Sacred Hart
Authors: A.M. Johnson
A.M. JOHNSON
Sacred Hart
By A.M. Johnson
Copyright 2016 A.M. Johnson
Except the original material written by the author, all songs, and song Titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-945176-56-2
Editing by Kathleen Payne and Amy Senethavilay
Book format and design by
Swish Design & Editing
Proofing by
Swish Design & Editing
Cover design by
Francessca Webster
Cover image Copyright 2016
To those who have lost their way… may you find your compass.
For
Tiffany and Cornelia
You see me clearly… even when I cannot.
“Perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another.”
Jane Austen
Emma~
The rain poured down against the windshield of the ambulance, and the closer we got to the scene, the harder it was to see through the torrent. I needed to be there already. It was the same every time we got a call, every time. But, this time, it was too close to home, and I wasn’t able to calm my nerves like I’d been able to in the past.
“It’s a fucking three-year-old. Got nailed by a truck. Possible DOA, man. Be prepared.”
Ganz spoke to me like the greenie I was.
“This is our neighborhood, Ganz. Holy shit, you think…?” My stomach dropped, and my already high heart rate made my sternum feel as if it would split open.
“Nah, Hartford, this ain’t Belle.” He shook his head.
Belle, my baby girl.
The sirens screamed and, for a moment, I thought I heard her say my name. I thought I heard my little girl calling out for me, calling out for her daddy. I rolled my shoulders and shook it off.
We came to a fast stop a street down from where I lived. The equipment in the back rattled and jarred me out of my fear. There was already a shit ton of police and first responders on the scene. I could barely make out through the blurred glass, a white sheet on the ground close to the gutter.
Ganz jumped out of the bus. I started to follow suit until a buddy from one of the other local stations started to run toward the ambulance. He was waving his hands, tears, which I had mistaken at first for rain, were in his eyes.
“Keep him back, Ganz.” Joel’s frantic arms waved as he grew closer. I looked back at the DOA on the ground — the three-year-old girl who had been “nailed” by a truck — and everything I had in my stomach burned up my throat. I threw-up just outside the open door of the ambulance.
I choked out one word. “No.”
“Oh my God, Ryan. I’m… I’m…”
“No, that’s not my baby girl! Belle! No, no, no.” I jumped from the truck and slipped in my own vomit. The rain poured over me as I tried to fight my way past Joel, Ganz, and three other paramedics. “Belle!” I roared, but they held me back. They wouldn’t let me see her. They wouldn’t let me help her. “God, please, I can help her. Let me help her! Help my daughter! Why isn’t anyone helping her?”
I shoved away from Joel and everything spun around me. The flashing of blue and red lights through the rain dizzied me, and I fell to my knees. One of the police officers tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t see past that tiny, white sheet.
The heavy metal gate shut behind me; the loud clang of the lock grinding into its groove sent a spark of adrenaline down my spine. The dust of the gravel road stirred as the Greyhound bus came to an abrupt stop. I was done with this fucking hell hole. The last ten years of my life had been spent here, in this cage. But as freedom fell before me, and I took that first step into my supposed future, it was like time never passed. It was day one all over again.
I turned and watched the tower guards, imagining they could see my eyes and know that I was still a man. They never took my pride… that had been taken from me the day I put a bullet in my best friend. The muscles in my forearms flexed as my hands curled into fists. My anger was short lived as the high keen of air brakes grabbed my attention. The bus door opened, and the driver stared at me. His narrowed eyes making assumptions, wondering if I was dangerous and deciding that I was. He swallowed deeply as he took in my broad frame and my dead eyes. I had nothing — not a bag, not a possession. It had all been taken from me ten years ago. The day they caged the animal — the day my daughter died — the day my wife became a whore.
I had nothing but the shirt on my back, the memories that still burned through my veins, and the regret I drowned in every damn day.
The smell of bacon grease was heavy. The pop and crackle wasn’t enough of a warning before the oil singed the hair on my arm, and the burn saturated my skin.
“Damn it.” The metal spatula clanged as it hit the dirty linoleum. I took a deep breath and shook my head before I leaned down to pick it up. The bell rang and Lou started shouting at me. My brain was misfiring today. Today was the anniversary of her death, and I just couldn’t fake it… not today. My lids sealed shut, and I tried to picture a happier time. I tried to remember my daughter as more than a ghost, as more than a body under a sheet.
Her hair had been that kind of blonde, the kind that was so gold and straight you’d be fending off the boys for years. Until one day, she’d finally find a man that caught her eye. Her eyes were brown, like mine, and round like — I couldn’t think her name.
“Ryan, the entire police department is waiting on their breakfast.”
“What, all three of them?” I smirked.
“You’re not funny — good looking, but not funny. Snap out of it honey, we got customers.” Lou popped her gum and put the pen she was holding behind her ear before she turned to leave. The kitchen door swung and almost hit her on her way out.
The day I left prison was the day I left Florida behind. I took the small amount of belongings I had and moved as far away from
her
and my fucked up life as I could. I’d had no idea where I was going that day, but when the bus driver inquired I’d asked,
“How far does this bus line go?”
Oakville, Washington was the answer I got, so that’s where I went.
The bus stopped abruptly, and the sound of rain grated down my spine. I didn’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming to one of the rainiest states; rain was one of my triggers. It always reminded me of the night Belle was taken from me. The bus doors opened, and the heavy smell of pine hit me in the chest. The cool air filled my head, occupying all the space where Belle was hiding. I could do this. I grabbed the small bag of belongings I’d acquired along the way and headed to the front of the bus. The lights of the small diner just off the road flickered — Red’s. The E was shorting in and out and I smiled. For some reason, the crappy look of the place seemed fitting for my messy life.
“Good luck, this is the last stop. I’m pretty sure this diner is open for another hour, and the Old Mill Motel is about a mile up the road.” The bus driver’s leathered face softened as he smiled, and I couldn’t help but notice how his stomach protruded enough that it hit the steering wheel.
“Thanks.” I pulled my baseball cap down just enough to cover my eyes, shielding my face from the weather. My nervous energy made me feel sick to my stomach as my boots hit the damp earth. The light mist of rain beaded over my bare arms, and the chilly damp air sent goose bumps along my skin. My old cut off T-shirt wasn’t much protection for this climate.
The joint was empty. The jukebox in the corner was playing some sad-ass song, and the only person I could see as I walked in was sitting at the countertop. His head was hung low, his elbows resting on the shellacked surface of the counter. I took a quick glance around the place deciding it was dingy at best. The walls yellowed with grease, and the smell of overcooked oil hung in the air.
“Can I help you?” The man’s voice was stretched thin, but he didn’t move. His navy blue suit jacket hung from the back of his stool. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled, and his pale skin sagged with age.
“You open?” I suddenly felt like I was intruding as I watched him throw back a shot of amber liquid.
“You drink whiskey?” He turned to look at me and his mouth twitched. “You look like you drink whiskey.” His pale gray eyes followed the length of my body down to the floor and back up again.
“I don’t drink.” Not anymore.
“Yeah, you do.” He stood and wobbled as he gathered his balance. “Sit, have a drink. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Once he stood, I could see that he was short for a man, but I gathered his poor posture and how his shoulders rolled inward didn’t help his stature. His hair was white and thin on top. I was never good with age, but this man’s experience showed in the deep creases of his forehead. “You work here?” I navigated through the tables to the row of stools where he’d been sitting. The set of booths that ran along the window were made of green vinyl, and as I passed them, I noticed most of them were cracked. The vinyl, on some of the booths, was held together by tape. This place was a shit hole.
“I own it.” He moved quickly behind the counter assembling this and that. I sat down on a stool, and he placed a shot of whiskey in front of me. I stared down at the offending liquid. I knew I shouldn’t. I needed to always stay in the present. I couldn’t go back there, and losing control, losing my mind, it would only bring me back to them — to everything. “Well, you gonna drink it or stare at it.” He smirked as he laid a plate in front of me.
I took the shot and the alcohol burned its way down my throat. “Shit.”
“Only the best, only the best. Cheers, Red.” He looked up at the ceiling just before he gulped down the drink. He whistled and smiled. “She always loved Crown.”
For the moment, he was quiet. His eyes not really focused on anything. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just said, “Th-thank you,” I stammered. “I mean, for the sandwich.”
He nodded and watched me take a bite. “So?”
I raised my eyebrows. “So?”
“Aren’t you curious why the hell I’m sitting here, alone, drinking?” His grin touched his eyes as he poured me another shot.
I chuckled. “I suppose.”
“He supposes.” He shook his head. “Where’re you from?”
“Florida.”
“Florida! Why the hell did you come here? On a bus? Shit, son, that’s a ways away.” He poured another two shots and pushed the small glass in front of me. “You running?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I suppose.”
He laughed loudly. “He supposes. You hear that, Red? We got a smart ass.” Again, it was like he was talking to someone who wasn’t there. “You got a job? Not much work here in Oakville.”
“No, I don’t really have a plan. All I know is I’ll be staying at the Old Mill.” I didn’t like talking to people. I’d been locked up for ten years; social niceties weren’t my thing. This old man seemed all right though, seemed liked he’d seen his share of pain, like he could relate to the death of life, of hope. He owned this piece of shit diner, he was alone and drinking, but… he still lived. He still lived.
“My wife died three years ago. Today is the anniversary of the day I buried her. This was our place. This was ours.” His gaze landed on mine. “Cancer, it’s a bitch I tell you.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I picked up the shot glass and poured the whiskey down my throat. The warmth filled my gut, and suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. “Red?”
“Yes. Harlow, but she had the brightest orange curls you ever saw. So I called her Red. Very original.” He chuckled as he sipped his newly poured drink. “Married forty-five years, ran this dump together… you know… I could use a hand around here. I got an apartment out back. Used to be her brother’s when he lived here. But, he died four years ago, goddamn cancer.” He mumbled the last part under his breath.
“I don’t have any references,” I said.
My anger started to surface. I hated that I had nothing to offer.
“Look. We’ll see how it goes?” His speech was slurred.
“Thanks. I’ll come by in the morning, see if you still have a job and an apartment to offer.” I didn’t hold out hope that once he sobered up he would be dolling out the charity to an ex-con.
“We open at seven. Be here and you can start then. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” I smiled at his scowl. “It’s Ryan, Ryan Hartford.”
“Well. Ryan, Ryan Hartford, be here. The breakfast rush is a bitch. By the way, I’m Tony."
I grabbed my wallet out of my back pocket.
“I don’t need any money from you, put that away.” He waved his hand at me.
“I don’t need your charity.” The sting of my words was lost in his alcohol haze. He shook his head and walked into the back through a swinging door. The guilt rose in my stomach. I was an asshole. I threw one of the three twenty dollar bills to my name on the counter.
The cold air washed the stale diner film from my lungs. The lights of the motel weren’t too far off, and I hoped it didn’t cost more than forty a night. Otherwise, I’d be sleeping in the woods, and as much as State prison sucked, that option wasn’t something I wanted to really experience.
The ground sounded different here. It sounded more permeant as my feet hit the surface, and the wet pavement soaked up the sound of my boots. This was it. I could feel it. The diner sign darkened making the night sky more oppressive, and the low clouds watched as I moved down the long road.
The clamor of the morning rush shook me from my memory. I’d been here for three months now. Tony had remembered me the next day when I showed up for a job I didn’t think I was really going to get. That night had proved to be one of the worst nights of my life. I’d slept on the sopping wet forest floor, and I’d prayed to just die so I could be with Belle again. I’d shot my best friend with the intent to kill him, did ten years hard time for assault with a deadly weapon. A crime of passion they called it, but that wasn’t my worst. The worst was shivering, thinking my life was done, nothing to my name, under the pine needles. Seven in the morning couldn’t have come sooner.
Tony took me in like I was his own damn son. It helped that he’d once been a priest before his
“heart was stolen”.
His words not mine. He was a giving old man, ornery as hell, but willing to try and help anytime, anyway he could. The locals loved him and, though they still couldn’t get a read on me, they trusted me to some extent because of Tony.
“Seriously, Ryan, Lou is gonna cut your balls off. Officer Reynolds is running late. He needs it to go, son.” Tony frowned at me as he started boxing up what I’d completed of the seven orders of bacon, egg, and cheese bagel sandwiches. “What’s up? I know you don’t drink, so why you slagging ass today?” The crinkle of the wax paper distracted me from the question. The noise jarred me. “You listening… Ryan?” My eyes met his worried gaze. The line between his brows furrowed deeply.
“Sorry, Tony, just… didn’t sleep well.” I didn’t tell him today was the anniversary of Belle’s death. The anniversary of the night I’d gone home to tell my wife,
Sarah,
our baby girl was dead. The same night I’d found her fucking my best friend, Paul, in our bed. She’d been so distracted by my best friend’s dick; she hadn’t heard Belle sleep walking like she normally would have. She didn’t hear her open the front door and walk outside. Sarah was so busy being a whore, our three-year-old walked several city blocks in the middle of the night, in the rain, and was struck by a drunk driver. A sober driver wouldn’t have seen her in that shit weather.
My throat contracted and my jaw ached as I grit my teeth together. “Ryan, look at me. What…
what?
” Tony’s eyes were wide as he raised his voice. Just that one look begged me to just open up. “Shit, spit it out. You’re like a land mine, son, just explode already.”
“Today was the day my daughter died.” The tight cadence of the words fell flat against the countertop. The wax paper he held crunched as he rolled his hand into a fist.
