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Taz
Around every corner for the last seven months, I had prepared myself to run into him. It wasn’t a matter of if he would find me. But when. Somewhere deep inside, I had accepted that.
I didn’t realize I’d accepted it until I decided my running days were over. And I decided that because Chalice Bay had become home. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t find me. I could hope. I did hope.
In truth, I expected to be found and dragged back in a few months. And that’s why I lived my first few months of freedom like they were my last.
I ate what I wanted, hence my weight gain.
I listened to the kind of music I wanted. I didn’t realize that I loved country music.
I combed my hair the way I wanted. Short suited me. My hair would never be long again.
I dressed the way I wanted. Jeans; they were now a wardrobe staple.
All the things I hadn’t been allowed to do in my marriage, I did them – and then some.
But now freedom was starting to calcify in my bones. And true freedom means not running. How can I be truly free if I am always preparing to run? So I prepare for something else. I prepare to fight.
One thing I love about living in a little sleepy town in rural Alabama is that everybody and their brother has a gun. It’s as natural as having a salt shaker on the kitchen table, and almost as expected. The five acres of land my late great-grandfather’s property sits on has plenty of places to shoot without anybody raising an eyebrow. I take an unconventional route to learning how to shoot. I watch YouTube videos.
The only way to keep people out of your business in Chalice Bay is to do it behind closed doors, I reason. And even then, people still seem to know what time you wake up to pee, and what you eat for dinner.
I’m still not very good at shooting, but I can hit the broadside of a barn now, and maybe even a circle on the broadside of it. The old shotgun I found in the master bedroom closet gives me comfort when I sleep at night. And Yip, my stray German Shepherd, allows me to sleep through the night.
Nothing is getting close to my little farmhouse with Yip here. And if the confines are breached, I have Buddy, the nickname I gave my great-grandfather’s shotgun. I assume it was his. I never knew him. In fact, I only learned about this property – and him – upon my mother’s death.
They say a mother’s love is never-ending. And my mother had rescued me and given me a safe haven, even after her death.
Yip’s ears stand up, and he lets out a loud bark. I grab Buddy, my hand shaking as every cell in my body prepares for flight. It is the first reaction fear evokes in me. I wonder if that is true for everybody. Somehow, I don’t think it is for Ford Burns. Then, I wonder where the hell that thought comes from.
Yip’s barking becomes more insistent, turning to a snarl as he stands at the front screen door.
“Taz. Taz Palmer,” a voice calls out. A voice I recognize, even though I’ve only heard it once.
Part of me relaxes, while another part goes into sensory overload recalling the manly smell of him. Dear lord that man had smelled good.
Ford stands at the bottom step of my expansive porch. Besides the kitchen it is my favorite part of the old farmhouse.
“What are you doing here?”
“Since you refused to have dinner with me the other day, I figured I’d officially welcome you to town and bring you lunch. You gotta eat, right?”
My eyes go to the cloth-covered plate in his hands. His hands were huge, I notice. It seems I can’t help but notice a new part of him every time I see him. “What is it?” I ask, distracting myself from thinking about parts of him.
“Just your standard country fare: fried chicken, corn on the cob, garlic mashed potatoes, butter beans and corn bread.”
“That’s not lunch. That’s a full-on feast. Who cooked all that?”
“I did.”
“You cook?”
“I do,” Ford grins. “Most firemen do, didn’t you know that?”
“The only thing I know about firemen is that they put out fires.”
“Well we also happen to cook, and we clean too. Have to; when you live in a firehouse for days on end with a whole bunch of just guys usually, you have to do the work yourself, or it doesn’t get done.”
“Interesting. Sounds like being part of a frat house, but without the cooking and cleaning.”
“Never thought about it that way because I never belonged to a frat house.”
“I can believe that. You don’t strike me as the college type.”
“I went to college; just didn’t do the fraternity thing. Kinda not my cup of tea. You know, in these parts, it’s considered impolite not to invite somebody in when they stop by, especially if they stop by with a plate of food.”
Yip barks.
“I think your protector agrees. Glad to see you have one.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ford says, noting her shotgun. “So am I coming in, or what?”
“And if I said, ‘or what?’” I tease.
“With that thing in your hand, I won’t press my luck. And, your dog here will be having a great meal.”
“Fried chicken is bad for him, so I guess you best come on in,” I laugh, as my stomach rumbles. I’d only had a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and that was hours ago.
###
“YOU KNOW HOW TO SHOOT that thing,” Ford asks, referring to her shotgun, which was now leaning in a nook by the front door.
“I can put a hole in what I need to put a hole in. Thanks for the food,” I say, pulling two beers from the fridge and offering one to him. “So really, what are you doing here?”
“Like I said, I came to welcome you to our little town.”
I frown. “You know, you’re not a very good liar.”
“Touché, ”Ford responds, obviously remembering lobbing the same statement at me a few days ago in the hardware store. “So are you going to tell me what your story is? You can’t remain a hermit out here forever.”
“Why not? It’s one of the things I like about Chalice Bay. You can stay to yourself if you want to.”
“And you want to?” he asks, taking a swig of beer.
In a moment of honesty, I say, “Not really. But it’s necessary for now.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Ford declares, crossing one long, jean-clad leg over the other as he leans back in the kitchen chair, balancing it on two legs. “How long are you going to run?”
I have been starved for human interaction for so long – and it feels so good to have an actual conversation – it is like a dam opening. “Funny you should ask. I just recently decided to stop running. I like it here. I didn’t expect to, but I do. And I want to stay.”
“So stay,” Ford says.
“It’s not that simple,” I counter.
“All decisions are simple. It’s living with the consequences, that’s the complicated part. That’s the part most of us get stuck on.”
“He’ll kill me if he ever finds me. And I’ll die before I go back. Either way, I end up dead. Not exactly a consequence I like.”