Hasty Resolution Read online

  Before descending the stairs of our two-story house, I walk along our upstairs hallway to check on my youngest son who is still sleeping with Lego creations covering his bed. I pull his exposed leg under his sheet and steal the opportunity to kiss him on the forehead because he no longer allows me to give him any form of affection when he is awake.

  I tiptoe down the hall to find that my daughter fell asleep with her iPod clasped in her hand, ear buds still in place. I wonder how late my night owl stayed up listening to music before drifting into her dreamland.

  My oldest son, my early bird, is walking out of his bedroom as I close my daughter’s bedroom door. I put my finger to my mouth gesturing him to be quiet.

  I whisper, "Go watch TV in the basement family room so you don't wake anyone too early."

  He groggily agrees with my suggestion.

  There are still a few hours before we need to leave for church as a family. My oldest son beats me down the stairs to our main level. He continues tromping down to the basement, not stopping in the kitchen for a bowl of cereal.

  I stop at the kitchen desk to claim my charged iPhone and connect my headphones. I fill a large glass with cold water from the fridge to take my medicine before walking out the front door.

  I gently pull the door shut so as not to make a clatter in the house. I insert my ear buds while searching my playlist of songs to enjoy on my walk. With each step, I feel an irritating blob of fat jiggling around the circumference of my waistline like an inner tube. Not only have I gained weight while being inactive, but I have also gained flab in places I have never accumulated it before.

  I walk out of my cul-de-sac, stepping off the sidewalk to the asphalt road to avoid the neighbors’ sprinklers as they over-water their lawns. I know every uplifted sidewalk, divot in the road, barking dog, and rhythm of Rain Bird sprinklers. Our home was one of the first homes built in the development. Thirteen years ago, my run was filled with the aroma of onions right before they were ready to harvest. I would watch grain swaying in the morning breeze or farmers bale their hay before the dew evaporated. Harvest time brought migrant workers to these fields, filling trucks full of crates, ready to ship off to distributors nearby. Today, more and more steps are on paved sidewalks lined with flowering trees staked to train their growth upward. I smell less manure than I remember in past years. The sale of the charming farms surrounding our home was inevitable.

  My neighbors would proudly announce when they called the farmers complaining about their equipment running too early in the morning, waking their slumber. Another boasted about calling the city offices to report a rooster crowing at sunrise within city limits. They were proud of their reports while I, on the other hand, was embarrassed. I hope they didn’t add my name into their filed complaints. I did not mind the tractors, trucks, seasonal workers, and the sound of cattle to wake me before my children awoke. I thought it was all quite delightful.

  It saddened me the day a trailer came to haul away the grazing horses on the land directly south of my property line only to be replaced with a million dollar home that would eventually house a recreational pool in the backyard. Those horses were the best neighbors. They never rolled their eyes when my kids misbehaved or nagged me to rake up my leaves in case an early snowstorm hit. I could tell them anything about anyone. It always stayed between us, the horses and me.

  I eventually step onto the familiar gravel-worn road, noticing the fields have significantly shrunk. The gravel road winds in a different route around new, beautiful suburban homes. I wrap my sweatshirt around my waist as I begin to sweat.

  I look onward to the fields; corn growing tall on my left, tomato plants staked ahead, onions sprouting tall. I recognize and remember them all, just fewer in numbers. Some look as if they are ready for migrant workers to harvest, yet others do not. Hard-working people wearing hats will soon litter the roads with worn down farm trucks. However, on this calm, quiet Sunday morning, there is only one truck full of crates parked in the middle of the gravel road. It's not a typical hauling vehicle, nor does it have a farm license plate. The truck is new and spotless. There is a paper of the auto dealer on the rear bumper instead of a registered metal license plate.

  As I walk closer, I discover there is one man working alone, tightening the crates in the bed of the oversized white truck. The truck is parked with its extended bed blocking the road, hoisted high and suspended on enormous wheels. I am at eye level of the top of the black rubber wheels. The truck’s suspension mechanisms lie before my eyes. The silver-plated Super Duty and F350 on the truck shine against the new white paint. I should turn around, but there is room to walk around the enormous truck, so I carry on.

  I try to be polite and nod before walking around the truck, headphones still in my ears. I notice the man wearing work gloves is no migrant worker, yet I do not recognize him as one of the local farmers I’m used to seeing operating and watering these fields.

  The man looks up from his work. His eyes meet mine. He mouths “good morning.” I pull out both of my headphones and respond with a friendly “hello.” I am not running, nor walking a fast enough stride to simply give him a nod and press on without an interruption as typical runners do. I’ve read that when you exercise outdoors, you should say hello to someone you pass so you do not look vulnerable.

  "I mean, ‘good morning.’ I don't mean to be rude," I say with a bright smile.

  The man brushes off his gloves. "I know you, don't I?”

  I shrug, a bit confused, yet curious. "I don't know how you could. I honestly have no idea who you are. I'm sorry; I cannot put a name to your face."

  He swats his hand midair and scoffs, "There's no way you could. I used to see you run down this road every summer when I would come work these fields with my grandpap."

  "You’re a migrant worker?” I ask crinkling my nose. “You don't look like one."

  "I'm not. My grandpap and I used to help his friend on these farms before I went away.”

  The man resumes nailing down crates with a hammer while talking. "You look the same."

  "Really? I'm pretty sure I'm much plumper and much, much older," I interrupt.

  He laughs. "Not really."

  "I'm a bit harder on myself than anyone else is." I grimace.

  "I had to take a closer look at you, since your hair is shorter now. You used to have your hair pulled back when you ran.” He smiles.

  "I remember you used to pull the elastic band out of your hair when you got hot and sweaty. You whipped your hair around and would pull it right back without ever stopping. I could tell it was getting closer to seven o'clock by what time you came by, not by the sun or how long I had been out working. I knew it was seven because you would come running down this road. It was like clockwork."

  I raise both my hands in the air, my headphones and device gripped in one. "You are spot on.”

  I smile, a bit embarrassed that anyone would take notice of my former routine.

  "Your smile. Now, that smile is completely unforgettable. Your whole face shines when you smile.”

  I'm a bit taken back by his comment. "I'm sorry. I'm not following."

  "One day, when I was driving one of the hauling trucks, I raced along the gravel road. I was going pretty fast. You saw me, but I didn't see you. You watched me drive right into the ditch across the street as my grandpap yelled at me screaming, ‘You could have run over that lady!’ He made me get out of the truck cab and apologize to you before getting the truck out of the ditch."

  My eyes widen. "I remember that morning!”

  I giggle as I reflect on the memory as if I was catching up on old times with a forgotten high school buddy.

  "I saw the whole thing happen. Most trucks don't race along these roads, so I stayed out of the way. I watched it from start to finish. I felt so bad for you. I thought that old man was going to have you pick out your own switch before he killed you."

  "He did."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. You were n
ice when I approached you. Best of all, it gave me a chance to come face to face with your smile. I guess I already mentioned that, didn’t I? Any grief my grandpap gave me made it all worthwhile.”

  "That is the sweetest memory. Thank you." I blush.

  This guy is adorable and very good looking.

  "Your smile and your eyes are the same," he mumbles as he turns to bungee cord crates together.

  "Forgive me; it is the one thing burned into my memory and hasn't been erased. No matter how hard I try," he divulges.

  I can't stop smiling and blushing as I continue to engage in small chitchat with this man as he works.

  "Do you still help on one of these farms?" I tilt my head to one side.

  "No. Not like I used to. My grandpap and I well, just me now, have first dibs on the crops. Basically, when there is produce ripe enough to pick, but not quite ready to bring in flocks of workers, I go through and get the first picks," he says, gesturing to the crates stacked in his truck bed.

  "There's a variety of produce like onions, tomatoes, corn, wheat, but mostly potatoes. Actually, more potatoes than I care for, but I’ll take what I can and give the rest to neighbors."

  "That's nice of you. Do you do this every year?" I inquire as I notice his emerald green eyes.

  "Not every year, just when I am back. I come down at my own convenience. Typically, I don’t even have to tell the farmers I am here. One less thing they want to be bothered with." He shrugs, continuing to secure crates and checking for anything that might break loose.

  I want to ask him what he means by, 'Just when I am back.' Back from rehab? Back from a tour of duty? Back from serving time in jail? He seems too old to be fresh out of college. It’s none of my business.

  "But I haven't seen you in a while." He places emphasis on the “you” and my attention snaps back to our conversation as he goes to put extra cords and ropes into the cab of his truck.

  "What! You noticed that I've been on an outdoor running hiatus?" I ask, quite puzzled.

  "Strange, I know. But it’s the truth," he confesses while working as we talk.

  "Well, the reason I haven’t been running lately is kind of complicated. It’s been out of my hands for quite some time," I explain as I focus on untwisting the cords of my tangled headphones and getting ready to commence my walk. "I'm just babbling and keeping you from your work," I tell him as I notice the barren gravel streets and silence of the morning.

  "Nice talking to you." I wave and begin to walk away.

  I didn't ask his name, where he was from, or where he was going in our conversation. I didn’t want to keep this man from getting his work done before the summer heat set in.

  With my device in one hand, my fingertips insert my ear buds back into place. I look down at the small screen shuffling through my playlist. The man steps closer to me. Too close. I am startled. I do not notice anything but his eyes, his emerald green eyes, not breaking from mine. He approaches me with a foul-smelling dirty rag in his hand. I gasp and drop my device. The glittery case shatters at my feet; my ear buds yank hard from my ears and meet with my device on the ground. I look down at the mishap, thinking, 'Oh, great! I've dropped it again! My husband is going to kill me!'

  Occupied with the mangled phone, I do not notice the disgusting rag abruptly pressed against my face. It is covers my nose and my mouth. The man has a strong grip on the back of my head, forcing me to inhale the noxious gasoline fumes saturated in the rag. I grab hold of his wrist. Frantically, I try to get him to release his grip. His vice is too strong to release. I kick as hard as I can. I am kicking him in the shin and then in the knees. I fall to the ground kicking, with no opportunity to scream. The harder I try to make any noise, the more fumes I inhale.

  The man does not release the rag from my mouth. I am trapped with no chance of escape. My eyes widen, making certain to meet his eyes. My eyes strike with complete fear and panic. My head is cupped in one of his hands. I succumb to the fumes. I no longer have the strength to fight, no matter how hard I try. My eyes close. There is now utter darkness. I am without feeling from head to toe. I go as limp as a rag doll.

  Chapter 2: Jake

  I prudently survey the fields and study the length of the roads. This is a horrible thing. What have I done? I have to finish what I impulsively started. I begin to drag the woman into the cab of my truck. One of her pink running shoes slides off as I trail her body along the gravel. I don't collect the shoe. I lay her on the seat, pushing her legs in far enough so the passenger door doesn't catch and shut on her ankles. I set the rag under her nostrils so she will continue to inhale fumes in her unconscious state.

  Her iPhone is on the ground. I kick the scattered pieces haphazardly toward the ditch along with the shoe. Bending over, I wipe away any distinct prints my boots may have left in the dusty gravel before getting into the truck. My keys are still in the ignition. Our lingering conversation gave me the opportunity to secure my cargo, so there is no need to stay in the fields any longer.

  My new truck has a full tank of gas with a reserve tank, which is also full. I turn over the ignition without hesitation. It is too early for the neighboring streets to be filled with church-going people. There are no walkers or runners outside, no farmers managing their water rights. The few drivers I pass do not cock their heads in my direction.

  I drive straight to the freeway entrance. I take note of every vehicle I pass and memorize the license plate number. I am hyper-vigilant. That's what I do, no matter if I am with someone or by myself. I am always looking over my shoulder. It's become second nature. I cannot escape this habit, no matter how hard I try.

  I enter the freeway with her blonde hair adjacent to my hip. I keep my left hand on the steering wheel. I find my right hand stroking her short, sun-kissed hair as I set the cruise control. I continue to drive northbound. Stroking her hair fills me with a comfort I have not felt in a long time. The same comfort I felt when I looked into her blue eyes again, the ocean blue eyes permanently imprinted in my mind.

  This was not what the counselor at the clinic meant by finding someone or something that would give me daily encouragement to help look at the positive things in life. I have tried everything else and failed. This is the only resolution left.

  I keep the toxic rag within reach. I do not want her slumber disturbed immediately. After an hour of nonstop driving, I approach a sign indicating a rest area. It is two miles ahead off the freeway. I notice from the far distance that no cars are parked in the painted stalls. No semi-trucks line the excess parking area. This rest stop is abandoned.

  I stare at the freckles on her smooth face. I listen to the calm hum of her breathing. I pull into the parking lot and park the truck next to a chained garbage can near the restroom. I put my work gloves on to dispose of the damp, toxic rag. I open the driver’s door to step from the cab. I throw away the rag in the green circular can, the evidence of my crime. A nearby tree has pine needles at its base, along with loose dirt and pinecones. I gather a handful of debris to bury the lingering stench of the rag. At one of the picnic tables lies weathered garbage. I place it on top of the waste receptacle to detour the smell. I look closely for anyone who might be passing by. I keep watchful eyes all the while, never letting the cab of the truck out of my sight.

  I gaze at her body, which is lying still – too still. I take off my work gloves and place my index finger under her nostrils. She is still breathing. I place my hand on the key to the ignition. I take a minute, a very long, thoughtful pause.

  This is the moment I need. In the blink of an eye, I can turn this whole thing around, the moment I have to make the right choice, the moment when there is still a point of return. It is not too late to remedy this mistake, this horrific crime. I reflect on a rational option. I could carry her body to a picnic table, lay her on the bench, then drive away. Go straight home and no harm done. Well, some harm, but not too much. She might remember me. However, by the time she does, I will be past the border into Canada, and I will
never return to be identified.

  I lean over to prop her up into a sitting position. I begin to get her out of the cab of the truck. Her body is limp and falls back immediately to the seat. I have carried wounded soldiers and dead men in the desert heat countless number of times; this should be easier. It is not. She is not dead or severely wounded. She is not a man and I ultimately do not want to leave her abandoned in this unconscious state, completely vulnerable to any danger. Anything could happen at this rest stop.

  When she falls back, the protruding seatbelt buckle scratches her temple. It is a small scratch, but it bleeds more than a small scratch should. I pull her sweatshirt from around her waist. I use the sleeve to absorb the small trickle of blood. I am close to her. I can smell her. I can feel the warmth of her.

  I pull a small first-aid kit from the glove compartment. There is one small Band-Aid in the kit. I place it gingerly on her temple. I blanket her shins with her sweatshirt to protect her from the chill of the air conditioner. I do not seize the opportunity to leave her at the rest stop, as I should. Instead, I re-enter the freeway on course northbound, not looking back. I become numb just as I have so many times, driving in a convoy or walking alongside a Humvee in Iraq. This is different. This is my own mission. No orders or directives were given for an abduction.

  I pull off onto a ranch exit in north Montana after several hours of constant driving. I drive out of sight from the interstate through tall pine trees. I have to prepare to cross the Canadian border unquestioned. I crush three of my sleeping pills in the palm of my hand, then place the powder on my captive’s tongue. I force her to drink from a bottle of water. I gently place her back on the seat, allowing the powder to do its job.

  Climbing the securely stacked crates that are in the back of my truck like a ladder, I take the crowbar from my toolbox to pry the elongated potato crate open. Throwing out all but one layer of potatoes, I am careful to leave an adequate bedding of vegetables to place her body on.

  I open the passenger side door, check her breathing, and force her arms through the sleeves of her sweatshirt. I throw her limp body over my shoulder and climb the crates stacked high in the truck bed. I feel as if I am going through a regular training exercise with ease.