“Oh, you’re a survivor, Cass. You always have been. And there’s always been greatness in you. I knew you’d come out on top.”
I could feel a big lump catch in my throat. For some reason this felt like one of those final good-byes—kind of like Bogie and Bergman in Casablanca—the ones where you never see that person again, or at least not in the same way. “Joey, I just want you to know that you are the closest thing to family to me.”
He reached out and pulled me into a big hug that felt more intimate than usual. But then he said, “You’ve always been like a sister tome, Cass.”
So, it was a brotherly hug then. Well, I could accept that. But when he finally let go of me I’m sure we both had tears in our eyes, although we didn’t speak of it.
And quite honestly I wasn’t even sure why I felt so broken up, almost forlorn, even. I really didn’t know what was going on inside me. Was it that our lives were finally just going in two separate and totally different directions now, and perhaps this was his way of telling me, “It’s been nice”? Maybe he did have a serious girlfriend back at Harvard, and why not? Or perhaps he had some big, important plans that could never include someone like me. Or perhaps it was just his way of saying that this was the last time he’d be able to simply drop everything and run off to check on poor old Cass again.
And of course I understood completely. I knew better than anyone how Joey had gone above and beyond what any other ordinary friend might’ve done. I’d never expected this much from him, not ever. Still, I could barely see through my tears as his old blue car drove away.
Twenty-nine
The funny thing about a rut is that you never notice exactly when or quite how you got yourself into one. I guess it just starts slowly, but the more you keep going along those same old lines, the deeper your rut becomes until one day you’re just totally entrenched and you begin to wonder if you will ever find your way out again. I think that’s what happened to me after graduating with my master’s degree in art.
Oddly enough I got my first teaching job right back at old Brookdale High—the same school I never graduated from. And to add to the strangeness of that, some of my old teachers were still there—just a-teachin’ away like no time had ever passed. Maybe they were in a rut too, although I’m sure they didn’t think so. I suppose it was just me. And I know I should’ve been thankful that old Mr. Rawlins had decided to retire from teaching art just as I was needing a job, and that my supervisor Bev Jacobs at the university had possessed the foresight to do some checking around for me before graduation time.
But I couldn’t help but think something was wrong about this whole setup right from the get go. Me, back in Brookdale? What would people think? And what if, of all things, my daddy happened to live there and was still working down at Masterson Motors during the week and being the town drunk on the weekend? It would be just too humiliating for words. But as it turned out my daddy was nowhere to be seen in that town, and as far as I knew he hadn’t shown his face around there since the last time he’d gotten himself into such trouble by trying to kill his only daughter.
Aunt Myrtle still lived in town though and had managed to get herself another bank job, which seemed to please her. Not only that, she’d finally found herself a man! His name was Burt Flanders and he owned the Shell station on Main Street. So in some ways my little family was gaining a tiny bit of respectability (although I’m sure that lots of folks still whispered when they saw me or my aunt passing by).
It’s not like Aunt Myrtle and I had become all warm and cozy living there in the same town together, but at least we were on speaking terms now, and I didn’t mind driving into the Shell station when it was time to fill up my little Datsun, because I liked Burt just fine. In some ways I was even a little bit worried for him, afraid that he might be just a little too good for my aunt, but he didn’t seem to mind her somewhat prickly and persnickety nature. And I think they were happy, in their own way. I was only up to their house a couple of times, but when I was there they both treated me just fine. And my aunt even dug out another photo of my mother for me to keep. It looked just exactly like the other one, and yet something seemed different too. Or maybe it was me that had changed. She’d found the photo tucked away in my grandma’s things—things I never really got to look at much or handle.
Aunt Myrtle seemed to be protecting them from something, keeping them all shut up in an old trunk that she kept shoved into a corner of the back bedroom. Now, if they’d been my things I’d have taken them out and enjoyed them some. But as it was Aunt Myrtle never gave me the option.
Sometimes I’d go over and visit Mrs. Divers. I knew she’d had some serious health problems and didn’t get out much anymore, so I’d take her some flowers from my garden or some sort of homemade goody I’d whipped up. I suppose I felt I owed her my eternal gratitude for that time she’d forwarded that strange-looking letter I’d sent from the Funny Farm on to Joey. She could so easily have thrown it away.
We’d sit there in her front room and just visit a spell, and I started to realize she really was a very nice woman. Surprisingly, she seemed to actually like me now that I was a grown-up and not leading her son astray and getting into trouble all the time. And after the first couple times, she even learned not to inquire about my family (or rather my daddy). I’m sure she hadn’t meant any harm by it, probably just being social and friendly and all, but I did not appreciate anyone bringing up my daddy to me, and I never attempted to hide my feelings about this either. And so in time she caught on.
Mostly we’d talk about her health (she suffered from what women called “female problems” back in those days). But she also loved to go on and on about Joey, which I never minded a bit. She’d talk about his fine scholarship and his graduating with honors, how he could work in any law firm in the country—on the planet, even!
Yes, it seemed Joey Divers had the world by the tail now. Not to sound jealous, of course, because I most certainly was not. But it just seemed that once again my old buddy Joey Divers had left me far, far behind. And the sting hurt some. Perhaps that was why I felt sort of stuck in a rut back here in Brookdale. But then I’d have to remind myself that things could’ve been worse, far worse.
Just think, I could’ve still been back on the Funny Farm, barefoot and working in the kitchen, bearing “promise children” for Sky to “raise up in the way they should go.” But as far as I knew Sky and Mountain were still doing time (unless they’d been paroled) in some California state prison. I wondered if they might not be recruiting new cult members from in there. I’d heard that Charles Manson had something like that going from within the prison, although his cult group sounded much more evil than the Funny Farm. But who knows?
Speaking of the Funny Farm, I was quite relieved to find out that my old friend Sara (Sunshine) was doing just fine now. Like me, she’d gone on to college. And after graduating with some kind of business degree, she was now living in Nashville and working in the music industry (where she’d met her husband). And according to her mom (who told me all this in the canned-food section of the supermarket) Sara was expecting her first baby in the fall. I told her how glad I was for her and to give her my love and my best, and if she was ever in town to drop by or give me a call. Of course I didn’t really expect Sara to do this, and I’m not even sure what we’d say to each other if she did. I know that I’m still not entirely comfortable talking about that whole scene—our time on the Funny Farm. But I wouldn’t mind seeing Sara and her baby. And I was happy for her that she’d gotten on so well with her life. In fact, it seemed she’d progressed better than I. Which brings me back to my rut.
Every day (except weekends) I would do the exact same thing. I got up at seven, made coffee, read the paper, got dressed, went to school. There I taught all day—and while I really liked my students (and sometimes even forgot that I was the teacher and they were the kids because sometimes I swear we all seemed about the same age) still I just didn’t love teaching art. And that sur
prised me. But I kept on going just the same.
I think it was mostly the students who kept me going, because I truly did care about them (especially the “down-and-outers” that reminded me of what I’d been like back then) and I tried to reach out to them, to help where I could, to encourage, and to listen. But the times spent doing that were so short, and there were so many kids to interact with—more than a hundred and fifty each day. Sometimes it was a little overwhelming, and really, I knew I was there to teach art. But I do think it was those moments of connecting with kids that really kept me going. Still, during the rest of my little life, I felt just like that poor old hamster just stuck on a silly, old treadmill, just peddling away but getting nowhere fast.
Now, I suppose it might’ve seemed less like a rut if I’d gone home at the end of the day and pursued some art interests of my own (since I’d always loved creating) but after spending the whole day around clay and ink and charcoal and paints and all those other art supplies, I just didn’t have any desire to smell those smells anymore.
Oh sure, I did some decorating in my rental house and a little cooking and I puttered in my garden some, but mostly I was just lonely and, I’m ashamed to say, bored. And yet I never did one single thing about it. I did visit several of the churches in town (since I was nearly over my religion phobia by then) and while they were okay, and I met some nice folks, I just never seemed to find one that quite fit. And although I felt guilty about it, it was so much easier to just sleep in on Sunday. And as a result, I’m sure that my rut just kept getting deeper and deeper. And I wasn’t really sure how to climb out.
The one thing I really did look forward to, and something that almost got me out of my rut, was getting an occasional letter from Joey. We’d finally gotten back into the habit of writing again after I’d sent him a Christmas card the previous year. I knew he’d be graduating in June (with honors and offers, according to the Brookdale News and his proud mother). And I was proud of him too and had actually wished he’d invite me to attend his graduation. I knew due to his mom’s health that his family wasn’t planning to go. But as it turned out, no invitation came for me, and I figured he might be just as happy not to have some old Brookdale “nobody” up there to distract him while he was enjoying his big day in the sun.
Okay, I didn’t exactly think I was a “nobody,” but old habits are hard to break, and I figured Joey was in a league of his own by then. Besides that, something about being back in my hometown seemed to bring out all my insecurities again.
For instance, I’d see Sally Roberts (now Sanders) driving around in her brand-new red 1978 Corvette and I’d feel like she was still queen of the prom or homecoming or the town or whatever… don’t ask me why. She’d married Brad Sanders straight out of high school (he was one of those jocks who hadn’t been nearly as nice as Jimmy Flynn) and then she’d gone right to work as a teller in her daddy’s bank. Brad worked down at the tire shop, not actually changing tires, but up front at the desk. When Sally saw me downtown or at the grocery store, why, she’d just point her little nose up in the air and step aside as if I had scabies or lice or something equally contagious. It all seemed rather unnecessary (not to mention juvenile). I simply pretended not to notice or care.
Just the same, it was those kinds of things that tended to drag me down, I suppose, and maybe that’s why I became such a homebody. Yet even when I’d try to putter around with my art, I never seemed able to finish anything. Call it a rut or a slump or maybe just the blues, but it seemed like my little life was going absolutely nowhere—fast! I was almost twenty-four and lived the life of someone twice (no, make that three times!) that age. And I didn’t even own a cat!
But at least I still read my Bible and prayed. And that spring I began to pray fervently that God would do something—something big that would just jerk me right out of my rut. And, deciding it was time to grab the bull by the horns, I even started going to church regularly!
It was the middle of June, and school had been out for a week. To fill my time, I’d started doing some volunteering with the park district, setting up an “Art in the Park” program to help reach out to “underprivileged” kids (yes, it was another attempt to escape my rut). But to be honest, I was really enjoying the work, and I felt certain that God was using this. Anyway, it was late in the afternoon and I’d just come home, clad in my paint-splotched overalls and my hair (getting long again) held back with a red bandana, and there sitting in my driveway was Joey’s old blue car! I knew that he’d just graduated, but hadn’t had time to visit Mrs. Divers lately and get the latest lowdown.
“Cass!” he called out as I hurried toward him carrying a heavy wooden crate of art supplies (I also provided the materials for the classes). “I’m so glad I caught you!”
“Hey, Joey.” I forced a smile, careful to disguise my complete shock at seeing him pop up so unexpectedly on my doorstep. I tried not to mentally calculate just how long it had been since I’d actually seen him—face-to-face. He looked pretty much the same though, only older, more mature and dignified somehow. I brushed a loose strand of hair from my eyes, determined not to do anything to reveal my true feelings or the childish hurt I’d experienced when I’d realized how he’d moved on without me. “What’s up?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.
His face grew shadowed. “It’s your daddy.”
“My daddy?” I set the box down on the porch. “What’re you talking about, Joey?”
“It’s a long story, Cass. But do you have time to come with me? Over to Radner?”
“Radner?”
“Yeah, your daddy lives there.”
“In Radner?” I studied him carefully. “But how do you know?”
“Like I said, it’s a long story. But can you come with me?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Joey…” I reached for my house key. “I don’t really have any desire to see my daddy right now—or maybe ever.” I opened the door and let us both in. It was cool inside and smelled of the rose and lavender potpourri I’d mixed up just the other day.
“Nice place, Cass.”
“Thanks.” I set the crate on the floor in the hallway, then stood back up looking Joey straight in the eyes, trying to figure out what this was all about. How would Joey Divers know anything about my daddy? “What’s going on, Joey?”
“Look, Cass, you’re daddy might be dying, even as we speak. And he wants to see you—you know, it’s only an hour’s drive from here. I can take you right now.”
I pulled the bandana from my head and shook out my hair, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Joey… I’m not so sure I want to see him.”
Now Joey reached over and put his hand on my shoulder, not in a way so as to comfort, but more like a vise grip, like he was about to give me a real firm shake and bring me to my senses. “Cass!” he said urgently. “You need to go. Can you just trust me on this?”
Suddenly I remembered the many times Joey had helped me, rescued me, bailed me out. And even today, he’d driven all the way here from—“Where did you drive from, anyway?”
“From Harvard. I was just finishing some things up there. But I’m done now.” He looked impatient. “Can you come, Cass? Now?”
“Do I have time to clean up and change?”
“Can you hurry?” His brow was furrowed and his eyes full of concern.
So I ran down the hall and quickly scrubbed the paint off my hands, then pulled on a sundress and some sandals, taking a few seconds to rip a brush through my hair and apply some lip gloss, then dashed out again.
“That was quick.”
“Well, you said to hurry.”
As we drove, Joey told me how he and my daddy had stayed in touch somewhat over the years. And while I found this extremely strange, I couldn’t bring myself to ask Joey why in the world they had done this. I mean, how could I explain why I went to visit his mom? Maybe it’s just something friends do.
“Cass, you need to understand that your daddy’s been on the wagon for the last ei
ght years.”
“You really believe that, Joey?”
“Well, okay, he admits himself that he’s fallen off a time or two. But then he gets right back on. And for the most part he’s been clean and sober. He goes to church and AA every week.”
I folded my arms across my chest and scowled. “I don’t believe it.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative.”
“Why hasn’t he been in touch with me?”
Joey shrugged as he turned onto the interstate. “I think he’s a little afraid. And he feels guilty too. I suppose he remembers those times when you returned all his letters when he wrote to you from prison. Mainly, I suspect he thinks you’re better off without him.”
I looked straight ahead and nodded. “It’s true. I am.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not, Cass.”
“How can you say that, Joey?” I turned and looked at him.
“Because you’ve gotten bitter.”
“Bitter?” I heard the edge in my voice, but at the same time I was angry that Joey would accuse me of such a thing.
“Not so that most people would notice, Cass. You’re pretty good at hiding it. But it’s there. I can see it. And I can tell it’s hurting you inside.”
“Bitter?” I said the word again, slightly louder this time. “How can you call me bitter? I mean, here I am, just living my life, minding my own business.” I felt my chin quiver. “You really think I’m bitter, Joey?”
He nodded, his eyes focused on the road, lips pressed firmly together.
“Joey, here I thought you were my friend and all this time you’ve been thinking I’m some horrible, old, bitter person?”
He laughed. “Well, it’s not as bad as that, Cass. But I do think it’s taking its toll on you. I think it’s hurting you. And I’ve wanted to bring it up, but to tell you the truth I only just really began to understand it myself.”
“And how’s that?”
“Just recently I heard this guy at my church preaching about bitterness and how it can get a hold on you.”
Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) Page 29
