For tonight at least, Jillian Swan was Victoria Burnside. Could you imagine? The gossip if old Burney was discovered dancing, even for just one night? They’d think it was a sure-fire miracle. Let them talk. It’s not like they’ll know. We’re all wearing masks. But then again, why would Mr. Westfield send an invitation to a woman known to have had a stroke? Did he not hear the news? Maybe…maybe not. Who cares?
—Speaking of gossip.
The host of the evening, Mr. Augustus Westfield, was as much a subject of talk in town as Jillian had ever known before. From what she’d gathered from listening in on the hens squawking at the market, Mr. Westfield had been a Confederate, a veteran from the war. He never spoke of it publicly, but the old hags wagered as much from his deformity, an amputated leg. He was also unmarried; lived alone in that big house up on Oak Lee. The very house she was in now, dancing with masked strangers and dining on fine foods. When he first moved to Jotham, Mr. Westfield was seldom found in town. He was considered nothing more than a poor hermit, or so the rumors went. But then everything changed, didn’t it? Aaron said the lumberyards were about to close, but then Mr. Westfield rode into town. He said coins fell from his purse like rain.
Jillian Swan, much like some folk in Jotham, believed, as odd as he was, that Augustus Westfield saved their home from becoming nothing more than another dust town remembered only in history books. So how could the rumors of him be true, how could she believe Mr. Westfield was nothing but a strange rich hermit? Not with the masquerade. Not with the tables lined against the walls piled high with dishes of succulent fruits. Not with the roasted pig with the shiny apple in its mouth. Not with mushrooms stuffed with God knows what. And the crab puffs, baked artichoke squares with tiny sun dried tomato pesto sprinkled over top. Not with avocado wrapped in prosciutto. Not with the chilled white chocolate mousse. Not with the silver candle sticks and the glowing hearth. Not with the bottles of wine and champagne. No. Mr. Westfield was no hermit. He was something else entirely.
Jillian found the mystery of the host absolutely provocative. If I could only meet him, she fantasized, for a dance. It would be a dream, to look up into his handsome face. Would it be love at first sight? Maybe. Why not.
A strong hand seized her just then and she was swept back out onto the dance floor. Though not as large as the one from the story her grandmother told her when she was a child, Cenerentola, it was large enough to allow a sizable gathering to waltz and twirl and bow and spin comfortably. The masked gentleman was a stranger, but then again, so was everyone else. The faces behind those flashy masks were just as much a mystery as Mr. Westfield. That was part of the appeal of these sorts of happenings, or so she imagined. You could dance with whomever you pleased. You could kiss any you wished. No one knew your name or who you really were. Here, no one knew she was from the lower caste, nothing more than a servant. No one knew. And perhaps as the evening wore on, as the heat intensified, something less eloquent, more seductive would catch on and grow like wild fire. No one would even care about the truth, even if it was discovered somehow. Perhaps if the bedrooms upstairs could be made useful, the name Jillian Swan would disappear among the groans and moans and pleasurable sighs.
Jillian smiled, allowing the warm intoxicating thoughts to swirl behind her eyes. The gentleman she danced with had a strong hold on her hand, sidestepping beside her. He smelled sweet, like caramel or perhaps some sort of berry. His teeth looked perfect, too perfect to be someone such as herself, and she loved it. The gentleman spun her and then brought her close. Close enough for her to feel the swollen bulge beneath his silk trousers. He spun her again and brought her close, lips almost touching. He spun her once again and when he brought her back this time his lips parted and gently graced her own. His hot breath, his touch sent shivers down her spine. She could feel a kindling in her lower belly, the same feeling she got when she’d snuck out one night with that lumber-man, Aaron, and was laid upon a quilt out past Juniper Hill. She felt warm. She felt excited. And then she was spinning once more and twirling across the dance floor. Her head buzzed with excitement. The candles and the glow from the fireplace blurred like falling stars around her. She spun and dipped and bowed. The gentleman had the grace of an angel, while his smile was of something more devilish.
Mother would not approve, she thought, giggling, following the masked gentleman to the staircase. To behave with a man in such a manner to suggest I was nothing more than a church sweating whore. Jillian smiled at the thought. She did not care because tonight she was no longer Jillian the Farm Hand. No. No. Tonight she was Victoria the Mistress. And still she was more than that. It was by Victoria’s invitation that she’d gained access to the masquerade, but behind the wild costumes anonymity was the true identity. They were nothing more than forms and shapes behind elegant dresses and suits. They were soft lips and succulent breasts and creamy skin and hungry eyes and hard erections and wet genitalia aroused by anticipation. They danced and they ate and they danced some more and they drank and eventually they would thrust and moan and flood their senses with hot, molten desire, biting, pinching, filling, licking, teasing, penetrating. It would be a night to remember, though none would ever get the chance to tell the tale the next morning.
CHAPTER 17
ROYAL HANGOVER
Johnathan
Johnathan rolled over and vomited on broken stalks of wheat. His throat burned with each pulsing gorge. Eyes streamed hot tears. His body ached. His mind reeled as it fought to remember anything of the night before, like a rubber band, stretched and then let go, retracting upon itself with a snap. He recalled the drive and Karen’s silent treatment and Buc-ee’s and hallucinating Ricky…again. He remembered how sad the corpse had looked and how tired he was with the whole ordeal. He remembered deciding to check himself into the VA, come Monday. And then he remembered driving up to the house, Maggie’s house, the house where they’d been before, supposedly when they were kids. And then they unpacked and waited on Jake and Bobby. And then there was dinner and warm talk and trots down memory lane. Maggie had offered some beer. Karen gave her blessing. He had a few…or more. And Bobby had brought a bottle of Jake Daniels…
Bobby…Karen…oh no…Johnathan rubbed his face. The after dinner gathering. More drinking. It all came back. The way he acted. The way he teased the pauper who’d once been a close friend. Shit. And he recalled Karen, her sullen disappointed gaze. And then what…? How did I get out here? Did I sleep-drunk walk out here?
Johnathan carefully sat up. For a while, without thinking, only breathing painfully, he stared down at the empty spot where his prosthetic should have been.
“Where’s my leg?” he rasped, clutching at his dry throat, looking around at the tall stalks of wheat. Ears of grain glared down at him from up high. Rays of what he assumed to be an early morning sunrise shone brightly through the beads of golden brown. Bands of noctilucent clouds in the blue sky were dissolving into thin wisps of white. Birds chirped annoyingly in the distance. Grasshoppers buzzed from somewhere in the field. If not for the pounding head and his scattered mind, and the sudden unwelcome return of guilt, had it not been for the remembrance of his actions last night, it would have been very pleasant morning indeed.
“Where the hell am I? Must be somewhere in the field by the house,” Johnathan rasped again, still clutching his throat, growling, painfully dislodging the phlegm caught behind each influx of air. He looked around for his cane but found only folded and crumpled stalks of wheat.
“Christ, how much did I drink?” he wondered, rubbing his temples, looking back to his leg, curious how he was going to get back to the house. “And this is why I don’t drink sour mash or any other kind of cheap southern whiskey. Stuff will rot your gut and leave you blind. Scotch on the other hand. It’ll toss you in the storm but you’ll come out the other end with your pants on at least.”
Johnathan rubbed his stump. It was sore underneath his wet jeans soaking up the morning dew. The pant leg looked shriveled, like discar
ded snake skin. “Well, hell, only one way to do this.” He gritted his teeth and slowly, carefully got to one knee and then to one leg. His head spun from the elevation. His balance wobbled. With his hands held out at his sides like some tightrope performer or some drunk walking the line, he steadied on his foot.
“Okay, here we go.”
Johnathan took one precarious hop and went crashing back to the ground. His shoulder cried out. His stomach tumbled in his throat. His eyes went white. Skin flooded with cold and clammy blood.
“Jesus, for fucks sake!” he whined, his head resting back on the crushed stalks of wheat. Sweat poured off him. Wearily he looked up into the sky and watched the world spin. “Just how in the hell did I get all the way out here without my damn prosthetic?” he asked himself, “Without my cane? What happened last night?”
Something large and black landed on his face, covering most of his vision. Panicked, Johnathan flicked whatever it was away. The black object chirped and clicked and then flew away on transparent wings. Its dark red eyes glared back at him with discontent. Ugh! He shivered, checking himself and his makeshift bed for anymore intruders. Satisfied he was alone, his mind went back to work piecing together what exactly happened after everyone went to bed. His tongue had chased away both Bobby and Jake. Only Maggie was there. But she wasn’t talking. He rubbed his temporal lobe. There was something else, something hiding in the shadows of his memory. He’d passed out, of that much he was sure. But he woke at some point, right? Was Maggie still there? He peered into the fuzzy black. Yes. She was still there watching the fire. She was still. Very still. I thought she was asleep. But she wasn’t. She was awake. She looked at me. There was a sound. Strange clicking sounds. Like those bugs from Tabitha’s book. And Maggie, she—
Blank.
Nothing.
Forgotten.
Blotted out.
Christ! Why can’t I remember? Too much booze? Was it just a drunken dream? Maybe. Maybe that’s why I’m out here. I was dreaming and got scared and ran. Lost my leg somewhere in the process. And my cane. Considering Ricky’s appearance of late, perhaps this isn’t so farfetched. Pretty fucked up. But not farfetched.
At some point while Johnathan was collecting himself, the buzzing escalated around him, encircling him in a feral chorus of clicking and chirping. The rattle was nonstop, gaining pitch with each second. He looked around, trembling. As if the tumult itself awakened some distant recollection. For whatever reason unbeknownst to him, he felt as if he were a teenager again, watching the dark places for some bloated creature with elongated hairy tibias reaching out for some meat to grind between its many teeth-like mandibles, just like one of those B-horror movie monsters from one of Ricky’s late night flicks. What was that one we stayed up one night watching? Them! Yes, that’s the one…God that sound gave me nightmares for weeks. The ringing, clicking, rattling buzz.
Johnathan watched the darkness between the stalks. The clicking breathed in and out in deafening unison. He watched. Waited for…what?
***
Karen
Karen loved Johnathan. There was no doubt in her mind about that. He was there for her when Tabitha was born. He stuck with her when that sleaze ball Chad took off. ‘I didn’t sign up for this,’ she could still hear the shithead saying. ‘Weren’t you on the pill? How is this my fault?’ Johnathan had never asked about Chad. He was just there, for doctor checkups all the way to delivery. And then he joined the service, asked her to marry him at the Justice of the Peace. Nothing fancy. She’d gone along with it, having lost much hope for a fairytale wedding the moment the Clearblue showed blue. And she’d followed him to Hood after Basic. She played housewife. Washed his uniforms. Cooked his meals. Helped pack his ruck during training. She’d even joined the FRG, along with her sister of course. Not that that mattered much to her. Sure, she loved her older sister, but she never considered their relationship to be anything to marvel over. And most importantly, according to Karen at least, she’d stuck with Johnathan when orders for deployment came down, waiting for the unknown. The days, sometimes weeks that’d go by without so much as a word. When he called, he’d never talk about how he was, not even for her own peace of mind. She even stayed when those two Army officers came walking to her door one afternoon during an FRG meeting and gave Ricky’s death notification to Maggie. God…it was more than horrible, to see the expression on her face…mortifying. Karen hated herself for it later, but at the time all she could think of was how Johnathan was doing. Was he okay? Where did they take him? What will he look like? ‘Jesus, please let him be okay,’ she recalled praying while holding her sister as Maggie sobbed uncontrollably, looking with distrust at the two soldiers in dress uniforms standing in her foyer. What good is the Army? What good is the sacrifice? she also recalled thinking.
Karen promised herself then and there she’d see to Johnathan’s recovery the day those death messengers came calling for Maggie. But how long will his recovery be? How long? Karen soon found out that it wasn’t just his leg that was injured. How long? When Johnathan got the job with the Wounded Warriors Project, she thought he was over the hump, as they say, on the mend. Sure, he might have nightmares from time to time, but nothing like he was when he first got back home. Yet things have gotten worse…He was drinking more. Talking about…impossible things. Ricky for one…How much more can I take? Johnathan promised her he’d stop drinking, and he did. But then last night…They weren’t here for themselves. They were here for Maggie. She’d been patient long enough. More than a lot of Army wives. Most cut and run before anything truly tragic happens. Not her. She’d stuck it out. She patiently waited for his return, for his recovery. And she would wait still, yet here they were.
Why should I be the only one to make an effort here? He promised. He always promises. What can I do? What can I do? Karen thought, pacing the foyer in front of Maggie’s front door, peeking through the glass, wondering also where he had gone off to last night, her thoughts continually swirling.
Johnathan still will not get help. He drinks. He drinks a lot. And yes, soldiers drink, even ex-soldiers, I can understand that, but this is getting out of hand, has gotten out of hand. And if he won’t get help on his own, I’ll have to make the first move. Damn him…damn him!
***
Johnathan
By the grace of whatever spaghetti monster was watching out for him, Johnathan had found a stick sturdy enough to help him limp out of the wheat field. He had started out in a slow low crawl, drudging awful distant memories of boot camp obstacle courses and inching through the mud while 5.56mm rounds zipped above his head and red flares igniting and some asshole who was probably laughing their ass off playing some sort of simulation music where people were screaming and machine guns rattling, enough special effects to put Michael Bay to shame.
With Maggie’s house in sight, Johnathan felt confident enough to hobble faster, putting most of his weight on the blessed stick. Something black and glossy glimmered in the grass a few yards ahead of him. He smiled reaching down, taking hold of the banana shaped handle.
“There you are,” he beamed taking his cane in his hand. Looking around he spotted another object of his desire, his placebo-skin colored, genium polysilicon leg, resting against a cypress tree not far from Maggie’s porch. He hobbled toward it. He dropped to the ground beside it and just as his orthotist, a real sports kinda guy named Scott who wore these Hook Em’ Horns Under Armor shirts, had shown him several months ago, slid his gnarled stump into the socket, suctioning it carefully in place. Satisfied the seal was airtight, even without his prosthetic sock, he rolled down his pant leg and then used his cane and stood upright.
Johnathan closed his eyes, sighing loudly, breathing in the morning air, and exhaling all the bad juju from last night. Somehow he’d find a way to make it up to everyone. Somehow he would make amends with Karen. With Bobby. With Jake. Hell, even Maggie. And maybe even with himself. Tomorrow, they’d go home with his family. And on Monday, he would check himse
lf into the VA hospital. God help me. He’d get help. He made this pact, and as he opened his eyes he started for the driveway. Moving past the cypress, he noticed Karen standing on the porch, glaring at him in that ‘now you’re going to get it’ look. A look he was very familiar with.
“Here we go,” Johnathan moaned, approaching the steps like a kid caught after curfew.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Karen yelled in a hushed whisper, nearly gnashing her teeth at him.
“I—” Johnathan started in.
Karen waved her hand up, silencing him. “You…I don’t want to hear it. I’m done hearing it. And I don’t get it. I don’t get you. You help other veterans all day long, but you can’t get help for yourself. Why? Why?”
“Actually, I just give speeches. I don’t think I’ve really helped anyone,” Johnathan muttered, looking at his feet, feeling a lot like when he was fourteen and his mom found his porno stash under his bed.
“Seriously? You know what I mean, Johnathan. And even now, after passing out wherever you just came from and you’re joking about it. Even now, you’re not taking this seriously.” Karen pushed her hair from her face angrily. Her gaze kept retreating to the bannister.
Emerging (Subdue Book 2) Page 13
