Twisted Iron

by T. J. Loveless

  My childhood, my safety net, my home.

  I lit the Zippo and threw it into the gas soaked front porch.

  *

  The drive to Alabama was long. I dreamt of the flames engulfing the house, waking before seeing myself crying on hands and knees. The act of destruction left me with a gaping hole where my heart should have been. Thoughts echoed, and the rage I tried to leave in Dillon refused to be forgotten. It took on a life of its own. I stopped in Missouri, at a campground, empty because of the winter. It was the freezing temps I sought.

  I slept on the ground, without shelter. Waking the next morning, cold, I mourned seeing the sun rise. I took a cold shower and headed further south. I stopped in places which should have meant my death. Yet I got up every morning, and drove.

  In Louisiana, I stopped outside New Orleans, and looked up Corrine’s family on the internet. They still held the plantation, open for tourists, and I decided to see for myself.

  The house was enormous, with a winding drive lined by oak and willow trees. A light breeze pushed through the branches, giving the appearance of time moving slower than the rest of the world. The house was two stories, whitewashed, with black working shutters, a long portico covering the drive, and a wraparound porch on both floors. It’d been well maintained, the landscaping perfect.

  I was fairly certain if it wasn’t for the Cherokee, I’d have thought I was in Victorian Louisiana.

  I parked at the side of the house, and got out. Signs indicated where to go, and the times the plantation was open for tours. The parking lot was empty, but I walked to the front door and knocked. A young woman answered, dressed in period clothing, hair pulled back in a severe style. She smiled warmly.

  “Hello,” her accent thick. “Welcome to the Beauchamp Plantation.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. Is it too late for a tour?”

  “Of course not. I’ll be happy to show you around the house.” She waved me in, and led the way into a small parlor. “If you will, please fill out the visitor book. I’ll need to see ID, please.” She held a hand out.

  “No problem.” I handed her my legal driver’s license.

  She took the plastic and reading my name, frowned briefly, and plastered the professional smile in place. “I’ll be right back, Mr. Middleston.”

  I filled in the line with my name, place of origin, and date. The young woman joined me, returning the piece of plastic. She glanced at the book, and I noticed her shiver.

  “I have to ask, Mr. Middleston, are you originally from Dillon?”

  “I was born and raised in Montana,” I frowned.

  She gave a curt nod, and plastered on the tour guide smile. “Please follow me, and I’ll tell you about the colorful history of Beauchamp Plantation.”

  It lasted an hour, with paintings, tales of killing, schemes, hard work, and slavery. She stopped in the library, a large room with ceilings fifteen feet tall, oak paneling, herringbone wood floors, and three walls of bookshelves filled to the brim. On the fourth wall, I was held captive by the paintings. They covered the plaster from ceiling to a foot above the floor, some full length portraits of ancestors. In the middle was a small painting portraying a young woman, approximately seventeen-years-old. She had jet black hair, dark blue eyes, a porcelain complexion, and bright red, bow shaped lips. She wore a royal blue dress of the period, and around her neck was a large sapphire gem in a filigree gold setting. Under the painting was a small brass nameplate with “Corrine Beauchamp” engraved.

  I walked forward, standing two feet away. The tour guide remained by my side.

  “She was beautiful, wasn’t she? We found her portrait in the attic, wrapped tightly in oilcloth and tied with twine. We’ve only found a small letter written by her mother. It was addressed to Dillon, Montana, begging her to come home.” She reached forward and wiped the dust off the nameplate.

  “Corrine was my great-great-grandmother.” In that moment, I felt connected to the young woman whose portrait hung on the wall.

  She gasped, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw her smile. “So the rumors were true! It’s said she stole gold from her intended and ran away with an Englishman to Montana.”

  “Sort of true. She was a woman of great courage, who was put through hell by the Smythes.” I pulled a small velvet bag from my back pocket. “I’d like to see the curator, if you don’t mind. I have something to add to the museum.”

  She nodded and hastened to the back of the house. I continued to stare at the only painting I’d seen of Corrine in her youth. So young, so full of promise. Yet the artist captured her stubborn nature, the streak of pragmatism, her intelligence in every stroke of the brush.

  A set of heavy footsteps caught my attention and I turned around. A heavy set man, around sixty, walked towards me with his hand out. “Hello. I’m Corbin Beauchamp. I hear we may be related.” He shook my hand vigorously, and with strength.

  “Aiden Middleston. I’d like to make two donations to your museum, sir.”

  “Please follow me.” He smiled, waving a hand to follow.

  His office was a converted bedroom, large and opulent, with the original silk wallpaper in dark greens, cherry wood on the walls and matching furniture. The herringbone pattern on the floors continued into the office.

  “I must say, I’m surprised. Can you provide proof you are Corrine’s descendent?” He leaned forward, hands clasped and resting on the desk.

  “I can. I have the paperwork in my vehicle. But you should get paperwork together, Mr. Beauchamp, for what I’m to donate.” I slid the necklace into my palm, the sapphire glittering brightly in the light from the tall window behind him. “If you look on the back, it has her name engraved and is a perfect match for the portrait in the library.” I stared at the necklace, wondering if it was possible a person could leave a piece of themselves in something as cold as a sapphire. Barry was a genius, telling me how to find her family. The search led to sitting in a place which once housed Corrine and it resonated deep.

  His eyes widened, and I wondered if it hurt. He held out a shaky hand, and I gently dropped the precious necklace into his palm. He flipped it over, and grabbed a magnifying glass. His gasp was all I needed.

  “If you want to keep it in your museum, you’ll need to draw up paperwork. I don’t want it sold, and I want her story told, all of it.” I took the necklace. “If you cannot, I will take the necklace with me.”

  Corbin nodded, and grabbed the phone, hastily dialing numbers.

  Four hours later, Beauchamp Plantation was in possession of historical papers, three pieces of jewelry belonging to Corrine Middleston, and her story finally told. The lawyer had drawn up the papers as I’d proven my lineage, and the line of custody for the priceless gems.

  The tour guide, Cassidy Beauchamp, turned out to be another cousin. As I told Corrine’s story, silent tears fell, and she smiled. “I always knew we came from strong stock.” She put a hand on my shoulder and left.

  Corbin Beauchamp sat behind the desk, reading the old papers. His face lost expression hours earlier, and he finally closed the journal, laying it gently on top of the desk, his hand on the cover. “Aiden, what you’ve just given us is priceless. I’m not talking the jewelry, although it will help us to get enough press to bring more people. I’m talking her story. I listened to many stories as I grew up, some good, some demeaning her as a murderer and thief. She saved not only herself, but she’s just saved her childhood home.” He turned dark blue eyes on me.

  “I think she’d be proud. But don’t let me hear you slander her in any way. I had those legal papers worded to prevent it.” I stood, holding out a hand, “Don’t be a stranger, although I’m bad about checking emails.”

  He nodded, taking my hand and covering it with his other. “You have family in Beauchamp Plantation, Aiden. And you are always welcome.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Correcting the stories regarding Corrine lifted a weight. The Smythes would no longer have a hold on my family.
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  In the midst of the relief, the tight feeling around my heart squeezed harder. Mississippi flew by as I drove into Alabama. It was only a hunch, no guarantee I would find Jillian at her parents’ home. I tried to not think of where I’d have to go next.

  The scenery was lush and green, even late in winter. I drove the southern route, seeing glimpses of the Gulf, hearing birds, and smelling the salt water. Jillian had let it slip her parents moved to Mobile for retirement. I’d searched, and found their home address, close to the water.

  I drove up and down Terrell Road looking for the house. It was a small ranch, amid middle class homes, with dark blonde brick and a wooden post fence. In the drive I could see a new Honda and a mid-sized truck. I parked behind the Honda, turning off the engine and staring at the house. Gathering my courage, I stepped out of the vehicle, and walked to the front door. An internal argument ensued. I raised a hand to knock, but paused.

  The door swung open, and an older version of Jillian smiled. “Aiden Middleston! It’s been twenty-five years, young man. Come in, come in!” She swept a hand to the interior.

  I smiled and went in slowly. She closed the door, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me around. I was engulfed in a bear hug by the pint-sized woman, smelling of chocolate chip cookies.

  She leaned back, patting my shoulders, “Goodness, you certainly grew into those gangly limbs of yours! Come on, I just pulled out hot cookies, and have coffee.” She went into the kitchen.

  She served a plateful of cookies, and poured a dark black mug of coffee. I sipped, humming in approval. I carefully ate one of the cookies, tasting how she still had issues with the difference between salt and sugar.

  “Mrs. Winters, have you seen Jillian?” I should have been polite, engaged in small talk, but the brain refused orders.

  She tipped her mug of coffee and stared for a few minutes. “Oh, honey. She left two months ago.”

  I stopped breathing. “Is she okay? Where is she? Please,” I put a hand over hers, “I have a lot of apologizing to do, and … and I owe her.”

  She flipped her hand to palm up, and grasped mine. “She’s not right. I don’t know what happened in Montana, but my daughter isn’t well. She’s not sleeping because of the nightmares. She can’t handle crowds, or being around others. And I thought we’d have to hospitalize her when some of the neighborhood kids lit a string of firecrackers.” She looked to the right, sighed. “And her rage is out of control.”

  I nodded, took a burning gulp of coffee, and stared in the reflective depths. Jillian wasn’t there.

  Standing, I squeezed Mrs. Winters’s hand. “Do you know where she went?” I whispered.

  “She called two weeks ago from Arizona. Once done at Harvard, she bought a small house in Flagstaff. It’s in the middle of a canyon with a name I can’t remember. I think Jillian is hiding there.” Her eyes glistened. “Go and get her, Aiden.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed my cheek.

  I left, navigating the streets of Mobile. I turned on the GPS to the address in Flagstaff. I had at least twenty hours of driving ahead.

  Somewhere in Texas I checked into a small Mom and Pop motel. The room was clean, though the linens were threadbare. I brought in all the bags, hiding the heavy suitcase under the bed. A hot shower calmed the chaotic thoughts, and I fell on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Scenes from the past year flashed across the smoke stained, popcorn covered ceiling. The horrific condition of the house when I’d arrived. I’d spent the first couple of months suing for a refund of the money I’d paid faithfully for the upkeep. They’d decided I was never returning, took the money and didn’t do any of the maintenance.

  During that time, the hours were spent repairing and renovating.

  Across the screen flashed when I’d gone into Dad’s room. The furniture was covered with thick cloth, but cobwebs infested all the corners, the window barely let in the light, and several parts of the wood suffered severe dry rot. I shrunk from the anguish at finding my ancestral home in such a horrific state. The disrespect for the people who’d lived under the protective roof, their lives imprinted in the walls. Some places in the floor worn by the sheer amount of footsteps.

  I missed it. I wanted to go back, undo all I’d done. Make different decisions, find alternative ways to fight the war they’d put on my doorstep. Huddle in the master bedroom I took a week to clean and three weeks to repair.

  But it was why I’d burned it to the ground.

  *

  I spent the night in Albuquerque, feeling more at home in the mountains and snowfall. The night was cold and dry, with enough wind to chill a person to their bones. I slept long and hard, waking disoriented. I rolled to the floor, a hand at the small of my back looking for the favored Sig. It wasn’t there, and I patted both thighs for the hunting knife. I heard footsteps outside the door, and peeked over the mattress, seeing the bright neon sign blinking the hotel name.

  Reality clicked, and I crawled into bed. Housecleaning was not going to kill me. I rolled into the blankets, seeking warmth, but no matter how hot the temperature, or the amount of blankets I slept under, the frozen area in my chest wouldn’t thaw.

  *

  I-10 west snaked through southern Arizona, and I turned north on I-17 in Phoenix. The GPS flickered in the night, and the female voice gave directions. It led me onto a two lane county road, filled with wicked turns, and wildlife.

  I slowed, finding the dirt road leading into a hidden canyon. I stopped at the gate, rusted and twisted on its hinges. I opened it carefully, drove the Cherokee through. I found a padlock hanging from a tangled chain on the side, and locked it. From the recent tire tracks in the road, I’d found her.

  I drove slowly, easily, over the pitted road. While it looked deserted and wild, I wasn’t fooled. The trees were trimmed to keep from scratching vehicles, and along the side of the road were two shallow drainage ditches, recently done. Most of the small brush was pushed back from the road, allowing for an escape should a fire rage in the drought stricken area.

  The road wove through the canyon, sometimes fairly steep, others level but turning into deep bends. The three miles inward was slow, the dirt road only wide enough for one vehicle at times.

  The road widened, and the headlights lit a small cabin of local wood, mud between to keep the rain out. It appeared to be four hundred square feet, with a small, covered front porch, two windows in the front, a satellite dish, and the roof covered in solar panels. The cabin was filled with a gentle light, and I noted when the curtain moved.

  The front door opened, and Jillian stood with a shotgun to her shoulder. I stared in shock.

  She fired, the slug burrowing into the front of the Cherokee. I dove into the backseat, and opened the door, “Wait! Jillian, it’s me, Aiden!”

  “Bullshit!” She fired into the Cherokee again. “Get the hell off my property!”

  “I want Fozzy back! I need my teddy bear!” I waited, listening. Counting, I peeked out the windshield. I couldn’t find her.

  “Aiden?” she whispered, inside the open door.

  I jumped, and cracked the top of my skull against the roof. Launching out of the vehicle, I grabbed her and squeezed, burying my nose in her neck. She’d lost a lot of weight, hair tangled, the intrinsic sweet scent of her skin now bitter. She didn’t return the hug.

  I let go, holding until she felt stable. I grabbed her cheeks. In the darkness, I could barely make out the lines of exhaustion, the bruised look to her eyes. “May I come inside? Can we talk?”

  She shrugged, and pried my hands off. She turned and led the way inside.

  The cabin was torn apart, broken furniture strewn inside the walls, trash on the floor, cobwebs occupying the corners. She fell into the one remaining chair, the shotgun across her knees.

  In the light of an oil lamp, she looked defeated. Hair knotted and unwashed, pale, and as if she hadn’t take a shower in months. Bruises marked her arms and legs, infected scratches festering her hands. When she met my gaze,
I fell to my knees.

  My bright, beautiful, strong Jillian had given up.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  “Why are you here, Aiden?” Her voice, normally firm and husky, was dull and monotone.

  “I owe you an apology. And my life. I was selfish, Jilly Bean. I can’t let you live like this.” I indicated our surroundings. “I should have stuck with you, left with you.” I moved closer, moving on my knees. She gave a small smile at the movement.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve lost my mind, I can’t … I can’t find reality, Aiden. It’s lost and I can’t find it.” She stared at the wall, not seeing me. “All I can see is Dillon. The house. The sight of bodies flying apart …”

  I reached out, putting a hand on hers. The shotgun remained warm, but her fingers were ice cold. With careful movements, I loosened her fingers, taking them into mine. Leaning forward, I formed a cup and blew. She hissed, but I didn’t stop until her hand was warm. I repeated the process with the other one.

  “Why can’t I take the shotgun, put it in my mouth, and pull the trigger?” she whispered, staring at the weapon.

  “Because you know it isn’t the answer.” I tried to rub circulation into her feet. “Because you have a sense of survival, and want to live, just don’t know how to handle what’s happened.” I lifted my t-shirt, and placed her feet on my stomach. I tried to hide the flinch. “Because you know somewhere up ahead, life will get better, and you’ll find yourself again.” I moved her feet from one place on my abdomen to another, hoping to get some warmth into them. “Where is a blanket, Jilly?” I looked around.

  “On the cot.” She pointed at a corner.

  I put her feet down, and stood to get the blanket. Damn it, she needed more than just an old wool Army blanket. “Fuck it.”

  I stripped, calling on the training from the early years to heat my core. The cabin was chilly, and I stood in front of her, a hand out. “I’m not doing anything sexual. But you know as well as I do skin to skin will transfer body heat more efficiently. Come on.”