“Why’re you so late?” she called from the other room.
I ignored the so late comment. I was only ten minutes later than usual. “It’s the Friday before Memorial Day, Momma. Everybody’s trying to get out of town and head to the lake. The intersections downtown were plum crazy.”
There was a moment of silence as I pulled a bag of potatoes from the cupboard.
“I heard about your faintin’ spell.”
I sighed and grabbed the peeler from the drawer. It didn’t surprise me she’d heard already. Gossip in Henryetta spread faster than a smallpox plague in an internment camp.
“I heard ya had a fit right there at your desk, thrashin’ and foamin’ at the mouth and flingin’ your arms everywhere. I must say it didn’t surprise me one bit, what with your demon and all.”
“That’s not what happened, Momma. I just got a bit dizzy after lunch is all. I lost my balance and hit my head on my desk.”
“Hmm…that’s not what I heard from Mildred.”
“Momma, Mildred wasn’t even there. I promise you, it was nothing.”
“Hmm…”
Her voice faded into the national news anchor’s monologue. Momma loved the nightly news. Nothing made her happier than watching carnage and pestilence sweeping through the world so she could mutter, “I told you so” to the television. Momma said the world was the devil’s playground and the people in it weren’t nothing but the devil’s Barbie dolls, dressed up in floozy clothes and lettin’ loose in fancy cars, God bless their souls. The fact that a good portion of the world lived in poverty remained lost on her.
I finished peeling the potatoes and started them boiling on the stove. Cleaning the scraps out of the sink, I peered out the little window. A soft breeze fluttered the gauzy curtain while I studied my next-door neighbor pulling a lawn mower out of the dilapidated, rusted shed behind his house.
He wasn’t from around here which made him an outsider, kind of like me. I’d never talked to him. I was too shy to approach a man, especially an attractive man close to my own age. He had moved into the old Williams house a couple of months earlier. The neighbors suspected he was single since they never saw a woman come and go. Trust me, if a woman had shown up, it would have been caught by the eyes of the Busybody Club. The elderly women of the Neighborhood Watch loved to snoop under the guise of being vigilant.
My neighbor wore a t-shirt and jeans. He leaned over to check the gas in the mower, giving me a perfect view of his posterior. A blush rushed to my face when I realized I’d been staring at it. I turned away and wiped stray potato peels from the kitchen counter with a dishrag as I heard the mower start.
“That infernal Yankee is interruptin’ my news!” Momma shouted from the other room. While the mower could be easily heard with all the windows open, it wasn’t even close to drowning out the news anchor’s voice.
“Momma, he is not a Yankee.” In Henryetta, being a Yankee was a serious offense, the term synonymous with liars, thieves, and murderers. And not necessarily in that order.
“Mildred said she heard he was from Missoura. That right there makes him a Yankee. Besides, it don’t matter where’s he’s from, he ain’t from around here.”
There lay the actual problem. He wasn’t from around here, which meant no one knew anything about his family. In this neck of the woods, the deeper the roots of your family tree, the higher your social esteem. My neighbor was a sapling transplanted into a prehistoric forest. It amazed me that he lasted this long.
“People move around nowadays, Momma.”
She harrumphed again. “Not in Henryetta they don’t.”
The sound of the television rose, competing with the buzz of the mower. I tried my best to ignore both while I finished making dinner. My mind wandered to my vision earlier. Violet and her children had been a great distraction but with the company of just myself, my thoughts presented themselves like unwelcome houseguests. I’d never seen something really bad before, and the fact that it was about me scared the stuffing out of me. But I also realized my visions didn’t always come true. I’d never met Daniel Crocker before today. Why on earth would he want to murder me? People ignored me, mocked me, and even gossiped about me, but murder me?
The best thing I could do was just forget about it.
TWO
The annoying beep of my alarm broke the early morning silence. In a rare act of defiance, I didn’t turn it off. I lay on my back, one arm draped over my head, and gazed at the water-stained ceiling. Dreams of bloody furniture, scruffy men, and an angry Momma had plagued my sleep, causing me to toss and turn so much the sheets knotted into a tangled mess. I would have loved nothing more than to sleep in, but Momma would have none of that. She considered sleeping past eight in the morning slothfulness, another one of the seven deadly sins. No excuses were acceptable, not even illness.
I was twenty-four years old and I let my momma tell me what time to get up every day. I felt hopelessly pathetic.
Momma shuffled down the hall. Let me have five minutes of peace, you old biddy. As soon as the words formed in my brain, I was contrite. What had gotten into me? Momma pounded on my bedroom door. “Rose Anne! Turn off that confounded alarm!”
It surprised me she didn’t fling the door wide open. I learned years ago there was no such thing as privacy in this house. Momma made it her business to know everything about everything.
I blindly threw my arm in the general direction of the alarm clock. Even after the shrilling stopped, I continued to lie on the bed and tried to the summon energy to face yet another day with Momma.
“Rose! Whatcha still doin’ in there? Get yourself outta bed.”
The morning soon filled with household chores, which really meant that I dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed the bathroom while Momma bossed me around. As the minutes ticked on, my anger brewed and grew acrid, like a pot of coffee that sat too long. I worked all week while Momma watched television and gossiped with the neighbors. On my day off, I was nothing but her slave. I decided I would clean until lunchtime, then run off to the library. When I announced my plans to Momma, she protested with a vengeance.
“Rose, you have to make two apple pies for the Memorial Day church picnic tomorrow.”
“Momma,” I said, drawing out her name, worried my raging volcano of anger would burst out through the words. After a lifetime of keeping my anger stuffed like money under a mattress, I wasn’t ready to let it out now. “I can make them when I get back from the library.” I pulled out the leftover meatloaf to make sandwiches for lunch.
“The Henryetta Southern Baptist Church is countin’ on me to bring them pies tomorrow. I made a commitment and I intend to honor it. You’re making them pies before you go.”
Momma sat in a chair at the kitchen table and waited for me to serve her lunch, as if I was her personal servant and she was the Queen of Sheba. Suddenly, just like a light switch turned from off to on, I’d had enough. I slammed my palm down, causing the dishes on the counter to rattle. Her head jerked up as I turned to face her. Anger made black spots dance before my eyes. “Well, Momma, if you made a commitment, then perhaps you should honor it and make the pies.” I practically shouted the last part, which from the look on Momma’s face, surprised her as much as it amazed me.
“Don’t you raise your voice to me!” Momma shouted back. “I will not tolerate you breakin’ the Ten Commandments in my house.”
I fumed while I finished making her sandwich then slammed the plate on the table in front of her. Turning back to the counter, I gathered the flour and butter to start the piecrust.
“You come sit here right now. You can make them pies after lunch.”
I turned to her, with my hand on my hip. “Which is it, Momma? You just told me I had to make the pies before I go. Now you’re telling me not to make them. What about your commitment? I’m making crust for the pies that you said you would make and then I’m leaving.”
Momma looked aghast. I later wondered if she was stymied by what I said o
r the fact I finally stood up to her. No matter the reason, she obviously didn’t like it. Her mouth puckered up like she’d just sucked on a lemon and her face turned a mottled red. I about fell over when I realized I had stunned her into speechlessness. That was a first.
It didn’t take long to make the piecrust. Normally, I would have put the dough in the refrigerator to harden then roll it out several hours later, but I didn’t want to commit to being home by then. I threw an abundance of flour on the counter. The sticky mess clung to the rolling pin, no matter how much flour I added. I knew the crust would be a disaster, but I didn’t care. If anything, it filled me with self-righteousness. That’s what she got for bullying me to do this instead of doing it herself. To add the piece de resistance, instead of peeling fresh apples, I pulled two cans of apple pie filling out of the cupboard. I opened them and simultaneously turned the cans upside down over the piecrust shells. The contents of the cans slurped and glooped out into the pie plates, the silence of the room filling with the sickening sound. I grabbed a spatula to spread the goo around then threw a crust on top of each.
A quick glance at Momma confirmed the intended effect; she was horrified by the sight of the cans. I knew I should feel contrite about the smugness that filled me, but I told myself I could feel guilt later. Right now, I was gonna revel in the glory of it.
The heat of the oven blasted my face when I tossed them in, but the fire inside me burned even hotter. I dumped all of the dirty bowls and utensils into the sink.
“I’ve set a timer; you can take the pies out when it goes off.” I left the kitchen to get my purse and library books.
Momma found her tongue when I returned. I was surprised it took her so long. “I ain’t got no idea what’s gotten into you, Rose Anne Gardner. Don’t you take that uppity tone with me. Your daddy must be rolling over in his grave.”
“Don’t you dare bring Daddy into this!” I yelled, not caring anymore. Shouting at Momma was like uncorking an oil well. Once it started spewing, it would take a whole lot of effort to make it stop. “Poor Daddy had to live with your evil tongue for years, decades even. I can’t believe Daddy stayed with you! He was the sweetest, gentlest man and you just wore the life right out of him, Momma. I bet Daddy’s doing a tap dance right now, rejoicing with the angels that I finally stood up to you!”
Momma rose from her chair, grabbing the table to lift herself up. “I’m not gettin’ them pies outta the oven! I can’t bend over. You know that.”
“I don’t give a cotton picking damn if you get them out or not! Get Mildred to do it or let ‘em burn for all I care! I’ve done my part. I made your insufferable pies! Now I’m leaving!”
“Don’t you curse in my house, you evil, demon-possessed child!”
“I am not a child, Momma! You treat me like one and up to now I’ve let you, but I’m an adult and I’m not tolerating this anymore!”
I threw the door open and walked out into the humid heat. Angry thunderheads brewed on the horizon, practically causing the air to boil. Everything in the cosmos raged in unison with me, validating the rightness of my tirade. The new neighbor stood in his front yard, talking to Mildred. Eyes wide in surprise, both turned to watch me walk to my car. Momma followed behind me. The windows of the house were still wide open and our shouting match had entertained anyone within a quarter mile. Good, let them hear it. I wanted witnesses to this historic occasion.
“You get yourself back in this house right now, Rose Anne Gardner! You come back and finish them pies!”
I dug through the contents of my purse, searching for my keys. Panic rose like the rising floodwaters of Blackberry Creek after a heavy rainfall, my sanity bobbing precariously on the surface. I could not have just told my momma off, stormed out of the house and forgot my keys inside the house. Yet, I did. Obviously, my dramatic exits needed better planning.
Screw it. I gasped at my own crassness.
“Get your own damn pies out of the oven!” I shouted over my shoulder, adding to the neighborhood entertainment. The library was only a half-mile away. It would give me time to stomp off my anger.
“Rose, you get yourself back here right now! Don’t you walk away from me!”
Her words clung to the air behind me as I continued down the crumpled concrete path, neighbors staring as if I were a three-headed cow. I lifted my chin and marched. Go ahead! Get a good look! I wanted to shout, but then I decided I’d made enough of a spectacle of myself for one day. I needed to pace myself; it was barely past noon.
By the time I pushed through the library doors, my anger had cooled. The smell of books dampened the rest. The library was my refuge, the one place I could go and escape from Momma’s wrath. Every Saturday afternoon I spent several hours there, going on the Internet since we didn’t have a computer at home or reading. Today I just wanted to read.
When five o’clock rolled around, the library’s closing time, I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready to go home yet. Instead, I walked several blocks to a cafe. Momma would expect me to come home and fix her something for dinner, but she wasn’t an invalid. She could make her own meal.
After ordering my food, I finally dwelled on our fight. I knew I should feel remorse. At the very least, I should feel guilty. Yet I didn’t. What I said had been a long time coming. If I had a cell phone I would call Violet with the news, but I didn’t own one. Momma said cell phones were just a way for the government to record all your calls and at the very least a waste of money. As part of my stand of newfound independence, I decided tomorrow I would go to the cell phone store and get one. Momma be damned.
That made me contrite. Three curse words in one day and a crass phrase to boot. Maybe I did have a demon.
There would be a moment of reckoning when I finally showed up, but I wasn’t ready to face it yet. I knew I was acting like a petulant child putting it off, but Rome wasn’t built in a day and a sourdough starter took a week to create. I was gaining my independence after twenty-four years. I didn’t need to rush into it all at once.
After I paid the bill, I stood on the sidewalk in indecision. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. My other option was to find a pay phone and call Violet. I knew she or Mike would come and take me to their place for the night, and I found myself sorely tempted. But if I called Violet, she would be rescuing me and part of my new independence meant rescuing myself. I needed to stand on my own two feet and be a grown up. Loitering in the sweltering heat at the corner of Ivy Road and Madison Avenue, the cold, harsh reality slammed into me hard. Yes, I could blame Momma for my dependence, but I had to take some of the responsibility, too. I was a grown woman. I let her treat me that way.
I picked option three and walked to the nearby city park to stall longer. I passed between the concrete monoliths flanking the entrance, feeling prickly and a little trapped by the wrought iron fence that skirted the edge. I had to admit my vision made me a bit skittish, but I shook it off. In the vision, I was dead on Momma’s sofa and presently, I was nowhere near Momma’s sofa. Technically, it meant I was safe so I wandered to the small pond in of the middle the park. Azalea bushes surrounded the path, the blooms now faded and scattered amongst the gravel. A half dozen benches lined the trail, but walking helped my restlessness. I followed the path around the periphery, surprised there weren’t more people milling around.
The crunch under my feet soothed my growing paranoia, but the image of my vision popped into my mind again. I shook my head and tried to chase it away. I hoped it wasn’t true, but what if it was? But I couldn’t just sit around and wait for Daniel Crocker to kill me. The only course of action I could come up with at the moment was to never sit on Momma’s sofa again.
All the thoughts of my impending murder made me face the undeniable proof of my mortality. There were so many things I’d dreamed of doing. If I died, I’d never get a chance to try any of them. Violet was right. I was frittering my life away.
An epiphany burst into my mind, nearly knocking me over with the enormity of it. I
would create a list, a list of things I wanted to do before I died.
I found a bench and dug through my purse, grabbing a pen and a Wal-Mart receipt. I stared at the paper. There were lots of things I wanted to do.
Number one was a decision I’d already made. Get a cell phone. I dug out a library book, placed the receipt on top and wrote my first item. Then I smiled, a smug smile full of pride. Another of the Seven Deadly Sins. How many could I commit in one day? I briefly considered adding them, but I wasn’t sure I could go through with lust. Besides, the desire to act out all the sins in a twenty-four hour period just seemed wrong. I needed to space them out more. Maybe a week. Number two: Commit all Seven Deadly Sins in one week.
I felt very wicked. This was how the road to ruin started. One minute you’re exasperating your Momma by not turning off your alarm, the next you’re plotting the damnation of your soul. But then again, according to Momma, my soul was already damned. Number two stayed.
New rule: once the item got on the list, the only way it could be marked off was if I’d done it.
After number two, the list poured out. Get cable TV. Get my own place. Buy some makeup. Visit a beauty salon. Get a pedicure. Ride in a convertible. Drink a glass of wine. Drink a beer. Go to a bar. Dance. Get a boyfriend. Kiss a man. Do more with a man. (That was all I could bring myself to say.) Get a dog. Dress like a princess.
I continued to write, my words getting smaller as I got closer to the bottom of the receipt. Wear high heels. Wear a lacy bra and panties. Eat Chinese food. Go to Italy. Learn to knit. Ride a motorcycle. Fly in an airplane. Jump on a trampoline. Fly a kite. Have a picnic in the park. Play in the rain.
I had twenty-eight items when I realized there was room for only one more at the bottom. I stared at it, unsure what to put, yet afraid to fill in the spot. What if there was something I hadn’t thought of yet? In the end, I wrote the number twenty-nine and left it empty. There were too many possibilities to limit myself to only one more.
Crimes of Passion Page 59
