Crazy Lady of Melbrook Lake

          Jackson's fist knocked on the old weather-beaten door just like the first time he visited the Crenshaw's house. Crazy Crenshaw. Witch Crenshaw, the so-called crazy lady of Melbrook Lake. She had greasy hair then. Wore an old bathrobe over a crusty pair of pants. Every day, she shuffled down to the corner store and bought just enough groceries to get through the day. Then she shuffled back through her weed ridden and overgrown yard. Up the rotten steps and into the old house that looked like it was stolen from an old sixties monster sitcom. The Munsters meets the Addams Family meets insanity.
         Rusted frames and twisted iron peaked through the grasses, perfect spots to miss and catch elbows on. Stub toes and step on rusty nails. "Perfect place to get lockjaw" his father once commented looking upon the old sad property.
That was years ago though. Before Jackson threw the rock through her bedroom window. Before that rock and the jagged glass made her cry out. Before the sad whimpering he could hear the next day, whimpering that drew him to her house to apologize. Before. Before the countless hours spent helping her in her property on this project or that, or just talking with her through long, lonely hours about her day.
         As Mrs. Crenshaw opened the door, a smile spilled on her wrinkled face. "I thought you weren't going to say goodbye."

         Jackson smiled back. "I can't leave for college without saying goodbye to my favorite lady."

         "Well, don't just stand there, come in, come in. Wipe yer feet, heh heh." 'Wipe yer feet' was her old joke. As the door creaked open nearly half way, Jackson slid inside. Past stacks of newspapers near the front door. Past old National Geographic magazines, old computer repair magazines. She had a dozen different desktops from various makes and models built in the eighties and nineties. Not a single one of them works, he thought once more as he shuffled past the capriciously stacked pile.
         "What is it you're studying again?"

         "Don't rightly know." Jackson followed the old lady down the safe path through her piled treasures. "I think I'd like to major in business."

         "That's right," she nodded, finally coming to a couch in the midst of ancient computer paper in bags, more newspapers, TV guides from decades past, and things. There was about a seat and a half free on the couch. Jackson pushed from his mind a memory he had from a few years back of arguing with her to get rid of the trash bags she had hoarded. That was a fight, he thought as he shoved the memory aside.

         Getting her to let go of the trash she had piled up on the back porch helped some of the smell, but more still lingered and permeated everything. "Sit, sit," she said patting the old sofa. "Tell me what you've been up to lately."

         "Just packing," Jackson eased himself into the seat. "Saying goodbye to my family and friends."

         "That's right, the party," she muttered, a dark look on her face for a moment.

         He wanted to invite her. Tried inviting her. But she had turned him down before he could even get the words out of his mouth, muttering about how terrible the world was becoming these days, about how dangerous it was to even get outside. About how the kids still threw pebbles at her sometimes. It was as if she didn't want his invitation. Or perhaps didn't want to make a promise she knew she'd break.

         "Yeah, it was fun," Jackson looked down at his own feet for a moment, then away. "Mom said she'd be stopping by soon, too."

         "Bah," Ms. Crenshaw said, waving a hand. "She don't have to trouble herself. I'm doing just fine. Me and the pigeons in the park get by."

         "Before I forget," Ms. Crenshaw grabbed something from the middle of an old bag of receipts. The receipts spilled out onto the floor. She gave them a look as she pulled an object out from the middle of them. "I want you to have something."

         Jackson's breath caught in his throat. For Ms. Crenshaw to give up anything was quite a feat. They're all memories, she had told him once. Every single item in here is a memory of a former time, a former place. Of people I'll never see again. Of things that will never happen. It's the only way I can keep them, Jackson. The only way to keep them alive!

         "Now," she grinned, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Close your eyes and open your hands."

         Jackson closed his eyes and held his hands out. A tiny ceramic weight was placed in them. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at a figurine of a clown. The soft pastel colors looked delicate. Loved. A cherished object that held a significance far above stacks of national geographics and newspapers. She leaned in close, the smell of dirt and body odor rising just a bit as she did so. "It's a knock off," she whispered.

         "Ms. Crenshaw. I just, I can't." Jackson whispered in a hushed awe.

         "Hush! You can, and you will. I want you to take this to college with you. And I want you to sell it."

         "Ms. Crenshaw! No, I simply couldn't do that," he said, holding the statue to himself.

         "Hush yourself," she smacked his hand. "You can, and you will. I want you to take this. My Johnny, God rest his soul, couldn't afford much. But he gave that to me on our very first wedding anniversary. And I want you to have it, and to sell it! Don't you dare hang on to this."

         "B-but," he muttered.

         "No buts! This is to repay the kindness you've shown to an old lady all these years by coming here. Fixing that window you broke, yes. But also staying. Visiting. Mowing my lawn. Helping me get rid of that trash," she grumbled, looking down. "And I want it gone. I have a thousand memories of Johnny, of..." her lower lip quivered a moment as her voice trailed off. "And it's time to let him rest. To let them all rest."

         She dabbed at her eye a moment, before she stood. "It's time for you to go now. Go on, git! I need to get ready to shuffle down to the store."

         He stood slow, unsure of himself. An awkward hug followed, one where he held his breath. Then, as he began to head back towards the door, through the way he came, he stopped, holding the figurine. "I just," Jackson began, and tried to give it back. "Ms. Crenshaw, I..."

         "If you hand me back that statue, I'm gonna shatter it in a million pieces," she said.
His hand stopped. He looked at her for a moment, shock written upon his face. "Ma'am," he asked finally.

         "You heard me. Hand that thing to me, and I'll break it!"

         "Oh, I'm not letting you break my statue," Jackson gave a soft smile, holding it close to himself.

         They hugged again, less awkward this time, still with Jackson holding his breath somewhat. "You go on. Take care of yourself," she said. "I'll be fine. I'll be right here, good lord willing, when you come back."

         "I'll visit often," he promised.

         "You better! And bring me stories when you do," she said, shutting the door behind herself as she stepped out. Jackson turned left while she turned right, shuffling down to the store in her daily ritual. Jackson stared at the statue the entire way home. A pastel soft image of a clown holding a ball, as if in mid play, captured in glazed white clay. The statue seemed to hold a piece of Mrs. Crenshaw inside it. A touch of her spirit gently encased in clay and pastel paint and glaze. Baked deep within its layers a tiny shard of her soul.

         The statue made its way to college with Jackson, resting above stacked boxes of books and games. He knows the promise he made to her, but that statue felt as if it was a piece of Mrs. Crenshaw that had come with him, despite her never leaving the block for the last forty years or more. The thought of selling it got harder and harder as the promised trips back home began to shrink, as the visits grew shorter, and his budget began to grow tighter and tighter.

         The clown watched him from atop his shelf above his desk through his journey in school. Through good grades, through money troubles. It stared down at him with Mrs. Crenshaw's somewhat sad smile as the little bit of grant money that he was able to raise quickly dried up. As promised loans and gifts from family and friends sifted through his fingers. Her voice ever in his head. His promise ever to her. "No, not today," he'd whisper softly. "But I promise, Mrs. Crenshaw. I promise I will soon." He'd hold a fist to his heart as he said it, a small band tightened around it as he whispered his gentle promise to the air.

         Finally, a notice from the registrar's office informing Jackson that he either had to come up with six thousand more dollars for tuition or he would be kicked out made his mind up. He looked up at the clown, it's pastel colors always feeling out of place in a college dorm room. The sad smile it held, the ball in its gloved hands. You'll take it! You'll take it and sell it, her voice said again, echoing through his mind. He could see her sad shuffle up the walk, the small kids throwing pebbles at her, calling her the Wicked Witch of Melbrook Lake as she shuffled up the overgrown walk. The weight of pebbles in his own hands that day. Before. Before he knew her.

         "Okay, Mrs. Crenshaw, you win," he growled, then picked up the statue. "It will be a shame letting you go though," he whispered. He held it in front of him, half in reverence, half in confusion. It looked old, but it didn't look that expensive. Mrs. Crenshaw never gave away anything. Why did she give me this, he thought, staring at it all the way down the road, off the campus, towards the small antique shop that sat by the street just two blocks away.
Inside that ceramic clown was a thousand Saturdays, spent mowing her lawn, helping her wash dishes, a thousand conversations. The memories of everything they did together encased within the pastel paint and ceramic sad smile of a clown.

         Through the glass door was other memories. Paintings, videos, old gadgets designed decades ago to make life easier for a time before they would be replaced by other gadgets that worked twice as well and broke twice as fast. Dead memories from a dead generation, he thought as he opened the door and greeted the elderly man inside.

         "What would give me for this," he asked as he set the statue on the glass counter top next to the register.

         The man rubbed a hand through his thin white hair and gasped. "That's a Lladro," he whispered almost in reverence. "I'll have to have it appraised, but at a guess, it could be worth ten grand."

         "What," Jackson gasped.

         "I'll have to get it appraised first. Will take a day or so," the man said, then smiled, at Jackson. "A few things we'll have to fill out, but I think you maybe a semi-rich young man!"

         "I uh...I," Jackson said. The clown stared back at him. The sad smile, that reminded him so much of Ms. Crenshaw. "I.."

         "You mind me taking it off your hands for a day while I have it appraised? You'll only have to fill out a few forms, and I can have an answer for you within forty-eight hours."

         Mrs. Crenshaw's sad smile stared up at Jackson from the counter top. Encased in that small ceramic statue. "Maybe? I just..I don't..."

         The old man leaned forward. "Look kid, I can get you a good amount of money. It will definitely help your college fund or you to fix your car or whatever you need this for."

         He rubbed a hand through his hair and turned towards the glass door. A tear formed in his eye a moment, words knotted in his throat and refused to come out.

         "Well? What will it be?"