences encircling the land (with electrical current running throughout). This was the only project that year where I noticed the brothers really throwing themselves into it, but then, why would that surprise me? And if that imposing fence wasn’t enough, the property was also patrolled at night by two trained German Shepherd guard dogs by the names of Michael and Gabriel, our “angelic” protection. So even if I’d wanted to escape, how could it be done?
One day in early spring, as Breeze and I were outside hanging up laundry (I often tried to repay her help in the kitchen) I decided to tread on some somewhat shaky ground.
“Are you and River happy here?” I asked as I pinned up another diaper (naturally, despite three more babies on the way, we’d never have dreamed of using disposables).
“Happy?” she mumbled with a clothespin stuck between her teeth.
“You know.” I glanced around for eavesdroppers. “Do you think you’ll be here for—well, forever?”
“I don’t know where else we’d go.” She sighed.
Now I was fully aware that River, and sometimes Breeze, smoked pot occasionally, and while this had disturbed me some at first, I tried not to hold it against them. Especially since, out of the whole group, they were probably my best friends, and to my relief their use of pot had not greatly impaired their ability or willingness to do their share of work. “But do you ever want something more than this, Breeze?”
She looked me straight in the eye. “Rainbow, I think I’m pregnant again.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Was this meant to be good news? “Are you glad?” I finally asked.
She smiled. “Yes, I really want a baby. And River’s happy about it too. And I think everything’s going to be okay this time.”
I wanted to ask her how she could be so sure and what would happen if she was wrong, but just then Moonlight walked up and fingered a damp diaper on the line. “Aren’t there any dry diapers here?” she asked with irritation. “Thunder just messed his last one and I can’t find a single one in the house!”
I still couldn’t believe that Sky had actually named his firstborn son Thunder. But apparently I was the only one who thought this slightly strange. Certainly, I never thought he’d name him something ordinary like John or Mike. But it just seemed that as time went by, Sky became more extraordinary and even weird (in my opinion this was greatly due to Star’s influence). Now, following her lead, he’d begun going into these long “trances” where he’d be meditating and hear “spiritual forces” speaking to him. I must admit that it was all pretty convincing, if you were into that sort of thing (which I felt less and less inclined to be). Mostly I just thought both Sky and Star were great big phonies.
The really weird thing was that Sky’s influence steadily grew. People all up and down the coast, from all ages and walks of life, were strangely drawn to him (or was it simply his pot?) and as a result our commune was growing steadily. By that spring we had over forty members.
Gram wouldn’t have recognized her property by then. And I hoped she couldn’t see it for I’m sure she would’ve rolled right over in her grave, or more likely she would’ve simply laughed from the heights of heaven. But now her once somewhat serene (albeit slightly run-down) farm was a strange conglomeration of makeshift buildings, wildly painted hippy buses (also being used as houses), and old trailers that people had pulled onto the property. And here and there were little outhouses and outdoor showers.
Children (we had quite a few now) as well as a motley assortment of dogs (besides our guard dogs) ran freely. And constantly in the background of all this hubbub was the rumbling growl of several gas-powered generators.
I remembered when Gram had asked if we were a traveling circus. It seemed she was just about right. Between Star’s theatrics and Sky’s lengthy sermons we had some pretty interesting acts going. But for the most part I think we were more like a bunch of sideshow freaks. We were the outcasts, the unloved, the misfits. I remembered my little misfit club from childhood, and suddenly Joey and I (despite our handicaps both seen and unseen) seemed incredibly normal in retrospect. At least we’d had our hopes and dreams. The people on the Funny Farm had nothing. I had nothing.
I realized my little conversation with Breeze had gotten me nowhere, and could possibly get me into trouble if I pushed it any further. Although she was my closest friend, I knew better than to trust anyone by then. Not even myself.
More and more I longed for a way to escape. I just couldn’t figure out how it could be done. First of all, no sisters (not even Venus anymore) were allowed to go into town, since it would be “sinful” for any man outside of our family to “look upon” us (as if our long, dowdy dresses would tempt those
unwitting men out there to lust!). And then with our tightened security, there seemed no way to simply walk out (as I might’ve done a few months earlier). It seemed I was trapped.
I suppose I had almost resigned myself to this hopeless fate, until one day, something I’d seen happen on an almost daily basis caught my attention in a new way. Perhaps this was my answer.
Twenty-three
As I was doing the breakfast dishes (since none of the other sisters had offered that day) I was blankly looking out the window over the kitchen sink when, as usual, I observed the little mail jeep drive past (really only a small white dot on the distant road, but one you could almost set your clock by). Of course we had no mailbox out on the road, for we neither sent nor received mail (although I’d heard Sky kept a postal box in town, which of course no one was allowed to use but him). But suddenly I wondered if there might be some way I could get the mailman to stop and take a letter from me.
It seems silly now that something as simple as posting a letter could’ve proved such a challenge for me, but the truth is, I didn’t have paper, envelopes, or stamps. And even if I did, I wasn’t sure where or to whom I could send a letter. I considered my Aunt Myrtle, although I didn’t know her address and I seriously doubted that she would help me anyway. Of course Joey came to mind almost at once, but I didn’t have his college address. However, I did remember his home address, so I decided I would attempt to send a letter in care of Mrs. Divers to be forwarded to Joey.
I knew the chances of its even making it off the farm were rather slim, and to make it to Joey seemed a pure impossibility.
And supposing it did, I wondered what Joey could possibly do? After all, he’d already used up his whole Christmas vacation to drive to California, and I’d stupidly refused his help. What could I expect from him now?
Still, this crazy idea kept me going for almost a week as I secretly worked to write Joey a letter (on a piece of a recycled brown paper bag) asking him for help. This I enclosed in a homemade envelope (also made from a bag). And then I wrote another brief note (this time to his mother) asking her to forward the enclosed letter to Joey. I placed both these items into an even larger paper-bag envelope. I’m sure my bulky, oversized brown letter looked slightly ridiculous, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances, and at the time I felt proud that I’d managed to do so much. Then I wrote a note addressed to the mailman, apologizing for not having the postage, but telling him I was desperate, and begging him to see that this letter was sent. Then I wrapped the whole thing up in another piece of brown paper and wrote “To the Mailman” in big, bold letters on the front and on the back.
Then on a Thursday morning in late April (when another sister took a turn at washing up after breakfast) I tucked this package into the front of my apron, picked up my basket, and went outside under the guise of picking wildflowers (something I was commonly known to do). Feeling like someone in a spy movie, I zigzagged my way across the front field until I reached the gate. Pausing there just briefly to make sure no one was looking my way, I tossed my precious package out onto the road, then quickly turned and walked away, bending now and then to pick wild daisies and asters.
My heart pounded with excitement (and perhaps fear) as I slowly made my way back toward the house. What if someone had observed me by the gate? Or what if the mailman didn’t notice my package on the road and simply drove right on past it?
Suddenly it occurred to me that if the mailman failed to pick it up, it would most likely be spotted by Sky as he opened the gates before he went off to town. I felt a knot of horror in my stomach, for surely Sky would open it and read the whole thing! And what would happen to me then? Suddenly I felt very stupid and foolish. Why hadn’t I thought this through more carefully? I’d been so caught up in getting everything just right, thinking I was so clever, it had never occurred to me that the mailman might not even pick it up.
And so with heart still pounding and beads of perspiration gathering across my forehead, I made my way over to the stand of pines where we had buried Gram less than a year ago. Kneeling down before her grave, I actually began to pray. Not in the phony way that I could put on for the sake of the group, but this time I prayed for real!
I begged God to somehow get that mailman’s attention and make him stop and pick up my package. Yet even as I prayed these words, I realized how unlikely this would be. The mailman usually drove by our farm quite fast, and the color of my brown package blended well with the road. It probably looked like a piece of trash. But nonetheless, I prayed—fervently! And I even asked God to work things out so that I could leave this place once and for all. And I promised that if he got me out of here that I’d make up for all the stupid things I’d done and I would always—
My prayer stopped instantly as I noticed Sky’s van heading slowly down the driveway toward the road. Of all the impossible timing, how could it be that Sky was going to town today? He never went to town in the morning, and rarely on a Thursday. I’m sure I must’ve stopped breathing as I watched the van stop before the gate. A brother hopped out of the passenger seat to open it. I couldn’t tell who it was from the distance. But as he swung the gate open toward the road, he paused, then stooping briefly, he appeared to pick something up, and I knew my plans were ruined. I was ruined.
And I knew that God had let me down—again!
I think I understood what it meant to “die a thousand deaths” as I sat in the shade of the pines, next to Gram’s gravesite. I fretted and cried for several hours, waiting in fear for Sky’s colorful van to reappear in the driveway. What would he do to me after having most certainly read my pitiful little letter to Joey? Of course I would be punished, but how severely? And would it be in public?
Perhaps it wasn’t even the threat of punishment that troubled me so much. Maybe it was simply the death of all hope. The letter had been my best—and now, I feared, final—attempt at an escape. I had even gone so far as to think that God might have inspired me to do it—that he might’ve really cared. I had even prayed—for real (not like during our meetings where I’d gotten pretty good at faking it).
But look where my faith and sincerity had gotten me. How could I have been such an idiot? I probably deserved whatever punishment Sky would dish out. Maybe not for sinning so much as for being a perfect fool.
Sky had recently been quoting Scriptures about removing whatever part of your body caused you to sin. I stared down at my hands. My fingers had written that letter. Did that mean he might consider cutting them off? Besides sounding painful, I didn’t know what I’d do without my fingers. Small and insignificant as they might appear, they seemed to hold all of my creative ability in them. They drew and played the guitar, cooked food and sewed clothing. Surely Sky wouldn’t be so senseless as to cut them off. Would he? Yet behavior around here had become strange and unpredictable in these last few months. And Star’s influence seemed to be everywhere.
I studied the electric fence line, and like that old POW with too much time on his hands, I began to imagine other ways that I might escape. Perhaps dig my way out? But the fence line was so easily visible and checked daily for signs of intruders (primarily of the law-enforcement type). Having done some digging in the garden, I seriously doubted I could dig a tunnel quickly enough to escape without notice.
Then I remembered how our generators occasionally went out. Perhaps I could use this opportunity to scale the fence. But then I wasn’t even sure which generator powered the fence, and even if I was, what if they kicked the power back on just as I was straddled atop the barbed wire (which seemed enough of a challenge in itself)? Would I become toast up there? I could just imagine how they might let my charred and lifeless body hang there for a day or two as a sign to all—a reminder of what happens when you disobey! Perhaps they’d allow the vultures to pluck at my flesh (as we’d seen happen to a neglected ewe that had died with a stillborn lamb just a few weeks back).
I even considered simply ending my life. As I lay back beneath the pi
nes I imagined how I might find a rope of some kind, and then climb up one of those tall trees (perhaps the one right over Gram’s grave) and although I didn’t know how to tie an actual noose, I could probably make some sort of knot that would hold and do the work.
And to be perfectly honest, the thought of a permanent escape like that was somewhat tempting. If only there hadn’t been the spring sun shining in the clear blue sky and the feel and smell of soft green grass beneath me. How could I leave all that? And maybe that was God’s way of lulling me back to life again—his gentle reminder that there might be something more. Nature is often like that for me.
I knew by the position of the sun that it must be nearly noon by now, and I was sure that Venus was frantically wondering where her kitchen slave had gotten off to, and I figured as long as I was going to be in trouble, why not just go for the big prize? And so I showed up in the kitchen quite late and then informed Venus that I was feeling ill and would spend the remainder of the day in bed. And without giving her the opportunity to question or protest, I went directly to my room and closed the door.
Remembering the days when I used to lock my bedroom door against my daddy’s drunken rages, I once again longed for a lock that could keep them all out—and away from me. But I knew it was useless. I thought I would just lie down and cry myself to sleep, but to my dismay no more tears would come.
Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) Page 23
