What I Remember Most (27 page)

On Monday evening, as the snow floated down, I found three different, ugly wood lamps with beige shades for about seven dollars each and two seven-foot-tall, ugly, puke green bookcases for ten dollars each at the thrift store. The man at the thrift store said he would have his son deliver the shelves to me in his truck.

We put the bookcases on either side of my gas fireplace. They sure needed a makeover.

I related to that.

I put the magnifying glass canvas aside because I couldn’t grasp what I was trying to remember, what I was trying to get the magnifying glass to magnify, but I knew I didn’t like it. I started painting the circular glass vase with the lilies, the quaint village, the church steeple, the cobblestone streets and the crack up the side.

Covey called, semihysterical with fury, and left a message for me to call him. Then he swore at me and called me a “white trash bitch.”

Millie called. She said, “Prepare for a trial.”

Cherie called. Covey was fighting every inch of the divorce for asinine reasons. He would make me go broke. She said, “You married a lunatic. I will slay him.”

Marilyn and her husband moved to Coeur d’Alene. Marilyn told me she didn’t need “the chicken ladies’ tongues wagging” here in Pineridge. I don’t know why she called the women “chicken ladies” and didn’t ask. She also said, “Tight jeans, Grenady. Are you sure you have the figure for them?”

I said, “If I can’t wear tight jeans, you should be in a tent.” She had one more comment, as her eyes dropped to my chest. “Tell me, before I go. Those are fake, aren’t they? They look
so
fake.”

I lifted my sweater, boobs encased in a purple lace bra. “All mine, Marilyn. Au naturel.”

I loved that choking expression on her pinched face.

Her husband came in with her to get her last check. “Her momma’s in Coeur d’Alene,” he whispered to me when Marilyn was saying good-bye, pretending people would miss her. “Her momma’s the only one who could get her to see reason, so we gotta move. I can’t get hit in the butt again. She dang near snapped my tailbone. Snapped my ass, that’s what she almost did. I can’t live with a snapped ass.”

I didn’t think he should stay with anyone who hit him, but he apparently had made his choice, and they left together after Marilyn shot me one more hate-filled glance. She grabbed her husband’s hand as if I’d run out and steal the man. Poor guy.

Kade came out after they left.

“Congratulations, Grenady. You are now head of sales for Hendricks’ Furniture. You get a raise, an office, commission, and more vacation days. Can you find me someone to be the new receptionist?”

I could! I was so happy I wanted to hug him, but he’s pretty serious and reserved, so I wrapped my arms around myself and gave myself a hug. “Thank you.” I laughed. “Thank you.”

His eyes softened, I could see it. “You’re welcome. Thank you.”

Working at The Spirited Owl that night, making hot buttered rums for a group of women and highballs for a group of men, was easier for me. I had a new job. I was head of sales for Hendricks’ Furniture.

I about clicked my darn boots together.

I had a divorce to finance and an attorney to pay. This was on top of, quite possibly, being told to pay back the victims over the course of the rest of my life, post-prison, after all of my savings and retirement money was sucked in to Covey’s black hole.

If there was a miracle, however, and I wasn’t found guilty, then I could keep this money. I was hoping, like a drunk fool, for that outcome.

My mind was taken off my new position when Rhetta stalked in, grabbed a beer bottle, and charged toward her ex-boyfriend, Wayne, who had broken up with her because of her temper.

I saw her coming, teeth bared, and I climbed over the bar, between Grizz and Chilton, and grabbed the bottle in the nick of time.

Rhetta should have thanked me. She was coming in at an angle that could have killed poor Wayne, who was a dear soul and no match for the volcanic Rhetta.

She didn’t thank me. She said, “To hell with you, Grenady! And you!” She pointed at Wayne. “Next time I see you I’m squeezing your balls in salad tongs!”

Wayne paled.

This kind of thing makes me look forward to quitting The Spirited Owl.

To: Margo Lipton

From: Daneesha Houston

Date: January 28, 1989

Re: Grenadine Scotch Wild

Dear Margo,

Between you and me, the Hutchinsons had a wonderful birthday party for Grenadine Scotch Wild and invited my husband and me. There were about sixty people there, both sides of the families.

They had a bow and arrow contest and then a shooting contest with cans lined up on a log. Grenadine was second place in the shooting contest and fourth in bow and arrows. I reminded the Hutchinsons that Grenadine is not allowed to shoot off guns or use bow and arrows. They both agreed they would not allow it again.

I can now enter my retirement in peace. In my thirty years as a case worker, Grenadine was my favorite child. For my retirement she made me a painting of herself and me sitting together on the Hutchinsons’ porch. She painted matching pink feathers in our hair. We were wearing cowboy boots and holding bouquets of lilies.

It touched my heart, that it did. I am not ashamed to say I broke down and had a good cry on their front porch. Hugh handed me the cat to pet and a beer.

I will keep in contact with Grenadine in the future through letters and visits. The Hutchinsons said they had never had a black friend but that I am welcome anytime for moonshine, along with my husband, Geoffrey, who can shoot almost as well as Hugh, I’ll add!

Please look out for Grenadine for me in the future. Please. Keep an eye out for my kid. She’s a fighter.

She has overcome one hardship after another and, remarkably, still finds it in her heart to love others and bring them joy.

I’ll see you at my retirement party. Thank you for the flowers.

Daneesha

HIGHLAND PARK JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL HOME OF THE RAIDERS

1988–1989

Report Card

Student:
Grenadine Wild

Date:
March 19, 1989

Grade
: Seventh

English Literature

Grade: C

Grenadine refuses to read out loud in class. The kids made fun of her at the beginning of the year because she stumbled on the words, called her stupid, and now she won’t do it. (She has not gotten in a fight in my class for two months, and I am proud of her progress. Between you and me, when Grenadine cut Melissa’s skirt up the back for teasing her, I thought Melissa deserved it.)

However, when I read aloud, or other children read aloud, and I ask her what the story is about, she knows exactly, and she will even talk about the theme of the book, the morals, and whether she likes the main characters. She has not liked many of the female characters we’ve read about, as she says they’re “pussies.” I have told her not to use that word so she substituted the words “weak” and “boring as a dead chipmunk” and “brainless.” Still, her ability to read and comprehend what she has read is poor and is reflected in her homework and tests. I made her flash cards with words on them but, curiously, when she got to the word “rope” she refused to say it aloud. She said, “I never say that word. It’s a
bad
word. Next card.” Do you know what that’s all about?

Math

Grade: C

Still struggling. Does not turn in many assignments. Needs help at home. Will move her to a lower class at the end of the quarter. May be learning disabled in math.

Writing

Grade: C–

Excellent ideas, but I have a hard time reading what she writes and she does not write enough to complete the assignments. Her spelling needs vast improvement. She omits or reverses letters and substitutes the wrong words. She wanted to draw pictures to show the story, I said no. I told her to read more. She said no. I like her bandanas and the pink rabbit foot.

Health

Grade: B

Grenadine built the human body on plywood using popsicle sticks, cement, fabric, cotton, and paint. It was impressive! I have asked if I can keep it for future students. She graciously said yes. She said she did not do the human head because she hates skulls, but it wasn’t necessary for the head to be there. She received a B because her written answers are incomplete/ unreadable on all tests, but that human body was fantastic!!!

Science

Grade: B

Although Grenadine’s answers on our written tests were often left blank, and she spells phonetically, her science project where she painted a mural of the major contributions in science for the last two hundred years was the best project I’ve ever seen. I hung it in our classroom (although I would like to take it home).

Social Studies

Grade: B+

Much of this term’s grade was based on a project. Grenadine received an A+ for her American Indian collage.

The teepees made from leather and sticks looked like true teepees ! The leather dresses with the beading, and the feather headdresses were unbelievable! The horses looked like they could gallop off the canvas! That she used her hair, and the hair from several kids in our class, to form the manes was remarkable! We loved the sunset behind the Indians, too. You have an artist for a daughter!

Music

Grade: A+

This is a child who is musically inclined. She has a sweet voice, and I was surprised at how quickly she picked up the piano. She said she has had no lessons. She cannot read the notes well, but she plays what she hears . . . I am rather struck by this . . . are there musicians in the family? Grenadine said no, only “crackerjack” hunters and lumbermen and bar fighters, but I bet if you looked . . .

PE

Grade: A+

Athletic. Fast. Best girl in her grade in all sports. First one in. Beats all boys but one. Not a good sport when her team loses. Likes to win. Aggressive. Tackled two boys last week who made fun of the feathers in her hair.

Art

Grade: A+

I have never had a more talented student. Grenadine’s work takes my breath away! For fun the other day, when she came in at her lunch period, I gave her a canvas, feathers, paint, and tinfoil. Over the course of a week, she made tiny chicks following a mother duck using paint and the feathers. The ducklings were walking along a country road, the trees overhanging. She used the foil to create a lake in the background and a tiny silver necklace around the mother duck. We have hung it in the entry of our school.

It was good to see you and your entire family—forty people?—at the school admiring all her artwork at Back to School night. She is lucky to have you and thank you for playing your fiddles for everyone, too. We loved it! (But next year, no songs about beer drinking, please.)

I moved into mean Marilyn’s old office. The same day I interviewed five people to be the receptionist. I was quick about it. I hired a young woman with a pleasant voice who graduated from college with a degree in English Literature. She was engaged to be married but refused to wear a white wedding dress. A designer at the beach was making her dress. It would reflect her and her fiancé’s interest: Motorcycle riding. The dress was black leather.

Tia showed me the design. I liked it. Black leather bustier, black leather short skirt, fishnets.

“I can wear it again, without the train. And I’m wearing a white lace veil when I walk down the aisle, for the traditional touch. For my mother.”

“Traditional and fishnets. Perfect.”

She would be perfect for the job here, too. Smart. Quick.

I had cleared away most of Marilyn’s stuff, including unnecessary paperwork. My office was right by Rozlyn’s, close to Kade’s, across from Eudora’s. It had a wall of windows and a desk with a carving of a cottage near a stream on the front. It suited me.

I had two wood shelving units and a table and chairs.

My own office! I would paint the walls a creamy light blue and fill it with color and pretty, and it would be organized so I could feel safe and years away from what I didn’t want to think about.

I did not have time to love it too much, though, because I had calls to make, e-mails to write, and a meeting with the towering, mafia man Kade . . .

Hee-haw.

I was in sales!

“You’re being offered a proffer.”

“A what, Millie?” I tightened my grip on the phone to make sure I heard every word my attorney said.

“A proffer. That means you go to a scary meeting that will later give you the runs. Some people call it being queen for the day, but there’s no crown or fancy dress, only a possible legal guillotine.

“Anyhow, an assistant U.S. attorney will run the party, but the FBI will be there, the IRS, a postal inspector who’s in the mail fraud department, a financial analyst, and a computer analyst, plus assistants and others who will wear suits and glare. You will tell them what you know about this financial fiasco and the lying Covey. I’ll be there, too, to keep those suckers in line, don’t you worry, but they will ask you questions until you are so tired you can’t find your nose on your face. You will be drilled, fried, and dried.”

“Don’t try to be comforting, Millie.”

“They’re all smart, perceptive people in there. Pit bulls pretending to be humans. They will ask broad-based questions, then questions of the smallest detail. They will go back and forth. They will accuse and imply and try to trip you up. They will ask questions related to the case and questions that you feel are waaaay too personal, and you will cringe. They will ask about Covey and his travels and his friends and associates and how he ran his business. They will ask all about his finances and accounts, here and abroad.

“They will ask about the homes he owns, including the one in Mexico that they’re afraid he’ll skip town to. They will be quiet, then they will blast you again. They will be quiet again. Silence makes the guilty and nonguilty talk more. Be ready for their silence.”

“You’re making it all sound so fun.” I was flip, but I swear my stomach had turned inside out.

“It will be the least fun thing you do unless you are in prison or on trial. They will know the answers to many of the questions when they ask.”

“Then why are they asking?”

“They’re asking to see if you’ll tell the truth. If they catch your sorry butt in the minutest of lies, they’ll assume you’re lying about the whole enchilada and the taco and they may well end the meeting right there, and you’ll find yourself at trial facing the human pit bulls again.”

“I’m not going to lie.”

“I know you’re not. They will question you about the papers you admitted you signed—”

“I didn’t know they were to help Covey’s criminal activities.” My stomach flipped once again.

“I know that. The funny thing is, I believe you. Sometimes I know that my clients are lying through their teeth, gums, and molars, but I know you’re telling the truth. That’s why I’m going to suggest that you take them up on their offer. I don’t do this all the time. If I know my client is going to be a lying, swindling son of a gun in there, we skip this part. Picture a wolf, Dina,” she said.

I did. “Got it.”

“Give him huge teeth, overly large.”

“Okay.”

“Make him rabid, but make him quietly rabid.”

“A wolf that is quietly rabid?”

“Do it.”

“Okay, I am thinking of a wolf with overly large teeth that is quietly rabid.” My stomach flinched, as if I’d been socked.

“And brilliant. He’s a brilliant wolf. Quick and sharp. Knows the law. He has some ego, too. Too much ego. He likes to annihilate and destroy, especially if he is in front of other wolves.”

“A brilliant quietly rabid wolf with an ego that likes to annihilate and destroy.”

“Add ten more and put them around a conference table.”

“I have a pack of egotistical, annihilating wolves around a table.”

“That’s what you’re going to face in the proffer.”

That did not sound pleasant at all.

“Dina?”

“Yes.” I held my stomach.

“You can do it. Box back.”

“I will box back. But I’ll need a frickin’ rabies shot and a gun before I go into the meeting. I’m a crack shot.”

“No guns. Oh, God, no. No guns.”

On Saturday morning, after an interesting shift at The Spirited Owl that ended with two men getting into a fistfight over a woman neither one liked—I didn’t understand the conflict and didn’t try to—I decided to paint the ugly, puke green bookshelves bright white.

I put the bookshelves on layers of newspapers. An article caught my eye, and I turned to read it. Yep. The serial killer was going back to court. It made me nervous. Who likes serial killers? I didn’t want that article where I could see it while I painted, so I ripped it up and threw it in the trash.

“Grenady! Are you up there?”

“Come on up, Cleo. Door’s unlocked.”

I heard Cleo’s feet pounding up the stairs. I poured the paint and unwrapped a new paintbrush and roller.

“Hi. Oh! You’re painting! White. Can I help you?” Today she was wearing a straw hat. She’d somehow attached a small teddy bear. She was also wearing a blue T-shirt with a teddy bear, green-and-yellow-striped leggings, and pink galoshes.

“You sure can. I need the help.” I handed her a brush. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s drinking vodka out of a shot glass. Says it’ll help her headache.”

I grimaced. I wished Rozlyn would go to the doctors and get some pills for her migraines.

“So, Cleo, this is what you do to turn something ugly into something pretty without spending hardly any money.”

We primed and painted the bookshelves white, then primed and painted white the three ugly brown lamps, too.

I showed her how to make the lampshades pretty. We used the same material for the shades as for the pillows: blue and yellow pansies, yellow with white tulips, and candy cane red. The flowered lampshades would go in the living area, and the candy cane red lamp would go in my bedroom.

We used a glue gun to add lace around the top and bottom of the yellow tulip shade, red and pink buttons on the rim of the red shade, and on the blue and yellow pansy shade we glued a wide blue ribbon around the top and bottom.

“I like ’em, I like ’em, Grenady!” Cleo jumped up and down, her hat and teddy bear flopping. “Can we do one for my room?”

“We sure can. I’ll find a lamp and a shade, and we’ll make you a new lamp to go with your new pillow.”

We talked about dogs and how Cleo thinks she can interpret not only what her dog, Shimmy, says but what the dog, Raggie, down the street says. The Doberman across the road doesn’t speak Dog English, so there are problems understanding him.

She also told me that she thinks the other kids think she’s strange. We agreed she still had to be Cleo.

“Liddy took me on a ride yesterday. She likes her hat. We went to Roller Coaster Land.”

“Nice. Hope they had good hot dogs.”

Rozlyn invited us over for a late lunch of minestrone soup with parmesan and hot bread. When Cleo skipped off, Rozlyn and I talked.

“Look.” She pointed at her chin. “Chin hairs. Why do I have chin hairs? Am I a man? Look at this long black one.”

I peered at it. “You may be part man or part pirate by the looks of it.”

She pulled it out. “And my bladder.”

“What about your bladder?”

“It gives out when I laugh unexpectedly or cough sometimes. Like a weak baggie. Squirt, squirt. Whenever I cough I have to cross my legs, like a fat giraffe.” She started fanning herself. A bead of sweat lined her forehead. “Dang these hot flashes.”

“Laughing pee can happen to me, too, so I cross ’em. Nothing like wet panties to ruin the day.”

“In bed I practice Kegels. You know, when you squeeze your privates and hold it as long as you can? Helps, but not enough. I need a bladder lift.”

“Squeeze harder.”

“I squeeze, I squeeze. Squeeze till my face is red. I went into menopause when I was thirty-seven. Early. Same with my mom and her mom. Lost my period, that was sweet. No more blood and cramps. But menopause has given me courage.”

“Courage for what?”

“To spy on Leonard.”

“Losing your period made you braver?”

“Definitely. I don’t worry what people think anymore. I don’t worry in general. I think what I want to think, and I don’t hang out with annoying people because life is too short for them anymore.”

“I can’t wait to lose mine, then.”

“You’ve got some time. You’re coming with me to spy on Leonard.”

“I’ll wear my spy clothes.”

She asked about my divorce. I said, “It’s a mess. He’s a gargoyle.”

“I curse him! I wish him bad karma.”

She hugged me when I left. We had been laughing for the last half hour about the trouble with gas and embarrassing experiences with it. She tooted in yoga once. Whole room heard, and smelled it. She also tooted once when she was giving a speech when she worked for the social media company. She was miked, and the sound flew across the audience.

Rozlyn was sincere and funny. One day I might even tell her about my past.

I moved my bookshelves, painted white, to either side of my gas fireplace. I filled the shelves with my books on art and artists’ studios, colored yarn, fabrics, my gold sewing box, threads, and jars and boxes of paints, colored pencils and pastels. I pulled out a special, heavy book, a seventy-year-old dictionary with a black cover. Inside the pages I had hundreds of dried flowers.

It’s odd, it’s silly, but it brought me peace.

I am not me, not Grenady, without my art and art supplies.

On Friday, Kade called a company-wide meeting. It lasted about five minutes. He said that our sales were up, production was up, everyone was working way too hard, and we were all to leave and go have some fun.

The stud looked right at me.

We took him seriously.

Rozlyn said, “I’m taking this opportunity to buy some edible panties. I’ll need them if Leonard and I get together.”

Eudora pushed a diamond bracelet up her arm and said, “I’m going home to research a trip to Antarctica. Now’s the time for me to go. Already been all over Asia and Europe, so the cold one is next.”

It was three o’clock. I didn’t have to be at The Spirited Owl until 5:30. I grabbed my purse.

I went to a coffee shop and bought a huge coffee. The shop was called The Horse and Buggy. I drove home, kept my jacket on, and sketched out a collage on my deck. I wanted to make a collage of a woman in a ball gown from the late eighteen hundreds. I remembered my mother used to draw ladies in ball gowns.

I would make her dress out of charms, buttons, faux plastic jewels, and glitter. She would wear black heels and black stockings. Behind her would be a dark forest. She would be looking over her shoulder, as if someone was following her.

What or who was in the forest?

I would love it.

I would hate it.

My shift was brutal at the bar.

It was Thursday night, so much of the bowling team was there. It was also Girls Night Out for about ten ladies in their forties, which meant that they were being naughty.

Two of the cowboys at the bar were married to the women in the Girls Night Out group. As Russ McConnel said to me, “Grenady, as soon as I see that my Shondra has had enough, I’ll peel her off the barstool and head on home. She won’t like having a hangover tomorrow, because she has to bake three pies for the kids’ school fund-raiser tomorrow night. She told me to keep an eye out, and I will.” He sighed. “She gets horny when she drinks too much, so keep me with pop only.”

Another man with a naughty forty-plus-year-old wife said, “I’m here to make sure that no men hit on my wife. You see anything, Grenady, you let me know and I will take that somof-abitch out.”

I assured him I would.

And then there were the other cowboys sitting at the bar.

“Grenady? Like grenadine? That’s your name?” one of them said to me. He was about fifty. Huge gut. Balding.

“Yes.”

He smirked and deliberately ran his eyes over me, head to foot, so I could see it. Yuck. Do men think that we’re so brainless our vaginas will heat up to a boiling point when they do that? “I think I want some of your grenadine, Grenadine. It would go down nice, if you know what I mean.”

Oh, I knew what he meant. I leaned forward in my black T-shirt and my stylin’ red apron with the owl on it. “Is that all ya got, tiny dick?”

He seemed a bit taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s uncreative. It’s boring. I’ve heard that line a hundred times. It’s disgusting.” I rapped my knuckles on the bar. “What impresses me in a man is intellect. You want to discuss Van Gogh or Matisse or Monet, then I’m up for it. You want to say something vulgar, I might spit in your beer before I give it to you. Want to start over, Tiny Dick, or do you still want to treat me with disrespect?”