Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love Page 3

  “I’m a reporter for the Dallas Morning News. Can you tell me her name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “I thought she worked for you.”

  “Sometimes she does.”

  “And you don’t know her name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  He pulled the used chew out of his mouth and dropped it in the cup, and then opened a Skoal can and loaded his bottom lip again. “Won’t tell me.”

  “Really? How long has she been working for you?”

  He shrugged. “Better part of a year I’d say.”

  “And in that time she hasn’t told you her name?”

  “Nope.”

  “But what about employee taxes and that sort of thing?”

  He pushed his grease-stained ball cap upward, exposing a sun-beaten face, and narrowed one eye at me. “You a tax man?”

  “I just said I’m a reporter.”

  He glared at me with that one eye for a second before he spit sideways again. “She came in here one day and mopped my floors and then made me pay her. So I paid her and she started coming back every other day to mop and I kept paying her. Sometimes she cleans the bathroom too. She don’t talk to me and I don’t talk to her. ‘cept for when she locks people’s keys in their cars. Then I say, ‘what the hell’s a matter with you’ and she flips me off.”

  “Why don’t you fire her?”

  “Somebody’s gotta mop. I don’t wanna do it.”

  White Settlement, Texas. That little town—I swear to you—is off. Its residents and the way they simply tolerated your bizarre behavior was as strange as they claimed you were.

  “Why does she lock people’s keys in their cars?”

  “My guess is they hit on her while she’s dumping the mop water.”

  “How does she get the keys?”

  “She just reaches in their pockets and grabs 'em.”

  “And they just let her?”

  “Nah.” He scratched the scruff on his cheek. “They usually get in her face. One guy slugged her.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Did you call the police?”

  He scoffed. “Hell naw. She shouldn’t be grabbing keys. Don’t poke the bear if you don’t wanna get clawed.”

  “Are you kidding me? She’s probably a ninety pounds soaking wet and you let a guy punch her?”

  “Wasn’t my fault.” Noticing my concern, he waved his hand and added, “She was fine. Stood up and went home.”

  My jaw gaped, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  You know… I’m not a hero or a knight in shining armor. It’s not my job to save you or anyone else, just to tell your story. Ideally, I’m supposed to remain detached and unbiased. But I can’t help struggling with that sometimes—as evident from where we are now.

  At that moment, however disturbed I was at the thought of a man punching you—you, being so thin, so small, probably so… defenseless—I remained detached.

  “Is she working today?”

  The spit landed in the cup with a sploosh and Brian Johnson caterwauled from the small speakers. “Was here earlier. Went home around one.”

  “Any chance you know where she lives?” I asked, fully expecting a deadpan naw in response.

  “Moran Street. Across from Joy Drive. Little white house with green trim next to the one that’s condemned.”

  I blinked. “So she won’t tell you her name, but you know where she lives.”

  “We-ell…” he drawled, shifting the chew with his tongue. “While back she was crying while she cleaned the john. Cried so hard she wandered out to that median there yonder and fell asleep in the grass. Told her the cops’d pick her up if she didn’t move, so she asked me to drive her home. Was pretty upset about something.”

  Silent alarms reverberated in my head the way they always do when I stumble upon a white hot lead. I kept my expression neutral. “About how long ago was that?”

  “Maybe three or four months.”

  Bingo.

  “Do you expect her back today?”

  “Nope.”

  I offered him my hand and he shook it firmly. “Thanks for your help, AJ.”

  “Yee-up.”

  According to my GPS, Moran Street was less than a mile from the corner store. My car crawled down the road as I scanned the houses for white with green trim and noted the street signs for Joy Drive. It didn’t take long before I stomped the brakes, bringing my car to a lurching halt.

  White house, green trim, and a beat up black Pontiac in the driveway. Tiny white house. It couldn’t have been more than five or six hundred square feet. It looked more like a run-down cottage; aged and in desperate need of maintenance, a lawnmower, and a fresh coat of paint—although the dilapidated pile of bricks and wood next door made it look quaint and homey in comparison.

  I knocked on the front door and waited. Knocked again. Waited. Knocked a third time. Waited. Nothing.

  “Holly?” I called through the door, expecting you to open and raise that coquettish eyebrow at me again.

  After about a minute, there was still nothing and I peeked in the front window. Inside was dark and I could see straight through the living room and out the back door in the kitchen. A window to the right of the front door was covered with foil—classy. Another window to that same bedroom on the side of the house was also covered in foil. The third window I came across had foil on it as well and I wondered if maybe you were a vampire? Photophobic? Nocturnal? Because seriously, what the hell was up with all the foil?

  After discreetly scanning the street behind me, I stepped over a collapsed portion of the wire fence because apparently I was ready to broaden my skillset to include trespassing just so I could figure you out. There were more windows in the back, which—shockingly—weren’t covered in foil. The first of three windows in the back looked into a bedroom. Pale blue walls, gauzy black curtains, a black iron bed with rumpled linens, and a desktop computer set up on a small table positioned right next to the bed.

  I didn’t judge you for the condition of your room. You were twenty-three. Piles of clothes in every corner, half a dozen soda cans flanking the monitor on the desk, more spilling out of an overfull wastebasket next to the foil-covered window, and books and DVD cases strewn about everywhere didn’t seem terribly unusual for someone your age who lived alone.

  What I did judge you for—except I told myself it was concern, not judgement—was the empty, but dirty wine glass sitting on the floor next to the bed and two empty wine bottles next to it. That smacked of being a problem and seemed to render the rest of the squalor as being less of an immaturity thing and more indicative of a host of deeper issues.

  “How much wine could such a small person possibly stomach?” I pondered aloud and something brushed against my leg. I glanced down to see a massive, long-haired, gray cat pushing his face against my pants.

  “Hey.” I stomped the ground next to him. “Can you not do that? You’re getting hair all over me.”

  The cat tilted his head up, cocked it to one side, and uttered a tiny squeak that was a stark contrast to his large size, as if he were the cat version of Mike Tyson.

  “Sorry, I just really don’t like animal hair. Seems unsanitary.”

  He opened his mouth and squeaked at me again.

  “It’s nothing personal.”

  It seemed I’d offended him because he sniffed, and then meandered through the tall grass and plopped himself under a large tree.

  I inched sideways and lifted my chin to look in a small rectangular window, immediately looking away because I could clearly see it was a bathroom. I had a suspicion that you weren’t home, but I certainly didn’t want to find out I was wrong by you entering and catching me snooping at your shower. Based on the few things I knew about you at that point, I guessed you’d either steal my keys and lock me out of my car or drag me against my will into the filthy disarray of your bedroom.

&nb
sp; I took a quick look into the window of the back door and saw the kitchen with its piles of dishes in the sink, more soda cans, a large, half-empty whiskey bottle, and trash can overflowing with cans and beer bottles and wadded up paper towels—unsurprising and precisely the putrid mess I’d expected after seeing your bedroom. There was no sign of food anywhere. All the dishes were glasses, which may have explained your thin state. Based on the contents of the kitchen and bedroom, it appeared all your sustenance came from high-calorie beverages and, like with the wine bottles in your room, I was concerned. Not judgmental.

  The large cat squeaked again and I glanced down to see that he’d dropped a squirrel on my foot. He sat next to it, looking up at me and wearing a patently smug expression.

  The squirrel’s throat had been ripped out and I leaped backward with the grace of a cartoon elephant confronted by a rodent. “Dude! What the hell?”

  He cocked his head and licked his mouth.

  “You’re fucking gross and the reason I’ll never have any pets.”

  We stared each other down until I noticed he had a collar. I reached down and checked his tag, careful to avoid the squirrel blood and guts on his chin. It read simply, “Grey.”

  “Original.”

  He squeaked at me, offended again.

  As an amends, I gave him a single pat on his head before exiting the backyard.

  You still weren’t there and your house didn’t tell me much about you that would make for an interesting story, so it was time to figure out something else.

  As I passed by, I peeked in the passenger window of your car and—shock and awe—the inside was immaculate. It was also unlocked, but I didn’t open the door. That would’ve been illegal—kind of like trespassing into someone’s backyard, which apparently didn’t bother me—but more importantly it wouldn’t tell me anything. Going through your mailbox could’ve been illegal, but I found myself doing it anyway. I’d already trespassed, so what the hell! Why not add potential obstruction of correspondence to my newfound skillset?

  Your shit was so out of order. How hard is it to check the mail, honestly?

  I understand now; the mail; your slovenly living conditions; the excessive alcohol consumption; your painfully slight frame. I get it now, but I didn’t then and remember, I wasn’t judging you. I was concerned.

  The mailbox was stuffed to almost overflowing, but that didn’t bother me because I was about to finally find out your name. Or so I thought.

  Credit card offer for Jacob Wilkins.

  Credit card offer for Lynette Harrington.

  Several law office advertisements; one for Jade Ashton, one for Charlotte Reid, one for Stephanie McBride.

  Avon mailer for Lynette Harrington.

  Something that looked like it was from a collections agency for Lynette Harrington.

  Letter from AARP for Jacob Wilkins.

  Cell phone bill for Jade Ashton.

  Utility bill for Lynette Harrington.

  Water bill for Lynette Harrington.

  Bank statement for Jade Ashton.

  Instead of clarifying anything, the contents of the mailbox merely turned you into that much more of an enigma. Who were all these people? And which one were you?

  “Lynette Harrington,” I said to myself, “or Jade Ashton.”

  Out of all the names, I figured you had to be one of those two. The bar owner’s wife had mentioned your name was somewhat old fashioned sounding. Of the two, Lynette was definitely more mature. If I had simply guessed, Lynette was an older woman. So maybe that was it. Maybe that was you.

  I sat in my car, drumming the steering wheel and staring at the space in front of my eyes. My only option at that point was to sit there and wait for you to return and beg for your name again. Either that or just write the story about the odd girl without a name.

  “That might actually make it even more interesting,” I told myself, just as the low fuel chime alerted me that I needed to go fill up. “People of DFW, meet this local weirdo. Sorry I can’t tell you her name. Isn’t that interesting?”

  I laughed at my own lame joke and headed to AJ’s gas station, planning to come right back to your house afterward.

  The time on my phone read 6:15, and I leaned against the side of my car, typing out more notes as the tank filled, when my mind vaguely registered a clip-clop-clip-clop-clip-clop. I glanced up absently, saw a horse moseying down the street, and looked back at my phone, dismissing the sight. But then a shrill wolf whistle rang out.

  “Hey, Seth McCollum!”

  And there you were: clad in a hot pink bikini top, jean shorts, and baby blue high tops, sitting on the bareback horse.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn’t articulate much more than, “Uhh…”

  You approached me, circling the gas pump and my car and grinning at me.

  “Do you live around here or something? Or are you still stalking me?” You lifted that eyebrow. “Or did you change your mind?”

  “Is that your horse?”

  “Nope.”

  “You stole a horse?”

  “Oh come on now, Seth McCollum, you know me better than that.”

  “Actually, I don’t know you at all.”

  You laughed. “I’m just borrowing it.”

  You continued to circle, smiling at me, while I turned slowly to follow you with my gaze.

  “Lynette,” I said—or was it an accusation? “Or is it Jade?”

  The horse stopped short as your face melted into acute sadness spliced with shock. Not even a second later, you whistled again and the horse bolted down the street with no regard for oncoming traffic. I jumped into my car and took off after you.

  I followed you across the highway overpass and through an intersection, barely able to keep up without tailgating or edging cars off the road. We zipped past stores and restaurants and neighborhood entrances, until the road opened up to sprawling, fenced pastures on either side. After the third property, you took a sharp right into the grass and slowed the horse to a walk. I pulled off the road and jumped out.

  “So which is it?” I hollered, trudging after you through knee-high grass.

  With shaking hands, you hastily fumbled to detach a chain on the gate while the horse munched on a patch of grass.

  “Are you Lynette or Jade?”

  You jerked the chain open, swinging the fence wide, and swatted the horse’s hindquarters, ushering him into the pasture. “We’re not friends anymore, Seth McCollum.”

  “No, we never were friends. Friends usually know each other’s names and you won’t tell me yours.”

  You cut your eyes toward me in a piercing glare before looking back at the gate and securing the chain.

  “AJ doesn’t know your name either,” I went on. “He says you’ve been working for him for almost a year. What’s the deal with th—”

  BOOM, an explosion cracked the atmosphere and we both jumped at the sound of a shotgun discharging from the opposite side of the pasture.

  “Hands up, girl! This is the last time you take my goddamn horse! The po-lice are on their way!”

  “Shit,” I wheezed and threw my hands in the air on pure reflex.

  You grabbed my arm and dragged me in a dash to the car. More shots fired off as you jumped in the driver’s seat and I didn’t protest out of need to simply get the hell out of there. After several minutes, however, it registered that we were heading in the opposite direction from your house.

  “Uhhh… where the hell are you going?”

  You shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. “We gotta lose the cops.”

  I glanced out the back window. “There are no cops behind us.”

  “We’re just gonna drive for a bit, Seth McCollum.”

  “We’re what?” I shouted. “No, you are stealing my car while I’m in it! This is kidnapping!”

  “Will you relax? We’ll come back later.”

  “We’re going back now. Turn around.”

  “Can’t do that.”

&nb
sp; “You don’t have a choice. Turn this car around.”

  You smirked at me and I had half a mind to spin the wheel myself. “Seems like you’re the one who doesn’t have a choice right now, Seth McCollum.”

  I stared at you, thunderstruck and wondering how concerned I should be about you potentially kicking me out in the middle of nowhere and leaving with my car. “Are you insane? I mean, honest question. Like, do you have a chemical imbalance or something?”

  You scoffed, cutting a glance at me. “Rude.”

  “I am not rude! You are the one who won’t give me back my car!”

  “Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

  “Does that matter? This is my car!”

  “I’ll tell you what, Seth McCollum,” you said, switching on the radio. “You quit griping and let me drive for a bit, and I’ll let you interview me.”

  You pulled onto westbound I-20 and I gritted my teeth. “Exactly how long are you planning to drive?”

  “Just ‘til I feel like it’s clear to head back.”

  We zipped under a sign. I-20 Weatherford/Abilene. Abilene was nearly one hundred fifty miles away. It seemed within the realm of possibilities that I’d be there by nightfall.

  I groaned, slamming back into my seat. “Fine. But I get to ask you anything.”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you Lynette or Jade?”

  You curled your lips between your teeth and swallowed. “Neither.”

  “What’s your name then?”

  You slowly glanced at me, flashing a wide grin, but just like the day I saw you in the fountain, there was sadness in your eyes. The mash-up of the comedy and tragedy masks. What was that face and how did you do that? The difference was you were not splashing in water and nothing in the car could’ve made your eyes glitter like they did on that first day. Tears. Your strange, beautiful eyes were glistening with tears.

  “You get to ask me anything, Seth McCollum. But I don’t have to answer.”

  Hour Three

  The clock on the dash read 8:26.

  “Do you have Restless Leg Syndrome or something?” you ventured, chock-full of snark.

  “No...?”

  “Then why do you keep fidgeting like that?”