The Book of CarolSue

by Lynne Hugo

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Award-winning author Lynne Hugo returns with a life-affirming, poignant novel in the spirit of A Man
Called Ove—a story brimming with both wit and warmth about how a family gets on … and goes on.
CarolSue and her sister, Louisa, are best friends, but haven’t had much in common since CarolSue married Charlie,
moved to Atlanta, and swapped shoes covered with Indiana farm dust and chicken poop for fresh pedicures and
afternoon bridge. Louisa, meanwhile, loves her farm and animals as deeply as she’d loved Harold, her late husband of
forty years.
Charlie’s sudden death leaves CarolSue so adrift that she surrenders to Louisa’s plan for her to move back home. But
canning vegetables and feeding chickens are alien to CarolSue, and after stumbling onto a secret Louisa’s been keeping
from her, CarolSue resolves to return to Atlanta—until Louisa’s son, Reverend Gary, arrives with an abandoned infant
and a dubious story. He begs the women to look after the baby while he locates the mother—a young immigrant who
fears deportation.
Keeping his own secrets, Gary enlists the aid of the sheriff, Gus, in the search. But CarolSue’s bond with the baby
is undeniable, and she forms an unconventional secret plan of her own. Only Gary knows about the outsider with the
power to explode their lives. How many mistakes can be redeemed?

Release date: August 25, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 322

Sample

Charlie was already dead when I finally hung up with my sister and came in from the porch. The twilight had settled around me like a sticky damp quilt, but the sky had held the glowing embers of the day and was lovely, so I’d stayed out. “Charlie, honey,” I said as I glanced at him, irritated as any wife would be, “you’ve dropped a hunk of pie into your lap. I can’t get blueberry out of khaki. Don’t touch it while I go get napkins.”

Even when I came back from the kitchen, stopping to turn down the roar of our Atlanta Braves against Milwaukee from the television—Charlie never would put in his hearing aids—I didn’t catch on. “Pay attention, will you?” I said. That man could find a way to spill hard candy on himself. I was the one who should have been paying attention instead of being pleasantly surprised that for once he hadn’t made a mess worse after I told him not to touch it. I was the one who dropped the rest of the pie on his khaki pants when I picked up the plate, realized, and screamed. “No! No! No!”

I’m usually the calm one, but I must have been still screaming when I called 911 because the dispatcher kept asking me to repeat myself. It took them almost fifteen minutes to show up. I could hear the sirens rising, falling, rising, falling, well after I’d made a total mess of things, after I realized that no, CarolSue, you really can’t even attempt CPR on a body that’s sitting in a recliner, you have to get him prone. Here’s a hint I hope you never find useful: If a 225-pound man has his legs up in a recliner, you can’t just shove them down. You have to use the lever. Well, I couldn’t get to the lever without sitting on his lap. As my sister would say, please don’t picture how that covered Charlie’s fly and the rear of me in blueberry pie, or the whispering it doubtless prompted among the ambulance and hospital personnel.

Charlie was way bigger than I am. I had to drag him from the recliner by his ankles to get him onto the floor. I banged his head so hard I thought if he wasn’t already dead, maybe I’d just killed him and I’d end up in jail. It was then I remembered that I don’t know the first thing about CPR. It was my sister, Louisa, who had to get certified in it because of some law in Indiana where she used to be a teacher that they all had to know CPR, even though not a single elementary school student in the state had ever had a heart attack at school. So, naturally, I called the expert.

“Louisa! How do you do CPR?” I shouted. Possibly I could have been more clear about the nature of the problem.

“What do you mean?”

“HOW DO YOU DO CPR?”

“I don’t know. I’m retired, remember? Take the class. Why?”

My sister can be like that, bless her heart.

“It’s Charlie, he’s dead. How do you do CPR?”

“You call 911!”

“Tell me what to do!”

“Listen, honey. I used to think Harold was dead if he wasn’t snoring, before he did die, I mean, but . . .”

I was going to jail even if I hadn’t already killed Charlie with that blow to the head and by failing to know CPR because I had a strong homicidal impulse toward my sister.

“I DID call 911. Help me, what do I do?”

It was as if Louisa suddenly took hold and we switched places then. I’ve always been the one to take care of her. I’m the older sister, after all, even if it’s only two years.

“Listen to me,” my sister said. “Find where the bony center of his rib cage ends. The center. Go up about an inch from that. Put one palm down there, flat. Got it? Now put the other hand crisscross on top of it. Start pumping, hard, fast. One, two, three, four, five, keep it steady, go, go, go, go.” And don’t you know, Louisa stayed on the phone until the ambulance arrived, her voice like a drum beating out the rhythm for my hands, to tell my beloved husband’s heart what to do. But his heart wouldn’t, not for me or anybody else on that midsummer night. And wouldn’t ever again.

Louisa made it to Atlanta the next noon to shepherd me through the funeral. It was like a replay of how I’d done that for her when her husband Harold died, only I’d had Charlie to help me manage things. Louisa said Gus had offered to come, but that I was, after all, Harold’s sister-in-law, not Gus’s, and she wasn’t about to start letting Gus be Harold’s stand-in. I imagine it was Louisa’s son, Gary, always overly fond of the internet, who made the quick plane reservation for her.

She warned me that he had the automatic thought that he’d be doing the funeral, being a Reverend and all. Bless his heart, but no way I was going to risk Charlie’s soul with Gary’s fly-by-night internet ordination. I had no lack of love for my only nephew, him being the closest I came to having a child myself, but I knew I’d have to lie and tell Gary that Charlie had left instructions for his funeral with his will, and unfortunately, it involved his one-time Baptist minister to whom he’d been close. It wouldn’t be the first lie I’d ever told and funerals count as a good cause, don’t they?

The good-hearted Baptist minister, who’d never previously heard of Charlie, but was kind to help me out, asked Gary to do him the “professional courtesy” of reading the twenty-third Psalm. That line was enough that I do believe Gary thought he’d died and gone to heaven himself, having finally proved himself a good and worthy man in spite of the sins that had cost his family so much.

Louisa and I wore the same black dresses we’d worn to her grandson Cody’s funeral—I’d made an emergency run to buy hers—and then, six months later, to Harold’s. Then, it had been I who’d dressed her, and she’d been the rag doll.

I would have liked to listen to the service, out of respect if nothing else, but my mind just wouldn’t stay in the chapel of the funeral home, though the décor was lovely, a soft peach, like an early sunset—doubtless, I was supposed to think of a new dawn—and the pew cushions heavily padded. That last was a mercy.

I fingered the pearls Charlie had given me for our wedding—they looked nice against my black dress, Louisa said—while my mind zagged from what was I going to do now to how I’d ended up here, where I sounded like a foreigner and people still teased me about my “accent.” To me, they all sounded like their words were stuck together with syrup. Well, landing here hadn’t been an accident, I reminded myself. Charlie had been as rooted in the South as I’d been in the farmland of southeastern Indiana, and he was still working when we met. I’d never had a real career like Louisa, the educated one. How could I have asked Charlie to relocate? A husband is a husband, even if it is your second one, right? It had to be I who moved. Atlanta was my home now, too, wasn’t it? I supposed it was. Fifteen years is a long time. That’s what my mind was on instead of whatever the minister was saying. I imagine it was nice. People said it was. Louisa told me that she hadn’t heard a word of Harold’s service, that she gave herself a grade of A just for sitting through it with none of her special tea, which, she reminded me, I wouldn’t let her have in advance.

Well, now I understood Louisa’s tea-need at Harold’s funeral. I understood a lot. When the funeral meal was eaten, all the crying and hugging and so sorry, so sorry, so-sorrying was finally over, Gary was dispatched to his hotel and Louisa and I could finally stop, just stop, I was plain grateful when my sister fixed us both extra-large mugs of it. A body could get drunk on the smell alone. Perfect.

I’d thought I was cried out, but as soon as there was this additional liquid in my body it worked its way out as tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said. We were on the couch in the family room together. It’s Louisa’s favorite room, I know, because there’s some furniture that was Mom’s in it, and it’s not so formal. “These retirement community—what do you call them? patio homes?—are nice,” Louisa said one of the few times she came here instead of my going there. She acted like she was in a museum in which everything has a DON’T TOUCH sign and is surrounded by an electric wire just to be sure. Well, Charlie did pay a fancy decorator, which wasn’t my idea, but he thought it would please me.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re coming home. We’re putting this place up for sale and you’re coming home. With me.”

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.

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. When 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.

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. . .