Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) Page 7

  About the same time Bryn was getting herself into trouble, another interesting phenomenon was occurring at Brookdale High. A revival of sorts had hit, and it seemed that kids throughout the school were turning into Jesus freaks right and left. Bryn and I would make fun of them, not so as anyone could hear, of course, but just between ourselves as a form of entertainment. But with Bryn gone, I must’ve suddenly looked alone and vulnerable—a sinner just waiting to get saved, ripe pickings for the more evangelistic types. And so I soon found myself on the hit list of every fanatical Christian kid in our school—including Joey Divers!

  Yes, it seemed that even my old buddy Joey had been sucked into this new Jesus-freak fad. Apparently he’d gotten himself pretty involved in some sort of nondenominational youth group that seemed to be growing daily. It all seemed pretty weird to me. At first I tried to ignore the kids who came up to me and asked questions like: “Do you know Jesus?” I mean, how stupid is that? Doesn’t everyone know who Jesus is? Or else they’d say, “Do you know what’s going to happen to you when you die?” “Well, who on earth does?” I’d toss back at them.

  I thought I was a pretty hard nut to crack, and I extracted a smidgeon of pride from it, but at the same time I suspected that Joey had made me into his own personal mission—save Cassandra Maxwell or bust! And despite my stoical vow to remain cynical and aloof, Joey’s regular attempts to break me were wearing me down some. And to be honest, what with Bryn gone now I suppose I enjoyed the attention.

  “Look, Cass,” he explained at lunch one day. “I know it’s hard for you to believe that Jesus really loves you—I know, probably better than anyone, what your life’s been like. And I’m sure it doesn’t feel much like Jesus loves you. But really, he does!” He peered at me through his dark-rimmed glasses, and his big brown eyes seemed more sincere than ever. Almost convincing.

  “It’s just so hard to believe all this, Joey,” I countered. “I mean, if I believe in Jesus like this, then doesn’t it mean I have to believe in the whole Bible as well? And I don’t think I can swallow all that. I know Grandma believed all that hooey, but I just can’t handle all that stuff about Noah putting a bunch of animals in a boat or Moses parting the Red Sea. I mean, who really believes all that crud?”

  He looked at me for a long moment—not like he was irritated or intimidated or anything negative—just thinking, kind of mulling it all over. “You know, Cass, I totally understand where you’re coming from. I’m a fairly scientific person, and I had some serious doubt and hang-ups. But then a guy explained that it’s all about faith—that you make a conscious choice to believe in Jesus, like taking a step of faith. And then slowly it becomes more real, and your faith grows.”

  “And so has yours? Grown, I mean?”

  “I’m sitting here telling you about this, aren’t I? Look, Cass, you can trust me—you know I wouldn’t be telling you all this if I didn’t completely believe it myself. It’s changed my life.”

  “Changed your life?” I scowled at him.

  He nodded. “Yep. I actually became a Christian a while back. Back when I first started high school.”

  “Last year? You’re kidding me, Joey. Why’ve you been so quiet about it?”

  He smiled. “I guess I was just learning a lot of stuff and trying to figure things out for myself. But I know that having Jesus inside”—he tapped his chest—“really inside me, has made all the difference. I wouldn’t be who I am now without Jesus.”

  I felt stunned and slightly wounded. “Well, then why didn’t you tell me about it sooner, Joey? I thought we were friends.”

  He looked down at the table between us. “You were off doing your own thing, Cass. I didn’t think you wanted to hear what I had to say. But you know I kept praying for a chance to say something to you. And sometimes I’d almost think it was the right time, and then something would happen, or you’d say something that’d stop me. I don’t know, it just never seemed to happen.”

  I still felt hurt, but my hard shell cracked just slightly. “I’ve been through so much in the past year, Joey. If you really had something that was real, that really and truly changed your life—well, then why wouldn’t you offer it to me, too?” I saw him swallow hard as he looked into my eyes, and I could see I’d hurt him now a lot.

  “I’m sorry, Cass.”

  I stood up. I felt betrayed and upset, and I wasn’t even sure why. “Yeah. If what you say is true, Joey, then it’s like you’ve been walking around with a pile of money in your pocket and your old best friend is out begging on the streets and you don’t even offer her a penny.” I started to walk away.

  “Cass, wait—”

  But I just kept walking. And for the rest of the day I avoided Joey and every other crazy Jesus freak in that stupid school, and finally I hurried straight to work. (I was still working part-time at the Dairy Maid then.)

  With each step I reluctantly mulled Joey’s disturbing words over and over in my mind, not sure I understood a bit of it, but interested just the same. Yet, at the same time, I knew this Jesus stuff was taking up too much space in my brain. I reminded myself that I had bigger problems to think about just now. Like where was I going to land the next time my daddy got out of hand?—which could be any day now. Bryn was gone, and I still hadn’t lined up anyone else to take her place. Working was some consolation, and I’d managed to save up a little money—not in a glass jar this time where my daddy could get to it, but at the Citizen’s Bank (not the National Bank where my aunt used to work before Mr. Roberts fired her over some “personal indiscretion” last summer).

  Anyway, I went straight to work scrubbing down the tables with all these troubles just bouncing around in my mind until it almost felt as if my whole head might simply explode and splatter all across the black-and-white-checkerboard floor Clint had put in a few months ago. I was so distracted with my troubles that I scarcely noticed how the time had passed and I’d forgotten to flip over the Closed sign, and now a late customer had entered and sat down at the counter just a couple minutes past ten.

  “Cass?” I heard as I slowly swiped a bleach-soaked rag along the countertop.

  I looked up in surprise, then paused in the middle of a long wiping stroke. It was Joey.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “I’m working.” I bit my lip and continued to wipe down the counter.

  “Yeah, but it’s closing time. Maybe I can give you a lift home.”

  “You have a car?” What else had he been keeping secret?

  He grinned and shook his metal crutch. “Yeah, an automatic.”

  “Okay, but I’ll warn you, I’m in a pretty foul mood tonight.”

  “It’s all right; I’m sure it’s partly my fault.”

  I hurriedly cleaned up and closed out the register, then yelled good-bye to Clint in the back. Joey was already in his car, a large, sensible blue Chevy.

  “Nice,” I said as I slid into the vinyl seat.

  “It’s okay. Someday I’ll have something even better. Want to go over to Nellie’s and get a cup of coffee?” Nellie’s was an all-night cafe on the other end of town.

  “Sure, why not?” I leaned back into the seat and sighed deeply, thinking I’d rather just go to sleep. I felt so tired, so weary.

  After getting seated at Nellie’s and being served a couple mugs of stale, thick coffee, Joey didn’t immediately bring up the Jesus stuff. Instead he made a little small talk; he asked me how I was doing.

  “You mean me, personally? Or me as far as living with an unpredictable jerk who may or may not go into a drunken rage at the drop of a hat sometimes?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I mean. How’s it going with your dad these days? I really haven’t talked to you about that in ages. I guess I just assumed he’s all straightened out now, especially after that last episode that landed him in jail.”

  “I guess a lot of people assume that. Maybe they should check out the Eight Ball Tavern some evening. He spends most of his time and money d
own there:”

  “I’m sorry. It must be hard.”

  I exploded with a swearword I wouldn’t normally have used. “You’d better believe it’s hard, Joey! And I haven’t had anyone to help me out—other than Bryn and her mom—and even they’re gone now. And I’m freaking out over what’s going to happen the next time. I mean, I’ve been trying to do the right thing, working hard in school, saving up money, but it’s all just getting so hard. Sometimes, like right now, I just feel like giving up—just totally giving up.”

  He nodded, folding a napkin into a neat triangle. “Don’t give up, Cass,” he said softly.

  I looked over at him. I could feel my eyes filling with tears, and I really didn’t want to cry—at least not here in public, and not in front of Joey. Maybe it was because he was being nice to me and I wasn’t used to that. Or maybe I was just tired. “Then what, Joey?” I asked in my old sarcastic voice. “Should I take one of your miracle faith pills and just call you in the morning? You really think if I believe in Jesus that everything’s going to simply change overnight?” I could see my cynicism hurt him, and I felt unexpectedly bad. “I’m sorry, Joey. I shouldn’t make fun of your religion. It’s great if it works for you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. I think I deserved some of that. Your words really got to me today, Cass. I mean I’d never looked at it that way—like I was walking around with something you needed and not even offering it to you. I’m sorry.”

  I waved my hand. “Oh, you know me, I was just being all melodramatic. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

  “But you were right. I did have something that was changing my life, and I didn’t try very hard to share it with my old best friend.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “We used to be so close, Cass. Don’t you miss that sometimes?”

  Now I could feel tears actually running down my cheeks, and I knew I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I swallowed hard and looked down at the table, everything blurred.

  “Cass, listen to me—Jesus is real. He really is real. He wants to come into your heart. He wants to take all the ugliness that’s in your life and make it beautiful. He has a plan for you. He really does. You know me, Cass. It might’ve taken me too long to tell you this, but you know I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  Now I forced myself to look up, fully aware that I was actually crying in public, me, the tough chick—the one no one could hurt. “But—but—I don’t know, Joey… I don’t know how—what to do. It all sounds so strange—and unbelievable.”

  He nodded. “I know. I felt the same way. And it’s something you have to do on your own, Cass, when you’re ready. It’s a personal thing. But honestly, all you have to do is ask Jesus to come into your life, and he does it.”

  I’m sure Joey continued, saying a bunch of other things too, but I never really heard them. I was too weary and upset to listen, and finally I just asked him to take me home. As Joey quietly drove to my house that night, I kept tumbling all his words around in my mind, and I think something was almost starting to make sense.

  But when he parked in front of my house, I could see all the lights were on inside, and my heart started to race. This was not a good sign.

  “Thanks for everything, Joey,” I said in a flat voice, my eyes focused on the little rental house as I wondered what my daddy might be up to tonight.

  “You okay, Cass?” he asked. And I could tell by his voice, he meant it. He cared. But what could he do to help?

  I turned and looked at him in his dimly lit Chevy, sitting there looking so grown-up, so… together. Suddenly I just wanted to grab him, to hold on to him, to cling to him, and to beg him to take me with him, to love me, to marry me, to… anything! Anything that would get me out of this crazy mess called my life.

  But instead I just pasted on my good-old-girl smile and said, “Sure, Joey, I’m fine,” and climbed out of the security of his blue car. I slipped the strap of my oversized bag over my shoulder and put on my brave face as I turned and waved over my shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, Joey. See ya round!”

  Eight

  As it turned out I didn’t “see Joey around” for a long, long time after that night in April 1970.

  I had a feeling I was heading straight for trouble when I walked up to the little rental house. All the lights were still on inside, our little house just cheerfully glowing like a jarful of fireflies, and I suspected my daddy was in there getting himself all worked into a lather about something or other. I went real slow waiting for Joey’s car to finally pull away. When I felt certain Joey was out of sight, I ducked around back, deciding to just lie low for a while. It wasn’t the first time I’d done so, and I felt relatively certain that my sober persistence would outlast my daddy’s inebriated state. And once some of those lights went out and my heart rate slowed down some, I’d quietly make my way inside.

  So I sat down on an old willow stump that had already started growing itself back into a tree and watched our house from the tiny, weed-infested patch of grass we called a backyard. Even though it was spring, it was still cool at night, and my skimpy, polyester Dairy Maid uniform was anything but warm. I pulled my school clothes out of my shoulder bag and wrapped them around my legs for insulation as I sat and shivered there, waiting for some sign that it was safe to go in. Part of me still wanted to ponder upon Joey’s words, to consider his claims that Jesus really loved me, but the rest of me was too overwrought and worried about what might lie ahead for me. Not just tonight, because I could wait this one out, but what about the next night? And the next?

  I briefly considered walking over to Aunt Myrtle’s place on the other end of town, but I still felt a little guilty about her losing her good bank job as a result of my mouthing off to Sally Roberts last summer. Now Aunt Myrtle worked as a clerk at an automotive store, and the few times I’d walked past and spied her back there, her mouth had been drawn in a tight line, and I didn’t think she enjoyed her work much. For all I knew she might even know that I was the one who blew the whistle on her. I hadn’t actually spoken to her in well over a year now. For that reason and a lifetime of others, I was unwilling to walk halfway across town, knock on her door, and then risk her fiery wrath. Besides, if my daddy were truly drunk, he’d probably pass out before too long anyway. I could just wait him out.

  Finally it was well past midnight, and the lights were still burning like a Christmas tree. Suddenly I became worried. What if he’d had an accident or something? For all I knew he could’ve stumbled, fallen, and hit himself in the head—he might be unconscious and bleeding himself to death right there on the kitchen floor. It’s ironic now to think that it was this empathetic sense of concern that made me quietly open our back door and tiptoe into the brightly lit kitchen.

  To my relief, he was not bleeding on the floor there, and I silently turned off the lights and made my way back toward my bedroom, deciding to skip using the bathroom (at least for an hour or so) until I could be sure that all was quiet and safe from behind the security of my bolted door. I turned off the hall light and tiptoed in absolute silence.

  Just a few feet from my bedroom, I heard my daddy’s drunken voice, and he appeared before me as if out of nowhere. “Wha’sha think yore doin’ sneakin’ round like this until all hours of the night?”

  He stepped directly in front of me now and I could see his outline silhouetted by the faint light coming through my bedroom window. Already I was poised to turn and run, but I never even got the chance.

  It’s amazing, the strength of a drunkard’s grip sometimes. You expect them to be all sloshy and relaxed—like they couldn’t hurt you even if they tried. And sometimes it’s just like that, too, but not always. And not on that night. I can remember my voice screaming bloody murder the first time he hit me, and then yelling for help again and again and again—I hoped that someone in the neighborhood might hear me and call the police. That’s about all I remember until waking up, once again, in a hospital bed.

  The next few days wer
e kind of a blur for me with police taking statements and a lady from the county named Mrs. Johnson interviewing me. It’s about time, I was thinking as I answered her inane questions. She informed me that Aunt Myrtle, my only living relation (besides my daddy, who was now incarcerated) was unable and unwilling to take me in. Aunt Myrtle, of course, was not actually related to me by blood, but I kept these thoughts to myself. Then Mrs. Johnson began describing the county’s foster care program to me.

  Despite my earlier assumption that, being almost sixteen, I was too mature for a foster home, I now welcomed the idea of having someone—anyone—take care of me. Especially in light of my broken nose, fractured wrist, and concussion. At the end of the week, an older couple came by the hospital to pick me up. Their name was Crowley, and they lived on a small farm near the neighboring town of Snider. Did I mind leaving my old high school? they asked me. I just shrugged and said, “I guess not.”

  The Crowleys drove an old pickup, and I remember jostling painfully in the seat between the two of them, each jolt feeling like a fresh blow to my bruised and battered body. But I kept my lips pressed together and my eyes straight ahead. And I tried not to judge this couple by appearance. After all, here they were willing to take a perfect stranger into their home. How bad could they be?

  “Just don’t understand a man who’d do that to his own daughter,” said Mr. Crowley as he gripped the big steering wheel with two rough and calloused hands. It wasn’t the type of comment that demanded a response, but I felt, in light of the fact that they were rescuing me, perhaps one was deserved.

  “My daddy’s a troubled man, sir.” I spoke quietly, careful to use sir since these were older, country folks and probably expected me to act like a mannerly young lady. “And he’s had a drinking problem for quite some time now. But when he’s sober he’s a completely different person—you wouldn’t think he could hurt a fly.”