Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) (3 page)

We had no pride when it came to making money, and we sold everything from hand-squeezed lemonade to All-American greeting cards. And we quickly learned (due to the stainless steel leg brace and the consequent empathy factor) that Joey made the best salesman by far. Folks would take one look at his limp and quickly shell out money for whatever it was we happened to be peddling that day, whether they wanted it or not.

The funny thing was, we never knew exactly how to use our earnings. Mostly we just squandered them on sweets and movies, and then we’d have to come up with some whole new capitalistic scheme and start all over again. One time we even sold stolen produce door-to-door. We’d sneaked into old Mr. Bernstein’s orchard and picked two of his peach trees clean (actually, I picked while Joey gathered). Somehow my grandma got wind of this, and we had to turn all our earnings over to Mr. Bernstein as well as work in his orchard for several days as restitution. Turned out he was a pretty nice guy, and he invited us to stop by and visit whenever we liked. After that, my grandma began giving us odd jobs in the store to make extra money, and our life of crime was narrowly averted for a while.

All during this time my daddy and me just drifted further and further apart. I stayed away from home as much as possible, slipping in and out like an evening shadow. Once in a while, if my daddy was on a really bad rampage, I would sneak out and sleep in the clubhouse, but I didn’t like it because I knew lots of spiders still lived in there. (Despite my promises to Joey, I wasn’t totally sure about my black widow theory. Somehow spiders and bugs just seemed to be everywhere in the darkness and I would imagine them creeping all over my face.) But I’d just pull my blanket tighter around myself and console myself with knowing it was better than facing my daddy’s rage.

For a long time, I never told my grandma about any of this. It seemed she had so much on her mind just trying to keep her store afloat, without any help from Aunt Myrtle anymore, and if I ever hinted at any kind of trouble her face would get all squinched up and anxious-looking. And I just didn’t like to worry her with my troubles.

My daddy was an orphan. He was born right after the big stock market crash in 1929. My grandma thought his folks must’ve come across some awful hard times, what with the Great Depression and all, and probably were so impoverished they had to give him up. She told me how lots of families got split up back then, and some folks were so poor that they just couldn’t keep their kids.

I’m sure that explains some of my daddy’s problems. It’s one thing to have your parents die on you, but it’s something else when they just up and give you away like an old, worn-out piece of furniture. I used to think that if I ever had a baby of my very own it wouldn’t matter how poor I was—even if I had to scrub toilets or sweep the gutters—I wouldn’t give up my baby for nothing. But like my grandma always says, you shouldn’t judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins. (I used to think my grandpa, the Cherokee Indian, made that one up.)

One night when my daddy wasn’t drunk, and we were sitting on the couch together watching
Gunsmoke
in a nice, congenial fashion, I asked him why he didn’t ever try to find his family.

“What family is that you’re talking about, Cassandra?”

“You know—the family that gave you up for adoption.” That week’s episode happened to feature a little boy who’d been separated from, and then reunited with, his birth family. And when it ended everyone all seemed pleased and happy.

His face darkened with a frown. “I don’t know anything about those people.”

“Well, they might still be alive,” I said hopefully. “Even if they’re pretty old by now. And you know, I wouldn’t mind having an extra grandma or even a grandpa around.” I was thinking it might even mean getting more Christmas and birthday presents, and things were pretty slim pickings most of the time.

“Well, the fact of the matter is, Cassandra, if my parents didn’t care enough to keep me with them, then I sure as spit don’t care enough to go out of my way looking for them after all these years.”

Now I thought that was just a mite ungracious on his part. I mean, what if they had no idea where he was or even if he was alive? But I didn’t venture to say so.

“But what if you have some brothers or sisters?” I persisted, thinking I might have some aunts, uncles, or maybe even a cousin or two out there somewhere.

My daddy just laughed and said, “Well, if they’re anything like me, then who’d want to know them anyway?”

I thought about that for a minute or two and figured he had a point, and yet I still longed for more family and felt a mite curious at what might be out there.

I knew my daddy didn’t like to talk about his childhood. Usually he didn’t like to talk much at all, leastwise not to me, or so it seemed. So sometimes I’d slip behind the long, thick window drapes in the front room and listen while he was talking to someone else. Usually the best eavesdropping times happened when Charlie Fox and my daddy had both downed a couple of drinks but weren’t falling-down drunk yet.

I suppose Charlie was the closest thing my daddy ever had to a best friend, but even old Charlie got fed up with him sometimes. Surprisingly, Charlie was always real nice to me. I think maybe he felt sorry for me, probably ‘cause he knew my daddy better than most. But the older I got, the less I liked Charlie. I figured if he really, truly cared about my daddy he wouldn’t always come over and drink with him. I mean, it wasn’t like everybody in town didn’t already know my daddy had a drinking problem. Seems to me Charlie could’ve done his drinking with someone else. But as Grandma often said, “Birds of a feather flock together.”

It was later on when I realized that Charlie had a troublesome drinking problem himself. It took a little longer for it to catch up with him, but it finally did. When I was in junior high school, Charlie’s wife took his three kids and moved off to Florida. Poor old Charlie never got over it. Just one year later he drove off in one of Mr. Masterson’s brand-new Pontiacs—drove that 1968 Firebird straight into the levy and sunk it clean to the bottom. The town called it a drunken driving accident, but my daddy said that Charlie killed himself on purpose, and we kids didn’t swim in the levy that whole summer.

I always knew Grandma would help me if I ever
really
needed her. She was like my ace in the hole, my insurance policy. In the meantime I went about life carefully, staying out of the way most of the time, and when I didn’t, I ran fast. Looking back, I suppose I should have gone to Grandma, but I guess I thought that underneath it all, she must’ve known what my life was really like. I figured everybody in town must’ve known how my daddy got all ugly and mean when he drank too much. If only he’d been more like old Charlie or even Mr. Divers—those goofy sort of silly drunks—I think we could have gotten along just fine. In fact, later on in life, I used to wonder why Charlie’s wife had even run off like that in the first place. Sure, Charlie might’ve been an alcoholic and all, but it seemed to me that he never really hurt anybody. Not like my daddy, that is.

Three

W
ell, the day finally came
when I needed my ace in the hole. But it was almost too late. The doctor said that if Joey hadn’t found me when he did and called for help, I would’ve died for sure. At the time, I thought that might have been a good option—then I could be with my mama and the grandpa who was the Cherokee Indian. But later on I was thankful for Joey’s loyal intervention.

It was the summer of 1964, just before my tenth birthday, and my daddy hadn’t sold a car in weeks. Our rent was two months overdue, and the landlady, even from her wheelchair, was threatening to throw us out on the street. Just the same, my daddy could still afford a cheap jug of wine.

It had been one of those hot, lazy days in August. Joey and I had been out on his front porch, drinking homemade root beer and playing Monopoly until almost nine o’clock at night, but then his mama came out and fretted over whether Joey might catch a chill out there (although it must’ve been eighty degrees!). Since those were the days when I was still in the good graces of Mrs. Divers (she knew I provided a handy diversion for her poor lame child, and friends were in short supply just then) I wisely decided not to wear out my welcome. I thanked them for their hospitality, and after promising to meet Joey the next morning at eight, I left.

I remember that night as if it were yesterday, standing out in the shadows of their boxwood hedge, watching their little two-story house with the darkness all around me. From where I stood, their windows glowed just like amber, with white curtains moving ever so slightly in the evening air. I could hear the sound of
The Ed Sullivan Show
playing inside, and I wished, not for the first time, that my daddy hadn’t bashed in our worn-out TV. Sure, its picture tube might’ve been a little fuzzy, but if you sat far enough across the room it didn’t look too bad, and the sound worked just fine. Anyway, I fought back feelings of envy as I watched Mrs. Divers through the kitchen window, her aproned back to me as she stood before the stove making what I felt certain, by her fast jiggling arm, must be popcorn. My stomach rumbled with hunger. I had been careful not to come over to Joey’s house until after their dinner hour had passed that evening. Just a few days earlier, I’d overheard Mr. Divers say, “Doesn’t that child ever eat at her own home?”

It was well after dark when I slipped quietly into my house. I wasn’t overly worried that my daddy would be in a drunken state since his bottle of cheap wine had been nearly empty that morning, but out of habit I was still cautious to catch the kitchen screen door before it slammed loudly behind me. From the streetlight outside I could see a shiny object on the table and thought with dismay that it was an empty bottle of booze. But upon closer examination, I discovered it was a canning jar… and then I recognized the long jute string around the neck, tied there so we could pull it up from its hiding spot beneath the loose floorboard. It was our club treasury jar—and it was empty!

Just a few days ago Joey and I had counted our accumulation of wealth, and it had been well over twelve dollars, all honestly come by, mostly from working at my grandma’s store. We had planned to sell Kool-Aid and earn eight more dollars in time for the Porter County fair next week, which would make ten dollars apiece to spend just as we liked on rides and cotton candy and maybe even some of those spin-art pictures where you squirt on the paint as the card twirls round and round.

Now the jar was empty. I suddenly noticed my daddy looming in the darkened doorway that led to the front room. Just a few feet away from me, swaying back and forth with a bottle dangling from his hand. Not a wine bottle this time, but the long-necked, square-shaped kind of bottle, suggesting something strong like bourbon or rye.

“You been holdin’ out on your ol’ man,” he said in a slurred voice, unsteadily shaking his forefinger at me.

I knew this meant trouble, and I shook my head in silent denial as I slowly started to back away, but not quickly enough. With amazing speed—for a drunk that is—he lunged forward and grabbed me by my sleeveless cotton shirt, pulling it so hard I heard the buttons snap off in sharp, angry pops.

“Where’d you get that money, Cassandra Jane?” he sneered. “You been stealing from your ol’ man, have you? Sneakin’ money outta my pockets when I’m not lookin’?”

Again I mutely shook my head, trying to pull away from his iron grasp, wishing my tautly pulled shirt would simply split in two and like Peter Rabbit I would gladly flee away and run half-naked down the street until I reached my grandma’s store. But he had hold of my arm now and gave me a hard shake, and I thought I heard something in my neck pop. Then his twisted face came so close to mine that I could smell that sweet, putrid aroma of alcohol emanating from him like a poisonous vapor.

I knew this was a very bad situation. And if I didn’t get away fast, it would likely turn worse. If only his grasp would weaken, just momentarily. I knew I could be out of there in a flash and he’d never catch up with me. I’d bang on my grandma’s apartment door and tell her everything, and of course she’d take me in. But his grip was like a vise, and the next thing I knew he was swinging his other fist at me, with the bottle still in it, just like I was his punching bag.

I closed my eyes and held my free hand up to protect my face, but it was useless to try and duck the blows. The sound of my own skull cracking rang in my ears and I was pretty sure that it was all over with right then, although I do remember hitting the floor, too. I felt just like a limp rag doll as I collapsed onto the hard linoleum. But that was the last thing I remembered until the next day when I woke up in the hospital with my grandma at my side, holding my hand gently in hers.

“It was your little friend Joey Divers who found you,” she explained as she stroked my hand. “Poor boy, he was fairly shook up, but somehow managed to place a call to the police.”

“Joey called the police?” I watched her face curiously, still seeing the edges blurred with a double image, a result of the concussion.

She nodded. “Joey told me you two had planned to meet.”

I groaned. “The fair. We were going to make some more money for the fair. But Daddy took it—” I felt hot tears streaking down my face.

“Hush, child,” soothed Grandma. “The fair’s the least of your worries right now.”

Then in a quiet but firm voice she told me I’d never have to go back to live with my daddy again. “I don’t have much to give you, child, but at least you’ll be safe.”