Color Me Red

Color Me Red

a novel

by

Kalli Deschamps

Copyright © 2010 by Kalli Deschamps.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2009914096

ISBN:                       Hardcover                        978-1-4500-1887-6

                                 Softcover                          978-1-4500-1886-9

                                 Ebook                               978-1-4500-1888-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contentst

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dedicated to:

All the excellent teachers and devoted school people

whose selfless hours enhance the education of our children

CHAPTER ONE

GET OUT OF TOWN

NO ONE NEEDS YOU HERE!!!

Angry words slashed across the gleaming mirror. Crude letters – red lipstick. She screamed! Oh, God! Look what else they’ve done!

Kevin fought his way through broken glass and torn clothing to reach her side and catch her as she fell.

She struggled to right her body, then stopped. His tightly circled arms felt strong. She moved again; panic replaced by embarrassment as she freed herself from the unexpected embrace. What have I done to these people? First the school and now this. What a way to start. Her head drooped, the prick of tears stinging her eyelids.

This morning was a bitch and I heard what you said at dinner. It seems to me, Sandy; no one could blame you if you just pulled up stakes and left.

Unshed tears still glistening, her eyes glowed violet as anger rose to crush her sorrow and despair. She could feel her jaws tighten, her strength return. If it was a fight they wanted, it was a fight they’d get. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I’ll clean up this mess and go to school tomorrow morning as if nothing had happened.

It’s probably not that simple. We need to call the sheriff. He’ll probably say ‘hands-off’ ’til he’s had a chance to look.

Sandy’s sigh bespoke pent-up frustration. She had made a decision. She needed action. But she would try to listen. Kevin was hunting through the mess to locate the phone when she gave her belated permission. While you get a hold of him, I’ll check the rest of the apartment. She needed to do something. She held up her hands and looked through her fingers. They were still trembling, but the pounding in her ear drums was subsiding and her heart seemed calmer. Before she entered the kitchen her eyes sought quickly for a pair of Limoges vases. There they were, whole and undamaged, resting on the white painted mantle. Thank heavens, she murmured.

"Wha’d you say? called Kevin.

Just that my antique vases are still intact. In fact, everything in here looks okay.

He rounded the corner from the bedroom holding the remains of a princess phone. Someone made sure you couldn’t call. What was it you were worried about?

These vases. My grandmother brought them from France as a bride. I’ve always loved them, so when she broke up housekeeping she gave them to me and said they would always be our special bond. Her muscles collapsed as she half-sank, half-fell into the deep velvet chair Millie LaVoie had lent from the downstairs parlor. I’m sorry, Kevin. I’ll be okay in a minute. I guess the whole thing is catching up to me; I can’t seem to move. She dropped her head against the back of the overstuffed cushion, closed her eyes and let her arms dangle.

He moved around the room, looking first at one object, then another. Finally he stopped. This would appeal to my mother. It’s a beautiful place.

Was, you mean.

"We could all help you put it together in a few days but now

whenever you feel like it we should get out of here, stop by the sheriff’s office and then head for the ranch."

You don’t need to do that. I’ll just get a motel for tonight and worry about the rest after school tomorrow.

Uh-uh. No dice. Mom would never forgive me and besides, you shouldn’t stay alone."

Sandy marshaled her arguments. She hardly knows me and besides, your folks will be in bed by the time we get there.

Forget it. Let’s get out of here. Still numb, she gave up, took one last look at her damaged bedroom and followed Kevin into the night.

Sandy woke with a start. 3:11 read the digital clock on the bedside stand. It was so quiet. She lay there with her eyes wide open straining her ears to catch a sound, any sound. There it was in the distance. She recognized the mournful bawling of a lonely cow. The ranch. She was at the ranch. Kevin said they had weaned the babies a few days ago. Maybe it was because she was an only child, but when she was a kid she had started talking to herself. It was a habit that brought solace and comfort. She tried it now. Close your eyes, Sandy. Go back to sleep. You need your rest. Okay, I’ll try it. Like a little kid waiting for a hidden surprise she squeezed her lids together. No good. They flew open; wide, this time. She watched the starlit night as it filtered through the crocheted cotton of the lace curtains. The abstract shapes of light and shadow seemed to slither (how she loved that word) across the heavy walnut furniture. What was it June had said about it? Oh, yes. That her great-grandmother had brought the set across the sea from England; then by train and finally wagon to her husband’s remote homestead in the West. It had been a marriage by correspondence. But they had had sixty good years together. How romantic that must have been. There was nothing like that in her past. Her French grandmother had been married to an Englishman at an early age. They had migrated to America, but Sandy had never known when or why. This wonderful lady who had been her only confident for so many years talked little about her married past; only about the future. In her soft voice with the slight accent she imparted her philosophy of hard work, honesty, integrity. And never give up she had said. You alone can make your world. But, Mamére, how could we know how bad it would be? Don’t think about it, said the voice of her conscience. Go to sleep.

But her mind refused to obey. Every word, every incident, every feeling seemed to shout… remember…

There was the cool ethereal aura of the east wing hallway. That wasn’t the actual beginning, but it would do for remembering. Its quiet at seven-thirty in the morning worked a kind of magic on her soul. She, who had been here only once, felt she was home. It was empty now, but she could hear the laughing chatter of eager students; her students. Smell the odor of new clothes, cheap perfume. At seven-thirty on the first day of school the gleaming tiles still smelled of disinfectant and fresh wax, the air was alive with anticipation. And she had felt excitement drown the nervous pounding of her heart. Then it started. Like a pimple on a teenage face, the day erupted. It was that pesky box of books. Oh, she loved the books, but the box was heavy and she couldn’t for the life of her remember how the corner had torn. Anyhow, she dropped them. She’d probably have had a better hold if she hadn’t been trying to save her new ivory silk shirt from smudging. It was the one item to catch her eye last spring in the Bedford Fair catalog.

She had opened her door. The box continued to leer at her. Should she try to pick it up or slide it? Then came unexpected help coupled with a short lesson in rural education. Her name was Janet Olson and she was a math teacher; robust, with a solid build and a deep booming voice. Maybe with a teacher like that she would have been a better math student. Anyhow, she had been outspoken to a point of embarrassment. As Sandy remembered Janet’s words she could still feel the flush that had suffused her cheeks. She was a bundle of nerves and had made a bad impression. She had babbled some stupid thing about the books. She couldn’t even remember. She did however, remember Janet and her ominous words. But first there was the twinkle in her eye and the off-hand compliment. Hey we were all new once. Think nothing of it. If I looked like you do, I’d never have to worry about whether I could teach anything or not.

Cut it out. How stupid she had been to wear that hot outfit. She was sweating and Janet’s words made it worse. She knew she looked good in the ivory and rust. The slim skirt showed off her figure. It all went with her hair. So who cared? It was too late to change. She’d have to suffer. You always have to place blame. Right? She’d done this because she remembered an art teacher once in high school who had been a real slob. She was probably a good teacher, but Sandy had never made it past her sloppy way of dressing. Did that make her a snob? Probably. But she hadn’t intended to make that mistake.

They said you’d make the rest of us look like a pack of country bumpkins and they were right.

Who is ‘they’ and what did ‘they’ say?

‘They’ is the rumor mill I guess. It said you graduated from MSU; you are a painter and that you lived in San Francisco for a while. Some of us don’t know why anyone in their right mind would choose Meadow Creek, Montana when there are so many bigger and better places out there, so we asked Helen Turner to snoop in your file, but she said ‘no.’ We knew better, but we were curious. Tell me… why us?

Now Sandy wondered… Why us’ indeed. But that had come later. Early this morning she had been puzzled. She thought she had made a good choice. It’d been ‘love at first sight’ when she’d seen the town last spring. It had visual charm and a history to whet her imagination. The setting was beautiful. She wanted to live here. Then there had been the challenge of the job itself. The building was only three years old. That was nice. She was the first ever art teacher and she could write her own program. What more could she ask? Had she made a mistake? Meantime Janet’s question had hung in the air like a web. She knew it was there, but she wasn’t ready to answer. What’s the matter with Meadow Creek?"

Do you know anything about small town life?

Not much. She had started to unload the books. But it must be better than life in the city. You mentioned Frisco. I was never so lonely in my life. At least here I should be able to make some friends.

Janet had nodded her head. Her eyes lost their twinkle. Her voice was heavy. You’ll make some friends, but the town will rule your life. Someone knows when you get up and what time you go to bed. They know what you eat, what you read, what you do for entertainment. They delve into your past and monitor your present like the watch dogs they are. The gossips would kill for a new rumor. We are prime candidates because we influence the lives of their precious offspring and have to walk the tightrope of moral righteousness. I have friends who teach math in larger systems. At times they think they’re less than human. Numbers in an anonymous world, but at least their lives are their own. Sandy felt the shallow breath ease through her open mouth. Sorry if I burst your bubble and maybe you knew all this stuff already, but to quote an old cliché, ‘forewarned is forearmed.’. Janet spread her powerful hands on the desk, leaned toward Sandy and asked slowly, Answer me one more question. Was it only the need for friends that brought you here?

The oft remembered image that had filled her mind in the wake of Janet’s question came to visit again in this hour before the dawn. The emerald green valley pillowed serenely in its covey of forested hills. The article was called Montana; Land of Mystic Dreams. This had been the cover photo. She had drowned her soul in the glorious photography, fantasized her way through pages of graphic text. Unleash your dormant flair for adventure, it had said. She had become the disciple. She haunted the library. She studied road maps and geography; then had come the hardest part… to convince her reluctant parents. But that had followed the disastrous years in San Francisco. She rolled to her stomach and punched the down pillow for the umpteenth time. She was so tired. Her eyes closed and even her mind was content to follow.

Damn! Carolyn grabbed her injured toe with one hand, clutching the back of the offending kitchen chair with the other. Served her right for wandering around in the dark. She could have flipped the light switch, but she didn’t. Old habits were hard to break. There had been too many years of economic struggle. Watch that electric bill. Don’t use too much water. Make your own clothes. Grow your own food. It was better now. Besides, tonight she felt kin to the light from the brilliant moon. Perhaps its calm would soothe her troubled thoughts. She’s been awake for a while. Tossing and turning only made things worse. She’d sip a cup of tea and lay out the awful memories one-by-one. It had been her fault. It was up to her to fix it; but, how? Better think about it. She could accept Sandy’s blame if it came to that, but she hoped it wouldn’t destroy their fledgling friendship. She liked that girl; intelligent, spunky, and a damned good artist. She could have been the daughter Carolyn had sometimes wanted. Take today when she came into the meeting. Carolyn had always been hefty; tall, robust. Those were the words she’d always overheard. But to her they had always meant fat and ugly. She tried for years to hide the excess weight. On her first day of teaching she had worn a dark, conservative suit and flat shoes. Dark hair pinned neatly back in a bun. As a young woman she would have envied Sandy her slim build, the colorful clothes. She was past that now, but still wishing she could have looked like that. Even the auburn hair in its smooth short bob seemed ready for action and equal to any challenge. Had she picked the outfit to match her hair?

Sandy hadn’t expected to make a speech, but it was good. That was her fault too, in a way. She guessed she had been testing her protégé. Sandy had carefully placed the mike back on its stand and faced the crowded room. I’ve never had much luck with these things. If I use my best school teacher voice, I’m sure you can all hear me. She had been relieved when the audience seemed to relax a little after Sandy’s light-hearted comment. A couple even chuckled, Greetings to all of you… with special thanks to Miss Fremont for the wonderful, if undeserved introduction. Words are feeble tools to express my delight at being here, about to start a new venture for all of us. I love your land and hope, in time to become a part of your valley. Meantime, I’ll do my best to earn your friendship and trust.

She was a very poised young lady. Carolyn wasn’t sure if she could have been that articulate on her first day. Most of the parents and students were enthusiastic in their response. Not so, the new superintendent. She had watched him stare at Sandy with undisguised malice in his close-set eyes. She had been less than impressed when they hired him late last spring, but due to his sudden heart attack, Mr. Cavendish, twenty years their superintendent, had been forced to resign. Picking by that time was slim. After today, there were at least three board members who were sure they had made a mistake. Hours of time and days of soul-searching had gone into the remaking of the reduced budget. How dare he take it upon himself to completely change it? His excuse? He was the professional! To say nothing of his scarcely disguised illusions that they were a bunch of illiterates. Some of his changes they could probably live with, but Sandy? In no way would she sit still to see the program she had fought so hard to get dismissed like a bothersome fly, flicked off the wall. To make it worse, he had been so damned clever about it. He didn’t simply say there would be no art program. Oh, no! They could have fought that one. He just removed it from the budget. Going on and on in his asinine speech this morning about how the community had made this allocation of funds unavailable when they had voted the mill levy down three times this spring. She was well aware of that for heaven’s sake. They all were. But by cutting out the new football and basketball uniforms, paring equally a little from all the other disciplines, they had found the money. Minimal, true, but they could still have the art program. The room was there. She had seen to that when they built the new school. There were even glassed in display cases built into the walls of the east wing hall.

She and Sam had discussed it at dinner. She smiled. How that man loved to come and eat at her kitchen table. She could still smell the faint aroma of her Texas Chili. Elegant cooking was a luxury during her teaching years. But now she was retired. Not the best hobby for a fat old lady, but Sam loved it so. And she needed a guinea pig from time to time. It was true, she could use more exercise, but she did expend a lot of physical effort on the antiques she refinished. With her small house filled to overflowing, she’d have to look around. Maybe she should buy a bicycle.

Carolyn took a last swig from the china mug, got up and carried it to the sink. The night air was fresh as it wafted through the screened window. The stars winked and seemed to say, Tomorrow will be better. God, she hoped so. Remembering her bruised toe, she eased her way through the darkened room, crossed the hall and headed back to bed.

The full harvest moon snuck toward the attic window of a white clapboard house with red trim. Its brilliant light shown full on Chris Herman’s sleeping face; but not for long. He woke with a start as the chase of the nightmare brought sweat to his jerking body. He could hear her tortured breath. She was running hard. His legs, encased in concrete filled football pads refused to move. She was catching up. She reached out to touch him. He had to escape! Please, Mary. Please! Go away! Then the light came and covered him. He woke up. His pajamas were soaked with sweat. What a nightmare! Suppose it were true? But she hadn’t caught him. But she almost had; he was shaking. Fear or cold; he couldn’t be sure. He threw back the covers, crawled out of bed and stripped. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Maybe a shower would help. Better not. That might wake his parents. He would just try to calm his quivering body.

Chris crossed the room to his chest of drawers. In the third drawer was a clean set of cotton pajamas. He put them on and climbed back into the warmth of the small maple bed. It was the only one he could remember. It held year’s worth of his hopes and dreams. He almost hung over the edge but that was okay, because in another year he’d have to leave it behind anyway. It was a childish fantasy; the bed. He hugged its pillow and snuggled into its blanket for comfort as he thought again about the dream. What was it trying to tell him? That he’d be stuck with Mary? He hoped not. She’d been unhappy and upset when he left her this afternoon. He could still hear her crying as he loped across the field toward home. The whole miserable scene came back. The meeting after football practice. That had been his mother’s idea. There was the note on the kitchen floor yesterday morning Mary must have slipped under the door. His mother said to see her and talk it out. He wasn’t good with girls, but he’d said okay. It was late afternoon after practice when he’d trudged across the meadow. He remembered listening to the crackling sound of the dying grass as it scrunched beneath his shoes. He’d been trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. She wanted so much more than he had to give. Then he had compared her to his new art teacher. That probably wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t help himself. Mary was prettier in a baby-faced sort of way; and younger, of course. But Miss Clark was beautiful and so intelligent and so nice. And she told of worldly things; magic things that excited him. Mary had been so angry when she burst into the classroom. And she embarrassed him. He wasn’t sure why she took the class. She didn’t even like art. But Miss Clark… she was an artist. She had shown them some of her watercolors. If he could ever learn to paint like that…

Mary was waiting for him; sitting on the redwood bench. The picnic area at the edge of town was a good place to talk this time of year; especially on a Monday afternoon. The last thing he needed was an audience. He frowned as he remembered her semi-violent greeting. She’d almost knocked him down as she hurled her small body against his. The she threw her arms around him and gave him a sticky lipstick kiss before he could duck. Hi, honey! How’s my handsome football hero this afternoon? He tried to pull her arms down but she paid no attention as she just kept pushing her hips against him. He finally got loose. He had been angry and threw the words at her. That was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. We have to talk.

It’s that bitch, isn’t it? She’s the one who’s causing you to be like this. Her words stung like bullets.

He had tried hard for control. This was a bad start. Going steady had been a bad idea, too. All the kids did it and it was convenient. Now he felt trapped. He had tried again. Mary, I don’t even know her. She’s just another new teacher. What makes you think I like her? I just want to learn to draw and paint.

She had stamped her small foot and balled her hands into fists. He’d thought she was going to hit him. I bet that isn’t all you want to learn. I saw you today, mooning over her like a sick calf. How disgusting can you get? She had stopped then and touched his arm lightly. Her next words were so low he could hardly hear them. Chris, baby, you and I are meant for each other. We have been so good and we’ll get even better. You’ll see. Please, Chris, say you love me. He had made no reply. Then there was her panic. I’ve saved all summer. I’ve bought you the most beautiful present. One you’ve wanted for ever and ever. Here… look. You can open it now. She had held out a small box. He’d wanted to look, but had turned away.

Why couldn’t she have made it easier? She wasn’t dumb. She knew he wanted to break up. Sit down. But she wouldn’t so he just started. Mary, we can’t go steady anymore.

Not go steady? What do you mean? There it was again; the panic in her voice. But there was anger, too, in her flashing eyes. She tossed her blond curls and dropped to the table with a thud. She was huffy and sarcastic. He hated her when she acted like that. This time he thought she might even be scared.

Now he hadn’t known what to say. He had looked toward the setting sun, admiring its colors. That reminded him of Miss Clark, again. Nuts! He didn’t want to hurt her. How could he make her understand? Should he take her hand? Better not. She said nothing. He felt the silence scream. I like you, Mary and we’ve had fun. You’re a neat girl and the best looking one in school. If you wanted we could still go out some, but you should start seeing other guys. I know you want to get married when we graduate. I can’t do that. After this year, I have at least four years of college. Then I don’t know if I’ll come back here to help Dad with the mill or do something else for a while. Eventually, if I’m good enough at art, I want to paint our valley and its people. I have this dream that somehow if I can show the world what country people are and how we live, it might help to bridge a gap I feel whenever I try to talk to someone from the cities. Maybe art isn’t the way to do it, but I want to try. So I need to learn all I can now, before I go on to school. I need to spend extra time with math and physics. I need to work hard at sports, because I’m going to have to get some kind of a scholarship to help me through school.

What about your parents? Can’t they help?

I wouldn’t ask them. I have to do this on my own. They’ve always been there for me and they still will, but I’ll be eighteen when I graduate. Dad always talks about how he was running the mill for his mom by the time he was sixteen. He didn’t get to finish school so in a way, this is for him, too. Times have been tough and there isn’t any money for extras. I’m old enough to make my own way.

He had almost cringed when Mary leaned her head against his shoulder. For some reason, right at that moment he didn’t want her to touch him. He didn’t want her to touch the blue and white Rugby shirt. His mother had