Chapter Two
The annoying beep of my alarm broke the early morning silence. In a rare act of defiance, I didn't turn it off. I lay on my back, one arm draped over my head, and gazed at the water-stained ceiling. Dreams of bloody furniture, scruffy men, and an angry Momma had plagued my sleep, causing me to toss and turn so much the sheets knotted into a tangled mess. I would have loved nothing more than to sleep in, but Momma would have none of that. She considered sleeping past eight in the morning slothfulness, another one of the seven deadly sins. No excuses were acceptable, not even illness.
I was twenty-four years old and I let my momma tell me what time to get up every day. I felt hopelessly pathetic.
Momma shuffled down the hall. Let me have five minutes of peace, you old biddy. As soon as the words formed in my brain, I was contrite. What had gotten into me? Momma pounded on my bedroom door. “Rose Anne! Turn off that confounded alarm!”
It surprised me she didn’t fling the door wide open. I learned years ago there was no such thing as privacy in this house. Momma made it her business to know everything about everything.
I blindly threw my arm in the general direction of the alarm clock. Even after the shrilling stopped, I continued to lie on the bed and tried to the summon energy to face yet another day with Momma.
“Rose! Whatcha still doin’ in there? Get yourself outta bed.”
The morning soon filled with household chores, which really meant that I dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed the bathroom while Momma bossed me around. As the minutes ticked on, my anger brewed and grew acrid, like a pot of coffee that sat too long. I worked all week while Momma watched television and gossiped with the neighbors. On my day off, I was nothing but her slave. I decided I would clean until lunchtime, then run off to the library. When I announced my plans to Momma, she protested with a vengeance.
“Rose, you have to make two apple pies for the Memorial Day church picnic tomorrow.”
“Momma,” I said, drawing out her name, worried my raging volcano of anger would burst out through the words. After a lifetime of keeping my anger stuffed like money under a mattress, I wasn’t ready to let it out now. “I can make them when I get back from the library.” I pulled out the leftover meatloaf to make sandwiches for lunch.
“The Henryetta Southern Baptist Church is countin’ on me to bring them pies tomorrow. I made a commitment and I intend to honor it. You’re making them pies before you go.”
Momma sat in a chair at the kitchen table and waited for me to serve her lunch, as if I was her personal servant and she was the Queen of Sheba. Suddenly, just like a light switch turned from off to on, I’d had enough. I slammed my palm down, causing the dishes on the counter to rattle. Her head jerked up as I turned to face her. Anger made black spots dance before my eyes. “Well, Momma, if you made a commitment, then perhaps you should honor it and make the pies.” I practically shouted the last part, which from the look on Momma’s face, surprised her as much as it amazed me.
“Don’t you raise your voice to me!” Momma shouted back. “I will not tolerate you breakin’ the Ten Commandments in my house.”
I fumed while I finished making her sandwich then slammed the plate on the table in front of her. Turning back to the counter, I gathered the flour and butter to start the piecrust.
“You come sit here right now. You can make them pies after lunch.”
I turned to her, with my hand on my hip. “Which is it, Momma? You just told me I had to make the pies before I go. Now you’re telling me not to make them. What about your commitment? I’m making crust for the pies that you said you would make and then I’m leaving.”
Momma looked aghast. I later wondered if she was stymied by what I said or the fact I finally stood up to her. No matter the reason, she obviously didn’t like it. Her mouth puckered up like she’d just sucked on a lemon and her face turned a mottled red. I about fell over when I realized I had stunned her into speechlessness. That was a first.
It didn't take long to make the piecrust. Normally, I would have put the dough in the refrigerator to harden then roll it out several hours later, but I didn't want to commit to being home by then. I threw an abundance of flour on the counter. The sticky mess clung to the rolling pin, no matter how much flour I added. I knew the crust would be a disaster, but I didn't care. If anything, it filled me with self-righteousness. That’s what she got for bullying me to do this instead of doing it herself. To add the piece de resistance, instead of peeling fresh apples, I pulled two cans of apple pie filling out of the cupboard. I opened them and simultaneously turned the cans upside down over the piecrust shells. The contents of the cans slurped and glooped out into the pie plates, the silence of the room filling with the sickening sound. I grabbed a spatula to spread the goo around then threw a crust on top of each.
A quick glance at Momma confirmed the intended effect; she was horrified by the sight of the cans. I knew I should feel contrite about the smugness that filled me, but I told myself I could feel guilt later. Right now, I was gonna revel in the glory of it.
The heat of the oven blasted my face when I tossed them in, but the fire inside me burned even hotter. I dumped all of the dirty bowls and utensils into the sink.
“I’ve set a timer; you can take the pies out when it goes off.” I left the kitchen to get my purse and library books.
Momma found her tongue when I returned. I was surprised it took her so long. “I ain’t got no idea what’s gotten into you, Rose Anne Gardner. Don’t you take that uppity tone with me. Your daddy must be rolling over in his grave.”
“Don't you dare bring Daddy into this!” I yelled, not caring anymore. Shouting at Momma was like uncorking an oil well. Once it started spewing, it would take a whole lot of effort to make it stop. “Poor Daddy had to live with your evil tongue for years, decades even. I can’t believe Daddy stayed with you! He was the sweetest, gentlest man and you just wore the life right out of him, Momma. I bet Daddy’s doing a tap dance right now, rejoicing with the angels that I finally stood up to you!”
Momma rose from her chair, grabbing the table to lift herself up. “I’m not gettin’ them pies outta the oven! I can’t bend over. You know that.”
“I don’t give a cotton picking damn if you get them out or not! Get Mildred to do it or let ’em burn for all I care! I’ve done my part. I made your insufferable pies! Now I’m leaving!”
“Don’t you curse in my house, you evil, demon-possessed child!”
“I am not a child, Momma! You treat me like one and up to now I’ve let you, but I’m an adult and I’m not tolerating this anymore!”
I threw the door open and walked out into the humid heat. Angry thunderheads brewed on the horizon, practically causing the air to boil. Everything in the cosmos raged in unison with me, validating the rightness of my tirade. The new neighbor stood in his front yard, talking to Mildred. Eyes wide in surprise, both turned to watch me walk to my car. Momma followed behind me. The windows of the house were still wide open and our shouting match had entertained anyone within a quarter mile. Good, let them hear it. I wanted witnesses to this historic occasion.
“You get yourself back in this house right now, Rose Anne Gardner! You come back and finish them pies!”
I dug through the contents of my purse, searching for my keys. Panic rose like the rising floodwaters of Blackberry Creek after a heavy rainfall, my sanity bobbing precariously on the surface. I could not have just told my momma off, stormed out of the house and forgot my keys inside the house. Yet, I did. Obviously, my dramatic exits needed better planning.
Screw it. I gasped at my own crassness.
“Get your own damn pies out of the oven!” I shouted over my shoulder, adding to the neighborhood entertainment. The library was only a half-mile away. It would give me time to stomp off my anger.
“Rose, you get yourself back here right now! Don't you walk away from me!”
Her words clung to the air behind me as I continued down the crumpled concrete path, neighbors staring as if I were a three-headed cow. I lifted my chin and marched. Go ahead! Get a good look! I wanted to shout, but then I decided I’d made enough of a spectacle of myself for one day. I needed to pace myself; it was barely past noon.
By the time I pushed through the library doors, my anger had cooled. The smell of books dampened the rest. The library was my refuge, the one place I could go and escape from Momma’s wrath. Every Saturday afternoon I spent several hours there, going on the Internet since we didn’t have a computer at home or reading. Today I just wanted to read.
When five o’clock rolled around, the library’s closing time, I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready to go home yet. Instead, I walked several blocks to a cafe. Momma would expect me to come home and fix her something for dinner, but she wasn’t an invalid. She could make her own meal.
After ordering my food, I finally dwelled on our fight. I knew I should feel remorse. At the very least, I should feel guilty. Yet I didn’t. What I said had been a long time coming. If I had a cell phone I would call Violet with the news, but I didn’t own one. Momma said cell phones were just a way for the government to record all your calls and at the very least a waste of money. As part of my stand of newfound independence, I decided tomorrow I would go to the cell phone store and get one. Momma be damned.
That made me contrite. Three curse words in one day and a crass phrase to boot. Maybe I did have a demon.
There would be a moment of reckoning when I finally showed up, but I wasn't ready to face it yet. I knew I was acting like a petulant child putting it off, but Rome wasn’t built in a day and a sourdough starter took a week to create. I was gaining my independence after twenty-four years. I didn’t need to rush into it all at once.
After I paid the bill, I stood on the sidewalk in indecision. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. My other option was to find a pay phone and call Violet. I knew she or Mike would come and take me to their place for the night, and I found myself sorely tempted. But if I called Violet, she would be rescuing me and part of my new independence meant rescuing myself. I needed to stand on my own two feet and be a grown up. Loitering in the sweltering heat at the corner of Ivy Road and Madison Avenue, the cold, harsh reality slammed into me hard. Yes, I could blame Momma for my dependence, but I had to take some of the responsibility, too. I was a grown woman. I let her treat me that way.
I picked option three and walked to the nearby city park to stall longer. I passed between the concrete monoliths flanking the entrance, feeling prickly and a little trapped by the wrought iron fence that skirted the edge. I had to admit my vision made me a bit skittish, but I shook it off. In the vision, I was dead on Momma’s sofa and presently, I was nowhere near Momma’s sofa. Technically, it meant I was safe so I wandered to the small pond in of the middle the park. Azalea bushes surrounded the path, the blooms now faded and scattered amongst the gravel. A half dozen benches lined the trail, but walking helped my restlessness. I followed the path around the periphery, surprised there weren’t more people milling around.
The crunch under my feet soothed my growing paranoia, but the image of my vision popped into my mind again. I shook my head and tried to chase it away. I hoped it wasn’t true, but what if it was? But I couldn’t just sit around and wait for Daniel Crocker to kill me. The only course of action I could come up with at the moment was to never sit on Momma’s sofa again.
All the thoughts of my impending murder made me face the undeniable proof of my mortality. There were so many things I’d dreamed of doing. If I died, I’d never get a chance to try any of them. Violet was right. I was frittering my life away.
An epiphany burst into my mind, nearly knocking me over with the enormity of it. I would create a list, a list of things I wanted to do before I died.
I found a bench and dug through my purse, grabbing a pen and a Wal-Mart receipt. I stared at the paper. There were lots of things I wanted to do.
Number one was a decision I’d already made. Get a cell phone. I dug out a library book, placed the receipt on top and wrote my first item. Then I smiled, a smug smile full of pride. Another of the Seven Deadly Sins. How many could I commit in one day? I briefly considered adding them, but I wasn’t sure I could go through with lust. Besides, the desire to act out all the sins in a twenty-four hour period just seemed wrong. I needed to space them out more. Maybe a week. Number two: Commit all Seven Deadly Sins in one week.
I felt very wicked. This was how the road to ruin started. One minute you’re exasperating your Momma by not turning off your alarm, the next you’re plotting the damnation of your soul. But then again, according to Momma, my soul was already damned. Number two stayed.
New rule: once the item got on the list, the only way it could be marked off was if I’d done it.
After number two, the list poured out. Get cable TV. Get my own place. Buy some makeup. Visit a beauty salon. Get a pedicure. Ride in a convertible. Drink a glass of wine. Drink a beer. Go to a bar. Dance. Get a boyfriend. Kiss a man. Do more with a man. (That was all I could bring myself to say.) Get a dog. Dress like a princess.
I continued to write, my words getting smaller as I got closer to the bottom of the receipt. Wear high heels. Wear a lacy bra and panties. Eat Chinese food. Go to Italy. Learn to knit. Ride a motorcycle. Fly in an airplane. Jump on a trampoline. Fly a kite. Have a picnic in the park. Play in the rain.
I had twenty-eight items when I realized there was room for only one more at the bottom. I stared at it, unsure what to put, yet afraid to fill in the spot. What if there was something I hadn’t thought of yet? In the end, I wrote the number twenty-nine and left it empty. There were too many possibilities to limit myself to only one more.
I read the list with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. Proud of myself for finally deciding to embrace life. Embarrassed I wrote it. How many other people needed a list to make them do the things they set out to do?
The sun lowered in the trees and even though I didn't want to go home, I also didn’t want to walk in the dark. Henryetta was a fairly safe town, and while I was trying to shed my conservative past, I wasn’t quite ready to risk my life just yet, especially with my new list. I carefully folded the receipt, tucked it into my wallet, and walked to the entrance of the park.
Streetlights blinked on in the dusk, pools of light dotting the street. My gait alternated between a brisk pace and a reluctant stroll as I made my way home. Soon Momma’s house wouldn’t be home. Like a can of ice cold Coke just poured in a glass, giddiness bubbled up and filled my heart with fizzy joy. I had to stop myself from skipping. Maybe I should search for my own place tomorrow, too.
Our house came into view and I found the porch light off, the windows dark. Momma was frugal, but she would have turned on the living room lamp by nine o’clock and she wouldn’t have gone to bed already.
I walked up to the side of the house, preparing for a verbal barrage, but stopped short when I found the door slightly ajar. It creaked as I pushed it open in slow motion.
“Momma?” I called into the dark kitchen. The ticking of the Dollar General rooster clock bounced around the blackness and filled me with a heavy dread. My eyes adjusted to the dark and I made out the outlines of the furniture. The kitchen table and chairs, all in their places. The old children’s song with the line all in their places with bright shiny faces started to play in my head, an odd thought to have when you knew deep in your gut something bad was about to reveal itself.
I stepped through the door, unsure how to proceed. I decided to just move forward. “Momma?”
I reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. My heart thumped wildly as though it were a rabbit trying to escape from my chest. “Momma?” my voice grew more insistent and frantic. I shuffled to the doorway of the living room. The streetlight poured in through the open window and I saw her upright on the sofa.
“Momma?” I gasped, somehow knowing she wouldn’t answer.
I inched closer and wrapped my arms around myself as I tried to keep my wits about me. The outside light illuminated the side of Momma’s face, casting long shadows from her sharp profile. Her eyes were open, as well as her mouth, which sagged as though she was getting ready to utter another complaint. Perhaps she was, before she acquired the three-inch hole in the side of her head.
I stood in horror, unable to move, mesmerized and terrorized by the sight. Time stood still, the tick of the clock in the kitchen couldn’t keep up with the metronome of my racing heart. Finally, I turned my head from her gaze, realizing fully for the first time that it was the stare of a dead woman.
I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone in a daze. It shouldn’t have surprised me to hear no dial tone, but I stared at the receiver, puzzled. Huh? Maybe I should have got that cell phone before I came home.
Later I would think these strange thoughts to run through my mind, but in the moment they didn't seem so odd. I replaced the phone in its cradle, unsure what to do next. I needed to call someone. Who? Oh, the police.
I stumbled out the door and walked to the new neighbor’s front door, as if I were a zombie, wide-eyed and emotionless. I rapped on the door and he opened it moments later, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans, eyes widened at the sight of me on his doorstep. His hair was tousled and he smelled of sweat and man. We had never even exchanged a word until that moment, although I found myself thinking how rude I’d been not to make him a pie welcoming him to the neighborhood. My mind tripped on the pie thought. I wondered if Momma had gotten the pies out of the oven, or if they were still in there smoldering to a crisp. But then again if they were burnt, I would have smelled them.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at me, unsure what I wanted, confused by my appearance at a time that wasn’t appropriate to be calling. He placed a hand on one side of the doorway and leaned his weight into it, waiting.
“Uh…” I began, unsure what to say, forgetting why I was there. Why was I there? Oh, Momma. “Uh… I just got home and…” How did one delicately put that her Momma’s head had been bashed in? “My lights and phone are out…and…”
“Do you need to call the electric company?” He eyed me warily.
“No…” I shook my head, confused. “Uh, yeah, maybe. But I think I need to call the police first.”
His eyes widened.
“I think my Momma’s dead.” I scrunched the corner of my mouth as I tried to decide if she was really dead or not. Yeah, she was probably dead.
He left the doorway, but reappeared in a flash a cordless phone in his hand, already punching numbers.
“What happened?” he asked over the top of the handset.
“I’m not really sure.” My voice trailed off as the air became murky and the ground beneath me started falling away. “I think I need to sit down.”
Two wicker chairs sat on his porch. He grasped my arm and led me a few steps toward one. I sat and rested my elbows on my legs, leaning forward. I felt his hand on the back of my head as he pushed it between my knees and began talking to the 911 dispatcher.
I barely heard it, because it didn’t matter. Momma was dead and it was supposed to be me.