Downhome Crazy (5 page)

Florine slows down enough that I can spot my doodlebug at the edge of the pancake house parking lot. Instead of adjusting his cape and flying in to help me, he is bent over, hands on his thighs, laughing his ass off. I swear I see tears streaming down his face before Florine pulls me into a high-spirited gallop as she sings, “Oh bury me not on the lone prairie.”

Maybe I’ve died and gone to hell. What other reason could there be to wind up tangled with Florine as her legs give out and she spills to the ground, taking me with her? I swear I catch the scent of brimstone as I struggle toward freedom, ever mindful of her voluminous flannel gown and my uncertainty as to whether she’s wearing any undies.

Carson finally pulls himself together and comes to my rescue. I notice he’s on the cell phone as he walks my way so I’m not surprised when Luther pulls in, lights flashing and the siren howling. The man does like to make an entrance.

“You okay?” Carson helps me up and wraps an arm around my waist as Luther takes charge of Florine, who seems to have come into her second wind.

I nod. If he thinks I’m going to engage in conversation any time soon, he is so wrong. The man laughed at me in my darkest moment; I have the right to be a little pissy if I want.

My hurt feelings subside as a short, chunky woman in khakis, a polo bearing the motel’s name, and sensible shoes comes dashing out. She has something in her hand, which I realize, as she enters the fray and begins to spray, is a vial of some self-protection potion. Pepper spray, I suspect, by the way Luther starts to curse and cry at the same time. I’m pretty sure the shot was meant to subdue Florine, but the bizarre dance between Fortuna’s finest and Fortuna’s current fruitcake put Luther in the wrong place at just the right moment.

Carson finally seems to realize he’s supposed to be more than a spectator and runs to catch Florine mid-twirl. She seems oblivious to Luther hunched down on his knees, his curses now a mumble as the motel lady profusely apologizes in a thick Norwegian accent. Florine’s nightgown swirls around her varicose-veined legs, her arms raised toward the noon sun as she stands in one place and spins. She’s switched to belting out “Bringing in the Sheaves,” the choir’s fallback anthem, the tune trailing off as momentum gets the best of her.

The increasingly louder sound of a siren sends relief swirling through me. Motel Lady has disappeared, so I figure she’s called an ambulance for Florine. Or maybe the proverbial men in white jackets with big nets.

When the vehicle stops, I realize it’s the chief. He’s pulled his car as close behind Luther’s as he can without bumping fenders. His face is red and tight as he stalks toward the chaos. I make sure to stay out of his way.

“Damn, Dwaine, about time you got here,” Luther wheezes out as he struggles to his feet. “You figure out what to do with her. I’m flat done with it all.”

The chief’s solution is to toss his handcuffs to Carson with an inquiring, “You good?”

At Carson’s nod, his attention turns back to his second in command. “Which one got you?” he asked.

“The crazy one,” Luther replies.

“Hell, around here that could be anyone. I assume you mean Eugene’s mom.”

Luther nods.

“Soon as you can see again, run her down to the county hospital. They’ve got a bed reserved for her. Tell ‘em they may need to hold a couple more, too.”

Luther narrows his eyes as if trying to figure out what Dwaine is trying to tell him. I glance over at Carson and realize he’s thinking the same thing I am; Florine’s not the only new loony in town.

“I need to run over to the Hayslingers. The preacher’s girl just called up 911 and said she’s been praying all night for her daddy, but she thinks an official presence is needed now. I promised the old lady to take her to that new casino up in Columbus tonight, and there will be hell to pay if the paperwork keeps me from getting home by four.”

He crooks a finger at me. “I’d appreciate it if you could ride along to the parsonage with me. If Penelope gets hysterical, it might be good to have another woman around.”

One of those “this is so not good” feelings comes over me as I follow Dwaine to his cruiser. By now, folks have poured out of both the motel and the restaurant to see what was going on. I hope that the spectacle of Florine, who is now babbling about dinosaurs peeking out from the motel pool at her, will keep their attention. I so do not need a rumor going around town that I was arrested. The way gossip spreads, by nightfall the story would be that Carson and the local cops had been running a sting, and I was among the hookers they picked up.

“Don’t you think maybe someone with medical experience should meet us there?” I venture as Dwaine puts the pedal to the metal and we screech back toward Fortuna.

Dwaine shakes his head. “I need to assess the situation before I call the boys to pick him up.”

Uh-oh. Dwaine is engaging in cop speak, which he only does when he’s mad at me or very nervous. Since he made the offer for me to ride shotgun, I figure the former doesn’t apply. That sets me to worrying about exactly what the situation is over at the parsonage. If the good reverend is dancing around his lawn looking for pink bunnies, I have no intention of staying.

Penelope is on the porch, waiting for us. She gestures wildly for us to hurry up as we slam the car doors behind us. My pulse quickens and I wish I’d stuck my tape recorder in my pocket. This could be, as we in the news biz say, a Big Story.

“Daddy’s in the parlor,” Penelope says, pulling Dwaine into the house by the sleeve. “I’ve never seen him like this. Never.”

I hear the Rev. Hayslinger before I see him, which still doesn’t prepare me for what awaits in what most of us would call a family room, but has always been referred to as the parlor by every preacher who’s lived here. Rev. Hayslinger’s been the town preacher for over thirty years, and I suppose he saw no reason not to carry on the tradition.

The Rev. is in the center of the room with a well-worn Bible in his hand and what I think is a joyful look on his face. Or else he has to fart and is trying to hold it in until we all leave.

“I feel the fire!” he cries out as we enter the room, accompanying his shout with a hard thump on the Bible. “God didn’t put it in my belly, he put it in my legs. My arms. My heart.”

I keep my distance. I might not be the brightest bulb in the pack, but I don’t intend to repeat my earlier performance with Florine. If Rev. Hayslinger needs a companion for whatever’s happening, I believe it’s Dwaine’s turn at bat.

“What might you be supposed to do with all this fire?” the chief asks as Rev. Hayslinger marches in a circle around the room. I’m not sure what the musical accompaniment in his head is, but it’s got him taking long, hard steps.

“I may be getting older,” the preacher says with another thump on his Bible, “but I’ve still got two feet and two hands and they work just fine. I’m going to use the fire in my legs to walk across this land and the fire in my arms to pull people away from the devil.”

All-righty then. Considering that the Rev. drives his riding mower from the garage to the end of his driveway to get his mail, I suspect this walking thing is brand new. Like Florine’s sudden passion for dance.

Penelope places herself near enough to Dwaine that he can read her lips when she mouths, “Do you think his laxatives could do this?”

I feel a giggle beginning and bite my lower lip hard enough to keep it trapped. I hope. When Penelope silently asks, “How about his hernia truss?” I have to slip out of the room. I head for the door, but don’t quite make it before the laughter starts to spill out. I slap both hands across my mouth and try to think of something tragic, like Eugene’s face when he realized his grandmother Annalee was his only choice. But the Reverend has switched to the Beatle’s “Yellow Submarine,” and I fall back against the wall, sides shaking.

The internal fight goes on longer than I’d like, but I finally regain control. I return to the scene of the action just in time to see Rev. Hayslinger jump from one foot to the other, his knees going higher than I would have expected his arthritis to allow. For one brief minute, I am reminded of a National Geographic documentary they showed us back in high school of an African tribe performing some native dance. If he starts squatting and thrusting a spear, it’s out of the room time again.

Dwaine has his cell phone in hand, and I notice he’s texting. I am quite impressed he’s able to do that, what with a thumb that kinda looks like a squashed radish. I’m sure there’s a story behind it, but I’m not about to ask.

He shows me the text before he pushes “send.” The message is brief and directed to the local emergency room: “Need another psych bed.”

I nod. Whatever particular passion is filling the good minister it’s not normal, especially not in Fortuna, where the only public excess of emotion is when the cheerleaders win Nationals.

Dwaine motions with his head toward Penelope then points toward the door. I take the hint and round her up, gently drawing her away from her foot-stomping father and out into the hall.

“The chief would like your dad to go to the hospital and be checked out.” That sounds so much nicer than “involuntary commitment”, doesn’t it?

Penelope claps a hand against her mouth and her eyes widen. That leads me to wonder if she already knows her beloved daddy’s destination once he gets into Dwaine’s cruiser.

The answer, I realize, is “no” as she rolls her eyeballs toward heaven, drops to her knees, and passes out. My reaction to this crisis is instinctive; I shout for Dwaine. He runs to us, followed by her dancing daddy, and does what I could have if I’d thought about it. Dwaine gives Penelope a slap on the cheek, which brings an immediate reaction. She slaps him back.

Ah, I realize, she was faking. A light goes off in my little brain, and I realize why Dwaine was so irritated at the choir rehearsal. Apparently, this is status quo for Penelope and crises. Florine stole her thunder back there with her conniption fit, but Penelope owns this particular stage.

“Might make it two,” Dwaine mutters as he rubs the red spot growing on his cheek. Penelope developed quite a wallop for a supposedly unconscious woman. I wonder if the hospital would let her and her father share a room in the behavioral unit and cut the price a little.

I help the sobbing Penelope to her feet as Dwaine directs her father toward the door. The Rev.’s slowed down a bit, which should be expected considering his age. I keep a good grip on Penelope’s hand and mutter the occasional “there, there” and “he’ll be fine” as Dwaine settles Rev. Hayslinger in the cruiser. Penelope’s wailing increases when she realizes he’s riding in the back, behind the cage where there are no door handles.

I’m mentally counting the days and realize if the minister’s kept the standard three days, he’ll be out in time to preach on Sunday. I wonder what kind of sermon
this
experience will inspire. The time he rang bells for the Salvation Army during their Christmas campaign led to a diatribe on how cruel folks were to let an old man sling a bell for three hours and only give thirteen dollars and twenty-two cents.

As the cruiser pulls away, I realize I’m in an unenviable position. I’m only a few blocks from my house, which is where Carson will return I’m sure. But if I walk away from Penelope, what will her neighbors think? Will they gossip about how callous I am digging up all the town dirt for my reports on WFRT, but too good to help a daughter in distress?

My salvation comes in a most unlikely way. My cell phone trills, and when I answer, it’s Eugene on the line. Truth be told, I’d forgotten about him. The circus in which I’d become an unwitting player has made me forget the bigger picture, which is a teenage boy desperately worried about his mother.

Well, not desperately. He’s not calling to ask about her as it turns out. He wants to know if I’ll pick him up at school, so he can go home and get his piccolo before band rehearsal.

In an unaccustomed flash of brilliance, I see the solution to my current predicament. I put the call on speaker, and five minutes later, Penelope is heading for her car, and Eugene has assured her he’ll be waiting in front of the school. I must admit I fibbed to make that happen. But if they both believe that I’ll lose my job if I’m not at the radio station by eleven to start writing the noon news, is there really any harm done?

Chapter Three

I’m warmed by the sight of Carson’s SUV in my driveway when I finally get home. Yeah, I missed him, but it occurred to me on my walk that the containers of food for Miss Priss are still in his back seat. At this point in our tenuous relationship, I don’t want the cat to find reasons to do me in. And yes, I think she could suffocate me in my sleep or trip me to make my head hit the counter if she wanted me dead.

I peek and see Carson has already taken the food in. I mentally chalk up some brownie points for him. He is such a good guy.

I find him sitting on a chair in the kitchen, staring at the cat who is glaring at her food.

“She won’t eat.” His voice is morose.

I pick up the dish. It’s cold. While I have no way to confirm this, I suspect Miz Waddy warmed every bite of food that friggin’ cat put into her tummy. I stick the dish in the microwave, set it for thirty seconds, and hope I’m right. I so do not want to do the cupboard search another time.

Victory. Miss Priss chows down with the enthusiasm of a sailor on leave when I put the food in front of her. The small success cheers me more than it should. I think it’s because I was ready for a ray of sunshine.

“Well, Mrs. Forrester is in the psych ward.”

“The preacher, too.” I offer a succinct description of the events at the parsonage as I go about making coffee. In my family, the first step in times of trouble is to make coffee and keep making it. We’re living proof that it’s impossible to overdose on caffeine.

“We never had lunch,” Carson reminds me as I sit beside him with my cup. Strange how I’d forgotten about food. Apparently, dealing with outbreaks of craziness is a great appetite suppressant. Maybe I should look into a patent on that.