Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy

by Susan Vaught

  I wiped my face with both hands, and I went down the hall and through the closed door. For a few heartbeats I just stood there, breathing in and out, in and out, but all I could smell was the light pine scent of dad’s aftershave, with hints of soap from his shower that morning, and the minty tang of toothpaste. The tears came back again.

  Mom had a desk near the window, just like me, only she kept the blinds up, not down. Even though it felt really wrong and really weird, I wanted to look through her things. I wanted to touch them.

  Sunlight streamed through the windowpanes, showing all the dust on stacks of recipe books, boxes of stationery, notebooks, appliance manuals, and clipped-together bills. The stacks felt like proof that Mom wasn’t always sick. They seemed to say, See? Look. She organized me. She knew what she was doing.

  I walked over to the desk, put my hand on the nearest stack, and took a deep breath. My heart thumped when the air swept into my nose, because it smelled a little like her rosy perfume.

  Mom. There you are.

  My chest hurt.

  I could see her sitting there at the desk, smiling to herself as she wrote down instructions for some disgusting fancy dinner dish, or scrawled a letter to somebody, because yes, my mom still sent snail mail.

  The top box of stationery was powder-blue paper with lines on it. I opened the box and ran my fingertips across the silky surface. So soft, and it smelled even more like her. Mom had pretty handwriting. I could almost imagine the loopy letters she’d make as she wrote Fennel Meatloaf or Arugula Muffins or Carrot Ice Cream.

  Blech.

  I smiled.

  Then I frowned.

  It didn’t make sense, how Mom could be so completely fine sometimes, sitting here in this room, working at this desk—or so sweet and nice that she fed yard squirrels and basement mice her breakfast—and then end up a drooling zombie in the hospital, miles and miles away from us.

  My hands wandered across the desktop, sliding pieces of Mom’s life and mind and heart back and forth. Fresh tears made me see everything in prisms and rainbows. I wanted to be mad at her for leaving us, mad like I always used to be, when I was really little. Mad would feel better than . . . than whatever made my chest weigh ten-thousand pounds and hurt so much.

  Maybe I don’t have a brain tumor. Maybe I have a heart tumor. If I had a heart tumor, I’d so be dead by morning. But then I wouldn’t be here when Mom got home. I didn’t really want to have any kind of tumor at all.

  I opened the center drawer of Mom’s desk. Nothing there but pens and pencils and paper clips and thumbtacks and rubber bands. I opened the only left-hand drawer and found more boxes of stationery, all different colors, some thumb drives with rubber protectors shaped like pigs and dogs, a flashlight, some matches, and emergency storm candles. The top drawer on the right had a weather radio, which figured, because when Mom wasn’t obsessing about snakes, she worried about tornados, like everyone else in Mississippi.

  It took me a while to realize I was smiling and the tears weren’t falling anymore.

  In the drawer underneath that, I found a bag of lemon drops, two unopened bottles of Mom’s medication, and three letters addressed to Mom from Carl Abrams at Central Mississippi Correctional Facility down in Pearl.

  Oh. My. God.

  My breath caught, and I swiped the remnants of tears out of my eyes with the backs of my hands. When I picked up the letters and examined them, I realized they had been opened, then tucked back in their envelopes and fastened together with one of Mom’s yellow paper clips. I took off the paper clip.

  “Carl Abrams,” I said out loud, looking at the paper like I could X-ray-vision the person who’d sent them. I had seen his face before, because the papers and television news had shown him over and over, after the fire. The news people all said Cissy and Doc’s dad was still locked up and would be for at least two more years.

  I pulled open the first letter, which was dated December of last year. It was short, and written in blocky print.

  Dear Ms. Davis,

  I dont read so good, so people got to help me undistand what you said, and help me spell my words on this note. Thank you for doin the naborly thing when my mom died and taking my dad and kids some food. I’m real glad you realized somthin not right there, and went back more and more to see my babies. It hurts my heart to know what they go thru. I thought my dad would have got better when he laid off the drinking, but I guess not. I let them down so bad, bein stupid and using that awful stuff and getting myself locked in this hole. I got two years left on my time, but I go to my meetings and I been clean for fourteen months. Tell my kids I come to get them just as soon as I am out of here with a job and can feed them.

  Yours in Jesus,

  Carl Abrams

  I folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. The second letter was dated February 10, from this year.

  Dear Ms. Davis,

  I met with the parole board but they dont give me no time off even though my kids need me. They didn’t take none of that serious. They say if my kids is having trouble I should call the law on my dad. You say you tried that when you was little. So did I. We both know how that don’t work out good.

  You tell that old SOB he touch my kids again, Il come for him and he be real sorry then.

  Yours in Jesus (I think Jesus be okay with me smackin him down if its to help kids),

  Carl Abrams

  The landline rang.

  I jumped, then ignored the receiver on Mom’s desk until it stopped. I didn’t even look at the caller ID. I just put the second letter away and went to the third, opening it despite the way my hands trembled. It was dated two weeks before the fire.

  Mom, what did you do? What’s all this about?

  Dear Ms. Davis,

  Sorry my old man talked rough to you. Thats how he is and always was. With what you say about your own folks, guess you understand that, and how a man gets to be like me. Glad you was able to be stronger than I was.

  I cant thank you enough for them pictures of my girl and boy. I send you one back of me here that a cowboy took for me with his phone cause he is new and dont know no better and he is still nice. Most guards get mean after a while workin in this place. Cant say I blame em.

  Tell Cissy girl she is brave and tell little man Doc that his dad loves him and will come as soon as he can.

  Yours in Jesus,

  Carl Abrams

  My brain turned in circles as I put the third letter back in its envelope, then shut it in Mom’s drawer. Like images from an old projector, pictures flickered through my awareness as my ears started to buzz, and my nose filled with the stench of smoke.

  The old man, Mr. Abrams, with his fist doubled up, ready to punch the little boy, Doc . . .

  The few times Mom had talked about her own family, and how she had to get away, because they were mean and no-good and God hadn’t seen fit to make medicine for mean and no-good yet . . .

  Mr. Abrams hitting that tiny little kid . . .

  Cissy and Mom with the shotgun . . .

  It seemed so wrong, that Carl Abrams knew how much his kids needed him, that he wanted to help them so much, but he couldn’t. He was trapped by whatever he had done in the past, locked up a long way from them, just like Mom had been locked away from me and Dad. The tears came back, and they slid down my cheeks, and my heart tumor got twice as big.

  Why did stuff like this have to happen?

  I knew I should put the letters down, but I couldn’t. I got tears on them, and they weren’t even mine.

  The phone rang again, and finally, finally, I managed to let go of the letters. My hand moved toward the receiver, slow-motion, not real, not even seeming like it was part of my body. I didn’t feel like I was on the planet. I didn’t feel like a person.

  Robot me picked up the phone, still staring at the drawer where I’d put the tear-stained letters. My eyes drifted to the caller ID, which said OUT OF AREA.

  “Hello?”

  “Can I talk to Adel
e Davis, please?”

  A woman, like the one who called a few nights ago. Maybe even the same one—but this time she sounded weird, slurring her words so bad, I barely understood them.

  “Who is this?” I asked in my flat robot voice. “Who are you?”

  “You must be her girl. Farah or some such, right?”

  That last word came out as riiiite—her accent was worse than Peavine at his maddest. “I’m Footer,” I muttered. “And you are?”

  The woman sucked in a breath, then blew it out slow, like some old movie star smoking a cigarette. “Look, you tell your mama I can’t do it. Got that?”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “I won’t be calling again, and she don’t need to call me, either. I’m changing my number.”

  “Can’t do what?” I repeated, but the slurring, smoking woman hung up.

  Like an idiot, I stood there, hoping she’d pick back up, but the line clicked and the dial tone started.

  I put the receiver back on the charger, still not feeling connected to my own self or my fingers or the desk or the world. I stood there so long, I was still in the same spot when Ms. Jones got there. She found me, took one look at me, and shooed me back to my own room.

  Walking wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. I went without arguing or tripping or falling, but I took a notebook and pen from my desk before I climbed into bed.

  Ms. Jones fussed with the covers, talking about making me a breakfast that would probably make me throw up a week’s worth of brownies and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Then she said, “You really miss your mom, don’t you?”

  I blinked at Ms. Jones, who looked way too much like Peavine for me ever to say something crosswise to her. Which Mom? I wanted to ask. The nice one who cooks disgusting lemon-pepper asparagus and smiles while she works at her desk, or the secret Mom who listens to secret things from other kids, writes to men in prison, makes counseling appointments for me that she doesn’t tell anybody about, and maybe sets fires that burn people to death?

  Out loud, I said, “Yes, I miss Mom. I’ll probably be sick until I get to visit her again.”

  “I see.” Ms. Jones stroked my cheek once and nodded, her brown eyes full of that total understanding only she and Peavine could radiate. “I’ll be sure to tell your father. Maybe he can work something out.”

  From the Notebook of Detective Peavine Jones

  Interview of Peavine Jones, by Angel Jones, Fourteen Days After the Fire

  Location: My Butthead Brother’s Nastified Bedroom

  Butthead: This is stupid. I don’t know anything about the fire. I’m investigating it, remember?

  Me: You and Footer said all suspects should be interviewed and that everyone is a suspect. That means you have to do this.

  Butthead: Then I should interview you.

  Me: Duh. We were with Mom at church.

  Butthead: Fine. Whatever. Just get this over with.

  Me: Do you like Footer, or do you like her?

  Butthead: What does that have to do with the fire?

  Me: Nothing. I just want to know.

  Butthead: I’m only doing this so you don’t go screaming to Mom that I’m being mean to you. Everything’s not simple black and white like you think.

  Me: I’m not simple black and white.

  Butthead: Of course you’re not. You read books fatter than my head.

  Me: So, do you like Footer?

  Butthead: [Suspect seems anxious. See? I sound more like a detective than he does.] I do like Footer. I missed her when she didn’t come to school today. I’m worried about her now, but I can’t go to her house Saturday, because her dad’s taking her to Memphis to see her mother.

  Me: How was she when you called her tonight?

  Butthead: She didn’t sound right. She acted kinda far away, and she couldn’t get her words to come out in a straight line. I think she misses her Mom more than ever, but she hates it when I try to ask her about stuff like that. I think what she remembered about the fire at the Abrams farm is stressing her out way too much.

  Me: Tell Mom.

  Butthead: I can’t. Footer would get mad.

  Me: Tell her dad, then. So what if she gets mad?

  Butthead: I should have talked to Mr. Davis myself. He didn’t believe Footer about what she remembered, but he didn’t see her remember it. I did. Plus, he hasn’t seen the list Footer made when she stayed home. She e-mailed it to me about an hour ago.

  Me: What list?

  Butthead: Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  Me: Oh, this list. The one on your printer.

  Butthead: Give me that, you little snot!

  Me: You wish.

  Mystery Puzzle, Worked Out by Footer Davis

  By Footer Davis

  1. Mom started going over to the Abrams farm when Ms. Abrams died, and kept going because she realized something bad was happening there. Cissy and Doc Abrams must have told Mom they were being abused by their grandfather. That’s why she wouldn’t take me with her. I know she would have tried to help them, because Mom went through bad stuff when she was little too.

  2. Mom wrote Carl Abrams at the prison down in Pearl and told him Cissy and Doc needed him.

  3. Carl Abrams answered her. I read the letters. They’re in Mom’s desk drawer. He said he couldn’t come save his kids until he got out of prison and got a job. He sounded like a nicer guy than I thought he’d be.

  4. I know I was at the farm the night the fire happened, because the smoke molecules stayed in my nose, like that coffee experiment we did in class. Mom gave me a bath and put me to bed. She told me I slept through everything, but the stench was too strong to be floating on the wind from half a mile away, and besides, I never open my windows. You know that, and you know why.

  5. The night of the fire, old Mr. Abrams hit Doc and knocked him down, and then he kicked him. Cissy shot Mr. Abrams to keep him from killing Doc.

  6. Mr. Abrams blew apart right in front of me. I want to quit seeing it in my head. Captain Armstrong was right about not wanting to think about bad stuff like that.

  7. Mom tried to make me a counseling appointment. I missed it because I didn’t know about it. She probably did that because I saw somebody get exploded by a shotgun blast, and she thought it would make me sick like her. Maybe it has.

  8. Mom probably set the fire to hide what Cissy did. Then something went wrong, and Cissy and Doc accidentally died in the fire. I didn’t see that part.

  9. Some woman called to tell Mom she couldn’t do something. She sounded drunk or high. I think it might have been somebody Mom called about Cissy and Doc. I think it might have been their mother, but I have no idea.

  10. The barrette Angel found must have been Mom’s. I know it, and I think Dad knows it too, but he doesn’t want to think about it, because it’s proof she was there. I’m not talking to him about it anymore, not after last night. I thought about telling your mom or Ms. Malone or Captain Armstrong or even Stephanie Bridges, but I don’t think they’d believe me. I don’t even know if I want them to believe me.

  11. I’m going to go talk to Mom. She has to tell me the rest of what happened. It’s time to know.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Fifteen Days After the Fire

  Mom could focus her thoughts enough to walk on her own, so she didn’t need the rolling recliner chair anymore. Her hair had been combed and pulled back into a ponytail, and somebody had helped her put on a little makeup. She had on her own clothes too—jeans and an orange Tennessee Volunteer Nation jersey with sleeves that stopped at the elbows, and orange sneakers. She would have looked pretty normal as she came to the visiting room off her unit, if it hadn’t been for the nurse walking her, holding her arm to help with balance.

  I watched Mom’s feet drag as much as move, and I felt sick inside. I had gotten used to what she looked like as she got ill, right before she got sent to the hospital, and what she looked like when she came home. I had even gotten
a little used to watching her slide toward nutty thinking and not be able to take care of herself when she quit taking her pills. This in-between-sick-and-getting-well phase—I hadn’t seen it before, and it made me sad.

  Dad hugged Mom when she got to the doorway of the room, and she hugged him back. He kissed the top of her head with his eyes closed and thanked the nurse for looking after her. Then the nurse walked her in to me and eased her down on one of the small two-seat couches. The air went out of the plastic cushion, and it sounded so much like a fart, I had to smile.

  Mom smiled too, but her mouth didn’t go all the way up at the corners. Her eyes settled on me, but they didn’t focus. When she quit smiling, her lips sagged, and I worried that she might drool. She put both hands on the couch, like she had to hold herself up to keep from falling.

  “She’s had her morning meds,” the nurse told me. “She may be a little drowsy, but that’ll pass.” Then she slipped out of the visiting room to go talk to Dad, and she closed the door behind her.

  “I hate the way these pills make me feel,” Mom said.

  The room was too cold, like rooms in hospitals always were. I rubbed my hands together to keep feeling in my fingers as I said, “I know. But you don’t do so good without them. Last time I was here, you thought you had a piano in your wrist.”

  Mom lifted her arm and gazed down at it. “Huh. That’s a new one.”

  She didn’t remember. She usually didn’t remember the really crazy stuff later, when she started getting well.

  “Sharks and barracudas,” she muttered, but that wasn’t nutty stuff. She was talking about a picture she showed me once, the emblem of one of her support groups. The picture showed a person on a tightrope trying to get across a pool labeled LIFE. On one side, a big shark named ILLNESS swam, mouth open. On the other side, hoards of barracudas labeled SIDE EFFECTS waited to eat the person if she tripped.

  The group talked a lot about needing options better than the shark or the barracudas and pushing scientists to find cures instead of more treatments to make drug companies rich. I didn’t understand all that, but I knew it had something to do with why I found Mom’s medication in places like her desk drawer because she hadn’t taken it.