I’m not sure how long I’m out there digging through the ashes when I hear a car hauling ass up the dirt driveway. Bits of rock and clumps of clay fly out from the back tires, and I cringe when I recognize it. I don’t have a weapon out here, but if I have to I’ll use fists. Mr. Taylor steps out of his metallic colored Lexus and we lock gazes from about seventy five feet away.
I know how I look right now. I’ve long taken my shirt off and left it lying on the ground, so my arms and torso are covered in soot. My injured hand is throbbing, and the bandage will need to be changed as soon as I get into the house. I have one good hand, but if I must I’ll sacrifice comfort to cause pain to this man’s face. After the incident yesterday, I thought he wouldn’t come back. I guess I wasn’t clear enough.
“Mr. Taylor.” I call out his name loudly so that Anastasia might hear it in the house, and then I hear the dog beginning to bark. The man turns towards me with his hand raised, but the look on his face is anything but amicable.
May’s barking cuts off suddenly, and my pulse quickens in my veins. I crunch through the debris in my boots with a charred piece of wood in my hands. It dangles and hits my leg as I walk, as if I’m not intending to use it. But if Mr. Taylor thinks he’s going to lay his hands on Mr. D’Salvatore’s daughter again, I’ll take his damned head off!
“Jonah Quinton, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He draws out the words as if they’re somehow important. I quirk a smile at him, probably one that looks sick and maddened, and it has the desired effect. Mr. Taylor takes a step back from me, but as soon as Anastasia opens up the front door he turns his full attention on her.
“Ana, darling! I wanted to swing by and tell you how sorry I am about my behavior yesterday. Whatever happened to your barn?” He won’t look at me, and I hear the condescension in his tone. I suspected he did it last night, but now I’m ninety point nine percent sure this grease ball burnt down the D’Salvatore barn. Is he the one who killed her father, too?
“Someone lit it on fire. But don’t worry, the police have a good lead on who did it, and when they finally give me a name I’ll buy myself a can of gasoline and torch their ass.” Even I’m a little shocked by her frank words, but Mr. Taylor shakes it off quickly and smiles at her charmingly.
“I’m sure you will, Ana. Now, I have a proposition I would like to discuss with you, would you mind if I came in for a spell?” My teeth grit together painfully as I try to keep my mouth shut. Tom’s voice is echoing through my mind, and what he has to say is not pretty.
“No, Mr. Taylor I want you to get back into your car, and high tail it out of here before I call the police for trespassing. I’ve had enough of your games. Go ahead. Tell the entire town what you know about me. I guarantee you it’s nothing they haven’t guessed before.” She’s worried that the town will find something out about her? I thought she’d be more worried about the town figuring out I was still here.
“Now, Ana, that’s not what I’m implying at all here. I just want to discuss the deal I had with your father, verbal agreements should be treated just like any other agreement. Don’t you agree?” The indecision on her face makes my gut twist.
“She can’t sell it without my approval first!” I butt into the conversation as I close the distance between myself and the bottom steps of the porch. I stand with my legs splayed apart and the piece of wood waiting in my good hand. Mr. Taylor eyes the piece of wood with a look of disgust on his face and turns his nose up.
“What in tarnation are you talking about, boy?” He spits the word ‘boy’ out as if it’s supposed to mean something else, but just the fact that he’s called me boy is condescending enough. The side of me I don’t like other people to see starts to show through. Tom’s maniac grin plays across my face as I look Mr. Taylor in the eyes and he seems to remember exactly who he’s talking to.
“Mr. D’Salvatore left half of everything to me.” Anastasia doesn’t say a word behind me, but I hear the way her breath is coming in short, little gasps. The entire time she’s been afraid. My problem is I have no idea if she’s afraid of Mr. Taylor or afraid for him.
“Well that’s wonderful news! I’ll pay you double the market value for your share of the property.” My grin stays plastered on my face as I take a step towards Mr. Taylor and point the charred end of the beam at him. It might be charred, but it’s not flimsy enough to break on his face. So I’ll get in a few good hits before I have to use my hands.
“Get off the property, Mr. Taylor. Or I’ll start with your legs.” The man’s face grows paler than it already is, and I wonder if he ever leaves his cozy office. Beads of sweat start to pop out on his forehead as he looks from me to Anastasia. I feel the muscle in my jaw beginning to jump with the effort of holding the darker side of me back.
Sanity wins out over greed today. Mr. Taylor manages to hold it together as he gets to the driver’s side of his car, and then he calmly locks the doors before he pulls out his key to start the Lexus. I watch him drive away until the dust falls back to the ground. Then I let the stick drop from my hands and finally take a deep inhale of fresh air.
It’s not three seconds after I inhale that my knees hit the dirt, and I hear Anastasia say my name. Her cool hands are plastered on my face as she tries to get me to look up at her, but I’m starting to fade away. I feel her arm cushion my fall as I slide backwards on the dirt driveway. Then I’m just nothing, a speck of darkness within a sea of black.
The smell of meat and cheese cooking wakes me up.
My left eye opens first, and I rub at the right eye to get the crust of sleep out. Just to get Anastasia’s attention, I yawn loudly and make a ruckus as I slide off the bed. It does the trick because her blue eyes are boring into mine when she pokes her head around the doorframe to my bedroom. The furrow between her brows and the way she manages to quirk one eyebrow at the same time makes me smile.
“What happened?” As I’m asking her, Anastasia slinks around the corner and moves one prettily manicured hand onto her hip with the other one dangling at her side. She looks me up and down from head to toe before she shrugs one shoulder, her silence is killing me.
“Why don’t you come out to the kitchen and drink a glass of water? Then you can tell me what you remember from earlier, and I’ll fill you in on the parts you won’t remember.” That sounds ominous, and my excellent mood immediately plummets as I follow her out to the kitchen. True to her word, Anastasia pours me a freezing cold glass of water and gently puts it in front of me at the table. I slide into my usual chair and guzzle half the glass of water before I realize she was right. I’m extremely thirsty. It’s empty by the time I put it down on the table with a few beads of condensation pooling around it.
“I remember Mr. Taylor pulling up, and I grabbed a beam that was still somewhat useable. He was irritating you, and I was getting pissed. Then it all sort of fades to the background. You said my name last, and then I was out. So what happened?” I was right. There’s something baking in the oven with cheese and meat in it. It’s not until she opens up the oven door that I recognize lasagna, and my stomach practically tries to jump out my throat so that it can devour the lasagna itself. Protein and carbs are just what I’m craving right now.
“Well, you passed out, and you started to wake up. I was trying to help you up the steps, again, when you called me a stupid bitch and tried to get away from me. The scrape on your knee is from that incident. Then you profusely apologized and made your way up the rest of the steps on your own. You complained of a skull splitting headache and collapsed into bed.” I feel heat flush my cheeks and embarrassment flood me as I look down at my hands. They’re clean hands, and then I start looking myself over.
I’m entirely cleaned up, and I don’t remember getting changed. There is no way that Anastasia could have bathed and changed an unconscious man. Suddenly my throat seems to dry up as a dying man’s in the dessert would, and realization hits me in the chest like a ton of bricks. It wasn’t me who called her a bitch, and it wasn�
�t me who showered and dressed. So what happened during that time?
“Did I hurt you?” Anastasia closes the oven door and turns around as she’s pulling off her oven mitts. Something odd crosses over her face as she puts the mitts into a drawer. Is that amusement or anger? I could understand anger, but I cannot understand why she would feel even a hint of mirth right now.
“No, Jonah, you didn’t hurt me. In fact, you were very kind, gentle, and caring after your shower, but I have a feeling you don’t remember that either.” She’s not facing me, and I can’t discern what she’s trying to imply by that statement. She definitely doesn’t seem upset by what occurred, but I wish I knew what it was.
“Oh?” I prompt her as I scrape my chair back and stand. Anastasia turns around with the crease between her brows still prevalent and straight lips.
“You kissed me, and you said Jonah was just too chicken shit to take advantage of a good thing when he saw it. So, I take it that wasn’t this side of you, but the side that’s not so nice and called me a bitch.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and taps one of her feet nervously on the linoleum floor as I advance.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, but apparently it’s sufficient because Anastasia nods once.
“It’s not that big of a deal. I just didn’t expect two sides of one person to have such different opinions. I just didn’t want you to remember that detail and be upset with me later for not sharing it with you.” I sidestep at the last second to pull open the refrigerator, and then I fill up my water glass with tea instead. I’m in trouble because that is not at all the case here. It’s just that side of me that doesn’t remember what happened is a lot more cautious around women and relationships.
I’ve avoided them like they’re the damned plague since I found out at my mental illness because what type of woman would want to date a man like me?
“Well, thanks for telling me. I appreciate the honesty. Is that lasagna almost done?” My stomach clenches and gurgles as I look at the oven. Anastasia mumbles something about men and their primitive behavior, and then she checks the timer on the oven display.
“No, another half an hour and it’ll be done. But I’ll tell you what you can do in the meantime.” She points out the kitchen window and doesn’t say a word until I move up beside her to see what she’s pointing at. The poor dog is sitting outside with her head hanging. It seems May got the bright idea of rolling in wet ashes.
I get the hint, pull on my shoes by the front door, and attempt to tackle a wet, stinky German Shepherd.
Half an hour later I’m a little more worse for the wear, May smells a lot better, and I have a massive hunk of lasagna on a plate in front of me at the kitchen table. What kind of man can resist a woman that can cook? I can, I remind myself as I pile in the meat, cheese, pasta, and sauce. But for how long? The darker side of my mind whispers to me. At least this woman knows of my condition up front.
Neither one of us speak of the incident for the rest of the evening. Instead, I busy myself with trying to organize the damage from the barn so that it will be easy to put all the debris into a dumpster when I get one. It’s funny; I don’t feel any different about this property now that I know it’s mine.
The sun is starting to set when I finally stumble back inside and lock the door behind me. A corny show is playing on the television in the living room, but Anastasia is not sitting on the couch. That’s my first hint that something is wrong, but I ignore my instincts and calmly go to my bedroom. I furrow my brows when I hear May whining, and cock my head to listen for the sound.
Frustrated by the level of noise from the television, I grab the remote and turn it off. The sound is coming from the kitchen. “Anastasia? May?” I call out to the both of them, hoping that Anastasia is just clipping the dog’s toenails or something.
I get into the kitchen and find the dog lying underneath the table with severely dilated eyes. Her tail doesn’t thump when I get closer to her, but she does lift one lip up in warning. A small piece of beef is laying in front of her with something white crumble over it. I don’t touch the meat, grab May around the middle and pull her out from under the table. My first instinct is to look for Anastasia on my own, but it looks as though May has been out for a while.
The phone line has been cut, and when I hear beeping in my ear my skin grows cold all over. I take in several deep breaths as the panic threatens to override me, and I manage to get to Anastasia’s room without losing my cool. Her cellphone is underneath her bed as if she tried to grab it and lost her grip. I see two numbers in the screen, a nine and a one. I finish dialing the number and hold my breath as I wait for the dispatcher to pick up. Rage burns through my veins like a seductive drug and I feel myself starting to lose control.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Anastasia D’Salvatore has been kidnapped, her dog has been drugged, and I’m going to need a strait jacket.” My thumb hovers over the end call flashing on the screen, and then I hit it. It’s amazing how surreal fear and rage can make a person feel, and I’m going to use it to help me find her.
I leave May at the foot of the stairs so that the police will find her immediately, but I don’t touch the piece of meat in the kitchen. Any evidence against me will surely look bad, and I don’t want to end up in jail when I should be looking for Anastasia. As abrasive as she may be at times, she’s a good person just like her father.
Now that I’ve done what’s necessary, I let myself go, and everything blackens as if a thick curtain has been pulled over my eyes.
The next time this side of me is conscious, I’m in the middle of the woods with scrapes on my arms, and I can hear sirens in the distance. I have a scrap of cloth in my hands, which has blood on the end, and I recognize it as part of the white, long sleeved shirt that Anastasia was wearing this evening. The last of the sun’s rays are setting, and the air is starting to grow noticeably cooler. It’s supposed to be in the sixties this evening due to a freak cold front moving in, which is bringing thunderstorms.
I stumble through the trees towards the sounds of sirens, and burst through just in time to have guns shoved into my face. Three police officers scream for me to get down on my knees and put my hands in the air. I do as they say, with the scrap of cloth still tucked between my fingers safely. One of the officers takes it from me just before the second puts the cold, metal cuffs over my wrists. I’m starting to black out again, but I try to hold off this time.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer states my Miranda rights to me as he leads me none too gently back to the cruiser sitting out front of the farm house. He puts his hand on top of my head and bends me down into the back, and then he closes the door. My claustrophobia starts to kick in when I notice there are no door handles on the inside, and I start to feel nauseous and light headed at the same time.
I close my eyes against the onslaught of lights and put my hands over my ears to block out the sound. That’s when reality slips away, and I enter into the darkness that is my mind. Flashes of the bloody piece of shirt and leaves under my hands come back to me, but nothing of importance actually derives from the snippets of memory.
“Jonah.” The voice is far off, but I can tell by the tone that the owner of it is irritated by my lack of response. “Jonah Quinton, do you want a lawyer present?” I try to find my way back to myself, but it’s like trying to walk through a pool filled with Jell-O. “Jonah, I need you to answer verbally for me.” Did I nod? Finally, it’s like someone has taken away the Jell-O and I shoot back into consciousness, right into Hell.
I’m sitting at a metal table with my hands cuffed in front of me and chains dangling around my ankles. The chair they planted me on is hard, and the room is freezing cold. I know that they don’t try to make these rooms comfortable, but do they actually attempt to make them this uncomfortable for a human being?
“I don’t want a lawyer. I just want you to find Anastasia.” The officer is standing behind me, so all I h
ave in my vision is the large, tinted glass window in front of me. This is a rather big deal, nothing like shoplifting, so I assume that there are a few higher ups behind that thick glass. I suddenly have the urge to misbehave and scream, but I tone that side of me down rather easily. Losing my temper is not going to help Anastasia come home safely.
“Then tell me what happened this evening.” The officer finally comes around my right side and settles himself in another uncomfortable, metal chair with his left foot propped up on the table. I study the blades of grass and soil on the bottom of his shoe.
“You didn’t find her.” It’s not a question. As soon as I saw the grass I realized that they must have given up searching for the time being. Otherwise, every available officer would be out there right now.
“I can’t tell you that, son. You called 911 at eight sixteen this evening, why?” There’s a camera in the corner of the room with a red light blinking, and for a few seconds I can’t help but stare at it. I’m using those seconds to reign in my fear.
“I was outside cleaning up bits of the barn that were left over, and then I realized that it was getting late. When I walked into the house, the television was on, and there was no sign of Anastasia or May.” The officer stops me mid-thought with a raised hand.
“May is the dog?” I nod, and he jots something down on a small notepad. “Okay, continue.”
“I was going to take a shower, but I wanted to find Anastasia or May first because I thought the television being on like that was odd. I went into the bedroom on the first floor, and I heard a sound. It was too feint for me to figure out what it was, but I thought it was May. So I went back into the living room and turned off the television. I found May in the kitchen with a piece of meat by her that looked like it had some type of drug on it. I didn’t touch it.”
My Kind Of Crazy Page 6