They Call Me Crazy (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Maryanne

“W
hatcha thinking about, honey?” My date—I think his name is Bob—squeezes my knee with his right hand while steering with the other.

Normally, I don’t get in the car with the men I meet. But I was so upset, or maybe worried, about Roland that I parked my car right under the neon vacancy sign at the Easy Six Motel and walked to the nearest bar, knowing I would be finding my way back soon.

Sliding my hand into his lap, I fake a smile. “What do you think?”
So easy.
Men are more predictable than the weather, and you don’t need an almanac to figure them out.

As I was leaving town, I drove by the strip joint and even cruised through the parking lot: no blue truck. I knew with all the extra money Roland’s been coming up with that he had to have his nose in something, and I was worried. I couldn’t just sit home and wait for him to show or for Clay to call, and there was only one thing that would take my mind off Roland.

I enjoy sex. I don’t know any other way to say it. And why shouldn’t I? After all, I am a woman, and a woman without a strong sex drive is nothing more than a rug. I am no rug. I am a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman, and sex is my thing.

Not making love. Making love is something completely different. Making love is about both people pleasing each other, and although I once enjoyed that, I don’t worry about my partner anymore. I’m sure that’s why I’ve never married. The idea of having to give pleasure to someone else when I go to bed is not something I think of fondly. Sex is about
me
. I get mine.

“Right here, Bob.” I point toward the rundown, one-story motel: peeling blue paint, an incandescent yellow light over each door, a gravel parking lot. It reminds me of the Bates Motel.

“It’s Bill.” He pulls into the lot.

Right. Bob, Bill, Bozo. Whatever.

Not that my partners aren’t pleased. I have years of experience, and I know what to do to make them happy. Assuming they’re older than thirty and younger than sixty-five, it’s easy. I take what I want, then I pull a chorus of moans and sighs from my arsenal, move my body in just the right way, squeeze at just the right time, and they get theirs, too. But when I’m ready. On my time.

Some people in town are aware of my extracurricular activities, but they don’t say anything about it. After all, I’m the fifth-grade teacher, and it wouldn’t do to gossip about the fact that I sleep with any Hard Harry that I can find. Also, I keep it out of town. For the most part, anyway.

As we walk to Room 104, I get a decent view of my date under the glow of cheap lights. Bozo says he’s forty, so he’s closer to fifty. He says he’s divorced, too. I doubt it. He claims to be the manager of a copy shop, so my guess is he’s a clerk. He’s balding on top but does a swooping comb-over from the left to try to hide it. He reeks of Aqua Velva. He’s trim but not skinny and a few inches taller than I am.

He’ll do.

I try to choose wisely. I don’t care for men who are too big in stature. I like a nice medium build, preferably muscular. I also don’t screw drunks. Even though I do meet a lot of men in bars, I try to get to them before they’ve had too much. A few drinks and they think they’re in charge, but too many and they just get stupid. They have to be able to last, at least as long as I’m willing to.

Not too dark, not too light, not too big, not too small. I want that average Joe, the one women don’t normally fawn over, the one who’s willing to be my hero for the night. The one who thinks if he busts a nut he’s been taken care of. The one who doesn’t realize that it’s all for me, he’s just a prop.

We get inside, and Bill/Bob/Bozo sits on the bed and starts taking off his shoes. This is a good sign. He’s nervous. Otherwise, he would have grabbed me around the waist as soon as the door shut and tried to slobber me with kisses. I hate that. It’s better when they’re a little off guard.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say. “Be right back.”

“I’ll be right here.” He stands up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Of course, you will.

I throw two small packages at him. They land on the bed. “Use both.”

I’m careful. I carry a purse full of condoms in all shapes and sizes, and I insist on double bagging.
Too bad, Bilbo.
That’s my rule, and I run this show. The guys usually complain, but not for more than a minute. I also carry a Lady Derringer in my purse, and I’m not afraid to use it. Screw with me, and I’ll pop you right where mama lives. I’ve never had to pull it, but I always make sure it’s ready. It only takes one loser to ruin a party.

After carefully draping my silky black dress over the shower rod, I wash my face and check myself in the mirror. I can hear Bruno in the other room, grunting as he gets into the squeaky bed.

My own voice surprises me as I hear myself say, “Damn you, Roland.” I shake it off and turn back toward the small room where a naked man named Ben waits to be my toy for the night.

I went to a party once that sold sex toys, and I just didn’t get it. Sex toys are everywhere—walking the street, ready and willing to warm up, vibrate, and buy you breakfast. I considered some of the neon, jelly-rubber penises in various shapes, but all I could think of was dying in bed one night and my daughter coming across a collection of dildos when she cleaned out my things. Talk about horrible last thoughts about your mother. And I don’t have any girlfriends close enough to ask, “Hey, if I die suddenly, would you sneak into my house and clear out the dildos before the coroner arrives?” No, sex toys just don’t make sense. Men are cheap, easy, and disposable.

Cass and I were that close once, clean-out-the-dildo-drawer-if-I-die close. We told each other our deepest secrets. But as the years went by, she only wanted to be around Roland. She disappeared. Worse things to disappear under, I guess. And yes, I was jealous. Roland is perfect: medium build, muscular, not too dark, not too light. And disciplined. Well, maybe he’s not perfect, but he would be if he was with the right woman.

He would be perfect if he was with me.

Chapter Nine

Daze

T
he storm came up without warning, which was a real pain in the ass. But I damn sure wasn’t going to abandon
Molly
upstream. I paid too much for that beauty. So I went up to the bend just before Rainbow Bridge and pulled into a cove I’d found one day when I was out here with Maryanne. I didn’t catch anything that day. Thank the Lord for that.

I have a cooler, a twelve-pack of Pabst, and my pole to wait out the storm. The trees protect me from most of the rain, so I drop my line and catch six trout. I hate to say Clay was right, but of those six, only one was caught with a crawler. Damned if that sumbitch don’t know his worms.

I got a late afternoon start because I had a whole list of honey-dos that took me longer than usual. But I’m going to stay out on this river all night if I want to. I spend my weekends my way, which includes just about anything I can do to stay away from the house. That woman of mine would have me taking her to the Golden Corral buffet or watching some crap on TV like
Dancing with Movie Stars
if I stayed home. No, thank you. I would rather be out here drunk with
Molly
and catching nothing but carp than put up with that.

I eat the three sandwiches Beth packed in my cooler and drink most of the twelve-pack. I know the storm will stop soon. When they come up that quick, they have somewhere to go. I take a nap, and when I wake up, my eyes are full of sand, so I know I must have slept for a long time. Beth will be shooting arrows by the time I get home. I pull my cell phone from the Ziploc.
Four messages.
I drop it back in the plastic and stow it in my dry pack.
Fuck her. I’m the man.
She needs to know I’ll do what I want. Besides, it’s right to keep a woman thinking you’re out doing no good. Then when you come home soaking wet with six trout, they feel sorry for you, and even sorrier for what they’ve been thinking, and what man won’t take a pity fuck? I’ll sure as hell take what I can get.

I haven’t had this little trawler out on rough waters before. I bought it for a song. Beth wasn’t too pleased with me spending the money, but I work hard and deserve something for it. It can’t be much more than she spends down at the Eastern Shawnee Bingo.

The river is usually pretty smooth traveling, but tonight, it seems to be twisting and turning as quick as an F3. The level is up, and
Molly
sits high on the water. That’s all right. The way the water is moving, I won’t have to turn my brand-new ten-horse Evinrude on at all. I’ll steer this baby back to the truck and load her onto the trailer.

The moon is full and sitting high in the sky, so I don’t need my light. I added the light when I bought the boat, figuring you never know when you’ll end up night fishing. I added a lot of extras.
Molly
is a prize, and I would be damned if I was going to tie her up and save my own ass in a storm. Besides, there are only a few boat docks down this side of the river because not a lot of people live out here. Harlan and Fat Tina have a nice place with a fine dock, but it’s hard for me to look at that much woman for too long. I could have stopped at Dinger’s, but as I float by his landing, I see that a tree has fallen on it. I’m just full of luck. My
Molly
would have been lying in the bottom of the river if I hadn’t passed that up.

Then there’s Roland and Cass Adams’s place. Roland is a great guy, always has been. I don’t know why he stays with that crazy bitch. But he’s loyal. He could have his pick of any one of those whores at Fat Tina’s, and he walks on by, flashing that ring at them. Most of the time, anyway. Maybe Cass is good in the sack. I can’t imagine. She’s nothing but bones and no bigger than a starved prairie chicken. My women need some meat on ‘em, not something I think I’m gonna break. That tender shit ain’t for me. But why else would he hang around that smartass? It doesn’t make sense.

So I’m thinking it’s been a pretty lucky day, all in all. I didn’t catch Old Henry—he’s one wily trout—but I will get that sumbitch one day. I’ve got another can of warm beer rolling around in the boat in case I get thirsty, the freshwater smell of Spring River in my nose, and I’m floating on the water by the light of a full moon. I don’t realize I’m smiling until I’m shaken by the sound of a crash up ahead.

I get around the bend and see Roland’s dock. Cass is lying on the end of the dock, Roland on top of her. She pushes him off, and he rolls over onto his back.
Atta boy.
He’s out here doing the nasty on the dock, and I gotta give ‘em some credit for that. Hell, I can’t even get Beth to take her socks off.

But then the crazy one starts laughing.
Damn!
I hate that cackle of hers. It sends shivers up and down me every time. Roland just lies there, not moving. Worn slick, I suppose. The water is moving me right toward the dock, and there’s no way I can avoid seeing them or them seeing me, so I decide that I might as well have some fun.

Ten feet from the dock, as I pull up toward her right side, I turn on my full-powered prowling light and yell at the top of my lungs, “Whatcha doin’?”

Cass is surprised, all right. But not nearly as surprised as I am when I see the way Roland is staring at me.

Sumbitch.

Time to call the war hero.

Chapter Ten

Cass

T
hey say when you die, a bright light comes for you. Lying on the dock, laughing under the stars, and knowing Roland is close to being nothing but a memory, I’m happy. I forgot how nice that felt. Then I roll over and see the light. It’s hard to miss since it covers my entire body. I know right then that I’m dead.

Kneeling, I reach toward the light. I always told myself that, when the time came, I wouldn’t be afraid, and I’m surprised that I’ve held to that. I’m not afraid. I know that when it’s your time to go, it’s your time. There isn’t any arguing about it. Besides, I have a lot of questions that maybe somebody can start answering.

I see a boat, with someone in it. That makes sense. Somebody has come to show me the way. I wonder who led Roland to the Promised Land. I’m sure it would have been his mama. She always treated me as a daughter, which was right by me. Grams took care of me, but she wasn’t my mother. I hadn’t had one of those in a long time, so if Roland’s mom needed a daughter… well, I needed a mama. Maybe she’s coming for me, too. I also kind of hope it’s my mother. All those questions I have… she’s the first one I want to give some answers.

I’m anxious. My hands are trembling, but otherwise, I don’t move. The person in the boat yells something, but I can’t hear over my own thoughts.

The boat is tied up, and my deliverer is coming onto the dock. It’s a man, a big one, and he’s in somewhat of a hurry. I squint. It can’t be Roland. I’m sure he’s still pretty mad about this whole thing. Maybe Old Man Booker? Grandpa Jack? Either of those would be okay.

“You crazy bitch! You done killed him! Don’t you move, or I swear I’ll snap you like a wishbone!”

I recognize the voice and shield my eyes to see none other than Daisy Harper. I’ll be damned. Only the devil would send Daisy Harper to get me and drag me to Hell. Now the boat makes sense. This is the River Styx, and Daisy is the ferryman.

His hair is standing up all over, and even in the darkness, I can tell he’s glaring at me. I don’t fight him when he pulls me to my feet. I start laughing. I mean, how could I ever have thought I could get in Heaven’s door after killing Roland? I should have known better, but I guess there was always wishful thinking.

“Shut up!” Daisy screams, but I keep laughing.

I start to head toward the boat, but he turns me toward the hill, forcing me to step over Roland and crawl over the canoe blocking the entrance to the dock.

He’s talking on his cell phone, which makes me laugh even more. Of course there are cell phones in Hell. And that smell: raw fish. He pushes me in the back, akin to how the guards treat prisoners in classic war movies, and I start walking up the hill.

I guess there are a lot of ways to get to Hell, and I’m taking the high road.