The Book of CarolSue Read online

  Home. In my mind’s eye, I could picture the corn, how it was silvering in the sun then, shimmering like an inland sea in late afternoon light, rippling when a breeze crossed its surface. Then, when fall came, the combines would crawl across the acres like slow ships heading home.

  I hesitated. “I’d need to rent a place there . . . or buy one,” I said. “Do you know of something on the market?”

  That didn’t slow my sister down a nanosecond. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your home is with me. We take care of each other, don’t we? Good grief, did you think I want Gary wiping my butt when I’m old? And, please don’t picture that.”

  “I’m older than you are. We’re already old, anyway, and quite capable of wiping our own butts.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Or . . . uh-oh, aren’t you?”

  “Pffft.” Louisa dismissed that with the wrist flip she’d perfected with years of practice listening to fifth graders. “You’re missing the point as usual. I have the farm. How long has our family had the farm?”

  “You and Harold bought the farm, not Mom and Dad, they—”

  “Good Lord, CarolSue! The point is where were we raised? What land is in our blood? You’re my family. And you are coming home.”

  I was going home.

  Chapter 2

  CarolSue

  I don’t mind telling you that my sister is a bit of a nutcase about making a Plan. And yes, it’s capital-P Plan. She got the trait from our grandmother who started each day by asking the nearest victim, “What’s the Plan?” meaning a list of tasks the victim was going to accomplish for her with a precise time schedule by which they’d be accomplished. Louisa’s version is somewhat different. When she sees something she thinks needs to be fixed, she comes up with a Plan to fix it, and if God has something else in mind, well, I’ve got to say, it might be too bad for God because once Louisa’s head is down and she’s got her mind set, you might as well fasten your seat belt because you’re going on her ride.

  So that night after Charlie’s funeral, I knew: Patching up my broken life was Louisa’s new Plan and she’d be loaded for bear to take out anything that got in her way. The thing was that I might have put up a token objection, at least for show, if I’d really had one. But I admit, much as I loved Charlie, I’d missed the rhythm of the seasons, although I’d routinely denied it when he asked me. There was that, but more to the point, I didn’t have another Plan for myself.

  Years ago, I’d fit myself into Charlie’s world when I moved that thousand miles from home to Atlanta. Charlie’d been thrilled at how his friends took me right in to their circle. It didn’t come naturally; I’d had to play a role at first, though I did it gladly for his sake, and it had become my world, too. Part of me wondered if now I could go back to who I once was, a woman who’d never worn designer slacks with coordinated tops, gotten her hair done, had manicures, even pedicures; a woman who hadn’t learned to play bridge two afternoons a week after a ladies’ luncheon. Not that I minded the clothes; I’ve always been the one with a fashion sense. Good Lord, Louisa’s idea of a new outfit is whatever she finds in the back of her closet that she hasn’t worn in fifteen years. “Nobody remembers it anyway, CarolSue. It’s new to them,” she actually announced to me when I asked her what she was wearing out to some sheriff’s department Christmas gathering last year.

  It was while we were packing that I started thinking about how abruptly my life would change. When Louisa asked me where my jeans were, I had to say, “I don’t have any.”

  “No jeans? What the hell do you wear?”

  “I’m not exactly out in the coop feeding my chickens. Or running around in a cornfield now, am I?” I’m sure I sounded miffed.

  “You have flower gardens. You wear a tiara and floor-length gown when you planted those?”

  “I have a skort.”

  “A . . . skort? That sounds like a strong drink. I could use one about now.”

  I got huffy. We were in Charlie’s and my bedroom—my bedroom now—and it had been Charlie who’d bought me my first skort and matching shirt as a birthday present the year we got married so I’d have something nice to wear out on the patio. That was where I’d planted the flower beds, around the edges. The reds and yellows and purples brightened it up so much, and down here, they bloom ten months a year, sometimes eleven. Louisa sure couldn’t say that about Indiana farm country. The winters are brutal. Maybe she thought I’d developed Alzheimer’s on that subject.

  There might have been a touch of sarcasm in my tone when I said, “A skort is a pair of shorts that’s fashioned to look like a skirt. As people who don’t buy their clothes at Goodwill know.” I’d climbed on my high horse and was about to go from a trot to a gallop.

  “Well, Miss High-and-Mighty, you can pack your skort if you want to, but you’ll be needing jeans back home where normal people live.”

  We were not off to a great start.

  * * *

  Right after I signed the contract to put the house on the market, I met with Charlie’s lawyer, who advised me not to make any major decisions for a year.

  “Oh,” I said. Now you tell me. “Why is that?” I asked, glad that Louisa was at my house emptying kitchen cupboards instead of in this thick-carpeted office with the fat mahogany desk and brass lamps and hot to inform the attorney that he was a blazing idiot.

  “Always best to get your feet on the ground, get a sense of what you really want. It’s too emotional a time, too much adjustment. Give yourself time to grieve,” he said kindly. “You’re in great shape financially with Charlie’s investments and pension. Just wait.”

  “Thank you,” I said, shook his hand and got out fast after he’d ended the appointment with that advice. Charlie had set up a living trust, so everything was already in my name. That good, generous man. I’d made the appointment with the lawyer to change the beneficiaries of my own will. Louisa and Gary. Who did I have now but my people?

  When I got home, I didn’t tell Louisa what he’d said. Why bother? We’d already gone to the mall here—because there’s not one anywhere near the farm—and bought me two pairs of jeans and some “normal people shorts,” and they were packed, along with two flannel shirts and two long-sleeve T-shirts and four short-sleeve T-shirts. And a sweatshirt. “This’ll hold you into fall, if it comes early,” she said. “If you need anything else, you can wear mine.”

  “The bag lady look. Save me,” I muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  It was a done deal. It hadn’t exactly been a year. I hoped two weeks was close enough.

  * * *

  Gary was going to drive the U-Haul—not that it was one of those huge ones—north to Louisa’s farm in Shandon, Indiana, which hardly merits a dot on a map. I would have hired a company, but they are both used to being frugal. As I’ve mentioned, too, Louisa wouldn’t hear of my getting my own place. We decided which of my furniture we’d keep, swapping it out for her much older versions, which she said might have some chicken poop stains on it. “Seriously, Louisa? We’ll need to have this treated then, with stain-guard stuff,” I said. “Do you know what good furniture costs?” Louisa has a perfectly fine chicken coop behind the house, but in good weather she lets the hens free-range during the day and has been known to leave her back door open. Have they wandered into the house? You heard it here first.

  “Not a clue,” she said, all blithe like it didn’t matter in the least. “But that chair is a pretty color. Sort of matches Abigail’s tail feathers. And it’s comfortable, so we’ll get rid of my old blue one.” We were surrounded by boxes of my stuff we were getting rid of. It didn’t seem like a huge sacrifice on her part.

  “Abigail, huh? A new one.” I huffed. Louisa started out naming all her chickens and farm animals after characters in Little Women, because she’d been named after our mother’s favorite writer, Louisa May Alcott. A little weird, I know. I have no idea how our mother came up with CarolSue, probably for a mysterious, differently weird reason. W
hen Louisa ran out of those characters’ names after so many chickens and animals, she turned to using names of other Transcendentalists. “Wonderful,” I said. “How many others haven’t you mentioned?”

  “I told you about Abigail!”

  “Don’t remember. Anyway, I’m asking you about the ones you haven’t mentioned.”

  “You’ll love Abigail. And Sarah.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, Rosie Two isn’t really new anymore and she’s strictly outside. And you know about the puppy.”

  “So just a dog, the two additional chickens, one you’d forgotten to mention. And being strictly outside would be appropriate for a goat. Wouldn’t you say?”

  She can make me crazy, Louisa can. I didn’t let her see my tears. She’d feel bad, but her Plan was set in cement, immutable, and I guessed it didn’t matter if I grieved here or there.

  Chapter 3

  CarolSue

  On the plane from Atlanta to Indianapolis, Louisa sat in the middle and gave me the window seat. She said she thought I’d like to have the view. Bless her heart, does she think I’m too grief-addled to figure out that she just doesn’t want an extra person to climb over to get to the restroom? Her bladder is the size of a pea. I told her not to have all that coffee, but did she listen?

  I didn’t want to wake her to get to the restroom myself, nor the man in the aisle seat who might have been sleeping. Anyway, the man had earbuds stuck in, and it was darn impressive that they didn’t fall out since there was so much hair growing wild there. His eyebrows looked like shrubbery, and there was a pretty amazing amount of nasal hair, too, but his head was bald. The point is that seeing him made me miss Charlie because Charlie was so different, kept himself so groomed, and had a full head of hair that was not charcoal shot with silver anymore, but more silver laced with charcoal. If he’d been on the plane, he’d have been sitting next to me, and he’d have asked me which seat I’d like.

  Now, though, he wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be again. Louisa was snoring lightly, and I rested my head back and watched the clouds through the window. Somewhere on a highway below, Gary was driving what remained of my worldly possessions, jigsawed into a U-Haul, to Indiana. My life with Charlie was over. I did not want this to be happening. I couldn’t endure this. And yet, from the beginning, I’d known I would. And I’d said, “Yes, yes, I will. Yes.”

  * * *

  When I met Charlie, Phillip had divorced me twenty years earlier and I’d sworn off men forever. Good riddance. I’d married him before I turned twenty-one and I miscarried a total of seven babies before I had my last, my stillborn son. Phillip ground me under his heel when he left, claiming he couldn’t take the pain and grief of so many ghost children. What kind of excuse was that for leaving the mother of those lost babies? In short, I realized I’d been better off before I married, and I’d been smart enough to stay single after Phillip, even if that book about regaining your virginity was fake, and Louisa said she’d meant it as a divorce joke to lighten my mood. She should have known I wouldn’t get it at the time. Anyway, I was fifty-two when I met Charlie. Why on earth would I allow myself to be vulnerable again just because The Change was upon me, and of course a man wouldn’t expect me to bear him a child.

  No, avoiding men didn’t have anything to do with children anymore. It was knowing that the person I’d trust to stand by me might break that promise whenever life decided to replace moisture evaporated from the ocean with my salty tears. Best to be alone and know it before a husband could abandon me to cry by myself. I had Louisa, and, back then, our mother was alive. Mothers and daughters and sisters—they were reliable. They might be annoying and give unsolicited opinions frequently, but they’d never leave. They couldn’t. Blood was blood, and mine were kindred spirits to boot, especially Louisa.

  Then Charlie came along. It was funny at first, when he claimed love at first sight. I used to do that in high school, for heaven’s sake, get dreamy crushes on either Fabian (television teen heart throb) or Bobby Willis (football team tight end, and that wasn’t referring to the position he played, which I couldn’t have identified to save my soul, but how adorable his rear looked in his uniform), or Ted Keefer (biology lab partner, gorgeous dark hair, and eyes under thick sexy eyebrows, who did my lab report for me when it involved testing my blood, which I whispered made me feel faint so he’d hold my hand, prick my finger, and test it for me).

  My mother despaired that I was boy crazy. Louisa was the one motivated to go to college; I wanted to get married and set up housekeeping, and Phillip had a handy heart murmur, a 4-F deferment that kept him out of Vietnam but not out of action in bed. Plus he was muscular and cute. Perfect. Except when it counted. “You’ll be too soon old and too late smart,” Dad used to warn me. He never had warmed to Phillip. Well, crap, he’d been right once, and when Charlie showed up twenty years later, I was for sure not going to let Dad be right again even if he had been dead for ten of those years.

  Charlie had come to Indianapolis on business. He worked for some huge Atlanta contracting company that had architects and various kinds of engineers, though he was none of those, but a liaison or coordinator for their huge construction projects in the eastern half of the country. At least that’s what I understood about it, which was probably the top two percent, not that Charlie didn’t try to explain his job. At the time, I just wasn’t much interested in gigantic projects for corporations and didn’t tune in with every available brain cell. Charlie was in Shandon because he’d driven his rental car out to the sticks to visit his cousins, who, it happened, were neighbors of Mom’s. And Lucille next door had it in her head what a shame it was that poor me had no husband and was always on the prowl for middle-aged widowers or divorced men, she didn’t care as long as they were available. Whether or not I wanted a man, which I had been polite but adamant about saying I didn’t. “Nonsense,” Lucille said, and the really bad thing about my getting involved with Charlie had been that Lucille was so smug about being right, peering over her glasses, eyebrows raised, lips pressed as if suppressing her triumphant told you so. I’d never liked Lucille much, and that sealed the deal.

  Our initial meeting happened when Lucille dragged Charlie next door because my car was in Mom’s driveway, and Charlie asked me out for “a bit of refreshment.” He meant a drink, but was too careful to say it in front of Mom—I, of course, refused. Graciously, but firmly. He kept trying. Got my phone number from Lucille, who got it from Mom.

  The construction in Indianapolis was an eighteen-month project and Charlie managed to find himself needed there regularly to straighten out all kinds of issues. And, strangely enough, he had discovered a new closeness with his dear cousins in cow-and-corn country Shandon, Indiana. Which he hadn’t visited since his parents had dragged him there as a child, such a shame, he’d loved it so, he claimed. Bless his heart.

  It was after I finally relented and agreed to one drink if he’d stop calling me, and then, after we had that one drink (a vodka martini for him, white wine for me) in Paesano’s, Elmont’s nicest Italian bar and restaurant, and had stayed for another drink and then stayed on and ordered dinner, that I withdrew the condition that he stop calling me. He was such a gentleman and gentle man, dear and kind. It hadn’t hurt, either, that he was handsome, his hair charcoal-silver, his nose aquiline, his eyes that unusual green. I liked his height, and his hand on my back felt good when he opened doors for me.

  He was a widower; he told me that early on. No children. His wife had had a hysterectomy, but too late. The cancer had spread. After our fifth date, we were in his car, talking in my driveway, he filled in details of what he’d been through. We’d talked on the phone in between dates and had been seeing each other long enough that it was easy for me to take his hand, and I’m sure my face showed my sorrow because he said, “It’s all right. I’ve healed. It was a long time ago. It was the only other time in my life I’ve had the love-at-first-sight experience. I hope you’ll forgive me for being so . . . persis
tent. It’s just that I knew when I first saw her that she was the one, and then, when I saw you . . .”

  It was so unlike me. Charlie said that and I didn’t object. He kissed me and I didn’t pull away. We sat and held hands on an October night, the harvest moon already past, the crickets singing of sleep and death, warning of the earth’s relentless turn toward winter and endings. I knew then that if I loved him and let him love me, I’d lose him or he’d lose me. One of us was going to suffer. Isn’t that the outcome of every love story, one way or another? Could I bear it again?

  It took me months more before I told Charlie everything about the lost babies and my stillborn son. About Phillip, why he’d left. And Charlie took me in his arms, just that. When he finally looked at me, his green eyes were wet. “I’d like to go to your son’s grave with you,” he said. “Would you take me? When you’re ready to share him, I mean.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. I will.”

  And when he asked me to marry him, and move to Atlanta, I said it again. “Yes. Yes. I will.”

  Louisa

  Déjà vu. That’s what it was. No, it was déjà vu all over again, and it wasn’t even amusing to mock the poorly taught people who actually said that, because the redundancy was ridiculously appropriate. CarolSue’s call about Charlie had jolted Louisa into some two-fisted time warp, back to the first call she’d gotten about Cody, and then the one about her Harold, dead by his own grieving choice at the same spot on the highway where the drunk driver had run down their only grandson. Louisa had known the frenetic panic that was running in CarolSue’s veins right then, and how soon it would be replaced by paralysis. So, of course, she’d hung up and sprang into action to take over, just as her sister had done for her both times. They always had each other’s backs. If Louisa were Gary, she’d be praising Jesus up and down the glory aisles for that. As it was, Louisa preferred to be simply very grateful, though she felt no need to blab about it on the internet, which Gary was in love with and Louisa didn’t use.