Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love

by KL Evans

  “Lharrington1931,” I mumbled. “She had to have been born in 1931. People typically use their birth year in their email addresses, at least back when they used AOL. 2016. Eighty-four years old. This isn’t up-to-date. She would be eighty-five if she was born in 1931. Either this thing is wrong about her age or she’s dead.”

  I’d probably have to click here for full report! if I wanted to find out which it was. Instead, I typed in another search for “Lynette Harrington White Settlement,” and—bingo—the first result was an obit.

  “Lynette Harrington, a long-time resident of White Settlement, died Wednesday the 18th of June at White Settlement Nursing Center. She was eighty-four years old,” I read. “Born in 1931 in Madison, S.D., Lynette received a Bachelor of Science in Nursing from South Dakota State College in 1952. In 1953, she married Donald R. Harrington, a pilot in the United States Air Force. Lynette and Donald moved to White Settlement in 1960. Donald died in 1985. Lynette worked for Harris Methodist Hospital until she retired in 1996. She is survived by her nieces, Jade Ashton and Charlotte Reid, who also live in White Settlement.”

  The article was dated June 25, 2015. I drummed my fingers on the table and sipped more coffee. “Cousins? Sisters with different fathers? And what about Charles?”

  The name Charles Reid kept chiming a bell in my head. I’d heard that name somewhere before. Come to think of it, Charlie Reid sounded familiar in a way I couldn’t put my finger on, and not just because of earlier that day.

  Charles ‘Charlie’ Reid, I typed into the search engine.

  In zero-point-seven-four seconds I received sixty-four thousand results, but I only noticed the first one. It was published by my own employer five years prior.

  White Settlement Meth Dealer Sentenced to 60 Years in Prison

  Click.

  The mugshot was an unmistakable likeness despite the fact this man was haggard and worn. Thin—no, hollow face. But there were those high cheekbones. The same gray eyes, albeit sunken into their sockets. He had long hair, too, although it was gunmetal gray instead of unnaturally dark like yours, but there was no question. This man was your father.

  “A White Settlement man with four previous felony convictions has been sentenced to 60 years in prison after a drug bust last year,” I read. “Charles ‘Charlie’ Reid, 54, pleaded no contest to manufacturing with intent to distribute a controlled substance and possession of a firearm by a felon in district court. After hearing evidence about a lengthy criminal history and the information that Reid violated parole, a jury found him guilty of both crimes, then imposed a sentence of 60 years on both cases. The sentences will run concurrently.”

  I clasped my hand over my mouth because, in terms of the story, you’d turned out to be a goldmine. In terms of you—between the broken woman my gut insisted was your sister and this meth dealer who was clearly your father—you were a bottomless pit of unfortunate circumstances. And don’t get me wrong, I felt awful for you, but I’m a selfish asshole and I could only think of how my editor was going to fucking love me for this. I’d haphazardly stumbled upon a follow-up to one of the bigger stories the Morning News had scooped that year, and not just any follow-up—the poor bastard’s own daughter. I could’ve jumped out of my chair and strutted around the coffee shop like a peacock.

  On Sept. 13, 2010, the White Settlement Police Department investigated a tip that Reid was running a methamphetamine lab in a condemned property on Moran Street. A subsequent search of the property revealed Reid was in possession of more than five grams of methamphetamines and distribution and manufacturing paraphernalia. In addition, officers found a twelve gauge, pump-action shotgun propped against a wall. In Texas, a person convicted of a felony may not possess a firearm. During the hearing, jurors learned that Reid had four felony convictions that had resulted in a previous prison sentence in 2007. The offenses included criminal mischief, forgery, theft, and unlawful receipt of chemical precursor. He had been released on parole in 2010.

  “Holy shit,” I muttered. Even though I felt like I had more than enough information about the infamous Charles “Charlie” Reid, I hit the back button with the intent to read up on him some more, just in case there was anything else relevant—and was there ever.

  White Settlement Meth Dealer Dies in Prison

  Convicted meth dealer, Charles “Charlie” Reid, who was sentenced to 60 years in prison in 2011, died Thursday of cardiac arrest. He was 56.

  The article was dated April 18, 2013.

  You were twenty when your dad died; only eighteen when he was sentenced to prison the second time; eleven when he went to prison the first time. My mind reeled with questions. What must that have felt like? What kind of home did you live in? Where the hell was your mother? Lynette was your Aunt; did that mean she was Charles’ sister? Was Jade your sister? Was Jade the girl in the hospital?

  “Jade Ashton White Settlement, Texas,” I inquired of Google, and I got an answer to one of my questions and the story got even grimmer.

  The search results returned several articles, the first being one from the Fort Worth Star Telegram.

  Elementary School Teacher Seriously Injured in One-Car Accident

  Jade S. Ashton, 25, of White Settlement was seriously injured Tuesday in a one-car accident on FM 731 near the intersection with Altamesa Blvd. in Fort Worth, the Crowley Police Department reports. At 6:15 a.m., she was headed south in a 2005 Ford Focus and hydroplaned off the road, where it struck a utility pole and she was ejected from the vehicle through the windshield, the report said. Ashton is a fourth grade teacher at Meadow Creek Elementary and was on her way to work. She was taken to John Peter Smith Hospital, where she is in critical condition.

  “Damn… fourth grade teacher. That seriously sucks.” I glanced at the date on the article.

  November 30, 2015.

  “Critical condition, indeed,” I said, exhaling loudly enough that a bypassing man touched my shoulder and asked, “Everything all right?”

  “Oh. Yeah,” I lied. “Just… peachy.”

  Just peachy, right? Ha. Because I knew it had to have been some kind of coma; why Jade would still be in such a state eight months later. I also knew you weren’t going to talk to me about her without some serious finessing. I didn’t know if she was your cousin or your sister, but either way she was your family and potentially the last of your family.

  No wonder you had been so evasive in the car. No wonder you drank the way you did. No wonder you cried so much. No wonder, no wonder, no wonder. I’d reported on countless harrowing stories in the six years I’d been working and what I’d learned about you in the past twenty-four hours was up there with some of the worst.

  Harrowing as it was, however, it didn’t answer the main question: what was with the antics? The fountain, climbing onto the roof of the bar, riding the lawnmower into town, locking people’s keys in their cars, “borrowing” horses, refusing to tell anyone your name? Well, anyone besides the friendly janitor at the hospital.

  You were definitely odd, as so many of those people said, but I had a sense that oddness had something to do with your Greek tragedy life. I also had a sense I’d be able to keep pulling that loose string until I managed to unravel your entire sweater, leaving you more naked than you’d been in the fountain.

  How ironic it is that I’d be introduced to you in such an exposed state, that you’d tempt me with that exposed state so many times, all the while fighting tooth and nail to keep from truly baring yourself to me.

  I’m feeling a little frayed. Seven hours, Charlie. We’ve been at this for seven hours now and it hasn’t made a difference yet. Yet. You’re more than welcome to jump in at any point and let me know if this is helping.

  Nothing to say?

  I didn’t think so. That’s okay. There’s still a lot more left.

  Hour Eight

  “You’re sure she’s his daughter?” my editor asked, raising his voice above the dull roar of the newsroom and peering at the outline I’d thrown together.


  “Positive. One hundred percent.”

  “‘Left Behind: What Becomes of Children Raised Around Meth.’ Damn. This looks good. Okay. Run with it.” He turned to head back into his office and then called over his shoulder, “Don’t disappoint me, McCollum.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, McCollum,” I mimicked under my breath.

  There would be no disappointment because I fully believed I had this. Not only was it going to be some of my best work, it was also going to be a piece of friggin’ cake, but I didn’t anticipate you disappearing from the face of the earth.

  I went to your house every day for a week. Your car was always there. Your cat was always there—he presented me with several macabre gifts, including the bloody corpse of a raven while he smugly licked his mouth—but you weren’t. AJ was mopping his own floors and hadn’t seen you since the previous Saturday. The bar owner hadn’t seen you since that first Friday and said to try the one liquor store in town, because obviously.

  The liquor store could have been AJ’s gas station 2.0, with its questionable standards of sanitation and the scent of alcohol mixed with sweat, but it had the added nuance of cigarette smoke lingering in the atmosphere. Also like AJ’s, it was a veritable sauna and I had to push up my sleeves and release an extra button at the top of my shirt. A portly gentleman—who couldn’t be bothered by the heat, wearing a full suit and tie in late August—perused the tequila section, a blue-collar beanpole of a guy stood in front of the beer refrigerators, and a flip flop-clad blonde leaned against the unattended counter with bottles of Blue Curaçao and Grey Goose.

  She slapped the counter three times with her open palm and hollered, “Sissy! I need to get going!”

  “Hold your horses, Stephanie,” came a woman’s voice from the open side door.

  Stephanie, my mind piped up. As in, Stephanie McBride perhaps?

  I grabbed the nearest bottle of something and stood behind the young woman.

  “I’ve been waiting for like five minutes,” Stephanie retorted. “Your smoke break is gonna make me late.”

  “Where you headed, honey?” Sissy inquired, her voice thick and sweet as the term of endearment she used.

  “Throwing a surprise party for Dee. She got accepted to law school.” Stephanie laughed. “Nerd.”

  “How wonderful! Well, tell her I said congratulations.”

  Stephanie started to lift the paper sack and the words spilled out of my mouth. “Stephanie McBride?”

  “Yeah?” She turned to me with her top lip curled defensively, but released it as her eyes scanned from my feet to my face. “Who’s asking?”

  “Do you know a Charlotte Reid?”

  She crinkled her brow. “No?”

  “Charlie Reid?”

  “Sure don’t.”

  “My mistake. Sorry to bother you.”

  “You can bother me. Have we met?” Her eyes were wide and bright as she fanned her face and I fully expected her to say something like, is it hot in here or is it just YOU, but she settled for, “Was it Donna’s pool party two weeks ago? My memory’s a little fuzzy.”

  “Ahh…” I stammered before smiling oh-so-smoothly. Shameless? Completely. But sometimes a little charm can go a long way. How many other Stephanie McBrides could possibly be in this town? “No. Just a guess. Do you live around here?”

  She fanned her face again. “Not since about March. I got an apartment in Benbrook. But I grew up here, yeah. I had to swing by and pick up a check from my brother. He owns the corner store across the way.”

  Grab the string, pull, unravel, unravel, unravel.

  “Oh you mean AJ?”

  “Yes!” She gasped. “Do you know him?”

  “I stopped by there the other day for directions. Really nice guy.”

  “He’s a bumpkin,” she said, giggling and batting her eyelashes. “Are you from out of town?”

  “I live in Dallas and got turned around.”

  “We-ell…” she drawled, sounding just like her bumpkin brother as she ripped off a corner of the bag and grabbed a pen from the counter to scribble on it. “If you don’t have any plans later come on by. Barbeque and a DJ and lots of drinks! What’s your name?”

  I offered my hand. “Seth.”

  She shook it as her cheeks turned as pink as her lip gloss. “Nice to meet you. Hopefully see you later?”

  “Hopefully.”

  She grinned and fanned her face as she slipped out the door. I set the bottle on the counter, only to find Sissy scowling at me. I smiled and she raised one eyebrow.

  “I’ve got a shotgun,” she announced, “and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  I wiped the smile off my face. “Excuse me?”

  “Give it here,” she commanded, holding out her palm.

  “What?”

  “Her phone number. You’re too old for her.”

  “Oh. That’s not what I was—”

  “Hand it over, sonny.”

  I hastily dropped the brown square on the counter and she stuffed it in her pocket. “I promise that’s not what I was doing. I’m looking for a young woman named Charlie. The man who owns the bar on Las Vegas Trail said she may have come by here recently. She’s twenty-three, tall, slender, long dark hair—”

  “You better stay away from her, too.” She snagged the bottle and aggressively punched buttons on the register. “Nine-fifty.”

  I handed her a twenty. “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve seen her in here enough to know that you need to stay away from her.” She slapped my change on the counter. “Go find someone your own age and quit preying on troubled young girls.”

  “So you do know Charlie?”

  “I just said I’ve seen her in here enough to know she’s troubled. When girls her age buy beer and whiskey every other day like clockwork, men your age have no business talking to them.” She shoved the bag toward me. “Go back to, Dallas, sonny. I better not see your smug mug in here again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I sat in my car and checked the contents of the bag. Apparently, I’d just purchased 750 ml of Canadian whiskey so cheap I’d never even heard of it, but I couldn’t be bothered by that. There were dozens of little puzzle pieces floating around in the air and I couldn’t figure out how they fit together, but I knew they fit together.

  Because, once again, how many Stephanie McBrides could there possibly be in this town? And what were the odds that one of them happened to be the sister of the guy you occasionally worked for? And if she didn’t know you, why was her name on a legal advertisement in your mailbox?

  “Damn,” I said to the steering wheel, drumming my fingers on it until I slapped the center as if punctuating a rim shot. “That’s it. I’m going back to the house and I’m not leaving until after she gets home and talks to me. I don’t care if I have to wait all night long.”

  As expected, your car and your cat were there, but you weren’t. The gray cat sat on your front porch like a stone guard. I parked in the driveway of the condemned house next door and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Night fell.

  I waited some more. While I waited, I turned on the radio and pulled the whiskey out of the bag.

  “R and R,” I read the label. “Rich and rare, huh? For nine bucks, I seriously doubt that.” I glanced around before looking back at the bottle. I had nothing else to do and was genuinely curious what absurdly cheap whiskey tasted like, so I unscrewed the lid and took a swig.

  “Fuck.” I coughed. “This is the rankest shit I’ve ever tasted.”

  But when you’re waiting and bored, liquor is liquor and I took another swig before replacing the lid and slipping the bottle back in the bag. The gray cat jumped on the hood of my car, curled into a ball, and stared me down with that smug expression.

  “Hey!” I rolled down the window and shooed him with my arm. “Dude! Get lost!”

  He licked his paw as if flipping me the bird and cocked his head.

/>   “You’re going to scratch my car. Get off.”

  He squeaked his Mike Tyson squeak at me, stood, turned, and stuck his tail straight up in the air, as if intentionally showing me his asshole; as if calling me an asshole.

  “You’re the asshole. Asshole.”

  He stepped to the front edge of the hood and sat with his back to me. Sheer boredom compelled me to climb out of the car and sit on the hood next to him.

  “Why are you such an asshole?”

  He squeaked at me and I begrudgingly patted his head.

  “So tell me about your human. How long have you been together?”

  Squeak.

  “What about the other humans? How many people lived here with you before?”

  Squeak, squeak.

  “Do you know Jade?”

  Squeak.

  “Is she her sister? Charlie’s?”

  He turned his head and seemed to look right into my eyes. Almost like he was cognizant enough to understand what I was saying.

  “You know her name? Charlie? She’s your human, right? The girl who lives here.”

  His head bobbed forward as if he nodded, but maybe I was drunk already.

  “Charlie.”

  He stared at me and then stood up to rub his face against my arm, covering my sleeve in cat hair, eliciting an exasperated sigh from me, and reminding me I’ll never own any animals.

  “I guess you don’t like being left alone like this, huh?” I asked, and he climbed into my lap. “Seriously?”

  I picked him up and plopped him next to me, causing him to growl and spit.

  “Sorry. Gotta draw the line somewhere.”

  I pulled out my phone. The time on the screen read 12:18 and headlights illuminated the cross street as a car turned onto the road. It pulled into the driveway, parked next to your car, and I continued to wait. Approaching you in the dark wasn’t the smartest idea, but I sure as hell was going to knock on your door after you went inside.