Weeds Through the Floorboards: A Novel

By Jonna Trusty-Patterson

Weeds Through the Floorboards is a story told by Ruby Jane Clancy, a young girl raised in a fiercely evangelical church in rural Yell County, Arkansas. As Ruby Jane fights for her salvation and redemption, she is quick to realize that she is different and does not belong. This tragic and heartbreaking tale witnesses Ruby Jane struggling to find love and acceptance from her family and society, only to find the joy of drugs and alcohol fueled by the help of her Aunt Dixie, who specializes in finding nothing but trouble.

When Ruby Jane’s mysterious Uncle Kevin and his wife, Francis, appear on the scene, the four of them embark on a page-turning journey filled with deadly consequences. And although this journey proves to be darkly comical and crudely blasphemous, it will leave you questioning not only what religion can do for you but also what it can do to others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781637843666

Book preview

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Weeds Through the Floorboards

A Novel

Jonna Trusty-Patterson

ISBN 978-1-63784-365-9 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63784-597-4 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63784-366-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2024 by Jonna Trusty-Patterson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Memories not remembered are often the safest memories of all.

—Jonna Patterson

Foreword

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

Memories not remembered are often the safest memories of all.

—Jonna Patterson

Foreword

There are pivotal moments in time that I have chosen to store away in my mental library—out of sight of others who I fear might reach for them, thumb through the rough pages, judge them, and recklessly fold the corners down into perfect, geometric triangles as if to mark their place in my life.

These are moments that perch quietly on a dusty, unkept shelf that is vividly cluttered by other memories, waiting for their own turn to be read. I can imagine these memories challenging one another in efforts to be read first, because they are ignored and, quite frankly, they feel lonely. They have been there the longest, like unwanted orphans with nowhere to go, waiting for closure.

The memories are methodically and tightly lined, one right next to the other, allowing no room for others to be added. Each memory is sealed with a beautiful cover, very similar, I would assume, to the one enveloping this book. And embedded on the spine of every memory, an inscription, penned in the finest gold thread, an honest token of remembrance lest I forget.

But as each memory is pulled from the shelf, the one next to it loses its balance and must lean on the others for support. And eventually, all memories tumble and dissolve into total disarray and chaos. And as each memory is read by an innocent passerby, it nervously awaits a gracious literary review as if on the coveted red carpet of the much-anticipated springtime Mental Illness Awards on NBC.

An atrocious and staggering attempt at persistent antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and stimulants!

—Nadine, Idaho

Could not put it down! A must read for anyone needing to feel better about their own fuckery.

—Linda, Pennsylvania

Cheap and scathingly oppressive and self-pitying. It is almost too good to be believed.

—Carolyn, New York

Part 1

Chapter 1

A Thorn in My Side

I am in fourth grade.

I am sitting in Ms. Thornson's class at Oakland Heights Elementary. It is Tuesday. This memory grants to my mind an incisive day of Tuesday. Tuesdays are careless. Tuesdays should be Thursdays or any other day but Tuesday.

The hard camel-colored desks with frigid metal backs are arranged in the unfortunate shape of the letter O, allowing students to absently stare at one another as if to send a warning signal to Ms. Thornson's next victim.

The hollow crevice of my desk overflows with broken pencil scraps, one-inch crayons, a tattered baby-blue milk card with hole punches, and a delicate red-and-green paper chain meant to adorn a Christmas tree. I had so carefully cut the even strips of construction paper and stapled the pieces, taking precious time to interlock each piece with the next—red, green, red, green, red. The shortened strand now protrudes from my desk, broken, crumpled, and falling apart, just like how everything in life eventually falls apart.

Ms. Thornson paces the inside of the circle with her tribunal wooden pointer, which she theatrically slaps into the palm of her hand in militaristic four-second rhythms. On the bottom half of her awkwardly shaped body, she attempts to wear a knee-length black pencil skirt three sizes too small made of a Sears polyester and I-need-an-orgasm blend of cheap fabric. On the top half, she dons a crisp white cotton long-sleeved blouse to cover her inability to be anything but hidden from her rage and anger. Ms. Thornson is as bitter as the pungent odor of raw berries that have failed in life and have never reached their full potential.

Someone has neatly and painstakingly carved the letter H on the very right tip of my worn wooden desk. I am eloquently tracing the letter back and forth with my right index finger. This movement appears to calm me on certain days, especially on Tuesdays.

I consider this indentation to perhaps be a message to the entire world or simply a message to the fourth-grade class of tiny, innocent souls who have yet to be completely fucked up by the unpleasantries and impending evils of life. Poor darlings. They simply need patience. Their time will come. My time just happens to arrive earlier than most.

My imagination runs wild with the intricate carving, and I envision someone signaling to me a secret code of grand significance.

Hi?

Hello?

Hate?

Hell?

Help?

I am surrounded by the intense smell of Elmer's rubber cement in an old glass jar, tragically worn erasers that carry the scent of a poorly lit match, and thin, color-edged pencil shavings that remind me of the dead mulch in my grandmother's never blooming Jesus Saves Garden. The cursive alphabet on display calmly embraces the room and connects into one unending line that fits perfectly around the classroom from Aa to Zz.

I am jealous because I don't fit perfectly anywhere.

While my right fingers are tracing the mystery character, I am twisting my hair with my left index finger, a coping mechanism that has worn a permanent scar on the left side of my middle finger. I often brush over the signature callous, rough bump with my other fingers so I know I am still alive. Although this well-rehearsed circular, twisting motion calms me, it also reminds me of my insides—twisted and breaking.

Ruby Jane Clancy, stop twisting your hair! Such a stupid child! Stupid, I tell you! Ms. Thornson screams at me with spit spewing in all directions.

She slams the pointer harshly onto my desk, inches away from my tracing fingers. All eyes land on me. In my mind of magical escapes, I boldly leap out of my seat. I place my small hands around her throat and press firmly until she cannot breathe.

When someone cannot breathe, they cannot tell.

My magical escape continues with bravery as I respond.

I am so relieved you asked. No one has asked, and I cannot tell. Did you not see the clue I carved into my desk? Help? Everything is wrong! Why don't you know? I retaliate as I press harder around her sagging neck with the oversized pearl choker.

I would like to incorporate, You stupid, cunt-fucking bitch. However, I am most certain this unfortunate phrase has yet to exist in my repertoire of nine-year-old words.

Instantly, the pressure from the do-not-tell secrets is exploding from my chest and climbs its way into the world through a swarm of unstoppable tears followed by immediate regrets. Alice Sansbury sends me a malicious grin and covers her toothless giggle with the cuff of her ugly, dirty beige winter coat. I hate Alice Sansbury.

I release the twists from my finger and lean into my desk to locate my Scholastic book order form, where I have exactly $4.29 to purchase my Nancy Drew Mystery Stories. I am humiliated, defeated, embarrassed, and unwanted. Once again, Nancy Drew saves the fucking day.

I fucking hate Alice Sansbury and Tuesdays.

Chapter 2

Granddaddy Tuesdays

After school, I walk to Ms. Wanda's house, where I will stay until Momma picks me up after her day shift at the local bank. I don't mind the walk. I appreciate the delay. I pretend I am on an extravagant adventure as I leap over broken pieces of sidewalk, balancing on the edge of the curb as if walking on the jagged edges of Mount Rushmore, a historical landmark that I recently discovered in our Encyclopædia Britannica collection.

Eventually, I am stepping through a small, unkept yard that will bring me to the front steps of Ms. Wanda's home. The house is ancient and unkept. It feels like a secret. It is trimmed with chipped dull-gray paint combined with a lazy effort of boring white shutters, most of which are hanging in a most dramatic fashion. Even they don't want to be there.

I don't knock. No one ever knocks. The front door to Ms. Wanda's house is always open. I assume she leaves all exits open in the event we need to escape. This reminds me of a flight attendant standing at the front of an aircraft, modeling the aircraft exits. She is elegantly polished and beautiful and wears a perfectly pleated dark-blue dress with shiny silver wings attached to the lapel.

There are four emergency exits. There is one at the front of the cabin, two over the wings, and one at the back of the cabin. Please take time to review the exits, as the closest one may be right in front of you.

When I enter the home, there is a palpable clutter of years of neglect. There is an olive-green love seat with three wires protruding on the left side. A beveled red candy dish holds old, orange-wrapped butterscotch candies that have become softened by age. There is no TV, no radio, and no joy, only a wall of dreadful wood paneling that longs for newness.

Well, hello there, Ruby Jane. I was beginning to wonder where on the blessed earth you were. You shouldn't lollygag, young lady. You make everyone fret something fierce. Would you like a snack? Ms. Wanda asks in a sweet, motherly tone.

I, however, am not fooled. I know why the front door is left ceremoniously unlocked, and so does she.

No, thank you, I reply as I fish through my Scooby-Do, Where Are You! schoolbag for my library book.

Ms. Wanda glances directly down to see me carefully open my book, Nancy Drew's The Secret of the Forgotten City. I appreciate the author's carefully selected words for this title. I am forgotten. I have secrets.

Ms. Wanda shoots a glare my way as I settle down on the shag navy-blue carpet to read.

You should think long and hard, child, about what you read. Why, Ruby Jane, that is simply the devil's work. The devil will get his grip on you. You keep filling that brain of yours with nothing but false prophecy and lies? It's nothing short of a disgrace. The Bible is the only way to heaven, and entertaining that silly mind of yours with trash will land you a guaranteed place in the eternal damnation of the flames of hell. Your momma not teach you nothing, child?

While Ms. Wanda's decision is to ridicule and suffocate me with her uninvited preaching, my decision is to remain silent. I am pretty sure I can simply ask the devil if this impromptu sermon can actually be validated and hold truth. The devil lives here, in this house, near the exit row.

Did you hear what I said? she continues to press, becoming angry at my silence.

Again, I remain silent and say nothing. Some memories are best left in silence.

Child, you look at me when I am talking to you! You disrespectful, heathen brat! You are gonna burn in the lake of fire reading all that garbage. That's the devil's work, I tell you! Now go on in there and pray with Granddaddy. Pray that Jesus will not damn your sorry ass to the depths of fire and brimstone! she demands while reaching up and softly touching a picture of white Jesus on the mantel.

She smiles as she traces his kind face and the prayer-clasped hands with her fingers and gently dusts around the Savior with an old, worn white cloth. Jesus looks like Andy Gibb.

She grabs my arm and physically pulls me toward the old, warped brown door with the faded gold knob and opens it for me to enter. I walk into the darkness of routine. She looks over her shoulder as I sit on the edge of the bed. Then she closes the door.

I am alone. I hear only the sounds of her singing resonating from the living room.

There is power, power, wonder working power. There is power in the blood of the lamb.

He enters from the back of the room. He always enters from the back and gradually creeps through the darkness. I always know when he enters; it is more what I smell than what I feel. He is wearing stained gray tweed pants and a musty plaid sweater that smells of mothballs and body odor. His bulging black glasses no longer fit his face, and they barely balance on his nose. His breath is putrid and reminds me of black licorice.

His smile is toothless as he pushes me down onto the threadbare bedcover and unfastens his belt. The air leaves the room. I am searching for the exit row. I close my eyes.

I fucking hate Alice Sansbury and Tuesdays.

Chapter 3

Dirt Tea

It is revival week at the Pine Creek Pentecostal Church in Yell County. Being raised in Arkansas means you know that there are two things you simply don't miss in Yell County. The all-you-can-eat buffet at the local Shoney's on Wednesdays after church services and revival week at the Pine Creek Pentecostal Church.

Pine Creek Pentecostal Church stands proudly in the middle of a creamy, mint-green pasture, with a beautiful cross that rises to the heavens as if a beacon to lost souls in the night. The enormous cross is painted snow white, just like the soul we seek to achieve while here on earth.

The weathered-looking church pew cushions are burnt orange, a strategic decision to remind us sinners of the color of the actual flames of hell. The old wooden pews creak with any human movement as if you are a burden to be carried.

At the front of the sanctuary, carefully placed on display above the organ, hangs a wooden sign with miniature rivets that allows numbers to slip effortlessly through side by side. There are always two numbers to be displayed. The first number is the attendance for the church service. The second number is the offering.

Today, the display reads:

49

672.23

We all know that old lady Baker gave most of the money. Her husband, Denni Ray, killed himself in the garage last year. They found him hanging from the ceiling rafters with a strand of Christmas lights wrapped tightly around his neck. Rumor has it, he left the lights plugged in, as if he was blinking out a colorful fuck-you SOS. I mighta done the exact same thing if I had to live with old lady Baker.

I am sitting on the third row next to Beatrice Rhones. Beatrice is in my fourth-grade class. She has soft long brown hair that falls over her shoulders. She always smells like fresh lemons and Pledge furniture polish. I think Beatrice Rhones is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

We've come prepared. Not prepared in the Second Coming of Christ prepared kind of way. We have hidden small pieces of paper in our Bibles somewhere between Leviticus and Deuteronomy. We have learned to be careful, because our Sunday school teacher, Brother Bill, always says that an inattentive soldier in the army of God becomes an attentive student of the devil.

Beatrice takes my hand; our fingers brush together, and she tenderly slides the piece of paper into my palm, a familiar dance we will continue throughout the night, back and forth. I cautiously unfold the paper, cupping my palm over the written words.

Beatrice: Do you think Jeff is cute? Circle yes or no.

Me: No.

Beatrice: Do you like red or yellow?

Me: Red.

Beatrice: I am bored.

Me: I am bored.

Beatrice: I hate this. B. O. R. E. D.

Our visiting evangelical leader, Pastor Bartlett, concludes his salvation recruitment efforts. He raises his arms to the sky as he cries for our deliverance. He then pats his dripping-wet face dry with a small, dingy white handkerchief he keeps in his suit lapel.

The altar call has begun. Floods of sinners fill the aisles as they march like Onward Christian Soldiers to the front of the church to confess their transgressions and plead to God and to members of the congregation for forgiveness.

Mr. Crayswell, our PE teacher, stumbles to the altar.

"I had a moment of weakness and ate Saturday supper at the Holiday Inn buffet, where they serve